Teag turned the chips over and held them up for a better look. “Pretty swanky,” he said with a grin. “There’s a fleur-de-lis stamped in the middle of each chip, and it looks like when they were new, those might have been covered with gold leaf. I’m betting this was a custom-made set.” He glanced more closely at the chips. “Too bad—a couple of them are missing.” He met my gaze. “But the question is—why the bad juju?”
I shrugged. “If the Legacy lived up to its reputation, I can think of about a million reasons,” I replied. “Gambling debts, desperate high-stakes players, duels, love affairs gone wrong.” I paused, and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”
Teag shook his head. “I don’t smell anything except a little mustiness from all these pieces being closed up in that old hotel for so long.”
I sniffed again, but the scent was gone. “It was a floral smell, like an old-fashioned perfume. I can’t smell it anymore.”
Teag grinned and flicked a strand of lank, dark hair out of his eyes. You’d never know it from his skater-boy looks, but before Teag came onboard at Trifles and Folly, he was a doctoral candidate in History at the university. He’s still ABD (All But Dissertation) and likely to stay that way, since I think he’s decided that the store’s secret mission is his true calling.
“Maybe it’s the memory of a spurned lover or a jealous socialite,” he joked.
“Actually, that’s very possible,” I replied. Especially in a place like the Legacy Hotel.
“Once we get everything unpacked, I’ll see what I can turn up,” Teag said. He made it sound casual, but Teag’s got skills at finding data that make the CIA look like beginners. He’s not a hacker, he’s a ‘Weaver’, with a magic talent for gathering pieces together. When he uses yarn or rope, the pieces he weaves have protection and intention woven into them from his magic. But when he weaves data, Teag can find the truth from strands of information flung far and wide and bring them together to tell a story.
“How’s your basket-weaving apprenticeship going?” I thought to ask.
Teag grinned. “You know, the next time I hear someone refer to a simple college class as being ‘basket-weaving’, I’m going to set them straight. It’s hard to do it well, and my fingers are all cut up from the sweetgrass.” He held up his hands and I could see where many small cuts were newly healing. “Mrs. Teller says I have talent, but I don’t think I could ever get as good as it as she is, even if I spent two lifetimes doing it!”
Mrs. Teller was an elderly woman who wove sweetgrass baskets down at the Charleston City Market, the kind of baskets famous throughout the Lowcountry. I also happened to know she was a root worker, which meant she had magical gifts of her own. That’s why I was so excited when she agreed to work with Teag and help him better understand his gift.
“You know Mrs. Teller has the Sight,” I said. On more than one occasion, Mrs. Teller’s premonitions had been eerily accurate. “She didn’t happen to say anything about the auction, did she?”
Teag frowned. “Now that you mention it, she told me to keep the women in my life happy, because there was an angry woman who was going to stir up a heap of trouble.” He brightened. “Of course, that may cause me fewer problems than she may have realized,” he added. “And Anthony’s been in a good mood lately.” Anthony, a young lawyer from a Battery-row family, was Teag’s steady partner.
I chuckled. “Well, I was in a pretty good mood too, until we unearthed two ‘spookies’ in a row.”
It was late on Friday afternoon, and while Teag and I had been out trolling auctions for finds to sell in the store, our stalwart part-time helper Maggie Snyder had been watching the showroom. Maggie’s a retired teacher who doesn’t look a day over sixty and has the energy of someone in her thirties. With her gray hair cut in a chin-length bob and her fondness for camisoles and broomstick skirts, Maggie looks every bit like the Woodstock-era New Ager that she is.
Today’s foot traffic had been light, and I wasn’t surprised when Maggie stuck her head in the back room just before five o’clock.
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll lock up right on the hour,” Maggie said. “Things have been slow all afternoon, and there don’t seem to be a lot of folks out on the street.”
“It’s the Garden Show,” I sighed. “It always brings a lot of tourists into the city, but they don’t get around to doing the shops until they’ve done all the garden tours. Tomorrow afternoon and Sunday we’ll be slammed.”
