Forty, Fabulous and Fae

by Melinda Chase

  They’d each been tied up, and someone had carved a pentagram into their chest before driving a dagger through their hearts. The murder weapon had yet to be found.

  “Geez,” I breathed. “That’s some serious psychosis. I’d bet the police are looking for a serial killer, white male, mid to late thirties.”

  I was met with only blank and confused stares.

  “Typical serial killer M.O.,” I shrugged. “Although the symbol thing is new. I’ve never dealt with a perp who did that before. It’s probably some weird way for him to mark his territory and show off to the other serial killers.”

  “The… other serial killers?” If Mom’s eyebrow had gone up any further, they would have disappeared right into her hairline.

  “Yeah, there’s a lot more of them out there than you might think,” I told her seriously.

  Again, the three of them shared what was probably meant to be a surreptitious glance, but came across as more of a worried, tense, three-way stare down that was very obviously not meant for my eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I almost would have thought they were communicating telepathically.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Do you know who did this, or something?”

  “Of course not!” Deedee cried.

  “So then what? Why are you all acting so strange?” I demanded.

  Silence. Again. This time, I resolved to be silent, too, until somebody gave me some damn answers. I crossed my arms over my chest and planted my butt in one of the cheap folding chairs so I could glare at all three of them at the exact same time.

  Finally, Grams let out a sigh and marched over to me, putting her hands on my cheeks so she could look me straight in the eyes.

  “We’re afraid we’ll be next, pumpkin.”

  4

  If there had been a mirror in front of me, I’m pretty sure the expression on my face would have been comical enough to make me burst out laughing. In one split second, I went through the wringer of emotions. I was dumfounded, shocked, surprised, tickled, and then, finally, absolutely certain that everyone around me had lost their damn marbles.

  “You’re afraid you’ll be next?” I demanded, before the inner D.A. in me took hold and forced myself to calm down. I took a deep breath just like my yoga instructor taught us to, and then leveled Grams with an even stare. “What exactly would make you think that? Has someone threatened you? Were these women somehow associated with you?”

  “They all shopped here,” Mom offered.

  Oh boy.

  “Mom, you think that just because these women shopped in your store, an occult shop, something that has exploded in popularity over the last ten years, that the killer will target you next?” I asked diplomatically.

  The logic wasn’t there, in my mind. Their shop was so popular, I was almost certain everyone in Portland had shopped there at some point. The killer couldn’t possibly be targeting every single woman in Portland. He probably had some other, twisted, insane criteria to judge who would be his next victim. All serial killers did.

  “They were special,” Auntie Deedee offered. “They came—”

  “Deedee,” Mom warned, her tone dark and dangerous. It was so scary, in fact, that it actually made my heart drop to my stomach. The last time she’d used that tone in front of me, she’d found out I’d lost my virginity to the high school bad boy, Frankie Sampson.

  “They came what?” I asked quietly, nervously, hoping that somehow Deedee would be the only one able to hear me. Which was obviously impossible, seeing as we were all in the same room. But I was the kind of person who hated unclear endings. If someone started a sentence, I needed to know the end of it, no matter how bad it might be.

  Like when you’re at a party, and everyone’s talking in one big group, and there’s that one sort of quiet person who will start a sentence, and then not finish it because other people are talking over them, and poor Quiet Person decides what they have to say isn’t worth anything. I was always the one who stopped the entire conversation just to hear what they had to say. It wasn’t because I was trying to be particularly nice, although I did find it rude to just bulldoze people.

  I was just too curious. It was a McCarthy curse.

  Dina glanced from Mom, to me, and back again. She twisted her bottom lip in her teeth the way she always did when she was nervous before she finally shook her head.

  “It’s nothing,” she hedged. “I’m just jumping to conclusions.”

  “All assumptions are valid until they’ve been disproven,” I informed her, my D.A. hat jumping back onto my head again.

  “Not in this house,” Mom interrupted. “And not in this store. You weren’t supposed to hear this conversation, anyways.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “What’s the big secret?”

  “We just didn’t want you to worry,” Grams wrapped my hand in her own and looked into my eyes with such deep sincerity I almost believed her.

  Almost.

  “Are you sure?” I murmured.

  “Of course.” Grams nodded reassuringly. “These murders have just thrown us all off, just like they did last time. Things will go back to normal soon.”

  “Mama!” My mother gasped, but it was too late. The words were already out of Grams mouth, and I'd had plenty chance to process them.

  “What happened last time?”

  This was something none of them could talk their way out of. Grams’ words were clear as day, and they knew it, too. Once again, they shared that same, surreptitious glance.

  “What is it with the looks?” I demanded, throwing my hands up into the air. “Do you think I can't see it when you stare at each other like that?”

  For emphasis, I made my eyes all big and googly-eyed to imitate the way theirs looked. Geez. Maybe I’d make a class all about how to lie like a criminal just so these three weren’t so easily caught.

  Although that probably wouldn’t benefit me, since I was the one they’d be lying to.

