Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  Hector helped her up the ladder. “Let it rip, Aunt Gully.”

  She lined up the bat and the camera, and swung. The camera flew through the air and ricocheted off the Dumpster.

  The crowd cheered.

  Chapter 40

  Later that afternoon, I hung a sign on the front door of the Mermaid: CLOSED FOR CELTICS GAME.

  Aunt Gully called me over as Bit Markey squeezed into the backseat of Hilda’s lime-green Volkswagen Beetle.

  “Allie, with so much happening I forgot to tell you. I’ve got a loaner coming from the mechanic until I get a new van. He said it’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “What kind of loaner?”

  “Didn’t say. He said I can keep it until I have time to shop for a new one.” She got in and then Hector folded his tall frame into the front seat. Hilda honked as they spun out of the parking lot.

  I’d figured I’d call Verity for a ride to the historical society, but this was welcome news. Almost anything would be better than Aunt Gully’s old van. For a moment I pictured myself driving a shiny BMW like Lorel’s. Don’t get your hopes up, Allie. Knowing Aunt Gully’s mechanic, the loaner would be something practical.

  Some Gully’s Gals helped me close up the Mermaid, then I sat on one of the Adirondack chairs outside, waiting for my ride. I sighed. I’d be late for the historical society meeting.

  New security floodlights lit up the shack; I wasn’t sure if Aunt Gully had bought them with safety in mind or with the thought that they would set off her decorations. They threw enough light for me to see all the diners who drove in, walked up to the shack, and left disappointed. I stayed in my shadowy spot, glad I’d put on a dark sweatshirt with a hood. I tucked my hair underneath and enjoyed being invisible.

  I scrolled through pictures on my phone—lots of people had posted pictures from Isobel Parish’s Halloween party. A sense of unease settled on me as I remembered the moment in the cemetery when the guys standing on Otis Parish’s grave had discovered Max’s body. Someone had taken a photo of that moment. I prayed that no one ever posted it online.

  One photo of a group of guests in front of paneled walls and a fireplace made me sit up: Madame Monachova, Royal, and Lyman stood together holding drinks. This photo had been taken in the little room where the bar had been set up at the Parish House.

  Madame had on the same simple colonial-style dress that Aunt Gully and Beltane had worn, but hers was a lovely pale blue, and she wore no cape. I remember how warm it had been that night. She’d said she’d left her cape in the coat room.

  Despite the warm night, Royal was still resplendent in his long cloak, holding what I assumed was a Scotch on the rocks instead of his Pilgrim hat. Lyman Smith still wore his costume but somehow it looked different.

  He’d switched to a shorter, tighter cape.

  That was odd.

  I scrolled back through the pictures. In the group photo at the grant ceremony, Lyman’s cape was as long as Royal’s. Now his cape was shorter.

  I saw us all running after Kathleen after she’d panicked, Madame Monachova in front of me, her cloak flowing behind her as she ran, so long it trailed in the grass. It was too long for her. I’d stepped on it.

  My heart rate ticked upward. She had Lyman Smith’s cloak.

  Slow down, Allie. I remembered what the frat guys said. The capes and coats were all piled together in the coat room. Anyone could have been wearing the cloak that Madame put on. Couldn’t they?

  Max had been stabbed with a tapered, curved instrument. I remembered seeing the marlinspikes in the case at the historical society as we waited for the grant presentation. One had been missing, on loan.

  What had Beltane said? Last-minute loans … maritime tools …

  I remembered Beltane and Lyman Smith talking in the garden before the grant presentation. She’d told him she’d put the loaned items in the office.

  Who could get into the office? So many people had been at the old Parish House for the grant presentation. The office would’ve been locked. Fern told me the annex had a security system and only board members had keys.

  Royal, Lyman, Gladys, and Beltane made up the board.

  Isobel. I still thought it was possible that Isobel could have murdered Max, mistaking him in the dark for her father. She could have gotten into the annex by taking her father’s key. But she’d cared for Max, and despite her volatile temperament, she’d simply been too busy to have time to murder him.

