Of course, I was really going to see if the palm of my hand became sensitive to the presence of the elderly recluse. If Mr. Whitley had ill intentions and was somehow responsible for the missing remains of his ancestor, then I’d rather be given a forewarning before choosing the proper spell to deliver the woman back to her final resting place.
Something caught my attention.
At first, I thought it was sunlight glaring off the front window. It took me a moment to realize that the white doily patterned curtain was being moved by someone standing just out of sight. Well, it was turning out that Ted was right about Mr. Whitley being a bit of a paranoid type. Then again, I’d be rather curious to see who had pulled into my driveway, too.
I flashed him a smile and gave him a reassuring wave, but all that did was cause him to drop the curtain quickly back into place. It didn’t take me long to shut off my engine and open my car door, not bothering to roll up the window or lock the door behind me. I was only going to be a minute or two, and it was broad daylight in the middle of a rather wealthy neighborhood. The last car anyone would want to steal was mine.
It struck me as I walked up the small path to Mr. Whitley’s front door that I could literally hear the soothing sounds of the bay. The ambiance was very peaceful. The mournful horns of the cargo ships carried over the light breeze, and turning my head just right allowed me to catch the cry of the seagulls soaring over the shore headlong into the breeze.
I didn’t have such a serene setting at the cottage, most likely because I was farther away from the marinas and the other disturbances. The view from the back of the property must be absolutely stunning. Mine was similar, but with more of the natural trees blocking a clear view.
I also noted that Arthur Whitley kept an absolutely pristine yard, with the edging just so with each blade of grass trimmed to perfection and greener than an emerald. The random thought of emeralds practically made the sapphire ring in my skirt pocket burn a hole through the fabric, and the phantom heat against my thigh had me quickening my pace up the small walk and ringing the doorbell in haste.
Mr. Whitley couldn’t have been more than eight steps away from the front door near the window, but I pressed the button once more when almost a minute had passed and no one had answered the audible chime.
Was Mr. Whitley really going to ignore someone at his front door, knowing full well I’d seen him looking out the window earlier? I guess I didn’t blame him. I’d done the same before, though that was when I had lived in the city along with the convenience of a peephole. I didn’t get many visitors at the cottage. Then again, no one in their right mind would randomly pull up the gravel drive to what appeared to be a haunted house. Nan hadn’t been big on curb appeal.
Right when I was about to give up, the deadbolt on the door gave way. Then another…and then a third.
Just how many locks did Arthur Whitley have on the front entrance of his house?
The door finally cracked open, only to come to an abrupt stop courtesy of a telltale gold chain. Arthur Whitley’s weathered features were barely detectable, but one of his bushy white eyebrows could be seen as clear as day.
“What do you want?”
Paranoid and odd weren’t the only adjectives I would have used to describe Arthur Whitley. Rude ranked right up there in the top ten, but it wasn’t so much his question that had me tacking on the word than the tone he’d used.
“Hi, Mr. Whitley. My name is…”
“I asked you a question, young lady. What do you want?”
So much for proper introductions.
“I was hoping to speak with you about something that happened inside your family crypt at the graveyard.” I held my breath as I laced my fingers together in hopes I’d get some type of reaction in the palm of my hand. So far, my skin only maintained the tingling sensation that had begun to form last night. “Actually, I’ve come to apologize for stirring things up.”
I waited for Mr. Whitley to make a decision, fully expecting to have the door slammed shut in my face. Surprisingly, he gently closed the beautifully ornate wooden door after a slight nod of concession. I could easily hear the scrape of the chain being undone before the sight of a gorgeous tiled entryway appeared before me.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mr. Whitley asked in a gruff manner, using his cane to quickly usher me inside. “Get in here, already. You’re letting out all the cool air.”