Maggie nodded. “I plan on catching a couple of those tours myself, but if you need a hand, you know where to find me.”
I waited until I heard the sound of the sleigh bells as the front door shut behind her, then glanced out to make sure that the door was locked and the sign was turned to ‘closed’ before I looked back at the flask and poker set.
“Are you up to finding out what fine kettle of fish we’ve gotten ourselves into this time?” I asked, knowing that Teag wouldn’t be able to resist the classic movie reference. Old movies were a passion I shared with Teag and Anthony, and the three of us were regulars at the Charleston Film Festival.
Teag chuckled. “I think the flask and poker chips may be more Bonnie and Clyde than Laurel and Hardy, but I’m up for it if you are.” He gave me a knowing glance. “After all, it goes harder on you than it does me. You get the visions. I just pick you up off the floor.”
“True,” I admitted. “So let’s do this sitting down. Do you mind carrying the pieces over to the break room table?”
Trifles and Folly was in a charming (in other words, old) storefront on King Street, Charleston’s main thoroughfare for serious shopping. We were in one of the oldest buildings on the street, and we were the only shop to have had a continuous lease for the building’s entire life. Even so, it wasn’t the shop’s first location. The occasional ‘unexplained’ fire or explosion had made for a few moves over the store’s long life, but that was the price to be paid for trying to keep the world safe from malicious magic.
In this building, where the store had been for the last hundred and fifty years, we had a storefront along the street, a middle room that had long ago been divided in two to create a small office as well as a cozy break room, and a rear room that was largely for storage. Up above was a space that had been my apartment when I first moved back to Charleston and was now used for storage. Below us was an old, hand-dug cellar where Sorren had a day crypt for emergencies. The building had character, and despite all the Sparklers and Spookies, I felt at home here.
Teag obligingly carried the flask and the poker chip set to the break room table, and put on water to boil for tea. That was probably wise, because more than once, Teag had needed to revive me after a vision went badly, and a bracing cup of black tea with plenty of sugar or a glass of sweet tea was just the thing for that. I saw that Teag had also brought my laptop out of the office and had it set up on the table as well.
I sat down in one chair and Teag sat down facing me on the same side of the table. “Ready?” he asked.
I nodded and drew a deep breath, and then I reached for the flask. As soon as my fingers touched the smooth silver, the room seemed to tilt around me, and I was no longer in Trifles and Folly. The first thing I felt was the emotion; very strong fear and anger.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Sanderson!” “Glad you’re back, Mr. Sanderson!” “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Sanderson?”
I did not recognize the room, or the man everyone else obviously knew as ‘Mr. Sanderson’. I’d had enough of these visions to know that when I was an observer like this, I could do nothing to affect the scene in front of me, and the people I was watching could not see or hear me. That’s because I was essentially watching a ‘replay’ of things that had happened long ago, and that history was trapped in the object itself, becoming part of its resonance.
Mr. Sanderson was a wide man with heavy-lidded eyes and ponderous jowls. His watch, the gold rings on his hands, and his clothing all looked very expensive. From the way he moved through t
he room, favoring those who greeted him with a regal nod, he was accustomed to wealth and notoriety, and knew how to use it. Sanderson was wearing an old fashioned tuxedo, something that looked like it belonged in the Flapper era. Looking around myself, that’s exactly where we seemed to be, sometime in the late 1920s, judging by the women’s clothing.
“Set me up with a gin and tonic, how about it, Carl?” Sanderson said with a glance toward the dark-haired young man behind the bar.
“You got it, Mr. S.” Carl’s tone was chipper, but something in the set of his shoulders told me that Sanderson wasn’t his favorite customer.
The room was opulent, paneled in dark wood with brass light fixtures and large leather club chairs. The smell of Havana cigars hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of bathtub gin. Over to one side, a man in a vest and crisp white shirt poured drinks from unmarked bottles using a tall table as a makeshift bar. I was betting that the panels in the wall behind the bartender opened up to conceal the bottles should the place get raided. A jazz trio played in the corner.
