Page 25 of Welcome to Gothic
“You’re an actor?”
Vince glanced at her in surprise. “Not at all. But I am a stunt coordinator for the movies.”
She laughed in a gust. “Of course you are.”
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
“Pretty sure we haven’t.”
Roy roared back across the shop, yodeling like Tarzan.
“I taught him that,” Vince said.
“Of course you did.” As before, her conversation left something to be desired.
Roy arrived at Vince’s side, opened the bag and found an old, closed metal case. He looked at Wendy in confusion.
“It’s stage makeup.” She popped it open. “Looks like lip color to me.”
Every one of the kids fell on the ground laughing.
The fathers sympathetically clapped Vince on the back.
Roy found the brush she’d included in the bag and went to work on Vince’s face.
Vince now wore a grass skirt and thick ruby red lip color painted on with an inexpert hand.
“This is going to be great,” the next kid told his horrified father, and jumped over to the bags.
Roy watched and clapped his hands in anticipation.
In an undertone, Vince told Wendy, “Roy’s had a time with his dad being what he is. Big time drug user. My sister’s successful, so he figured to kidnap his own son and hold her feet to the fire. I went and got Roy. It was ugly, but I left Bill looking a little worse for wear.”
“Bill?” Wendy had been telling herself, over and over, that she was feeling absolutely fine, that nothing other than Vince’s resemblance to Hugh reminded her of a hallucination she’d experienced in the theater.
But that name—exactly the same name as the last kidnapper, when Hugh had died and she had lost her love...
“What?” Vince asked. “What’s wrong? Do you know him?”
“No. No, I don’t.” A gust of cool air damp with fog slipped in from beyond the wall and caught Wendy’s attention. A figure appeared to move within it.
Vince noticed, too. He glanced around, located the light switch and hurried to douse the overheads.
Deputy Dave caught on immediately. He indicated silence to the kids, and herded the families and the O’Hall sisters into the back behind the bookshelves.
Wendy peeked into the clothing shop. She couldn’t see much. It was all hulking shadows and silhouettes against the squares of window.
The outer door stood wide open.
The fog slid in, swirling as though something had passed through and disturbed it.
Chapter Thirteen
Had the door not been firmly latched? Had those treacherous wind currents opened it?
Or had someone come into the dark, closed store?
Moving softly, Wendy stepped in and off to the side. She stopped and listened, and heard it—a footstep.
