Curses Are for Cads

by Tamara Berry

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Sid shrugs off Otis’s touch and removes her hand from her brother’s clasp. Once again, she’s proving to be more resolute than her appearance suggests.

  There’s something about it that snags my notice. I’m all for people finding their strength in adversity, but she’s been undergoing an assault of bad news for over a month—for her whole life, really. The death of a houseguest under mysterious circumstances should be the thing that breaks her, not the thing that puts her back together again.

  “I’m sorry, Otis,” she says. “I know you’d prefer to whisk me away to safety, but you can hardly expect me to leave now. We have to get to the root of this problem, or people are going to keep dying. It’s our duty. Gloriana demands it.”

  At mention of the curse, Otis releases a soft oath. “Ashley, would you please talk some sense into your sister? This is getting ridiculous. Neither one of you can accomplish anything by staying in this dark castle and worrying yourselves to death. The longer you remain, the deeper you fall into this stupid, superstitious farce.”

  “ ‘For he is superstitious grown of late,’ ” quotes the poet.

  At a look from me, Nicholas takes a step in front of Ashley. I’m not saying Otis would murder his cousin, but he’d be justified in planting him a strong right hook.

  “This is our responsibility, Otis,” Sid says, her voice soft but determined. “You know that as well as anyone—better, probably. Mother, Father, Nadia, Harvey, and now Birdie . . . How many more people have to suffer before you finally start to believe?”

  I can only assume that Nadia is the name of the long-dead wife, because the look that crosses Otis’s face is so fierce that I’m no longer certain he won’t resort to murder to vent his wrath. I wouldn’t put it past him to burn this entire castle down—with us in it.

  Oh, please. Don’t you think that’s a touch dramatic?

  At the sound of Birdie’s voice once again intruding on my thoughts, I give a startled twitch. It’s followed almost immediately by a feeling of foreboding so deep that it touches my bones.

  Once, and I was willing to chalk it up to a figment of my imagination. Twice, and I can only wish my imagination ran that deep.

  “Nope,” I say aloud. “I’m not doing this. Not for all the gold in the world. I refuse.”

  “What do you refuse?” Sid asks, just as the voice sounds again.

  I told you someone here was going to die. I bet you’re sorry now that you didn’t believe me.

  Even though I know how it makes me look, I slap my hands over my ears.

  “Eleanor, why don’t you go down to the kitchen and give Elspeth a hand?” Nicholas suggests. His voice is careful—too careful, that of a man talking to someone on the edge. “I’m sure we can handle things from here.”

  On the contrary, I’m beginning to doubt that any of us—with the apparent exception of Sid—can handle what’s happening on this island. There are too many unknowns, too many questions we don’t even know how to ask, let alone answer. In an effort to buy myself some time, I place my hand to my temple and hold it there.

  You look like a buffoon when you do that, Birdie says.

  She’s right, you know, Winnie agrees. I’ve always thought you should come up with something more . . . sophisticated.

  I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s the laugh of a woman who’s reaching the edge of her sanity, who’s starting to question the color of the sky and which way is up, but I can’t help it. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to be cursed like this.

  “That didn’t stop you from copying it,” I tell Birdie. “By the way, if you’re going to linger for a while, the least you could do is help me out. Tell me the cause of your death, or at least where to find that blasted gold.”

  This eminently sensible suggestion is met with silence.

  Nicholas clears his throat and draws my attention. I glance around to discover the entire party staring incredulously at me.

  “Is it . . . Birdie?” Sid asks, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly parted. “Were you just talking to her?”

  I see no reason to respond with a lie. There are more than enough of those floating around already. “Yes.”

  “From beyond the grave?”

  I grimace. “I think it’s safe to assume as much.”

  My words are like a starting bell for reactionary outbursts.

  “What did she say?”

  “What does she want?”

  “Has she seen Gloriana?”

  “Does she know where the gold is?”

