by Catie Rhodes
“If you think of anything…”
“You bet, hon.” She opened the door to the loft. Barbie stood there with her hand raised as though she was about to knock.
“What is it, Barbara?” Julie pushed around my mother and descended the stairs. She hated the store to be left unattended. It was one of her cardinal rules. I bit back a nasty smile at my mother’s mistake.
Barbie trailed after her. “Those people looking at the old Coke machine are ready to buy, but they have some questions.”
“Oh, goodness. That thing’s sat in here almost a year.” Julie took off at a near run, leaving me with Barbie.
I took the last couple of steps as quickly as I could and strode toward the exit.
“Where’d you get your tattoo, sweetie?” Barbie called after me.
“Roadside carnival.” I kept walking.
“But why’d you choose that design?” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop.
I faced her but couldn’t make myself return her smile. “Young and stupid, I guess. How come?”
“Ron hated them, but now I’m thinking of getting one. Maybe we can go together?” She broadened her grin. “Like a mother daughter thing.”
You’ve got to be kidding. I forced myself to nod. “Give me a call.” I’d be sure not to answer.
I hurried outside and got into my car. After several deep breaths, I was ready to call Mysti Whitebyrd. I got out my cellphone and punched in the number. The call connected, and one ring, then two, then three buzzed in my ear. I took the cellphone away from my ear to hang up, and a breathless male voice answered. He mumbled what sounded like the name of a business and said, “Can I help you?”
“May I speak to Mysti Whitebyrd?”
“Ms. Whitebyrd has taken ill and is currently not seeing clients. May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name’s Peri Jean Mace.”
“What’s the nature of your business? Maybe I can help.”
“Ms. Whitebyrd inquired about a mini treasure chest at an antique store in Gaslight City, Texas—”
“Aw, hell no. No more of that crazy town or the fucked up people who live there. Y’all are what made my sister sick in the first place.”
The call disconnected.
Really? I redialed.
“Don’t call here a—”
“I won’t if you answer me one question.”
Silence. At least he didn’t hang up right away.
“What did you say the name of your business is?”
“Whitebyrd Potions and Notions. Not that I’ll do business with y—”
I hung up. See how he likes it when somebody does it to him. I grinned despite my grinding nerves. Potions and Notions. The name of the business sounded like something new age-y. Maybe even something supernatural. Perhaps good old Mysti was a witch.
If the guy on the phone told me the truth, Mysti was sick. Dealing with the Mace Treasure tended to be bad for people’s health. Sick didn’t mean Mysti wasn’t behind the ghost who’d stolen the Bruce family’s journals and Eddie’s treasure chest. And murdered Eddie. I needed to have a chat with Mysti.
I used my smartphone to access the internet and typed in Whitebyrd Potions and Notions Tyler. The address popped up like magic.
8
To be safe, I sent Hannah a message telling her where I was headed, why, and the address. She replied almost immediately.
Need company?
No.
Get your skinny ass over here and pick me up.
Hannah insisted on taking her BMW to Tyler because my ride stank like cigarettes. She chattered part of the hour’s drive but, when I provided monosyllabic answers, quit talking and drove. About a mile away from our destination, when traffic picked up to the point I felt trapped in a video game, she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“What’s up your ass?”
“My mother is working at the antique store. My grandmother is dying. My boyfriend is going to lose the sheriff’s election. The man who helped raise me is dead. Take your pick.”
“Boy, talk about glass half empty.”
“Eat my shorts.”
Hannah’s GPS navigator began talking then and we said nothing else until we reached Mysti Whitebyrd’s house, which turned out to be no more exotic than an ‘80s era brick ranch style house on a street of jammed-together houses, identical except for the color of their shutters.
“She must run her business out of her house.” Hannah pulled up to the curb in front of Mysti’s house and put the car in park.
“Maybe she does house calls.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened my door. “You wait out here.”
“I don’t believe you.” She turned in the seat to shake her finger at me. Her cheeks darkened to match her hair. “You can’t leave me out.”