  Royal. I didn’t know his movements the night of the party. He must have suspected that Isobel had disarmed the security system for someone, for one of her boyfriends, when his files had been stolen. I’d heard him yelling about his family honor. Did he care enough about the Parish family’s reputation to take a life?

  Why would Lyman Smith kill Max, his right-hand man? Simple. Max knew Lyman’s secret—that he plagiarized Fern’s work. Something that had happened at the party struggled to surface, something I’d seen, something I’d heard that made me certain this was the right track.

  The throaty roar of a downshifting engine interrupted my thoughts. A yellow convertible sports car pulled up to the front door of the Mermaid. I hunched my shoulders. Another disappointed diner. A white pickup truck followed and parked beside the sports car. Aunt Gully’s mechanic jumped out of the truck.

  Oh, great. A pickup truck. You couldn’t get more practical than that.

  As I approached I could see into the sports car. Its leather seats looked meltingly soft. I sighed.

  A guy got out of the sports car, closed the door, and looked longingly at the closed front door of the Mermaid.

  “Hey, Allie.” Aunt Gully’s mechanic, one of Uncle Rocco’s old buddies, came around the truck holding out a set of keys. To my surprise, the younger guy waved and got in the truck. “It’s a stick, but your aunt said you both can drive one. Take good care of her. Gully said she’d be happy with the truck but my son’s moving to a new apartment and I need it to move his stuff.” He winked. “Thought she’d get a kick out of this. It’s just like the one in a TV show she used to like, Hart to Hart. Raise the top like this.” He demonstrated how to raise the roof of the car, then lowered it again. “Have fun and get it back … whenever.” He grinned.

  “Th-thanks!” I waved as he pulled out of the parking lot. I turned back to the sports car, opened the door, and got in. The leather seats embraced me. I’m never moving. This is a dream. This can’t be real.

  But it was. I turned the key and the engine rumbled to life.

  The drive to the old Parish House was pure exhilaration. With the top down, it was a bit cold, but I was in a convertible! I had to leave the top down. I had to. I might have driven a little fast, but the car hugged the curves of the road and purred as I pulled into the parking lot of the historical society.

  I’d never been a car person. Cars were for transportation, and if you were living in a city, they were an expense and a nuisance. But I was falling hard for this car. Hart to Hart car? That was right. It had my heart. Reluctantly, I shut the door of the beautiful machine.

  There were just a few other cars in the lot, two practical New England SUVs and a luxury sedan, all black, and one gray sedan I recognized—Fern’s.

  The black vehicles jolted me back to last night when I was run off the road. The impact. The sickening way Aunt Gully’s van had lurched into the ditch replayed in my mind. The joy of my drive over from the shack evaporated.

  I shone my cell phone beam on the sides and front end of all the cars, but there were no scrapes. None of these cars had driven me off the road last night. My attacker could probably afford another car and had the battered vehicle tucked away somewhere until the police stopped searching for it. Plus, I’d given the police nothing to go on—dark car, maybe an SUV. In New England, that description fit a lot of cars.

  As I approached the front door of the old Parish House, my mind flashed back to Fern’s story of Rosamund Parish. A woman stood at the door, white bonnet framing her face, wor
ry and fear in her eyes.

  I blinked. Get a grip, Allie. Check your imagination and stay sharp. Yes, I was here to help Fern but I was also pretty sure the killer of Max Hempstead was attending this meeting and this killer had a lot to lose. I wondered at the fear that would drive a person to kill another, the hubris of taking a life.

  I stepped inside, shutting the heavy wooden door softly behind me. Immediately I felt the disdainful gaze of all the Parishes on the walls, looking out from behind the crackled glaze of centuries-old paint. I followed the quiet murmur of voices to a small room off the kitchen, the keeping room. Royal Parish, Beltane, Lyman Smith, and Gladys Burley sat at a wooden table, Fern Doucette stood at the end.

  Old-fashioned table lamps on heavy antique furniture made pools of pale yellow light. The board members had all worn dark-colored sweaters and their expressions were serious. Royal paused, watching me over his reading glasses, as I entered the room.

