The Sinister Secrets of the Deadly Summoner

by Constance Barker

  Warmth suffused Grace’s skin. “How would you know that?”

  “Oblivious much?” She raised her heavy brows. “Hey, if you’re not into him, that’s whatever. You won’t mind if I flirt my way into his heart then, right?”

  Grace moved up the porch steps. “Suit yourself,” she said, but she wasn’t sure if she really meant it. Before she could push the bell, Jack Stoughton threw open the door.

  “Grace Longstreet. I didn’t expect you until after the holiday weekend.” Violet eyes twinkled beneath deep brows. He wore a chamois shirt and jeans. Grace had never seen him in anything but a black suit. His voice sounded a little like Vincent Price’s, with a Boston accent. He looked fit, the jeans snug, the shirt revealing smooth muscle beneath.

  Paisley cleared her throat.

  “Oh. This is Paisley Cartwright. She’s, uh, a trainee.”

  He held out his hand. Paisley grabbed hold and thrust it toward his face to be kissed. “Charmed. I simply adore your establishment, Mr. Stoughton.” Scarlet O’Hara by way of Beacon Hill.

  Without a hint of bemusement, Jack kissed her hand. “Please call me Jack.”

  “Call me whatever you want. Whenever you want.”

  He smiled. “Shall we visit the scene of the crime?”

  “Let’s, yes.” Paisley gave Grace a look over her shoulder as Jack led her into the house.

  Mystical bric-a-brac looked dusty and forlorn in the light from the windows. Most of the downstairs served as a storefront for the bizarre and evil. Shelves of books stood at one end, the check-out counter covered with crystals and magic ingredients at the other. Centered were displays of statues, weapons, bones and idols Grace didn’t care to look at for too long.

  For generations, Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques Appraisals dealt in Objets de Puissance, many of them smuggled to New Carfax hundreds of years before. But despite these artifacts’ strange powers, they were normal looking objects, many even beautiful. Stoughton’s shop was a horror show.

  As she walked through, one image did catch her eye. It was her own reflection. Gray jacket and slacks, ivory blouse, sensible flats. Compared to Paisley, she looked pretty drab. Of course, anyone looked a little drab compared to that kind of flamboyance. But still—

  “Grace?” Stoughton stood at an open door on the far end of the store. “This way.”

  Chapter 4

  They stepped through two separate doors, one into a shelved hallway filled with excess inventory, the next into his private work area. Grace had been in here once before. It had the casual feel of a true work space, and area where things got done, where objects were studied, evaluated. Her own shop had a very similar space.

  Two stools sat across from each other at the workbench. Paisley, to her surprise, didn’t take one of them. She wandered, case held behind her back with both hands. Jack took his customary seat, waving Grace into the other one. “Why is it we always see each other over some nasty business, Grace?”

  Maybe because you’re in a nasty business, she didn’t say. “We’re in similar lines of work.”

  “We’re both careful assessors, but beyond that, I’m a dealer. Your job begins and ends with assessment. Not only your business, but your career, revolves around just that.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Grace said.

  “Right now, for example. I’ve had a book stolen. You are investigating whether my claim is valid. Whether you decide whether it is or not, that ends your involvement. I envy you that simplicity.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to bluster that she was very proactive in her job, or agree with him. Valuable collections were generally owned by wealthy people. Wealthy people were frequently a pain in the ass. Actually selling them things—Grace doubted she could put up with it.

  In the meanwhile, Paisley had wandered to the bookcase behind Jack. “Was the book taken from here?”

  He faced around. “Yes, that obvious gap right there at the top. I admit, I was foolish to leave it down here. My private library upstairs is where it’s usually kept. But recent acquisitions made having the Southwark book down here convenient.”

  “I don’t see any other magic books,” Paisley said, craning her neck.

  Jack shook his head. “It was the only one.”

  “Not easy to reach way up there on the top shelf.” Paisley set her case on the table. She removed a small gray case from within, the size of a thin lunch box. “Did the police dust for prints?”