  “This happened before,” Grams explained. Her green eyes glazed over, and she went far away as her memories washed over her. “The exact same events. We were all so terrified. The symbols in the chest… the ropes soaked in wolfsbane… the dagger to the heart… it was so terrible. I thought we’d never make it out alive. I was so afraid my child would be an orphan at the hands of some awful f—”

  “Mama, remember who you’re talking to,” Mom suddenly warned.

  Instantly, Grams snapped right back to the present. She pursed her lips and nodded seriously, all business once more.

  “Of course, it might not be the same,” she covered. “Now, Shannon, go run along and get some ice cream like your Auntie Deedee told you to. We’ve got to do inventory.”

  “Well, I can help—”

  “No, no you can’t.” Mom put her hands on my shoulders and started to shove me out of the break room roughly. “Inventory is too precious a thing. Go have some ice cream. We’re going to pick up Gino’s for dinner, and we’ll be back at the house around six.”

  And with that, the break room door slammed in my face. I was, quite literally, nose to nose with its peeling green paint as I stood there in slight shock for about three seconds.

  Then, I got really suspicious. Now, I loved my mom, Grams, and Auntie Deedee. They had a lot of admirable qualities, too. But seriousness was absolutely not one of them. And speaking to me like actual parents should was also not my mom’s strong suit.

  So the combination of those two extremely unusual traits suddenly making an appearance had me on high alert.

  Suffice it to say, I did not go down to the ice cream parlor and have a big, fat scoop of the icy deliciousness. I wasn’t a teenager anymore, and I certainly didn’t live under their roof. What was the worst they could do to me? I was a grown woman, and I had the right to make my own decisions.

  Decision number one: time for snooping.

  Any records of these first murders were almost definitely not on my dear friend Mr. Google’s website. If it was before I was born, a
nd back when my mother was still young enough to have been an orphan if things went sideways, then that meant I was looking for articles from the late 1940s to the early 1960s.

  So, as I had many times as a bored teen, I walked down to the Portland library and headed into their Records section. Although this time, I wasn’t looking for articles to write my next history paper.

  “Hello,” the sultry, elderly librarian greeted me from behind her massive Coke bottle glasses. Even that heavy of a prescription wasn’t enough for her, though, because her hazel eyes were focused on a spot just over my left shoulder.

  “Hi,” I gave her a little wave to try and help out her eyesight a little bit, but it did nothing. “I was wondering if you have any records of newspaper articles between, uh, 1947 to 1963 or so?”

  “We do,” she nodded.

  And then didn’t move.

  “Can I see them?” I asked slowly.

  “Sure,” she shrugged.

  But still didn’t move.

  “Okay, where are they?” I prompted, thinking I’d somehow ended up in the wrong section.

  “I’ve got them in this computer here.” She pointed at her dinosaur era desktop. “But you’ll have to be more specific. What exactly are you looking for?”

  I thought about it for a moment.

  “Anything on occult murders,” I finally said. “Women who had symbols carved into their chests before they were killed.”

  The librarians eyebrows knitted together in distress.

  “I remember that,” she murmured quietly. “And now it’s happening again to us.”

  “Who’s ‘us’?” I just about jumped on her language.

  A flash of worry leapt into the old woman’s eyes, but she shook her head quickly.

  “The people of Portland, dear,” she said sweetly. “What happens to one of us happens to all of us.”

  I had a feeling that was not at all that she had meant, but I didn’t press the issue. I was tired of asking for answers and receiving nothing in return.

  The librarian printed out the three articles that had been written about the murders and handed them to me with a perky smile I had a feeling she normally didn’t wear.

  But I smiled and thanked her, taking my copies of the articles quickly, and retreating to my absolute favorite coffee shop.

  Truthfully, I had no idea what I was doing. I wasn’t the Portland D.A--and even if I was, it wasn’t exactly in my job description to investigate things like this. But something inside of me-- call it intuition, call it curiosity, call it morbid fascination--knew that I needed to figure this out.

  I was being lied to. Or, at the very least, information was being withheld. And, since it appeared I was the only sane person left on the entire planet, it was up to me to figure it out.

  5

  Rockstar Coffee had long been a staple for Portland natives. I’d spent many a rainy day afternoon there while I was in high school, studying my math textbook.

  And Jerry Abrams.

  He’d been the cute, college-aged barista all of the girls were absolutely obsessed with. Of course, Jerry was a lot more interested in the bored stay at home moms than he was the silly high school girls, but we deluded ourselves into completely ignoring that fact.

  When I walked into Rockstar Coffee, though, I got quite the shock. Gone were the kitschy metal tables and very simple coffee bar that pretty much just served drip coffee with milk and baked goods. The checkered, black and white tile floor had been ripped up and replaced, and the jukebox that had made it such a popular hangout spot in the mid-nineties had also been dumped somewhere else.

  Now, Rockstar Coffee, albeit still under the same name, looked just like every other hipster coffee shop in Portland. It was filled with those awful, sustainable wooden tables surrounded by benches instead of chairs, meant to encourage people to share seats and talk with strangers. The coffee bar was now a full-blown espresso bar, complete with a shiny, stainless steel machine and three haphazard baristas with faces full of metal jewelry.