  Fern still wore her gray sweatshirt, her pale hair loose on her shoulders. I thought of a play I’d seen years ago, about an innocent woman accused of witchcraft. The actress had stood just as Fern did now, her chin lifted, her fear warring with anger.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m late, Fern.”

  “Thank you for coming, Allie,” Fern breathed.

  “Objection. This person is not on the agenda for the meeting.” Gladys jabbed a paper on the table in front of her. I was relieved to see her blotches had faded but her eyes blazed with indignation.

  Royal and Lyman exchanged glances.

  “Gladys, I’m glad you’re doing better—” I started.

  Royal raised a hand to interrupt me. “Young lady, you can’t just—”

  “Please, just listen to what Allie has to say. She was with me at the annex last night,” Fern said.

  Gladys opened her mouth to speak.

  “I was with Fern yesterday in the annex,” I said quickly. “Professor Smith came into the library. He saw us looking at the book and told Fern to put it back. She did and we left.”

  Beltane’s crow-black eyes shifted to Lyman. “Is that what happened?”

  Lyman nodded. “Yes. I didn’t want to go into it and embarrass Fern further although she was breaking the rules by taking unauthorized visitors into the annex. After all, Fern isn’t on the list of approved researchers. I value Fern’s contributions, of course.” He nodded at her, still so condescending. “But it doesn’t matter. The book was found in her bag. And you, Beltane, were here with Fern this morning…” His voice dripped with insinuation.

  “Neither one of us went into the library, Lyman,” Beltane said in her silky voice.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that the book was found in Fern’s bag.”

  “And how did Fern do this? When she was with me?” A warning note crept into Beltane’s voice. “The police said there was no sign of forced entry and you know as well as I that there are only four keys to the annex.”

  Royal cleared his throat, looked over his reading glasses. “My key went missing, Beltane. A few days ago.”

  Fern clutched the edge of the table. “Now you’re saying I stole your key?” Her voice shrilled.

  “Not at all.” Royal’s tone was reasonable. He gave Fern a small smile. “Anyone could have taken it.” But he left the possibility hovering in the air. Of course, Fern was anyone.

  “Wait a minute—” I began.

  “No, you wait a minute. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police,” Gladys said.

  “Fine with me,” I shot back.

  Fern looked at me wildly.

  Beltane leaned toward Fern. “Fern, you have to do just that. Speak your truth.”

  Royal’s eyebrows jerked up. “Wait a second, wait a second, we’re all getting heated. Let’s discuss this at another time. What do you say? We’ll discuss it more fully at the next meeting. Gladys, what looks good on the calendar?”

  Gladys made a show of scrolling through a tablet. “Why don’t we add a few minutes to the December meeting? No, that’s a busy time. How about January?”

  “Very well.” Lyman stood. “I have papers to grade.”

  Fern looked panicked. “But—”

  Royal smiled. “We’ll discuss it more fully then.”

  Beltane rose and took Fern’s arm. “Come on, Fern.”

  Fern whirled on me. “What do you mean you’re fine with the police? I don’t want to get arrested!”

  “Fern, Fern, calm yourself,” Beltane said, but threw a glance back at the group at the table as they stood and put on jackets. Beltane’s glance was a dagger.

  Gladys smiled as she gathered up papers.

  Beltane herded us through the kitchen, stopping by a row of hooks by the back door. Fern put on a down vest and Beltane—good grief—a dark cloak with a hood.

  “Is that true, about Royal’s missing key?” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Beltane said. “Fern is being railroaded.”

  “Well, what do we do about it?” I said.

  Fern leaned tiredly against the wall and pushed back her hair. “Nothing, Allie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that you tried but I’m stuck. I need Lyman’s recommendation. I can’t set him off any further. I need this to go away.” She straightened and her hand flew to her side. “Oh, I was so upset I forgot my bag! I have to go get it. Thanks for coming tonight, Beltane, I know you had plans.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Thanks for trying to help, Allie. I appreciate it. You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll see you around.” Fern hurried back to the keeping room.

