by Jane Tesh
“Harold, there’s no need to be vulgar. If you aren’t going to sign up to audition, you can leave.”
“Oh, no. I’m going to find out exactly what you’re doing.” He appealed to the crowd. “Don’t let this woman fool you. There is no outdoor drama. There is not one word put to paper.”
Amanda smiled at him and tapped her head again. Looking as if he’d like to tap her head, Harold took out his cell phone and marched off, no doubt to report to the committee.
Amanda dismissed him with a wave. “Now then, who’s next?”
I’m sure Amanda planned to start auditions right away, but Harold’s phone calls must have alarmed Bill Finster, another committee member, who arrived and informed Amanda she’d have to wait.
She stared at him as if she’d never heard of the word. “Wait? And deprive these people, some of whom have stood in line for hours, the opportunity to try out?”
No one had been in line more than twenty minutes, but Finster, the poor fellow, wasn’t as brave as Harold and managed to answer that the committee needed time to meet and discuss the outdoor drama, and would she please consider holding auditions another night?
She gave a theatrical sigh. “Very well. I suppose we can wait until tomorrow night. That will give more people a chance to sign up.”
“Ha!” Harold said in triumph. “You’ll see you can’t walk over the rules.”
Amanda wasn’t fazed by this set back. “Round one to you, Harold, but this is only the beginning.”
Harold waited until she had flounced away and then turned to Finster. “Where are the others?” Jerry and I heard him say. “We all have to stand up to her.”
Finster looked harried. “Harold, I read through the bylaws, and there’s nothing in them that says a group of people can’t put on a public performance.”
“But she’s not planning to have it in the theater. Isn’t there a law against doing a show outside? Doesn’t she have to have a permit of some kind?”
“You can put on any sort of show, as long as it doesn’t obstruct traffic, isn’t lewd, doesn’t have profanity, and doesn’t feature nudity. I checked. Haven’t you seen the kids in the park having puppet shows and all that fantasy role-playing?”
“Amanda’s thinking much larger than that, plus she’ll charge admission. Do you have any idea how much a project like this is going to cost? Expenses will be astronomical!”
“That’s something we can discuss, Harold, but for now, as long as Amanda does her show in the theater, she’s in the clear, and if she builds another theater somewhere, then she can do what she likes unless she decides to have naked people running through the grapevines. Then you can call the cops on her.”
Harold kept protesting, but Finster had had enough. We didn’t hear their parting remarks. Finster got into his car and drove away. Harold stood and fumed for a few minutes and then stalked off. It didn’t sound as if he had a case.
“Looks like Amanda’s going to get her way,” Jerry said. “Although I think a nude romp through the vineyards would really bring ’em in.”
I noticed that despite the drama between Harold and Amanda, no one got out of line. Someone called to Amanda and asked if there was a problem.
She laughed. “Not at all! Even if there are a few little legal things to work through, you don’t want to miss this opportunity, do you? Of course, you don’t! Sign up now and we’ll hold auditions tomorrow. Next, please.”
***
While Evan dithered in the background, Amanda continued to sign people up to audition for her nonexistent show. Jerry and I stayed for a while, and when Harold didn’t return with the police or the FBI, we decided the drama was over for today, and we’d try to get to Parkland tomorrow. I got into my light blue Mazda, Jerry got into his Jeep, and we went home.
Our home, the Eberlin House, was about a mile from town. The two-lane road wound past sleepy farms and meadows filled with wildflowers, with the occasional cow leaning over a fence to gaze as we passed by. Jerry finally accepted some of the Fairweather family fortune from his younger brother Tucker to pay for repairs, so nowadays, the house looks like an old-fashioned country home instead of a haunted mansion. The big oak trees gave the front porch plenty of shade, and the windows gleamed with new panes, replacing the original glass that had been cracked and covered with spider webs.
