Chapter 12
“Say no more.”
I hadn’t finished outlining my plan when Ange switched off the furnace in her studio where she’d been preparing to melt glass for a set of goblets fit for a medieval banquet. My conscience pricked at taking her away from her work again.
She waved off my concerns. “Artists need to be out in the wild in between, to gather inspiration. That’s the joy of being self-employed, no boss to boss me around.” She studied her left hand. “It’ll be fun to become a piece of art myself, temporarily.”
“Unless Tim’s ex gives off crazy vibes,” I said.
“And goes berserk with her mehndi brush? Then you’ll have to put her under your spell, or I’ll use my Wiccan magic on her.” Ange twinkled at me as we left her studio.
In the kitchen, she scribbled a note for Nick, stuck it to the refrigerator, promised the dogs another walk as soon as we were back, and we were on our way.
The tattoo parlor slash henna studio took up the ground floor of a former t-shirt store, where once upon a time customers could decide on their own design and watch while the tees were cut and sewn by hand while they waited. For a while, business had boomed, until cheap clothes became the fashion.
The two t-shirts made in Willowmere in my wardrobe were among my most cherished possessions. I hadn’t worn them in years, but I’d have to remedy that. We’d bought our tees together, Ange, Harper, Reina, and me.
Ange’s thoughts had traveled the same route. “It’s so sad that the store went under. I’m amazed that I have customers, with all the cheap stuff available on the market.”
“At least they’ve kept the name alive,” I said. “Pins and Needles” was written in bold, black letters on the windows. “I wonder if that’s why the new owners chose the premises, because it works for them too.”
Inside, privacy screens divided the left half of the room in private booths. I glimpsed the legs of what I took to be large beds and chairs on wheels through the bottom gap. A pair of sneaker-clad feet tapped a steady beat, and an apparatus gave off a faint buzz.
The right side of the room held a reception desk with large design books. One of them was open and showed a whimsical dragon with its tail curled around its hoard – a stack of books. If this had adorned a t-shirt, I’d have swiped my credit card in a heartbeat.
A striking young woman with chestnut curls, green eyes, and tied-dyed jeans came out of a back room.
“Hey, ladies,” she greeted us. Hennaed planets and shooting stars swirled from her fingers, across her left hand, and up her arm until they vanished from sight under her short-sleeved shirt. “What can I do for you?”
Ange pointed at the design. “That’s why we’re here. I’m thinking of trying out a mehndi. Who did yours?”
“I did it myself.”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I said.
“What did you have in mind?” She took an old-school appointment book from a drawer and opened it. “I have an opening now if it’s only a small design, or I can book you in for next week.”
“Small is fine, to start me off. Something on my hand maybe?” Ange grabbed the design book and leafed through it. “I’m a Wiccan, so something that kind of connects to my spiritual self would be perfect. I’m Ange, by the way.”
“That’s such a cool idea, we can totally do that,” the henna artist said. “I’m Skye.” She took another design book and led us through to the last booth, where a comfortable hydraulic chair and a saddle stool stood next to a cabinet with tools and inks, reminding me of a dentist’s surgery.
To my relief, Skye ignored it and pulled over a smaller cabinet with henna paste, brushes, and other tools of the trade. “What about you?” she asked me.
“I’m here for moral support.” I silently applauded Ange for her honesty. Odds were that Skye had heard about the doctor’s wife and her spiritual interests. The fewer lies we had to tell, the more convincing we’d be.
“Gotcha.” Skye left us and returned with a rolling stool for me. All three of us poured over the sketches she suggested for Ange’s introduction to the ancient art of mehndi.
“I like that one.” Ange tapped on the picture of a creeping ivy.
“Great choice,” I said. “Ivy is supposed to ward off evil, isn’t it, and strengthen resilience and protection?”
“That’s why I want it.” Ange’s voice trembled, before she pulled herself together in a subtly dramatic manner. “I have nightmares from finding a murdered man.”
Skye stopped mixing the henna paste. “You did what?”
“Haven’t you heard? We were the ones who had the misfortune to discover Tim Boyd’s body, may he rest in peace.”
Skye gripped the bowl with the paste so tight her knuckles went white. “Good riddance to him.”
We both gaped at her.
She managed a grim smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s say, we didn’t part on the best terms.”
“You knew him well, then,” Ange said, feigning an ignorance only made plausible by the age gap between us and Skye. We were old enough to be allowed to be nosy.
Skye dipped her brush into the reddish mixture and put Ange’s hand on the armrest. “Hold still. As for knowing well, I thought I did. Turns out, I was wrong.”
“In what way?” Ange asked.
“What do you think? We met at a party. I was there with my boyfriend, one of his colleagues. We were in that early stage of a relationship where you’re, like, discovering if you vibe with each other.”
“And you vibed more with Tim?” I asked.
“I thought he might be the one, you know. We were totally on the same wavelength, or so I thought. He’d grown up, watching his dad clean up environmental messes for a living.
You know, stuff like toxic waste and other shit buried in the soil, asbestos in walls, all the stuff that poisons nature.
He was, like, so eco-conscious, even more so than me.
You should have heard him lecture me about my black plastic kitchen utensils.
The next day, he sent me a box full of wooden spoons and spatulas and these amazing cast-iron pots and pans. ”
“But it didn’t last,” Ange said.
Skye concentrated on her work. “You know what they say, if it sounds too good to be true? I should’ve realized that all he really wanted was to score against his pal. He won, and just like that, I was no longer of interest.”
“One of those men who are sweet on the outside and toxic on the inside,” Ange mused.
“That’s exactly what he was.” Skye finished the stems of the ivy. “Not that I wish him dead, but I won’t be shedding any tears, that much I promise you.”
“It’s nevertheless horrible to think somebody murdered him. Why would anyone do that?” Ange asked.
“It’s scary,” Skye admitted. “To think of another murderer in Willowmere is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies.”
I focused on my gut as I cut in. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be a local person. It appears that he was killed in Cannon Hill and only shipped here.”
Skye’s brush slipped a little, smudging a leaf. “Dang.”
“I like it like this,” Ange said. “I’m a professional glassblower. It’s the imperfections that make art more real.”
“Thanks. I know a lot of people who use stencils and templates, but that’s too robotic for me.”
“Is there much demand for your work in Willowmere? I’d have thought that a bigger place offers a lot more promise,” Ange mused.
“I like Willowmere just fine.”
“You’re not a fan of Cannon Hill?” Ange asked.
“I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t been there for ages. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to be laser-focused.”
We let her finish the henna tattoo in silence. Ange admired the result and added a hefty tip to the bill. “That’s so pretty.”
“And it’s totally organic. If you follow the instructions, it’ll last you a good two weeks. The most important thing is the skincare.” She handed Ange a leaflet.
Outside, Ange wiggled her eyebrows at me. “That was brilliant. She’s a real talent.”
“She is.” We strolled to the car.
“And we know a lot more about our victim. Not a nice man, but I don’t think she killed him.”
My skin prickled. “I’d agree, if she’d told us the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at your hand and the smudge. She was nervous. I want her to be innocent as much as you do, but my witchy sense tells me she lied to us. The question is, why?”