  Stoughton chuckled. “Yeah, right. Essex County deputies dusting for fingerprints because a book was stolen?”

  Paisley made a noncommittal noise and went back to wandering.

  “Do you suspect an employee?” Grace asked.

  “No. My girls are top-notch. I pay them pretty well, mostly because of the overnight shift. They would have no reason to steal that book, and no way to sell it if they had. There aren’t more than ten, twenty copies in existence.”

  Grace looked over her shoulder at the door. “Do you think a customer could’ve gotten in?”

  “I suppose, if one really wanted to, he could. The door hasn’t been forced. The deputies checked that at least. Nor have any of the doors or windows. Interior locks aren’t as secure as the ones on the outside doors, and that may be something I need to correct.”

  While they spoke, Paisley found a short step ladder and climbed to the top. Grace got the wobblies just watching her balance on the top step and look down at the top of the book case. Heights were not her thing—not even seeing someone else in a high place. Paisley wasn’t bothered in the slightest. She set down the small gray case and opened it.

  “So maybe, who ever took it just saw what looked like the most valuable thing in here,” Grace mused. “If it would be that hard to…” She made herself say the word. “…Fence.”

  Grace expected something—a blush, clearing his throat, stuttering. She was sure he was involved in some seriously illicit black market deals. Jack didn’t react at all. “If it were junkies or tweakers, they might get a buck or two off an eBay sale. It’s a big, cool-looking book, if nothing else. And, you know, the dark tourist types would be into it, of course. But it isn’t any use to someone who isn’t involved in the market of dark antiques. Very dry reading. On par with reading a phone book, or the old Sears catalog”

  Jack smiled, making lines crinkle around his eyes. When he did that, it transformed him from pure villain to attractive guy. Every time Grace witnessed the shift, her heart beat a little harder. Heat suffused her face. She got herself under control.

  “Would one of your competitors want to get hold of it?” Grace had no idea if anyone around here, despite Salem’s reputation as a black magic town, could compete with Jack Stoughton.

  Jack considered it for a moment. “Well, yes, if they didn’t have a copy already. I might imagine you have a copy yourself.”

  “Nope.” Grace shook her head.

  He hiked one shoulder up in a half shrug. “If you have the opportunity to acquire one, I highly recommend it. It is a wonderful resource. The problem with the theory is that my nearest competitor is in New York. Others are in London, San Francisco, Paris, Beijing. It wouldn’t be a big deal, hopping the commuter train to get here, but I’m fairly certain Madame Beltane has plenty of research material at her disposal.”

  Paisley stepped back down the ladder and put it away. She gave Grace a look she couldn’t comprehend. “Well, one thing the deputies probably didn’t tell you was that the thief didn’t need to force the door. That’s an antique mortice lock. I’m guessing you use a bit key, what people mistakenly call a skeleton key?’

  Jack fished his keys out and laid them on the bench. Paisley pointed to one with a long stem and a small bit at the end. “Yes, that’s the key.”

  “It opens all the locks in the house, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “You can get blank mortice keys at a hardware store. It’s the simplest lock to pick or bump.”

  Grace recalled Paisley making
short work of the lock on her own shop.

  “Whoever took your book knew what they were doing—at least, a little bit.”

  Jack surveyed the Goth with new eyes. “You think so?”

  “Yep. And to prove it, I’m going to find it for you. That would be better than getting a check from Cartwright and Sons, right?”

  “It would indeed. Do you really think you can find the person who stole it?”

  Paisley stuck out a hip, putting a fist on it. Striking a pose. “I’m sure gonna try, Jack.”

  Chapter 5

  “What the hell was that all about?” They stepped out of the black house and thumped down the porch. Storm clouds had turned the early evening dark.

  “What was what all about? I meant what I said.”

  “You aren’t a police officer anymore, Paisley. Hell, how long were you on the Boston force?”

  “Six months.” She frowned. “But I have skills. Maybe I can be of real use to you, Grace. We can be partners.”

  “It isn’t our job to bust robbers—”

  “Burglars, in this case.”