We weren’t surprised to see waiting on the porch Austin Terrell and Denisha Simpson, two neighborhood children who had adopted us. Well, mainly they had adopted Jerry as their big brother and playmate. Austin, a sturdy little white boy with hair carefully sculpted like porcupine quills, was wildly enthusiastic about everything. His best friend, Denisha, was a self-assured little black girl who enjoyed keeping Austin in line. They had an uncanny ability to show up around meal times.
Austin bounded up as soon as we got out of our cars. “Jerry, guess what! My dad bought me a four-wheeler!”
“Congratulations!” Jerry looked around. “Where is it?”
“He’s already wrecked it,” Denisha said.
“I did not, Denisha! It had a flat tire, that’s all. It’s got stripes and everything, Jerry. My dad said he’d take me to the mud track on Saturday. You want to come? You can ride my uncle’s. He’s not going to go.”
“I can’t this Saturday. It’s open house at camp.”
Thank goodness. Jerry’s Jeep made me nervous enough. As accident prone as he was, the last thing he needed to do was get on a four-wheeler. I could see him sailing over the handlebars to land headfirst in the mud.
“Aren’t you coming to the open house?” he asked Austin. He’d made sure Austin and Denisha were able to attend Camp Lakenwood.
“This’ll be after. You could come then.”
“I have to stay and greet everyone. I’ll go another time.”
“What about you, Madeline?”
“Thanks, but I’m working on a case.”
His eyes gleamed. “Another murder?”
“I hope not.”
The kids followed us into the house. Stepping inside lifted my spirits. I loved the transformation we’d been able to accomplish. The living room had been gray and somber, filled with heavy dark furniture. A paint job had done wonders. Now the room was a light blue with white trim, and the furniture was white and modern, a sectional sofa decorated with pillows in shades of sapphire and midnight, glass end tables with crystal lamps, and a large, square glass coffee table. In the kitchen, Uncle Val had modern appliances, and we’d kept the solid square white wooden table and curved-back chairs. Again, the color scheme was white and blue, a more cheerful skipper blue for the chair cushions. This blue was echoed in the tiny willow leaf pattern in the tiles of the white floor. White lace curtains billowed at the windows that ran the length of the back of the house, giving us a full view of the meadows and woods beyond.
Denisha sat down at the table. “What are you cooking tonight, Jerry?”
He searched in a cabinet for the frying pan. “Liver and turnips.”
“You are not.”
“You’re right. I’m making snails au gratin.”
This caught Austin’s attention. “Does that mean rotten snails?”
He opened the refrigerator. “And tofu with owl gravy. Now where did I put that owl?”
“He’s kidding, right, Madeline?”
“Is supper not served at your house?” I asked.
“Sure, but we like to see what you guys are having.” He pulled out a kitchen chair and took a seat. “What’s your case about?”
“Some people in town are deciding what to do for Celosia’s centennial celebration. I’m going to try to keep them from killing each other.”
Denisha took the napkins from the basket on the table and passed them around. “We already heard about the celebration. There’s going to be a special park, isn’t there?”
“Or an ou
tdoor drama. Or both.”
Jerry put eggs and cheese on the counter. “Or none.”
Austin wasn’t interested in any sort of drama. “Jerry, did you know there was a witch in the neighborhood?”
With the recent talk about Darkrose Coven, Austin’s remark put me on alert.
Denisha rolled her eyes. “He means Ms. Underwood. You know, the lady who sells dried flowers? Austin, she isn’t a real witch.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my aunt buys stuff from her all the time, and we’re not dead.”
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
“Seeds, mostly, and sometimes soap and candles. She makes her own. She comes to the farmers’ market sometimes. That’s where I’ve seen her.”
“Why do people think she’s a witch?”
“She talks funny, like you used to, Jerry, all about the spirits and how they know stuff we don’t know.”
He cracked the eggs into a bowl and scrambled them. “She sounds like somebody I ought to meet.”
The kids decided they didn’t want omelets. Austin reminded Jerry he’d promised to take them to the latest super hero movie when it came out, and he and Denisha hopped on their bikes and rode off.
