by Tia Louise
I drove back from the bar vibrating with energy after my conversation with Spencer. Damn him. Damn my feelings for him. I might have said too much just now, but I had to stand up for myself.
I’d been moving fast, chewing on the inside of my lip and thinking of all the things I could have said, when I unlocked the door to find the kitchen table overturned, a chair on its side against the wall, and my bestie sitting on the floor crying.
“Tell me everything that happened.”
“Stupid Ozzy.” She hiccups a breath, and a tremor shakes her whole body. “He’s trying to scare me into coming back to him, like that’ll ever happen.”
“It looks like he was throwing things.” I’m sitting beside her, rubbing her back. “What exactly did he say?”
“He said if I thought I could beat him, I was a fool. He said no friend of mine could stop him. He said no piece of paper could stop him…”
The blood drains from my face, and I notice red marks on her neck. “Did he do this?” I lightly touch her skin with my fingertips, and she drops her chin, fresh tears coating her cheeks.
“He grabbed me, but I pushed him away.”
“That’s it. We’ve got to call the cops.” I push off the floor, taking out my phone and tapping 911. “They have to see this. They have to get it on the record and do something…”
“Wait, Sly… I don’t want them coming here with Ollie in the house.” She jumps up fast, gripping my arm. “I don’t want to scare him with the lights and all the men and the guns. We can go to the station tomorrow. He won’t come back tonight.”
Our eyes meet, and I don’t feel good about this. He said no friend could stop him, which sends ice through my veins. All my Spencer anger is pushed to the backseat of my mind.
“At least let me take a picture of your neck. It’ll have faded by tomorrow.” She agrees, holding back her hair. I take several different angles. “And you really think we’re safe sleeping here tonight?”
Her eyes close, and she nods. “He did what he came here to do—he’s trying to scare me. Anyway, where would we go? And Ollie’s asleep…”
She exhales heavily, but I feel like we could find somewhere to go.
Going to the door, I quickly turn the metal switch. “We’ll lock the deadbolt and check all the windows. I have pepper spray and a baseball bat. If we all sleep in the same room, we can keep each other safe if anything does happen.”
She helps me pick up the spindly table off the floor, and I arrange the chairs around it, then she tiptoes down the hall to Oliver’s room and peeks in the door.
“I’m so glad he slept through it,” she whispers upon return.
“I can’t believe I missed it. It’s like he knows our schedules or something.” The thought scares me even more.
I’ve watched too many true crime shows to ignore what’s happening here, but I hold it together for my friend. We’ll get the police involved first thing in the morning.
Courtney looks at me with red-rimmed eyes, and I pull her to my side.
“Don’t worry.” I do my best to make my voice sound more confident than I feel. “We have strength in numbers, and we’ll get this all sorted. I’ll check apartment listings while we’re at it. We’re not exactly in the greatest part of town.”
“It’s all we can afford.”
She has a point, and I hate I’m not bringing in more money yet.
This tiny apartment with its lack of security, creepy neighbors, and absentee landlord is the perfect setting for a horror film—or a serial killer attack.
“I’m still going to check. You never know what might be out there. Maybe we could sublet…” She shrugs, shaking her head, and I have another idea. Holding my finger in front of my lips, I motion to the table. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”
Creeping to my room, I slide my suitcase from the closet, doing my best not to wake Oliver. Chartreuse watches me with her orange freak eyes in her terrarium, and I want to flip off her weird little self. Instead, I hurry back to the living room.
Opening the case on the floor, I take out a thick, ancient book. It’s like something out of a Tim Burton film. It’s a super-old scrapbook with pockets and plastic photo pages, and it has a fabric cover with “The Palm is Sacred” embroidered on a large panel in the center.
Grandma Alice wants it back, but I’ve held onto it since high school, reading it voraciously. It’s filled with newspaper clippings and old black and white photos of women and groups of women.
They’re suffragettes and early 20th Century protesters. Some pictures show them gathered on the beach or being hauled off to jail. In every one, they look so happy, so full of life. They were standing up for what they believed, trying to make a difference.
“What in the world?” Court’s voice is hushed as she studies it with me.
“It’s the ancient book of the Fireside Women’s Society.”
“Ohh-kay, and what in the world?” She looks up at me with wide eyes, and I hold up my finger.
“First, shots.” I dash to the kitchen as she continues turning the pages.
Taking down the tequila and the salt shaker, I pull the refrigerator open and take out a lemon half.
“We don’t have lime, but this will do, right?”
“What is this, Sly?” She looks up at me.
“I haven’t been able to confirm it, but I think these ladies were witches.”
She slides her finger over the stitched cover. “What’s ‘The palm is sacred’?”
“That was their motto. They were all about protecting Mother Earth and fighting for equality.” I cut the lemon into two wedges and give her one. “Their primary focus was protecting Fireside and all its original families—of which I happen to be one.” Passing her the wedge, I lift my chin. “Bottom’s up!”
She starts to do the shot, but I grab her arm fast. “Wait! Not bottoms up! I meant to say, here’s mud in your eye.”
Court’s nose wrinkles, and she tilts her head to the side. “What difference does that make?”