  I can only close my eyes and wait for the barrage of questions to abate. I know enough of communing with the dead by now to know that it will never be as simple as making a query and getting an answer. If I can’t get my own sister to tell me what I want to know, I have no idea how I’m supposed to control Birdie.

  “She says ‘I told you so.’ ” I say with a shrug of helplessness. “That’s the gist of it. She wants us all to remember that it was she who predicted someone would die under this roof.”

  Not surprisingly, this revelation doesn’t do much to still the undercurrent of fear in the room. In fact, the only person who seems mildly appreciative of Birdie’s sense of humor is Otis, who laughs outright.

  A light knock on the door to the salon is followed up by the rattle of an incoming tray cart. The doctor rushes to help Elspeth as she enters. Impossible though it seems in the half hour that’s passed since we last saw her, she’s managed to put together a feast. A tower of cakes and other dainty pastries, a steaming pot of tea, and what look to be awfully strong spirits for ten o’clock in the morning beckon.

  “Are we sure that’s safe?” Ashley asks as he eyes a particularly decadent Victoria sponge cake. “It looks delicious, as always, but until we know what happened to Birdie . . .”

  Elspeth’s face falls. I feel an almost ludicrous pity for her—caring for her grandsons, keeping the castle in order, being blamed for Birdie’s self-poisoning, and receiving nothing but the mildest thanks for it all.

  “I, for one, am ravenous,” I announce. “Thank you, Elspeth. I hope you don’t mind if I end up eating that whole cake. Your cooking is always delicious.”

  She blushes her pleasure so rosily that I’m tempted to allay fears by adding that Birdie herself vouches for the safety of the refreshments. I don’t do it, however. The link between me and a recent poisoning is already stronger than I like. I’m not deliberately putting myself on the hook for another.

  “Yes, thank you,” Sid echoes, though I notice she doesn’t rush to cut herself a slice. “And don’t worry—I’ll take everything back to the kitchen when we’re done.”

  “No, you’ll be packing your things and getting on a boat with me,” Otis reminds her. “In fact, I think all of us should go. Immediately.”

  For once, I find myself in agreement with him. If this were a game of Clue, we’d want to lock everyone in the castle together, pitting wits and uncovering evidence that would eventually lead us to the murderer. But life isn’t a game, and I’m worried. As long as that poison remains somewhere inside these walls—and with someone who isn’t afraid to use it—we’re all in danger.

  I had no idea you were so squeamish, Birdie says.

  I ignore her. It’s not squeamish to want to live. It’s not squeamish to recall that there are two little boys whose lives are endangered with every second they remain here.

  “He’s right,” I say. “No good can come of us lingering. We should all get ourselves to safety while we still can.”

  “You’re giving up?” Sid asks. Her brows are pulled tight, her lips twisted in a moue of displeasure. “After everything that’s happened? After all we’ve been through? You’ll just let Gloriana free to vent her wrath?”

  In that moment, not even Ashley at his most poetic could touch Sid for soulful entreaty. Her hands are cast up in supplication, the fate of the entire world hanging from them.

  “Please, Madame Eleanor,” she adds. “I’m beggi
ng you not to abandon us. Not now. Not when we’re so close. Without you, there’s no chance we’ll ever discover what happened to the gold—or to Father. You’re the only hope we have.”

  “Well . . .” I falter, unable to ignore how desperately she wants to stay and find the gold. Even that bit about her father was added only as an afterthought, as though the treasure is her real ambition—has been her ambition all along. I can’t help remembering the feeling I had yesterday that Birdie was hiding something, protecting someone. That feeling is still there, but I’m starting to wonder if protect was the right word.

  “Personally, I’d like to stay and see this thing through,” Nicholas says, clinching the matter. He adds, almost apologetically, “But if Eleanor thinks we ought to go, then I’m willing to accede to her wishes. I know better than to doubt her intuition—or her sister’s.”

  This proves too much for Otis. “You don’t believe her,” he says, angry spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. “You can’t possibly think that she talks to dead people.”