  “Welcome to Rockstar Coffee,” the pimple faced cashier greeted me with the same level of bored indifference all teenagers seemed to show nowadays. “What can I get you?”

  “Uhh…” I took a moment to look at the menu, which was now two whiteboards filled with an assortment of different drinks with strange names, like “zebra mocha” and “caramel frappe.”

  “All of our drinks can come hot or blended,” he prompted me, clearly wanting to move on to helping the customers in the line that had formed behind me.

  “Right.” I nodded. “Can I just get a dark roast drip coffee? With cream?”

  I swear to God, the kid stared at me like I’d just jumped straight up from hell right in front of him.

  “You just want a drip coffee?” He repeated in astonishment.

  “Yeah. Do you guys not have that here?” It was a genuine question, since he was currently staring at me like I’d grown six heads.

  “No, we do,” he replied, before turning to holler over his shoulder in a voice that was the exact opposite of inside, “Dark drip!”

  “Coming up!” The barista hollered back, her voice even louder than his.

  “That’ll be four twenty-seven,” he told me.

  “Four twenty-seven? For a cup of coffee?” I gasped.

  Back home, I could get the same thing for a buck.

  “Yeah,” he nodded.

  I shelled out the cash, retrieved my lukewarm cup of coffee, and sat at the only table meant for one person in the entire place. It seemed to be the one people had avoided so they could opt for “social inclusion,” but I wanted to include absolutely nobody in my small social circle here.

  I spent the next hour poring over the three articles in front of me. By the second, that strange feeling in my gut grew stronger and stronger, but I had no idea what the hell it was trying to point me to.

  The previous murders had happened in 1955. There had been twelve altogether, which was a pretty damn big number considering they were all in the same city within a relatively short time frame. Six months, to be exact.

  Just as Grams had mentioned, the murders were the exact same as the ones happening now. Each woman had been bound in her bed, carved up like a piece of meat, and then stabbed through the heart one singular time.

  It seemed, though, that the reporters in 1955 were a lot more open to interviewing the crazy people than reporters today were. I knew this because, in the second article detailing the murder of Geneva Montcliff, a relatively wealthy high society woman, the reporter more or less alluded to the fact that Geneva was a witch.

  Actually, taking into account the fact that she included a quote in which a “close acquaintance” of Geneva said: “She was a witch. She was always doing spells and making potions. The woman was killed due to prejudice against her kind, plain and simple,” I was pretty sure the reporter was definitely saying that Geneva Montcliff was a witch.

  To me, it seemed like Ms. Henrietta Jenkins, reporter for the Portland Gazette back in 1955, was very sure Geneva was killed for her supposed witchy powers.

  Something struck me as I re-read that article about ten times. The way the librarian had said “us,” and the way Grams had been so sure they were next… since it had happened before…

  “No way,” I breathed. “No way! This is crazy.”

  Thankfully, not a single person in the coffee shop looked up at my sudden outburst. Not that I would have cared. Inner turmoil had taken over and washed me in the choppy waters of absolute doubt.

  This was all too much. My mind was putting things together that just weren’t there. Witches didn’t exist--real ones, anyway. If Geneva had gone around calling herself a witch, it was probably just because she was into those moon rituals and love spells, or whatever.

  For all of that logic to add up, I had to ignore the tiny voice in my head that pointed out how, back in 1955, moon rituals and love spells weren’t exactly the pop culture craze they were today. In fact, when Grams had
opened her occult shop a few years later, she’d been looked at like a crazy woman until the hippies started to take over in the sixties.

  Shaking my head, I flipped to the third and final article. I didn’t even know why I kept reading at that point. None of this concerned me, really. Why was I so obsessed with a string of murders that had happened nearly fifty years ago? Either the killer was back again, probably in the form of some decrepit old man attempting to re-live his glory days, or we had a copycat. These news articles alone provided enough information for any run-of-the-mill crazy person to reenact the murders.

  Right?

  I was trying to convince myself at that point.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a stranger passing by my table, awfully close by the standards of the modern day. He glanced down rudely at the papers splayed across my table as he walked by, and I heard a sound catch in his throat.

  Great, he probably thought I was insane, too.

  Then, he stopped about a foot past me, backtracked slowly, and proceeded to stand right next to me staring down at the documents in front of me. I tried to give him a sort of sideways glance as I took a sip of my now cold coffee, but my usual side eye didn’t do its job, and the guy just kept right on staring at me.

  Finally, when I had just worked up enough annoyance to tell him to go away and get his nose out of my business, he spoke.

  “You think there’s a connection too, don’t you?”

  His voice stopped me in my tracks. Or I assume it would have, if I’d been walking. I wouldn’t say it sounded like honey, or any of those cliched things women always say when they meet a new guy. In fact, he didn't even possess a particularly nice voice to listen to.

  But there was something about the deep gravity, the way he formed every single word with careful precision, the way the sound seemed to roll over my eardrums like a welcome massage at the end of a very long day, that managed to hook me so insanely fast I didn’t even know what he said to me.