  “—Whatever, burglars, then. We investigate to see if the claim is valid or not. Catching criminals is up to the police.”

  “A lot of good they did.” Paisley mounted the case back on the front of her scooter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a contact to make.”

  She gazed up at the glowering sky.

  “You just need to get over the Essex Bridge before it gets too dark.”

  Paisley donned her helmet, lowered the goggles over her eyes and started the Vespa. Giving Grace a haughty chin-up, she rolled away. Stalled. Started again. And rolled off into the night.

  Grace checked the time on her cell phone. She was already late to meet with Millie Ryan. Quick-stepping, she beeped open the Prius. Then she hesitated. At her throat was a cameo that had belonged to her late mother. It sometimes served to protect her, alerting her to harmful magic. Other times, it gave her a tingle and a vision. Life-altering events often ensued after that vision.

  Grace stared back at the house. Fingers absently touched the sardonyx cameo. She got no charge from it, nor a vision. Perhaps Jack Stoughton wasn’t as warm for her form as Paisley thought. And what was with all the flirt, all the posturing? Paisley was a strange girl. Maybe this was the way she tried to catch a man. As she started the car, Grace wasn’t sure whether to chuckle or shudder.

  The Ryans’ home was the last on a tortuously steep and curving driveway that must be absolute murder in the winter. Bugs formed a cloud in her headlights. Why anyone chose to build a house over a mosquito factory eluded her.

  At the slam of her car door, a yellow light came on over the porch. A bug-zapper hanging from the eves crackled like a mini lightning storm. Smells mingled; rain in the air, the reek of marshy ground, brine of the sea. Through the trees along the creek, she caught a sliver of moon rising over the rough Atlantic. Well, at least the view was nice.

  Millie Ryan’s shadow appeared at the screen door. She slammed it twice, sending a swarm of bugs scattering. Grace waved them away and hurried into the house.

  “Thank you for seeing me in private,” Millie guided her into a living room decorated circa 1979, though meticulously clean. “Would you like some tea? I like to sip tea and watch the storms roll in.”

  Grace ran a packie before arriving. She held up a brown paper bag. “I promised wine. You like it sweet, right?”

  “Sad news,” Millie said, gathering glasses in the kitchen. “They’ve canceled the clam bake and all the outdoor activities. We have a regular summer nor’easter brewing.”

  Grace’s heart wasn’t broken in the least. Her plans were to gorge herself several times at Judy’s. “I guess Clam Fest is just missing George,” she said.

  Millie’s features sloped into melancholy, but she managed a small smile. “Maybe so.” She set the glasses down and uncorked the wine.

  “You wanted to tell me about George and the mudflats,” Grace prompted.

  “Yes, that. Of course.” Millie said, and elaborated no further.

  She poured two glasses. Grace had been surprised to find a Cabernet Franc ice wine at the corner liquor store. While no wine snob, it was part of Grace’s job to know wines. This was one she’d always wanted to try. It was a little spendy, but she wasn’t about to make herself sick with a bottle of Night Train or white zin on Clam Fest Eve.

  “Orange wine, why, that’s different,” Millie said, giving the beverage a smell and twirling the glass. Grace noted the legs. The older woman sipped, and her brows rose. “That’s tasty! But it says ice wine—should I get some ice?”

  Grace shook her head. “It’s made with grapes that freeze on the vine. But if you want ice, knock yourself out.” Definitely not a wine snob, she thought to herself.

  It took a glass-and-a-half to get Millie talking. And then she wouldn’t shut up. Grace heard all about George’s career as a sword fisherman, weeks out at sea, which while interesting enough to base a TV show upon, was not what she was here to talk about. Millie circled through her two children, her three grand-children, which led back to clamming together on the flats, which led back to George.

  “This is probably just silly,” Millie said.

  Grace sipped more wine, not speaking.

  “George went for a walk every evening. Rain or snow, one time when he had pneumonia, and a few times with the gout, George took a walk on the mudflats. He always took his walking stick. George called it his good luck charm. He got it when his boat was caught in a storm, and they had to shelter in Newfoundland, I think it was.”

