Ground

by Kirsten Weiss

  I pulled up behind the car, parked, and stepped from my truck.

  Opening the picket gate, I walked up the brick path and the three low steps to the porch. An antique rocking horse, its paint flecked, its eyes sad, braced open the front door.

  I patted the horse’s wooden head. The toy swayed eerily, scraping against the door.

  Hammers and saws banged and scraped from within. I grit my teeth against the aural assault. “Hello?” I called and stepped inside.

  The walls and floors were bare, and new drywall had been nailed into place. Strips of the original crown molding lay on the floor near a fireplace and I wondered what they were going to do with it. “Hello?”

  Eric ducked his head and passed through an open doorway. He wiped his hands on a damp rag. Our gazes met, and he stopped short beside a sawhorse. “Jayce? What are you doing here?”

  “I hope it's okay. I was driving by and saw you were here. My sister, Lenore, is looking to downsize.” I sent her a silent apology. “I thought this cottage might be just right for her. When do you think you'll be putting it on the market?”

  “Downsize?” he blinked and turned toward the door he'd come through, turned back to me.

  “Our aunt's house is so big,” I said. “It was great when we were all living there, and of course my aunt would never sell, but now that she's gone...” I trailed off, a sudden rush of anguish threatening to engulf me. The loss of our aunt, our only real mother figure, still hit me at random moments. My lips compressed.

  “Right.” He nodded. “Sorry. I heard about the attack on your sister, Karin. When you started talking about Lenore, it threw me. How is Karin?”

  “She'll recover. She was lucky.”

  His head fell back, and he stared for a moment at the ceiling. “I'm glad to hear it. Matt's death seems to have had a ripple effect. I hope whatever’s happening ends soon.”

  “You think her attack is connected to the murders?”

  He dropped the rag on the paint-flecked sawhorse. “The police do. They asked me where I was at the time of the shooting. Is that why you're really here?” he asked dryly.

  I grimaced. “I’m that obvious?”

  “I can't blame you. You're worried about someone you love. But I wasn't anywhere near Ground that night. I was meeting with one of my business partners in Angels Camp.”

  Something in the way he'd said “that night” made me study him more closely. “But on the night Matt was killed?”

  He rubbed his scar. “I wasn't anywhere near him either.”

  “Do you mind if I ask where you were?”

  He shrugged. “I came clean with the police. I may as well tell you too.”

  “Came clean?” What had Eric been up to?

  “Matt had called me to meet him at the Bell and Thistle. I didn't go. I had some things on my mind, so I drove around to clear my head.”

  He’d lied about his alibi. Why? Did he worry he’d be a suspect? If so, he had to have a motive. “The police couldn't have been happy about that alibi.”

  “They weren’t, but it's the truth. And now that another one of my business partners is dead...” He shook his head. “I’d like to know what’s going on too.”

  “I'm sorry about Phoebe. I know she was a partner in the wellhouse property. Was she involved in any others?”

  “No. Only the wellhouse. She told you we were partners?”

  “Phoebe mentioned she was on the deed,” I said, probing. She’d said she was on a deed, and Eric’s was the only one I’d found online. How was the wellhouse property connected to the murders, if at all? “You must have known her well.”

  “No. We were business partners. But you never imagine someone you know dying like that, murdered.”

  “How did Phoebe come to partner with you on the wellhouse property?”

  He crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “What did she tell you?”

  “She was a little nebulous,” I said.

  The rag slipped from the sawhorse to the rough floor. He stooped and replaced it. “She was a realtor, and she had connections. She also had a little money saved and wanted to invest it somewhere.”

  “It’s too bad about the lawsuit. Does the Historical Association have a case to block the wellhouse development?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.” He angled his body away from me and looked out a window. “Tell me the truth. Is Lenore interested in this house?”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Um, no. Sorry.”

  He shook his head, his mouth twisting.

  “But I'd love to look around,” I said quickly, “if that’s okay.”

  The saw was still whining in another room, so I wasn't worried about him hitting me over the head and burying me in the backyard. Someone else was working here, so I had at least one witness.

  He sighed. “Come on then.”

  Eric gave me a tour, explaining the modifications and improvements. “We're keeping the Victorian feel,” he said. “But we’re enlarging the rooms to modern standards and upgrading the bathrooms and kitchen.”

  I made appreciative noises. And I did appreciate the cottage. It would be a jewel when finished, but I couldn’t imagine living anywhere other than above Ground.

  “I suppose Phoebe would have helped you sell it,” I said.

  He sat against a windowsill, his posture loose, his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Now it will be for sale by owner, but I’m not expecting selling it will be difficult. There's no new housing in Doyle, and demand is high. People – especially retirees – are looking to get out of the cities. We're getting our share of tech workers too, folks who can work from home and earn a living.”