I poured two glasses of iced tea and set them on the table. “Well, that was enlightening. I need to find and talk to this Ms. Underwood.”
“Told you I wanted to infiltrate the coven.”
I came up behind my husband to give him a hug. “I’m glad Denisha said you used to talk funny. Used to, as in no more.”
Jerry turned the omelet and added cheese. He gave me a grin and a kiss. “Now I can take up witchcraft.”
Chapter Three
No witchcraft was performed that night, unless you count some pretty magical things happening in the bedroom. Friday morning, I was awakened to the sounds of Hansel and Gretel, one of Jerry’s many opera CDs. He’d been exposed to opera at an early age and was still fond of it, although he usually preferred more offbeat compositions.
I yawned and rolled out of bed, wondering why in the world I’d married a morning person. Jerry was up and singing away as the smell of coffee and toasted bagels wafted up the stairs.
I pulled on my robe and ran my hand through my dark tousled curls. Still yawning, I wandered downstairs to the kitchen and eased into my chair at the table. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He already had a mug of coffee ready. I grasped it thankfully. “Hansel and Gretel is your salute to Darkrose Coven and the witch in the woods.”
“Yes, but you’ve also got to hear this.” He turned off the CD, and despite my protests, pulled me to the parlor where he sat down at the piano and began to play and sing.
“I’m Emmaline, I’m Emmaline,
And I am feelin’ mighty fine,
I’ll squash my grapes and make a brew
That’s filled with alcohol for you!”
He finished with a triumphant chord. “That’s the opening number. Then here’s the sad number after the crop has been ruined.” He switched to a minor key.
“My grapes! My grapes! O Cursed blight!
Through all the cold and windy night
The heavens rolled and waters boilt,
And now I see my crop is spoilt.”
“I’m not sure ‘boilt’ is a word,” I said.
“I’ll bet it was back then. And here’s the closing number, when the grateful settlers see all she’s done for them.” He swung back into a cheerful tune.
“Brave Emmaline, we trust in you!
You’ve taught us all that we should do.
Now we as neighbors will join hands
And make NC a better land!”
“I can’t wait for Amanda and the committee to hear this. It’s beyond poetry. When did you have time to be so creative?”
Although Jerry insisted his older brother had all the musical talent, I thought differently. True, Des was a wonderful pianist who gave concerts all over the world and made CDs that sold very well, but Jerry could take any song and put his own spin on it. All these songs he made up were really good, even though the words sometimes needed editing.
“Last night was pretty inspiring.” He winked. “I think it would be cool to have a chorus of grapes that get louder as they ripen. Want to hear their dance music?”
“I need more coffee.”
Accompanied by happy grape music, I staggered back to the kitchen and refilled my cup. I usually wasn’t up this early. When Jerry finished his ode to the vineyards, he came into the kitchen.
“I’m off to feed the starving hoards of Celosians.” He kissed me. “Your breakfast should pop up soon. See you later.”
My breakfast did pop up soon after he left, but I wasn’t quite ready to eat. I relaxed and gazed out the kitchen window at the pleasant scene of the fields behind our house. Pleasant scenes made me very happy. For most of my younger years, the only scenes I saw were hotel rooms and hotel ballrooms as my mother hauled me around from town to town and state to state to Little Miss Pageants. Even now the smell of certain carpets took me back to that stale, insulated experience. College dorms and classrooms weren’t much better. Then I was stuck in the hot dry office I shared with other struggling investigators at one of the agencies in Parkland.
But now, I saw wildflowers were thick among tall grasses, white Queen Anne’s lace, daisies, and the occasional bright red stab of a poppy. Bugs whirred and cheeped. I often spied deer far off at the edge of the woods that separated our land from the neighbors’ fields. This morning, a flock of starlings swooped up into the trees and disappeared into the leaves. The sweet smell of honeysuckle drifted in on the breeze. Peace. Sunlight. Lots of green.