  She sat up straighter and topped off Millie’s glass.

  “He always went alone. But one time, I was walking Chester, our springer spaniel. He’s long passed now. For some reason, Chester never wanted to go out with George when he walked with the stick. But anyway, we were walking by the creek when I saw George out on the mud. He was”

  Grace leaned forward.

  “He was kissing the top of the walking stick. I don’t know how else to describe it. Three times he kissed it. Then, he started back for home.”

  “That is silly,” Grace said, although the floor of her stomach dropped dramatically. “Do you still have this walking stick?”

  “Oh, of course. He keeps it in the umbrella stand. Kept it.” Millie stood up, wobbled a step, found her balance. At the narrow foyer that served as a kind of mud room, she rummaged around. “That’s strange.”

  Grace followed her. A solid brass can, tall and narrow, stood atop a tray for muddy boots. It looked vaguely nautical. Two umbrella handles poked out of it, but no walking stick. Millie turned to Grace. “Where else would it be? This is where he always left it.”

  “Do you think someone took it?”

  “Whatever for? It was a walking stick. Well, it was a little fancy, much heavier than wood. It looked vaguely like a horn in a way.”

  Grace’s sinking feeling became a plummet when her cameo tingled. “Do you lock your doors, Millie?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, which meant no. New Carfax, despite the occasional appearance of a dangerous Objet de Puissance, was a safe little town.

  “Do you have a picture of George with the walking stick?”

  Millie, a little drunk, a little befuddled by the missing stick, stared at Grace for a few heartbeats. “I think so. Do you think it’s important?”

  If it had anything to do with the missing clams it was. “I’d really like to see a picture, Millie.”

  The bottom of the end table next to her recliner served as a bookcase. Well, a photo album case, anyway. Millie took one out and sat, paging through. It didn’t take long. Millie passed the book to Grace.

  It was a simple snapshot. A yellowish tint placed it sometime in the ’80s, Grace thought. George sat in one of the recliners. He held the walking stick with both hands, end planted on the shag carpet. Grace estimated it at nearly five feet long—a bit tall for a walking stick, or short for a staff. It was tough to
see in the old picture, but she was certain the stick was heavily carved with wave-like forms, starfish and shells.

  “Would you mind if I took a picture with my cell phone?”

  Millie blinked at her. “I guess not.”

  Using the zoom on her phone, Grace got as big a shot of the stick as she could.

  “I’ve heard about the Longstreets’ business…”

  Grace looked up at Millie. She didn’t seem to know how to continue.

  “The answer is, I don’t know if this has anything to do with the clams disappearing. But I love clams, I love Clam Fest. I really need to explore all the angles.” Lame as that was, Millie seemed to accept it. Or, sort of accept it as she drained the bottle into her glass.

  Chapter 6

  It would have been a short hop home, but Grace’s Bluetooth spoke as she turned on Route 1A.

  “Call from. Paisley.”

  “Block call.” Grace needed her rest for Clam Fest, diminished as it might be. She turned on Snake Hill Road, a few blocks from her inherited Cape Cod. Well, she actually bought it for a dollar, and a deal to keep the family business running, diminished as it might be.

  “Text from. Paisley.”

  She sighed. “Read text.”

  The Prius’ robot voice read: “‘Imm at U.R. Shop. Please come. Right away.’”

  Her driveway was two blocks away.

  “Text from. Paisley.”

  “Read text,” Grace grumbled.

  “‘It is important.’”

  “Text Paisley.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It better be.”

  “Your text reads: It better be. Send text?”

  “Send.”

  Back down Snake Hill to 1A to the town square and the part of Hale Street locally known as Antiques Alley, Grace saw the scooter parked in front of her shop. With her full time job, Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques Appraisals was open by appointment only. Lately, Grace hadn’t had any appointments. She preferred it that way.

  Paisley stared up at the sky. Dabs of rain spattered Grace when she exited the car.