“Of course,” I exclaimed, rushing forward before the elderly man changed his mind. I’m not sure what I expected—maybe a hoarder’s paradise with newspapers piled high and knickknacks covered with dust. It wasn’t really nice to prejudge others, but that’s the image that appeared in my mind when thinking about a recluse. “Mr. Whitley, you have a very beautiful home.”
It was hard not to admire the various vases and paintings that were set and hung specifically to catch the eye of an admirer. The knickknacks I had been expecting were more in line with small statues and unique antiques that must have been in the family for generations upon generations. A floral fabric covered the formal living room’s furniture, and the white lace doily curtains were spotless.
Was that gingerbread I smelled?
Mr. Whitley squinted as he took in my appearance, causing his bushy grey eyebrows to form a perfect V. He twisted his mouth in thoughtfulness before nodding in approval. I wasn’t sure what he had based his approval on, but it was better than being kicked to the curb before getting the answers I sought.
“Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Whitley,” I began with a small smile of appreciation. I wasn’t sure he saw it when he walked past me to enter the formal living room. “You see, my cat ran into the cemetery last night and—”
I stopped talking when I heard the click of a woman’s shoes coming from the hallway that no doubt led to the back of the house. I’m not sure why I thought Mr. Whitley lived alone, but again the image of a recluse didn’t include a spouse. Besides, Ted and Leo didn’t mention a female companion.
“Arthur? Who was at the door? I’ve told those children from down the block numerous times that—” A woman in what I would guess was her late sixties finally appeared, wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She came up short when she caught sight of me. A stern frown appeared on her rather rigid features about the same time the palm of my hand began to harness energy. “Just who are you, miss, and what is it that you want?”
“Now, now, Stella,” Mr. Whitley muttered in pacification as he continued to shuffle his well-worn brown dress shoes across the hardwood floor and then the oriental rug. He didn’t stop to take a seat as I’d expected him to, but instead it seemed as if he was walking to the antique bookcase on the other side of the room. “Ms. Marigold is my guest. Please treat her as such. I’m sure she’d like a hot cup of tea and some of those cookies you’ve been baking all morning.”
Ms. Stella continued to glare at me as if I’d been the rude one, but she eventually left and headed back to the kitchen. Two things struck me, though the latter was more of a shocking revelation. Ms. Stella was some type of housekeeper or cook, and I’d never fully introduced myself.
“Mr. Whitley, how did you know my name?”
Ms. Stella might have gone back into the kitchen, but the energy coiling in the palm of my hand remained. Was it due to Arthur Whitley’s mention of my last name or his housekeeper? He’d clearly known who I was before I even got out of my car.
“Anyone with working eyes can see that you’re related to Rosemary Marigold.” Mr. Whitley was now standing in front of the antique bookcase. He’d rested his cane against his hip as he began searching for a book. “Now, continue with your story about your wayward cat.”
Arthur Whitley had known my grandmother?
I mean, I guess it would stand to reason that the two of them would have crossed paths. I know that Ted and Leo mentioned that the Whitleys didn’t often come into town and preferred to do their shopping in the city, but I’m sure there had been some exceptions whe
n he was younger and more mobile.
“Well,” I began once more, clearing my throat, “my friend and I chased after my cat, who had somehow gained entrance into your family’s crypt. It seems that someone had recently pried open the heavy wooden doors. I’m so sorry, but I went inside to make sure he hadn’t gotten lost somewhere. I know this is going to sound crazy, but we…well, we truly believed at the time that the lid on Caroline Abigail Whitley’s coffin had been moved to the side.”
Mr. Whitley’s weathered hand hesitated over the line of books above him for a brief moment. I’m not sure what reaction I expected to hearing my story about the possibility that someone might have desecrated his family’s burial chambers, but this wasn’t it.
“I informed Sheriff Liam Drake of what we thought had happened, and he called a gentleman by the name of Cliff Meyers to come take a look.”