I never thought I’d enjoy living in the country. I never thought the Eberlin House could be livable. Several rooms still needed remodeling, a spare bathroom had plumbing difficulties, and questionable parts of the attic lurked above, but repairs were coming along pretty well. The only problem at the moment was a strange scratchy noise coming from one of the chimneys. Maybe it was mice. I kept forgetting to call Nell to come check whenever she had a chance. Nell Brenner, the police chief’s daughter, was an excellent handywoman. She’d been able to get most of the house in great shape, but Nell was in demand, and we often couldn’t afford her. Things were looking up financially. Jerry’s job at Deely’s, plus his time at Camp Lakenwood would bring in needed cash.
I pulled out my laptop and set it between my breakfast and my coffee. I looked up the online Celosia News to see if there were any further developments in the vineyard case. The victim had yet to be identified, I learned, and found several close-up photographs of the signs and symbols found on the man’s body. Besides the expected crescent moons, stars, and pentagrams, was a straight line with a U and an upside down U intersecting the line. I searched the Internet for the U symbol and discovered it was a symbol for money. I also found out that the rose was a powerful Wicca symbol representing the female parts—“the sacred gateway where everything in the universe is born.”
Like the two U’s in the symbol for money, were all these witchy elements intersecting in Celosia? Did Celosia have its own branch of the Darkrose Coven? Maybe the mysterious Megan Underwood would know if I could find her. Maybe Annie would tell me the meaning of her rose tattoo. I called Deely’s and found out Annie wasn’t working the breakfast shift but would be in after lunch to help clean up. So, I decided to spend some time getting a little artwork done.
I’d converted Uncle Val’s upstairs parlor into my art studio. Gone were the overstuffed and uncomfortable Victorian chairs, heavy gray draperies, and Uncle Val’s collection of books on bats. I kept the marble-topped table and fancy rose glass lamp and the other books, leather-bound copies of the classics. The old draperies had given the parlor all the charm of a dungeon, and as soon as they were down, the room came to life with the perfect light for pa
inting. After confronting the critic who had trashed my first show, I’d regained my confidence and my enjoyment in creating art, and painting was a nice balance to the intensity of my investigator job. My works in progress were propped along the walls—landscapes, abstracts, and portraits.
As soon as I was fully awake, I spent the morning working on my latest landscape before preparing for Amanda’s guard duty. Thanks to Jerry’s insistence—well, thanks to one of Jerry’s tricks—and a successful showing at the Weyland Gallery in Parkland, I had several commissions, the landscape and two modern paintings for a client’s mountain home. My best painting, Blue Moon Garden, was back in the Weyland for an exhibition of impressionistic flower paintings, and the curator reported that prints of my work were selling well. I had also been commissioned to paint a portrait of a friend’s young daughter. The three photographs he’d given me to work from were on my desk. One showed the little girl in her Sunday best. One showed her having a tea party with her dolls. One showed her smiling up at her mother. She was a sweet-faced child with blond pigtails. She’d be a joy to paint.
Water, leaves, and trees grew beneath my brush as I spread colors across the canvas. I even added a little brown sparkle to the leaves in honor of Amanda’s missing Louis Vuitton. Subtle sparkles, of course.
Amanda’s purse. I really hadn’t been looking very hard for it. Okay, to be honest, I hadn’t been looking at all. It was difficult to take Amanda seriously as a client. No doubt she had lots of expensive pocketbooks.
Come on, Madeline, be professional, I told myself. Find the purse. Play security guard. But first, I had my doctor’s appointment, and after the garden party, I would have a talk with Annie.
***
Dr. Kathleen Wallace was a petite woman with short brown hair and a cheerful disposition. I always enjoyed talking with her, despite her less-than-cheerful diagnosis.
She finished her examination, I put my clothes back on, and we sat down in her office. Kathleen fixed me with her most earnest expression. “Madeline, I see no reason why you can’t get pregnant, but sometimes we have to leave these things to Mother Nature.”