  Beltane put on her cloak, swirling it behind her back and onto her shoulders. “It was good of you to try to help Fern. But the forces arrayed against her are very strong. I’ve encouraged her to speak to the appropriate authorities at the college but she won’t.” Beltane folded her arms. “I’m trying to respect her autonomy, but it’s difficult.”

  Did I agree with Beltane Kowalski?

  We stepped outside into the kitchen garden. Lights winked off within the house and outdoor security lights blazed on.

  Beltane glanced up at the moon. “Good night,” she said, then whirled and hurried down the kitchen garden path. She didn’t head to the parking lot, instead crossing the broad lawn toward the trees.

  I walked slowly toward the parking lot. I didn’t want to run into Lyman, Royal, or most especially Gladys. Lingering in the shadows of the garden, I watched them exit the front door and cross the parking lot. Engines started and the cars pulled out.

  I leaned against Fern’s sedan. Fern. A woman of immense gifts, a born storyteller, who knew Lyman had stolen from her but didn’t have the courage to demand justice. I’d wait for her and try to convince her one more time to go with me to the police tonight. As I wondered what to say, I watched Beltane cross the lawn.

  Fern stepped from the kitchen door, pulling it closed behind her. She started to walk through the kitchen garden toward the parking lot, but stopped short. I followed the direction of her gaze. She’d seen Beltane, a shadow crossing the moonlight-silvered lawn. It was a short commute home through the cemetery. Talk about appropriate. Unless … there was something else going on tonight. Fern had thanked Beltane for coming tonight when she knew she had other plans. When she’d left, Beltane had looked up.

  I looked up. The moon was full.

  A ceremony. Beltane must have planned to attend a rite at the Witch’s Table. Now she was hurrying to meet her sisters

  Delilah’s words rang in my mind as I stepped softly across the gravel. The Witch’s Table. A place I don’t dare go. The echoes are too strong, too dangerous.

  Fern made a call on her phone, then tucked it into her canvas shoulder bag. She hurried through the garden, opening and closing the gate softly, stealthily—she didn’t want Beltane to know she was being followed. She, too, hurried across the lawn.

  Fern was a scholar with an interest in women’s studies and anthropology. She wasn’t going to pass up a chance to observ
e Beltane’s ceremony.

  The sound of a car’s engine made me turn. A dark car drove slowly through the lot. Was it one of the board members who had just left? Returning? Why? Or was it someone else? I lost sight of it as it went behind the Otis Parish House but the sound of the tires on gravel was loud in the still night air. I scuttled forward and saw the car draw up to the door of the annex.

  The engine cut, the car door opened and shut softly. A shadow moved across a floodlight behind the annex. I ducked behind the fence of the kitchen garden and saw a silhouetted figure, tall and broad-shouldered, halt and watch the women cross the lawn toward the woods.

  The figure ran behind the annex. Was there a back door? I crept to the end of the garden fence and peered around, holding my breath, grateful for my dark sweatshirt. I glanced at the figures crossing the lawn just in time to see the dark woods swallow the shadow that I knew was Beltane.

  Just as Fern disappeared into the woods, I heard a door close. An oddly shaped shadow ran with surprising speed across the lawn, carrying something long and thin that was almost as tall as the shadow itself. Light gleamed on the end.

  I caught my breath. I remembered the frat boys at the grant presentation carrying historical replicas of weapons.

  It was a pike.

  I ran after the shadow.

  I was pretty sure I knew why Beltane was going into the woods.

  And I thought I knew why Fern was going.

  But the third figure was unmistakably going to kill someone.

  Chapter 41

  I plunged into the shadows of the woods, then pulled up short. I had to call the police. I pulled out my phone and started to dial, then stopped. What if he hears me? Instead I texted Verity: Call police. Tell them to go to the Witch’s Table. NOW.

  My breath was ragged. I took one deep breath and closed my eyes briefly, centering myself. Then I opened my eyes and my senses, feeling myself in space, aware of the air on my body and the contours of the earth beneath my feet, a technique Madame had taught me.

  My eyes adjusted to the dark. Gray moonlight pierced the canopy of trees, creating veils of light. Up ahead, I saw a tall shadow slip through one of the veils. A man.