  Nicholas lifts his brow. “Of course I do.”

  “But—” Otis glances back and forth between us. “No. It’s not possible. She makes it up. It’s all a sham. You said so—I distinctly remember you saying so.”

  “On the contrary, what I told you was that she puts on a good show. Which she does, as you’ve seen for yourself. The talent behind it, however, is authentic.”

  “Then how many fingers am I holding up?” Otis swiftly pulls his hands behind his back. It’s a common trick among those who have no confidence and even less imagination. “Ask your dead friend about that.”

  “First of all, it doesn’t work like that,” I say, fighting a strong urge to roll my eyes. “And second of all, you’re not holding up any fingers. You have your hands in a pair of fists in an effort to trick me.”

  “How the devil?” He pulls his hands out from behind his back and stares at them, as if the answer to my sapience lies in the flesh. “Is there a mirror behind me or something?”

  Nicholas chuckles. “No, but even I could have guessed that one.”

  “So what does this mean?” Sid asks, looking from one face to another. “Are we staying or going?”

  There’s a note of anxiety in her voice that clinches the matter. It’s not anxiety over her own safety or the safety of her guests; it’s anxiety over whether or not we plan on seeing this gold-hunting expedition through to the end. That much resolution, and this late in the game, is impossible to ignore.

  “Birdie thinks we should stay,” I say with a decisive nod. “She doesn’t want to have died in vain.”

  “She said that?” Otis asks, suspicious. “Out of the blue? She can just pop in whenever?”

  I heave a sigh that’s only partially faked. “Apparently. Believe me when I say that I’d gladly hand her over to you if I could. The last thing I want is to spend the rest of my life with Bridget Wimpole-White gazing over my shoulder and keeping up a running commentary.”

  As if just now realizing the implications of this newest twist in the Eleanor Wilde mystical saga, Nicholas physically balks.

  “Dear God,” he says. “The rest of your life?”

  I laugh. There’s nothing funny about any of this, but the look of horror on Nicholas’s face leaves room for nothing else. My sister has never yet intruded on moments of real intimacy, and I doubt she ever will, but there’s no saying what a woman like Birdie will do.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, and give his arm a squeeze. “I haven’t yet attempted an exorcism, but after everything else I’ve managed to pull off, how hard can it be?”

  Chapter 15

  When I return upstairs, it’s to find the note that accompanied my clothes is gone. So, too, is the entire stack of clothing on the foot of Birdie’s bed. It’s been replaced by the sleeping, purring mass of my two cats, who seem to be taking an awfully macabre interest in her mortal remains.

  “It’s going to take a couple of us to carry her down,” Nicholas observes from somewhere a few feet behind me. “You have approximately five minutes to snoop around before you’ll miss your chance.”

  “I don’t snoop; I investigate,” I retort, but leave it at that. Five minutes doesn’t leave me with much in the way of time. “Quick—see if there are still four bags under the bed and take them to my room. If nothing else, at least I can change out of these clothes.”

  “I think you look nice in those ruffles,” he says, but doesn’t hesitate to carry out my orders. And a good thing, too—if he wasn’t being so helpful and supportive, I’d have a thing or two to say about a man who thinks Laura Ashley clothes suit my aesthetic.

  “Is it safe to assume these are yours?” he asks as he easily balances all four of the suitcases.

  “Yes. I thought the twins were behind it, but Birdie must have had them this whole time, the lying sneak.”

  With a furtive glance down the hallway, we dash across to my room, where Nicholas safely bestows the suitcases in one corner. Dropping to my knees in front of the smallest of them, I zip it open and inspect the contents. That my belongings have been rifled through is without question. I’m not the neatest packer in the world, but everything had been more or less folded when I left my cottage. It’s now a tangled mess of clothes, jewelry, and—thank goodness—the white scarf that had been the last thing Winnie ever gave me.