On the other side of the room, several equally well-heeled gentlemen were engrossed in a poker game while stylishly thin women dressed in the straight, beaded, and fringed dresses that defined the ‘Flapper’ style stood behind them. An empty table and chairs looked set for a second game. Several of the men who greeted Mr. Sanderson looked as if they were waiting for him to get their own game started.
Sanderson and his crowd drifted over to the empty table. All of the men except Sanderson were accompanied by women who looked tall, thin, and elegant in their fashionable dresses, with their short-cut ‘bob’ hairstyles and headbands and their gin martinis. They seated themselves at the gaming table, and Sanderson raised a hand to signal the lone waitress in the room.
“Hey Clara! How about another gin and tonic?” Sanderson called. His leer made it obvious that he was as interested in the girl as in the drink. Winks and knowing glances among his friends at the table made that clear as well.
Clara was a pretty girl in her twenties, with short dark hair and a voluptuous figure that was the complete opposite of the straight-up-and-down Flapper ideal. She had a fresh-faced beauty that stood in direct contrast to the jaded, rouged look of the high-rollers’ women, and in the instant before she schooled her expression into a forced smile, I could see a glimpse of dislike—and fear—when it came to Sanderson.
“Coming right up, Mr. Sanderson,” Clara said, and moved over to the bar. Sanderson watched her every move, and did not look away until the dealer started shuffling the cards. I was too far away to hear what Clara said to the bartender, but I could read the expression on his face, and it was clear to me—and to Clara—that the bartender noticed and disliked Sanderson’s interest. The exchange was brief: Clara put a hand on Carl’s arm and although I couldn’t hear what she said, her expression seemed beseeching. Carl’s anger came through clearly, no interpretation needed.
In just a few moments, Clara had the drink and made her way back to the table where Sanderson and his buddies were settling into their game. He took a swig from his hip flask as he waited for Clara to bring him another drink. A ruddy flush spread to his cheeks.
“You’re a fine girl, Clara,” Sanderson said when she brought the drink, and it had to be obvious to everyone when his hand found its way behind Clara and under her skirt.
“Thank you, Mr. Sanderson,” Clara managed, although I could see her cheeks growing red. She tried to move away casually, but Sanderson landed an unmistakable open-handed slap to her buttocks. I glanced at the high rollers’ girlfriends, wondering if someone would say something, but the women snickered and elbowed each other. Obviously, this was something they had seen before.
Just as the scene began to fade out, I heard Teag calling my name. “Cassidy! Come on back!”
I shook my head to clear it, and the vision vanished. Teag pressed a cup of very sweet, very hot tea into my hands. “Drink some. You look pale—even for you. What did you see?”
I recounted the vision. Teag wrote down the names as I told the story. “I’m afraid it isn’t very unique,” I said. “That sort of thing happened all the time—and still does. Old rich man likes the look of a young girl and feels entitled to take what he wants.” There was a darkness to the flask that went beyond what I had seen in the vision. I needed to spend some more time with the flask, perhaps have Sorren check it out. Until then, I was considering it to be a Spooky.
Teag grimaced. “I’d like to say times have changed, but I have enough friends who wait tables and tend bar to know they haven’t changed all that much.” He looked at the names on the list. “Not much to go on, but with the approximate date and the location, I’ll see what I can find.”
He gave me a questioning glance. “Are you up to doing the poker set?”
I took a sip of the tea and felt the sugar begin to revive me. “Sure. Let’s get it over with.”
Teag moved the old poker set closer to me, setting the silver flask to the side. The poker set was a real beauty. The wooden case was burled maple with brass fittings. Inside, sumptuous red velvet cushioned depressions to cradle the poker chips, plus cards and dice. It was obviously the plaything of a wealthy gentleman. I expected to catch the scent of leather and bay rum cologne, the shadow of a former owner, but instead, I got a whiff of the same very sweet perfume I had smelled earlier.
“Something wrong?” Teag asked.
I shook my head. “No. Just odd. I keep smelling perfume.”
Teag looked at me blankly. “I smell tea. That’s all.”
I shrugged. “Let’s see what I get from the poker set.”