“Can too.” I got out of the car. The shrill cries of children playing or killing each other drilled into my eardrums. Hannah jumped out of the car and huffed around it to join me.
“Wait a damn minute. I’m going, too.”
I stared at the closed mini-blinds in Mysti’s window. A finger snaked between the slats, and pulled one down enough to see through. Great. Whoever was inside knew we were here. So much for the element of surprise.
“If we both go, then I have you to worry about,” I said.
“But then I have to sit out here and worry about what’s happening to you inside,” she said.
The front door opened a crack, and I took off walking toward the house, sick of arguing with her. The crowded street was like a whole other world to me. My senses struggled to keep up with the deluge of competing information. Cars whizzed by, trailing stereo noise and the stench of exhaust. The smell of food frying wafted from a nearby house and made my stomach growl. The feeling of eyes watching from every direction set me on edge. I did a slow turn, trying to see who was watching. The curtains in the house across the way twitched, but I saw no other signs of life other than the kids, who were all gathered in the largest yard on the street. I stepped up onto the sidewalk and walked toward the house.
Mysti’s yard may have once been the nicest on the street, but weeds had invaded the flowerbed and her annuals were dying from neglect. An empty hummingbird feeder swung from the eaves of the tiny front porch. I closed in, and the door opened wider. A guy stepped out onto the porch.
“I’m not letting you in the house.” His deeply tanned skin suggested regular tanning bed use while his unlined eyes pegged him at mid-twenties or younger. The barely disguised tremble beneath his gruff words suggested I had his age pegged. “I don’t want to talk to anybody from Gaslight City ever again.”
His words snapped me to attention. How’d he know where we came from? Nothing about Hannah’s vehicle or either of us said we were from Gaslight City. The black opal on my chest heated, as though it recognized something otherworldly, and I took a closer look at the guy.
Nothing about his clean-shaven, sideburn-free face screamed magic or witch. His khaki shorts and tucked-in-button-down linen shirt came closer to screaming “nerd” than anything else. Hannah stomped up next to me, muttering about me not even waiting for her. The guy’s demeanor did a one-eighty. He put his hand to his mouth and practically made a “squee” sound.
“You’re Hannah Kessler.” He pointed at her and actually bounced on his heels. “I saw your swimsuit spread. Pardon my boldness, ma’am, but you’re hot.”
Hannah flushed but stood a little straighter and held out her hand for him to shake.
“What’s your name?”
“Brad W-W-Whitebyrd.” The guy glanced behind him, then back at me.
“I’m Peri Jean Mace.” I held out my hand. He shook it but the look on his face said he’d rather have touched Hannah again.
“Let us in, Brad.” I said. “We’re as scared of you as you are of us.” I didn’t know why he was scared of people from Gaslight City but I was ready to find out.
“We can talk out here.”
I twisted to glance behind me. Acros
s the street, a woman with an enormous potbelly stepped out onto her front porch and stood smoking and watching us, a bottle of beer at her feet. Two cars pulled up at the house next door, spilling out a family with two kids, all talking at top volume. I turned back to Brad.
“Come on, dude. You’ll get to tell all your buddies Hannah Kessler was in your house.” I leaned closer. “Beat off material for months.”
He flushed and opened the door, motioning us inside. The house smelled like unwashed clothes and TV dinners. Scattered papers and magazines littered the living room, and a game show flashed on the muted TV. Brad hurried to clean the junk off the furniture, piling it all on the brick fireplace hearth. He sat down on the papers and motioned Hannah and me to sit. We chose the couch.
“First thing. How’d you know we’re from Gaslight City?” I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.
Brad frowned, shifting around his nest of newspapers and magazines. “Why are you here?”
“We could do this all day,” Hannah said. “Sooner or later, somebody’s going to have to give up some information. We’ll start.” She nudged me with her elbow.
I felt like elbowing her back but started talking instead. “You said on the phone Mysti is sick, right?”
Brad nodded.