“Clifford.” Mr. Whitley said the name in an offended huff, telling me that the two men didn’t quite see eye to eye. He’d gone back to looking for a specific book that appeared to remain elusive to his aging eyes. “There’s always a black sheep in every family. Who wants to spend their days and nights dealing with dead people? There’s a reason we Whitleys own so much real estate and marinas, and that’s to continue to grow the family fortune for the generations that will come after us. Clifford just had to be out of the ordinary, not that he achieved that dubious distinction. Oh, my poor sister must be rolling in her grave.”
Liam had taken the time to look over the other vaults in the Whitley family crypt, but I wondered if Heidi and I shouldn’t go back some time tonight and take another look. Something was going on in that graveyard, and I needed to make sure it was being done by unscrupulous humans and not anything Rye or I had done by opening up some extraplanar portal to another existence.
“Fortunately, there was nothing visibly wrong with crypt when we went back there this morning,” I informed him, waiting for some reaction that would let me know if he’d had something to do with the desecration of a resting place of his own relative. “I realize that Mr. Meyers is the one who takes care of the family crypt, but I thought you should know what was going on. And I truly apologize for any confusion I may have caused when I called Liam to—”
“Confusion?” Mr. Whitley asked, looking over his shoulder at me with obvious displeasure at my word selection. He clicked his tongue and turned back to his task of finding whatever it was he was looking for, finally setting a knotted index finger on top of a dark brown leather-bound book that had seen better days. He slid it from its spot before grabbing his cane and turning to face me. “There was no confusion, Ms. Marigold. Your grandmother warned me this would happen, so I’ve been keeping an eye on the family crypt for the last eight or nine months without that nincompoop Clifford any the wiser. He’s an imbecile.”
Mr. Whitley began to make his way forward, his cane in one hand and the leather-bound book in the other. I was still trying to digest the shocking announcement that he’d not only known my grandmother, but that she’d warned him of something happening in the crypt.
Nan hadn’t been psychic, as far as I knew.
Then again, this new life I’d been handed was nothing but one long line of alarming discoveries after another.
“What did my Nan warn you about, Mr. Whitley?” I asked cautiously, making a note that the heat coiled in the palm of my hand hadn’t lessened one bit since Ms. Stella had left the room. I had an innate sense that the danger I was sensing came from the book Mr. Whitley was currently holding out to me in offering. “Did she say that the remains of your ancestor would go missing?”
Of course, what I really wanted to ask Mr. Whitley was if he knew my grandmother was a witch. Had Nan exposed herself and our lineage to one of the founding families? If so…this changed nearly everything.
Chapter Eight
Why would you even think such a thing? Of course, good ol’ Arthur doesn’t know anything about your grandmother or your family secret. On to more pressing news…the garbage eater wasn’t anywhere to be found. I did run into Skippy, though. He acted like today was any other day, so I’m amending the Skippy involvement theory to naught.
Leo’s return came not a moment too soon, and thankfully remained invisible. Hopefully, he had some insight on what Mr. Whitley could possibly be talking about.
Insight? He’s an old geezer with more money than he can possibly spend in his last few years on this earth. I wonder if he has a date with good ol’ Ivan any time soon.
“Your grandmother was deeply involved with holistic medicine, young lady.” Mr. Whitley once more nudged the book toward me, which I had no choice but to take. The dark brown leather was cool to the touch, and the pages were outlined in gold trim. The odd thing about the timeworn book was that there was no title. I carefully turned it over, but once again…nothing. “So was my wife, but it was my mother who got my sweet Rosalyn into holistic remedies, who learned from her mother and so on.”
Don’t overreact. The Whitleys were literally into nature’s storehouse of home remedies, which nowadays is referred to as holistic medicine. Nine or ten years ago when Mr. Whitley’s wife was still alive, she was a frequent visitor at the tea shop. Hey, would you look at that? My memory is quite keen today, isn’t it? I’m telling you, that shipment from Honduras has medicinal properties to it that sharpen the senses.