I reached out to touch the wooden case, and once again, images flooded my mind and I was bombarded with strong emotion: anger, hatred, and vengeance. I saw what looked like a hotel room, decorated in a style that made me think the vision was still from around the 1920s. But instead of the speakeasy, this was a sleeping room. The poker set lay closed on a desk. Next to it was a silver ice bucket and an open bottle of champagne.
Once again, I was an observer, watching without being seen or heard, unable to participate. I saw a good looking man with slicked-back dark hair raise a toast to himself in the mirror with a glass of champagne. He was alone in the room, and he had loosened the collar of his shirt, but he still wore the burgundy silk vest that had brought him such luck at the gaming tables.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he shouted.
A young woman in a maid’s outfit entered, carrying a tray with a steak dinner and another bottle of champagne. “I’ve brought your dinner, sir,” she said. Her accent suggested that she was from the islands, as did the cocoa hue of her skin. Her hair had been straightened and curled into a flapper’s bob, the only nod to fashion. Her uniform marked her as a maid, but it could have been issued at any of the city’s many hotels. It was utilitarian and nearly sexless, designed to make its wearer invisible.
“And what a good looking dish it is,” the young high-roller said, with a tone that made it very clear he was not remarking on the steak. The maid blushed, but said nothing, keeping her eyes averted as she set down the tray.
“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Williams,” she said, and turned to head toward the door, but the dark-haired man blocked her path.
“Now what’s the hurry?” he asked, his drawl lengthened by the bubbly he had consumed from the nearly-empty bottle by the poker set. “We haven’t even gotten acquainted. What’s your name, darlin’?”
“Elise,” the maid murmured, and moved to sidestep the gambler.
“That’s a pretty name. Elise.” Once again, he blocked her path.
“I’m due down at the front desk,” Elise said. I was pretty sure she realized the danger. “I’ve got three more orders to deliver, and my boss said to be quick about it.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the gambler said, moving closer. Elise stepped back, but there was no exit behind her. The gambler raised a hand to touch her cheek. “I can fix things with t
he boss. He won’t mind if I borrow you for a little while.”
Elise let out a little squeal and dodged, making a break for the door. The gambler’s charm darkened into anger, and he grabbed her arm, jerking her back so viciously that she cried out in pain.
“I just won the biggest jackpot the Legacy Hotel has ever posted,” the gambler growled. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll celebrate alone. Don’t fight me, girl, and I won’t make it bad for you.”
I came back to myself breathing hard. It was a good thing Teag was trained in capoeira, because he was able to block the punch I threw in his direction and grab my wrists before I could hurt anyone. “Cassidy! It’s me. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
I drew a ragged breath, and Teag handed me the cup of tea once more. It took longer before I could tell him what I saw. When I finished, I saw that his disgust mirrored my own. Again, he wrote down the names I had heard.
“So the owner of the flask was a groper, and the poker chip owner was a rapist,” Teag said. “No wonder you picked up bad vibes.”
The tea steadied me, and I took another deep breath before I spoke. “I think there’s more to it,” I said. “Unfortunately, neither behavior was that uncommon for that time period and for upper class men around women with no power to refuse them. I don’t think we know the whole story.”
Teag made a show of interlacing his fingers in front of him and cracking his knuckles as if he were about to sit down at a concert piano. I knew he did it to make me laugh, and it worked. He pulled the laptop to him. “Watch a master go to work,” he said with an exaggerated flourish.
“I didn’t give you much to go on,” I said, holding on to the cup of tea like a shipwreck survivor with a life preserver. I felt chilled and shaky, and my stomach was still clenched with fear.
“It doesn’t have to be much to find a trail,” Teag murmured, intent on the screen. I’d watched him research like this before, and it always astounded me. Regular people could find amazing things on the Internet with a little skill and luck. Teag’s Weaver magic took that to a whole new level. I wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, and neither was Teag, but he told me once that it was as if each piece of data that he found had ‘threads’ visible to his magic that connected it far beyond what could be accounted for by mere hyperlinks. If he followed those threads and watched how they interwove, he could piece a story together to rival the top intelligence agencies.
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