“I got Mysti’s name from Julie Woodson, who owns Silver Dreams Antiques in Gaslight City. She said Mysti came in looking for a box about this size.” I demonstrated with my hands. “It looks like a treasure chest.”
“I knew it.” He waved one hand in the air. “More crazies looking for the Mace Treasure. I told Mysti not to take the job, no matter how much it paid.”
“So someone hired her?” Hannah asked.
Brad’s gaze ping-ponged between Hannah and me, his dilemma clear to me. He wanted to please Hannah, but he didn’t want to say too much. I needed to build some trust with him or I’d never find out if Mysti was behind sending the ghost to steal the treasure.
“Let’s start with something easy,” I said. “Where is Mysti now? Maybe we could talk to her.”
Brad wiggled some more. He was either about to wet his pants or start scratching like a dog.
“Which one of you is doing magic?” He stood and practically ran across the room to tower over us, some of the papers he’d been holding down sticking to his bare legs, others fluttering in his wake.
Hannah cringed away from him, clutching her purse to her chest. I stood and knocked him back, then crowded in chest-to-chest with him.
“Nobody’s doing magic, and don’t ever get in my face. Understand?” Despite being several inches shorter than him, I expected him to back down.
“Liar,” he shouted in my face. I flinched at the sweet smell of energy drink on his breath. No wonder he was so fidgety. “Get out of this house. Everything Mysti learned about that dumb-assed treasure is in her head, and nobody—not even you—can get it out. I might not be as good as Mysti, but I can hurt you.”
“Don’t threaten me, you little goon head.” I shoved Brad out of my face. “I’ll beat you into next year.” I reared back a fist, but Hannah shot up off the couch and grabbed my arm.
“Stop it, both of you,” she yelled. “We’re not here to hurt you, Brad.” She gave my arm a hard yank. “You calm down. This isn’t a barroom brawl.”
I snatched my arm away from Hannah and stooped to pick up one of the papers. The letterhead read Pineywoods Hospital for Mental Health. I held the paper out to Brad.
“This where Mysti’s at?”
“I’m not answering any more questions.” Brad backed away from us, his face twisted and red and his eyes wild. “I can feel one of you doing magic. If whoever hired Mysti sent you…”
“Who hired her?” The black opal sent a sharp shock of magic into my skin. Without thinking, I reached to grab it and pull it away from me.
“There!” He pointed, white spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. “See? You’ve got something in there. Spelling stones, a crystal.”
I pulled the black opal out of my shirt. Brad scrambled backward and tripped over a leather ottoman. I grabbed his shirt to keep him from falling on his ass.
“Settle down.” I kept my voice low and calm. “Let’s you and me calm down.”
Brad regained his balance, breathing hard. He and I stared at each other while we took deep breaths.
“Listen to me,” I said. “I ain’t doing magic, okay? This thing is magic, but I barely know how to use it.”
“You a witch, too?”
“No. I can see ghosts. The black opal makes it so I can sort of hear them, too.”
“Her ability to see ghosts helped her solve her cousin’s murder last year,” Hannah said.
“I actually used the gemstone to solve my boyfriend’s sister’s murder.” I held the black opal between my fingers so Brad could get a good look at it. “Someone in Gaslight City is using a ghost to steal stuff related to the Mace Treasure. My—” I tried to think of a way to describe Eddie. “This guy who’s always been like my father is dead because of it. I came here to find out if Mysti was behind it. I came here on my own. Nobody sent me.”
Brad turned away from me and began pacing, muttering under his breath. He got louder as he walked, and I began to pick out a few words. “Wish Mysti could help…driving me crazy…”
“Okay, Brad. It’s your turn. This hospital where Mysti’s at? What happened to her?”
“She’s in the hospital because of that shitty treasure.” He spun to face me. “She’s lost her mind. They have to keep her in restraints so she won’t hurt herself.” He shoved past Hannah and me and stormed down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Hannah and I exchanged a glance. Were we supposed to see ourselves out? Sounds of Brad rummaging around in the back drifted out to the living room. Something slammed, and he came running back into the living room and threw an object at me. I raised my arms to protect my face. The object hit my forearm with a bone-jarring clang and dropped to the floor.