Those tink, tink, tink clicks on the tiled floor began once more, and I tensed as Ms. Stella walked stiffly into the living room with a tray in hand. There was a bone china tea set hand-painted with what had to be twenty-four carat gold gilt. It was magnificent. That particular set definitely didn’t come from a shelf in my shop, along with its matching plate piled high with those gingerbread cookies I’d caught the delicious scent of when first entering the house.
Wow. Would you look at that face? She’s the definition of resting b—
“Those cookies smell delicious, Ms. Stella,” I said quickly, more so to cut Leo off before he said something that might invite negative karma. “Thank you so much.”
Ms. Stella only gave one nod in recognition of my appreciation. She was too busy setting the tray on the coffee table while shooting glaring daggers at Mr. Whitley. I bet the housekeeper had been with the Whitleys for a while and probably knew quite a bit about the family history. It was more than apparent she didn’t approve of her employer talking to me today, or any other day for that matter.
I remember her now. I never did like that old bat. I wonder if I slip Ivan a few extra chips if he would—
“Would it be too much trouble to ask for cream?” I inquired, really wishing Leo would stop beckoning karma as if she were just another flight attendant refilling our drinks.
I’m sure karma was pretty busy with that raccoon for landing on good ol’ Cliff’s face before performing that jaw-breaking back kick. I wonder if karma is open to a bribe or two.
Ms. Stella lifted her right eyebrow, which was drawn on with a light brown eyebrow pencil. She then pointed toward the small cream bowl right next to the one containing sugar cubes. It was easy to decipher that I’d offended her by believing she’d be neglectful in her duties.
Now who’s the one offending people?
“Thank you, Stella,” Mr. Whitley said dismissively with a wave of his hand. I was beginning to understand why the housekeeper had such a stern demeanor. It couldn’t have been easy working for a man like him. “Now leave us, please, so that I can fill Ms. Marigold in on what really happened at the cemetery earlier this morning.”
Something other than what you witnessed happen at the cemetery earlier this morning? Raven, I clearly missed most of this conversation. I must say that I don’t care for the direction this is going. Put the book down. You know, sometimes it’s better to be left in the dark than to know the truth.
Ms. Stella parted her thin lips before imparting a huff of frustration. She quietly, though with much displeasure, turned and left the room. I didn’t want to be kept in the dark, especially if there w
as something about Nan that could help me figure out why the remains of Caroline Abigail Whitley went missing…only to be returned.
Well, we don’t exactly know that her remains have been returned. We only know that someone put the crypt back together—ohhhhh. Now I’m starting to see the whole picture.
“Where were we?” Mr. Whitley asked, scratching his head as he slowly made his way to one of the formal chairs in front of the coffee table. He took a seat without a groan, leaning his cane against the arm of the seat. “Come on, now. Sit. What are you waiting for, young lady?”
“I’m waiting for you properly to answer me, Mr. Whitley,” I responded directly, clearly seeing the same mental picture that Leo was and coming to the same conclusion. “Why were you at the cemetery this morning? Did you reseal your great-great-great-great grandmother’s coffin with that stone lid?”
I’d seen how much strength it had taken Rye to shift the stone lid in order to get a better look inside, and there was absolutely no way that Arthur Whitley alone could have put it back in place.
Not unless he had help. Wait just a frog’s hop. You don’t suppose that the garbage eater belongs to Arthur Whitley, do you? I’ve changed my mind, Raven. Look inside the book. Is it full of necromancy spells? I wouldn’t put it past these Whitleys to create their own army of undead zombies.
I was too busy watching as Mr. Whitley began pouring both of us tea with a somewhat trembling hand due to age, though he didn’t let that stop him. It wasn’t long before he sat back with a cup of tea and a cookie. Trust me, he didn’t strike me as the cookie eating kind of elderly man, either. I was beginning to accept that not all things were as they seemed.
Cryptic Blend Page 8
