She carried me into the station and walked up to the desk sergeant. “Detective Willows is expecting me. Beatrice Twiggs.”
He picked up a phone and called the detective, who arrived shortly from the back office. “Let’s walk in here so we can talk,” Detective Willows said.
Mrs. Twiggs followed, carrying me and petting my fur. We all sat down at a small room off the main hallway, which was lined with small offices.
“Beatrice, why do you need to talk to Mr. White?”
“The painting was very important to Emma, and she wanted Charlotte to have it.”
“We didn’t find the painting. He’s insisting he’s innocent,” Detective Willows said, tilting back in the chair, which squeaked in protest. “He does have a record of breaking and entering. That’s the only reason I could hold him.”
“I need to ask him why the painting was so important. I need to understand why it was worth killing Miss Hartwell. If for nothing else for Emma’s sake. Miss Hartwell was a devoted companion and nurse to Emma. She took care of her as her health declined.”
“Five minutes, Beatrice, I can only give you five minutes.” He let us into a room full of holding cells. Mr. White sat by himself on a metal stool, staring at us. The rest of the room was empty. Detective Willows pulled up a chair, placing it directly in front of the cell for Mrs. Twiggs. “Five minutes,” he said again as he left the room.
“Mrs. Twiggs,” Darren White said, standing. “We met at the estate sale.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“I want you to know I’m innocent. I would never harm a soul.”
As he spoke, I felt the same sensation as when I first saw Mr. White. A shadow of a feeling but now I realized it wasn’t him causing the shadow. It was the subject, the painting. I could feel his strong desire for it. He was drawn to it.
“Why did you come for the painting?” Mrs. Twiggs asked him.
“It’s quite valuable. It was a gift from George Vanderbilt to the Tangledwoods.”
“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” she persisted.
He walked up closer, placing his hands on the bars. As he did, Beatrice grabbed them. His body shook. “Tell me the truth,” she said.
His eyes darted around the room. “I’m innocent,” he said.
“Tell me the truth,” she repeated.
“I’m innocent.”
“Mrs. Twiggs,” I shouted. “He’s telling the truth.”
“It’s true. There are witches in Asheville. George Vanderbilt was right.” He said through his tears.
“Tell me about the painting,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
“It’s a map to a magic doorway.”
She let go of his hands, and he fell to the floor. He stood up slowly and rubbed his hands. His eyes were full of fear. “You are a witch. How did you do that?”
Beatrice stood up. He cowed back in terror. “How does the painting work?”
“I don’t know. I just know the history of the painting. I studied the art of the Vanderbilt’s. I thought it was a myth; the story makes the painting more valuable to collectors. But now I know it’s real.”
“He’s telling the truth, Beatrice, he didn’t kill Miss Hartwell,” I told her.
She waved her hand in the air, and Mr. White collapsed on the metal bunk. She said one word, “Forget.” And then we left.
Detective Willows opened the door leading back out to the free world, staring at Mrs. Twiggs. She raised her hand. He grabbed it by the wrist. “Don’t Beatrice. I don’t want to forget what I just saw.” She lowered her hand as he let go. “I’ll help you anyway I can.” He gave her a hug.
We rode back to the Tangledwood Estate, mostly in silence, as I cleaned my fur. It was a nervous tic I had picked up over the past century or so. Mrs. Twiggs drove into the Montford District and stopped the car when she reached Karen Owen’s home. I leaped out of the car and followed her up the steps, looking left and right over the wraparound porch for the rocking chair man. Thankfully the chair was empty. Mrs. Twiggs lightly tapped the gold door knocker. Squirrel appeared from around the deck. Mrs. Owen opened the door and welcomed us in. She led us into the front room. Mrs. Twiggs settled on the couch, Mrs. Owen across from her on the high-back chair like a queen on her throne I thought.
“Karen, I know I’m in debt to you, but I need to ask you a favor,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
Mrs. Owen smiled. She said, “Beatrice you’ve accumulated quite a tab. I think it’s time we talked about payment.”
“Of course, Karen, what do I owe you?”
Mrs. Owen looked at the end of the couch directly at me.
Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused.
“I require the cat.”
“Karen, you must be joking.”
Mrs. Owen shook her head. “Terra Rowan was a very powerful witch in her previous form. I have the means to extract those powers.”
“What do you mean extract?”
“Don’t worry, Beatrice. It won’t harm her. And the powers are of no use to her in her present form.”
“What will happen to her?”
“She will live out the rest of her day as a cat not able to communicate. Not tied to her past or headed toward her future. She will live a normal cat life and die a normal cat life. She will be joyfully bliss in her ignorance.”
I extracted my claws and hissed. Squirrel pounced on me and knocked me off the couch. I turned and screamed into Squirrel’s mind. “Get out.” She bounced off the floor and ran out screaming. I jumped on the coffee table.
“Mrs. Owen, I know the tab you keep. We will find a fair payment for Mrs. Twiggs’s bill,” I said.
She lifted me by my scruff and brought me close. “I can take away all your pain, Terra Rowan. The memories that haunt you. I can give you peace.”
Mrs. Twiggs clutched the silver amulet from Agatha Hollows. “Karen, the price is too high.” She raised her hand.
“No,” I said. Karen Owen was much too powerful a being for Mrs. Twiggs to confront. “I will lead you to the portal, Mrs. Owen. I will show you how to enter. I know Agatha Hollows shut your way.”
She put me back down onto the coffee table and reached under the seat, pulling out a leather-bound book. She opened it and then handed Mrs. Twiggs a fountain pen. “Prick your finger, Beatrice, with this pen.” Beatrice did as she requested. The pen soaked up Mrs. Twiggs’s blood. “Sign here.” Beatrice examined her bill and signed. Mrs. Owen snapped the book shut. “Now how may I help you?”
“We have questions about a painting.”
“I know which painting you refer to,” Mrs. Owen said. “The road into Dark Corner. George Vanderbilt commissioned that painting. At one of the séances they held, the dead spoke of the trail to Poinsett Bridge. The painting is charmed as it was painted by one of the last wood fairies. She was brought to the forest by Olmsted from one of his excursions to Ireland. Her kind have passed, but the magic of the painting carries on, but it’s only part of the map.” She looked down at me. “You know the rest, don’t you? You know how to get to the river.”
Chapter 34
Pixel’s Missing
“Pixel,” I screamed as I roamed the halls of the Tangledwood Estate. He had been acting so strange, but it was not like him to miss a meal or two or three. But now it had been nearly two days since I had seen him. I entered the library. Mr. Tangledwood sat by the fire, puffing on his pipe. He had passed several years before Mrs. Tangledwood. Unlike Albert Twiggs, he lingered not for the love of his wife but for the love of his possessions. He stood guard over them like a night watchman at the Louvre. His cars, his books, all called to him. Mrs. Tangledwood had only spoken of him once, and it was not fondly. He was a selfish man in life and continued to be selfish in death. “Mr. Tangledwood where is my friend? Where is the orange cat?”
He ignored me and stared onto the lawn, puffing away. He took out a pipe cleaner and scraped the bowl. I extended one claw and stuck it deep into the leather of his chair, ripping it open. He gasped and stared at me. Then he smiled and packed his bowl with tobacco. I leaped onto a table and knocked over a Ming vase. This time he ignored me. I saw him staring out at the open garage door. I ran out and leaped onto the hood of the 1961 Mercedes. He floated in the corner of the garage, watching. I extended my claw and scratched the hood. He flew down, eyes wide open, screaming at me, but nothing came out. I went into the front seat and tore it apart.