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 reallywanted 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.”