  It sounded like a speech he gave often. “Hence the wellhouse development,” I said.

  “Which isn't going anywhere until that damned lawsuit is over. People need places to live. That old wellhouse is a hazard. If the city won't take care of it, then it isn't fair to make me do it.”

  “Now that Phoebe's dead, what happens to the property?”

  “I don't know,” he said, his words clipped. “It's too soon. I can't think about it now.”

  “I guess it is.” I hesitated. “You knew them both, who would have wanted to kill Matt and Phoebe?”

  He looked as if he would say something, then shook his head. “I can't say.”

  I left, dissatisfied. Eric had pretty much confirmed what I'd guessed about her connection to the wellhouse. But I felt no closer to the truth.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I closed Ground for the evening and drove to the hospital.

  Karin was alone and sleeping. The scent of Nick’s roses hung faint in the air. Machines bleeped. Two nurses murmured in the hallway outside, their voices and footsteps growing fainter.

  I picked up one of the knitting magazines I'd brought her and dropped into the armchair by the bed. I preferred fashion magazines, but the knitting mags had some cute designs. I skimmed an article on a woman who designed fairy-inspired patterns. None appealed. My view of fairies had taken a turn for the dark and dangerous.

  Karin sighed. “Ask the rose rabbit.”

  I looked up.

  She was still sleeping.

  My scalp prickled. The “rose rabbit” probably meant nothing. Karin had gotten this business about a rose rabbit into her head and was dreaming about it now.

  But… That didn’t explain how I'd heard those words in the beating of the crows’ wings.

  There was a soft sound near the door. I gave a start and glanced toward the parted curtains.

  Brayden stood inside the doorway, his broad shoulders hunched beneath his green flannel shirt. He held a potted poinsettia in one hand and glanced down at it. “There aren’t many options this time of year. Roses didn’t seem right.”

  My heart thudded three times, then settled into its natural rhythm. “Hi,” I said in a low voice.

  “This looks like a bad time,” he said.

  “No.” I stood.

  We watched each
other for a long moment. He smelled of cedar and sawdust and sweat. Everything I wanted to say – to shout – at him and wouldn’t roiled inside me. And none of it mattered.

  I moved to him.

  He set the flowers on the counter by the sink, and we stepped into the hallway.

  I reached to touch his hand but stopped myself, dropping my own to my side. He'd kept so much from me. It was only because of murder and blackmail that he'd finally told the truth. I stared at the carpet. Had he really thought I was the kind of person to blame him for something he hadn't done? But here I was, looking for reasons to do just that. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

  “Karin's a good person,” he said, gruff.

  “She is.” So was he. “Thanks for taking care of the wellhouse.”

  His shoulders loosened. “Not a problem, but it's only a temporary fix.”

  “I stopped by city hall,” I said casually. I didn’t know what to say about anything that mattered, but I kept talking, unable to stand the thought of him going away. “Wynter said he'd send a notice to the owners.”

  Brayden snorted. “Who knows how long that will take? Better we deal with it ourselves.”

  And just like that, we were a team again. I warmed, swaying toward him like a sunflower. “Brayden—”

  “Will you tell her? About the car accident?” His gaze was probing, worried.

  Angry heat flushed through my veins. So that was why he'd come. “Karin deserves to know. Both my sisters do.”

  His broad fingers twitched. “You’re right, but I'd like them to hear it from me.”

  My arms tightened against my body. “That's fair.” It would also allow him to control the message. Much easier to garner sympathy when— No, that wasn’t Brayden. He was better than that, and I wasn’t being fair.

  A nurse rolled a food cart down the hallway. She paused in front of an open door, consulted her chart.

  I couldn't blame Brayden for any of this, but a part of me couldn’t let this alone.

  “I'll come back tomorrow.” Lightly, he touched my arm.

  I shivered but said nothing.

  Miserable, I watched him disappear around a corner. I returned to Karin, still sleeping. My blood hummed, agitated, and she didn't need to be around that kind of energy when she was recovering. I grabbed my blue, wool shawl from the back of a chair and strode into the hallway. I needed air, somewhere to pace, to get my head clear.

  On impulse, instead of taking the elevator to the lobby, I turned right and walked through the glass doors onto the patio. The night was cloudless, the sky filled with stars. I lifted my hand, sketching the Milky Way’s wavering trail.

  Alone, I paced past concrete planters filled with ivy and rosemary. I brushed my hand across the top of a rosemary bush and rubbed my fingers together. Its tangy scent rose around me, and I smoothed the oils over my hair.

  I replayed the conversation with Brayden in my head. True, I hadn't said anything awful to him, but things between us had been stilted.

  He was trying. I was trying. We'd get through this. He had to understand I needed time to process his confession.

  Dammit, I hadn't exactly told him that.