“I don’t know.” I hold up both my hands. “It’s what I said last time we did this, and it worked. We have to repeat the process exactly like before. Now do the shot.”
We throw back the liquor and squeal as quietly as possible, licking the salt off our hands and sucking the lemons. I cram my whole wedge against my teeth, trying to get all the juice out of it.
“Fierce like us,” I whisper as soon as the shock has passed. “Now for the spell.”
“Hold up…” Court scoots away from the table. “Stop right there. I didn’t sign up for summoning demons or dead girls showing up in my bedroom or that kind of thing. I don’t want that. Nope, nope, nope!”
She’s out of her chair shaking her hands and her head.
“It’s not like that!” I jump up, catching her shoulders and holding her eyes with mine. “Trust me. I did it with Daisy when Scout was gone. We brought him back! I’m telling you, it was crazy, and it totally works.”
“Brought him back from where?” Her brow lowers, and she gives me a one hundred percent skeptical eye.
“Well, not from the dead,” I laugh. “Back to town. He legit was back the next day.”
“I don’t like messing with the spirit world, Sly.”
“Look.” I turn the pages until I’ve found the protection spell. “This isn’t about spirits. I mean, it is about spirits, but it’s about good spirits wanting to help us. These women put this book together for situations just like this—to protect us through the ages. They don’t want to hurt us.”
“Dead old ladies.”
“Just be cool.” I slide my fingers carefully along the directions. “It says we need rosemary, sage, lavender, fresh basil, mint, and a handful of coarse salt. You grab the rosemary, sage, basil, and salt from the kitchen, I’ll get the candles, lavender, and mint from my bag.”
She’s hesitant, but she does what I say. In less than ten minutes, we’re sitting on the floor in front of the door. The lights
are lowered, and five candles are on the corners of a makeshift pentagram.
“I don’t like this…” Court whispers, scanning the room like she expects something to jump out at us.
As if kindred spirits are scarier than a real, live man threatening her.
I study the book. “Hold my hands, and I’ll say the words. Gods above and gods below, protect this home from wicked foe. Ancestors ancient and old, defend this home from hearts of cold. Spirits from beyond the misty silver, protect this home from those who pilfer.”
We hold hands a few moments longer with our eyes closed, then we open them. Courtney’s eyebrows are up, and she looks all around the room again.
“Is that it?” she whispers. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You don’t need to.” I stand, leaving the candles burning. “We protected this apartment from wicked foe and robbers… If anything, it’ll help us sleep.”
I don’t mention that I hesitated over the cold-hearted part. Could that mean Spencer?
“The tequila will help me sleep. I’ll get Oliver, and we can bundle up in my bed tonight. It’s big enough.”
She leaves me alone in the living room, and I look to the door, the candles, and the book. “Don’t let me down Fireside ladies. The palm is sacred.”
* * *
We don’t go to the police station first thing.
Court has clients she can’t reschedule, so while she’s taking care of business, I spend the time going over my bills and the money I have, hoping I can find a better place for us to live.
Treating Spencer has been a nice Band-Aid, especially since he tips so well, and my payment for the gala was a nice little windfall, still, it’ll be gone by the end of the month.
If I’m going to survive, I’ve got to pick up more clients. Scrubbing my hand across my forehead, I glance at the book still sitting on our table. “Come on, ancestors. Don’t let me down.”
Finally, after Court has her lunch, she agrees to drive to the station. I know she’s nervous. She thinks they won’t believe her. She thinks they’ll take Oliver away. I try to distract her with my serious need to find more backs to rub.
“I can talk to the guys at Palmetto Rehab and see if they need an extra pair of hands.” She’s still in her navy Palmetto scrubs from her last appointment.
“You think they’d hire me? I’ve never worked in a clinic.”
“I was straight out of school when they hired me. No promises, but I’ve been there a while.”
“That would be fantastic, Court.” My chest swells with optimism only to deflate as quickly when we pull into the parking lot of the precinct.
I’m just stepping out when my phone pings with a text. Is this Joselyn Winthrop who does massage? Are you still taking new clients?
“Hey, you go on inside. I’ll be right there.”
She pauses to give me a panicked look. “Joselyn!”
Stepping forward, I pull her into a hug. “I’ll be right inside, and you know these guys. We were just here last week getting the order. Talk to the desk clerk, and I’ll be with you before anything else happens.”
“You have the pictures.”
“Right!” I text them to her. “Just let me set this up, and I’ll be there.”
She’s not happy, but after crunching the numbers, I can’t pass up an offer. I quickly reply. Yes. If you would, who is this?
I wait as the gray dots float. Basil Santiago of Santiago and Associates.
Sounds legit… Would you give me an idea of your needs and schedule?
He answers fast, as if he knew I’d say yes. Strained my back. In a lot of pain. Can we do Fri at Member’s Mark, 5:30 pm?
Chewing my lip, I hesitate. Member’s Mark is one of the downtown high-rises, and I did leave a card at the front desk there.
Still, at that time on a Friday, it’ll likely be deserted. I typically don’t see new clients after hours in their offices unless I know them or they’ve been referred to me by someone I know.