“That was completely unnecessary.” Hannah knelt in front of me to pick up the item Brad had thrown.
It was a keyring, the old-fashioned kind with an oval leather fob on which sat a metal circle with a logo protected by a layer of clear plastic. A long-dead memory wiggled in my subconscious. My muscles ached as my body shot adrenaline into them, and my stomach turned into a cold, hard ball. A little girl’s voice screamed in the deep recesses of my mind, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” I reached for the keyring, my hand jerking uncontrollably. Hannah took one look at my face, and her mouth dropped open. She handed me the keyring. The world around me took on a too-bright-yet-blurry dream quality, and I turned over the keyring, knowing what I’d see on the back but not believing. Burned into the leather were two words:
Paul Mace
My knees went loose, and I swayed against Hannah. She righted me, and I closed my hand over the keyring and shoved it into my jeans pocket. Still feeling light headed and dreamy, I turned to Brad Whitebyrd and said, “This ain’t no game no more. You’d best tell me where you got the keyring, else I’m gonna call some bikers I know and let them beat the living Jesus out of you.”
Brad backed away from me, his hands up. “Get out. I talked to you—I let you in here—when I didn’t have to, and—and—and…”
“Tell me where you got the keyring. Last chance.”
“Mysti got it as part of the job. The guy who hired her gave it to her.”
“What was the job?”
He didn’t answer right away, and I took two huge steps toward him, letting our chests press together. I stood on my tiptoes and whispered, “What was the job?”
“Peri Jean…” Hannah said from behind me. I ignored her.
“She was supposed to contact two spirits. One was a lady who was hanged, like, a hundred years ago. The other was this guy, Paul Mace.” Brad gulped and tried to go backward but hit the wall. “My sister went to Gaslight City for the day. She came home feeling out of sorts and went to bed. She slept for a cou
ple of hours but then…she snapped, started talking about monsters in mirrors coming to get her, started trying to peel off her own skin so the monsters couldn’t find her.” Brad’s voice cracked on the last word, and his lips trembled. I took a couple of steps away from him, and he twisted away from me and covered his face, wiping hard at his eyes.
“You don’t understand,” he said in the wobbly voice of someone trying not to cry in front of strangers. “Mysti does everything. She keeps the books, cleans the house, and she’s a more powerful witch. I can do the chakra cleansing and the tarot reading, but Mysti has the real talent. She was dead longer than me.”
Dead longer? What did he mean? I tried to wrap my mind around his words and couldn’t. Brad put his face in his hands and began to bray these ugly, body-wracking sobs. All I could do was stand and stare at this dude who I’d shat upon the same way I’d been shat upon my whole life.
“How about I fix you a drink?” I took off toward the kitchen, found a bottle of tequila with a glass next to it, poured two fingers, and took it back to Brad. He snatched it from me and gulped it down.
“I know you’re wondering what I meant,” he said. “Now I guess I have to tell you.”
“Nope. No explanation necessary. It’s your business,” I said. “I owe you an apology. I came in here like a bull on a leash, and I trampled all over your life with about as much consideration as a bull would show. My life’s in upheaval, and that’s the only excuse I’ve got.”
“Who does the keyring belong to?” Brad set his empty glass on a dusty wood end table next to the sofa.
“My father. He was murdered when I was little. They convicted my uncle in a kangaroo court, but nobody really knows who did it.” I realized as I said the words I believed them, had believed them all my life. My uncle was no murderer. “I’m going to get out of your life, but I need to ask one more question. Who was Mysti’s client?”
With Mysti out of the game, her client might have hired another witch, one who knew how to control ghosts.
“Mysti never said this client’s name in front of me. She said I didn’t need to know. He must have scared her.” Brad danced around like a little kid, giving Hannah worshipful glances every few seconds.