  The other bags are similarly vandalized. Nothing is missing, but the herbal remedies I brought with me have all been opened, and my ghost-hunting tech looks to have been tampered with at least a few times.

  In fact, after making a survey of the contents, I realize that the only things missing are two scarves in bright shades of red and blue.

  I rock back on my heels. “That must have been what Ferguson and Jaime meant,” I say with a shake of my head. Since Nicholas has yet to ask the question I’m sure is on his lips, I glance up and add, “At one point, they mentioned bribery in conjunction with Birdie’s name. She must have tried getting information out of them by promising to outfit them in my pashminas.”

  “Not very polite of her,” Nicholas murmurs. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Although she must have known that you’d notice them wearing the scarves and piece the truth together. Especially if she was only hiding these bags under the bed. You could have gone into her room and found them at any point.”

  I stare at him. He’s not wrong. Not only would it have been easy for Elspeth to unearth the bags during one of her cleaning rounds, but that room has been unlocked for the entire duration of my stay. Birdie almost assuredly examined my own room from top to bottom—how could she possibly know that I wouldn’t do the same?

  “You think someone planted them?” I ask, and immediately shake my head. “No. She had to have taken them. It fits with everything else she’s done.”

  There’s a questioning tilt to Nicholas’s head, but I can hear footsteps in the distance. The cortège must be on its way. I only have time to explain, “I know it sounds far-fetched, but I could almost swear that she was more interested in helping me find the gold rather than searching for it herself.”

  “That’s one of the nicest compliments you could give her,” Nicholas replies as he helps me to my feet. “It obviously didn’t take her long to realize that you’re worth two dozen of her.”

  It’s an incredibly sweet thing to say, but it’s a bunch of malarkey, and he knows it. I can only assume that all this murder is addling his brain; the next thing I know, he’ll be flowering me with saccharine sentiments and encouraging me to invest in more ruffled blouses.

  Otis and Ashley arrive upstairs to carry their burden down to the waiting pirate boat. Since the removal of Birdie’s remains isn’t going to help me solve this case—and because it turns out I’m more squeamish about this sort of thing than I realized—I duck out and leave them to their work.

  I want nothing more than a few minutes of quiet time to reflect, think, and—the Good Goddess willing—come up with a plan that will scare the murd
erer into revealing himself. Imagine my dismay, then, when I reach the bottom of the stairs to find a trap lying in wait for me.

  “There she is!”

  “Show her what you did!”

  “Madame Eleanor, you won’t believe it!”

  I put a smile on my face and greet the twin boys. They’ve been recently brushed and scrubbed—prepped, no doubt, for their upcoming journey—but all the soap in the world couldn’t subdue their natural spirits.

  “It worked!” Jaime flashes me a not-so-toothy grin and holds out his hand, where a small white pebble rests. “I kept saying the spell over and over again, and bam! It popped right out.”

  “I didn’t think it would work that fast,” Ferguson confides. A burgeoning sense of respect peeps out from his lowered lashes. “What other spells do you know? Can you turn people into frogs?”

  “Or . . . pirates?” Jaime suggests.

  The mention of pirates recalls me to a sense of my surroundings—and my duty. Crouching to their level, I put on my sternest and most serious expression. “I’m happy that you were able to remove your tooth, but I need you to tell me something very important.”

  The boys’ twin gazes shift toward one another.

  “You’re not in trouble,” I hasten to add, but that’s obviously an expression they’ve heard many a time in their small lives, because it only increases their wariness. “I need to know one thing. Did Birdie White—the woman who passed away—give you two the scarves I saw you wearing the other day?”

  Their eyes begin moving again, but I speak up before they have a chance to make contact.

  “That’s a silly question, because I already know the answer. She did give you those scarves.”

  “How d’you know that?” Ferguson asks.

  With more hope than suspicion, Jaime adds, “Did you see it in a crystal ball?”

  “I don’t use a crystal ball. I see things in my mind’s eye.”