My stomach tingles, and I wish I had an alternative location. I don’t, and these are desperate times. I can’t go around leaving my card in office buildings and turning down follow-ups. When I first started out, Elliot worked in Member’s Mark, and Santiago and Associates sounds like a legitimate organization.
I pull up Google and do a quick search. It’s an international marketing firm, but they only list their services and contact numbers.
I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not.
Fuck it. We need the money, and I’m sure it’s fine. There’s always a security guard on the first floor anyway.
I tap out my reply, Sure. Which office?
Suite 22, third office on the left.
Making an appointment in my calendar, I shoot over a verification text then tuck my phone into my pocket before heading inside to support my friend.
Chapter 18
Spencer
“A left-handed Fender Stratocaster!” Heather Olsen holds out the glossy white guitar, turning it side to side. “A vendor in Kansas had it, complete with case and papers.”
“Kansas?” Daisy’s eyes are bright as always, and as much as I tease her about her zeal, she does make our mundane work feel more like Christmas.
“Can you believe it?” Heather is equally enthusiastic. These two are a match made in antiques heaven, which is why they’ve been close since the time Daisy worked for us. “I was on a road trip with my husband, and I always make him stop at the flea markets.”
“I brake for flea markets?” Daisy laughs. “I love it when that happens. Look at it, Spencer.”
“Yes, it’s a guitar.” I lift the lightweight instrument, turning it in my hands. The lack of scars on the body tells me it was owned by someone who didn’t play for long. “Dated 1962… Slab fingerboard. That’s the year they changed it, yes?”
“Do you play?” Daisy’s eyes are wide as she looks up at me.
“No, but the slab fingerboard makes it a very rare piece—and it’s in mint condition.”
“Are you ready?” Heather leans forward, nearly bursting with excitement.
“How much?” Daisy grabs her hands.
“Twenty grand!”
Daisy looks from Heather to me. “I don’t know what that means. Is it good?”
“It’s better than good.” My eyebrow arches. “Nice work, Olsen. You’ll easily get sixty for it at auction.”
“I know!” She throws up her hands, bouncing on her toes.
Daisy makes a whistling noise and the women high-five like two cheerleaders at a home game. I leave them celebrating to inspect the next item, a three-foot bronze sculpture of a young woman, topless in a flowing skirt.
“This is a gorgeous piece.” Turning it to the side, I see it’s an Edward Onslow Ford sculpture. “Date?”
“1887.”
Daisy joins me, gushing. “Just look at the movement in the skirt. So detailed, all the way down to the ruffles.”
“It’s distinctive of the artist.” I muse, stepping around the table.
“I brought this one just for you, Spence. I knew you’d love it. Found it at an estate sale—the woman’s grandmother had bought it in Germany in the forties.”
“How could someone part with this?” Daisy shakes her head.
My eyebrow arches. “How much?”
“Ten.” She waits, clasping her hands in front of her mouth as if she’s anticipating my surprise.
I give. “You’ll easily get twenty thousand at auction.”
She claps, crying, “I know!” again.
Lifting my chin, I nod. “Grafton is very lucky to have you.”
“What’s this? A compliment from the great Spencer Carrollton? Am I dreaming?” Her dark eyes dance, and I shake my head.
These girls.
Sorry, these women.
Antiques dealers should not squeal like kids in a candy store, they should be composed, dignified… Still, I like working with smart people, and these two are rising stars.
Resting the tip of her pinky finger in the dancer’s cupped hand, she tilts her head to the side, as if she’s pirouetting with the statue in her mind.
Heather watches her with a grin. “She’ll be in your shop until the auction. Maybe I can put a bug in someone’s ear.”
Our photographer steps around the items, taking pictures from every angle, and we continue on to a lighthouse clock under glass worth several thousand and a gorgeous Persian rug worth only a few.
Miles joins us to examine a pair of field binoculars Heather retrieved from a curbside trash bin. “Why didn’t we hire Heather, again?” He quips, frowning at me.
“You can’t hire her.” Daisy puts her arms around Heather’s waist. “If she leaves Grafton, she’s moving to Oceanside to help me run my store.”
He picks up a chunky ring with an oversized jade stone in the center and diamonds arranged in an art-deco-style along the black band. “Is this a Marsh? My God, Heather, where did you find it?”
“That is indeed a Marsh.” Heather’s expression is smug. “Can you believe it? They’re so rare, and a jade—the rarest of them all. It’s like a needle in a haystack.”
“Let me see.” Daisy takes the ring carefully. “Sly would love this.”
My ears perk up at that bit of information, but I hold my expression neutral.
“It’s missing one little baguette, but I have a fellow in New Hampshire I trust to repair it.”
“Ten thousand?” Daisy squints at Miles, who breaks into a proud smile.
“Your jewelry skills have improved. I think that’s right, yes?” He glances at Heather, who winks.
“I’m hoping to get at least fifteen if not twenty for it.”
“I bet you will.” My partner pats her on the back, and we continue going over the pieces she brought with her.
Another hour passes before Daisy says it’s time for her to go. She kisses my cheek, and Miles walks her out. I linger back with Heather.