  I shook my head. I needed to stop dwelling and start doing. Since I wasn’t going to get any detecting done on the third-floor hospital patio, my only alternative left was magic.

  I sat on a concrete bench. Trying to ignore the chill seeping through my jeans, I folded myself into a cross-legged position. One of the crows that had attacked me had escaped with a lock of my hair in its talons. If the unseelie/fairy/whatever had sent those birds, then it had made a mistake.

  Scrabbling in my purse, I dug out a crumpled envelope and pen. I peeled the return address sticker from the envelope, so my spell wouldn't attach to the sender (my car insurance broker). Rosemary and ivy were both for protection and healing – suspiciously ideal for a hospital, and not bad for my plans either. I broke off short stems of both from the planter behind me and twined them together.

  “Now, I invoke the law of three, that what was taken is shown to me.”

  I drew the symbol for the planet Mercury and the Moon on the back of the envelope. Wincing, I plucked a long hair from my scalp and put it inside.

  The herb’s scent coiled around me. I visualized it lifting me into the sky.

  Where is it?

  And then I was flying, soaring away from the hospital, over the tops of redwoods. Lights faded behind me, and I was above the Sierras, the air cold enough to blister my skin. I descended, and the trees changed to oak. And then I hovered above one oak, a murder of crows roosting in its branches.

  The ebony birds shifted, cawing, as if they’d sensed my presence. But they couldn't hurt me in my astral form, and I floated closer.

  A nest wedged in the tree. The twigs were lined with pine needles, dead weeds, and strands of long, brown hair.

  “Jayce?”

  I jerked from the vision and was back on the hospital patio, my butt numb from the cold concrete bench.

  Lenore sat beside me, her white jacket zipped to her chin. “Karin's still sleeping.”

  “How...?” My muzzy brain fumbled, struggling to understand the change in realities.

  “I figured you came out here when you found her asleep. What were you doing? Meditating?”

  My chest tightened with an entire swamp forest of guilt. “Spell casting.” I folded the envelope and stuck it in the rear pocket of my jeans.

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “For what?”

  “For my hair. The crows that attacked me stole a few strands. I thought the unseelie was behind it, but...”

  “But what?”

  “But I saw it in a nest.”

  She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets. “That's weird.”

  “It's a relief. It means the unseelie can’t use my hair to curse me.” Fingernail clippings or hair from an intended victim were classic ingredients in curses. I didn’t know why the fairy would need mine. She’d already zinged us good with her birth-death curse.

  “No, it’s weird,” Lenore said. “This isn't the season for nest building.”

  I bit my lip, chagrined. I knew that, but I’d wanted to believe all was well. “It was a trick.” I drew a deep breath, sucking in my annoyance. “She showed me what I wanted to see.”

  “You think the unseelie figured out what you were doing and sent a vision to throw you off track?”

  “Something sent those crows after me. There was magic in their attack.”

  She canted her head. “But they didn't hurt you.”

  “They got my hair. God knows what the unseelie will do with it.” I'd made such a mess of things. And now I knew the truth about our father's death, a truth that Lenore deserved to know sooner rather than later. A truth I couldn't tell. I changed the subject. “What do you think of Karin's rose rabbit?”

  Her pale brows rose. “Is it Karin's now? I thought you said you'd heard it too.”

  “I thought I'd heard the words in the crow attack. If I did, then the rabbit must be connected to the fairy. Or maybe rose rabbit is another name for the unseelie.” I straightened. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “What if the crows were sent by the rose rabbit and not the unseelie?” I asked, feeling my way. “Because you're right, they didn't hurt me. What if the birds were a warning?”

  “Then why take your hair?” she asked. “That's just creepy. Karin’s looked everywhere online for references to a rose rabbit. I've looked too. There's nothing.”

  “But Belle's a lot older than the Internet. What if there isn't anything online because the rose rabbit predates digital records?”

  She ran her hand along the tops of the rosemary bush. Its scent lifted into the air, twining around us. “Tons of people are doing supernatural research and posting their findings,” she said. “And there’s lots of stuff online that was written before the Internet existed. You'd think we’d find somethi
ng.”

  “Not if this is a local legend,” I said. “But with Aunt Ellen gone, there's no one else to ask about local folklore.”

  “You could try the library.”

  I blinked. “Library?”

  “You know, that big building with all the books?”

  My cheeks warmed. “I didn't even think to look. It's been so long since I've been inside one.”

  “Not since you were a kid, I'll bet.”

  “I did hit the books a few times in college.”

  She snorted. “Very few.”

  “So you think it's possible? That the rose rabbit isn't only in our imagination?”

  “There’s something to it. Both you and Karin have encountered this thing.”

  “But you haven't?”

  My sister bent to sniff the rosemary. “Mm.”

  It wasn't an answer, and my eyes narrowed. “Have you been experiencing anything, well, weird?”

  She blinked rapidly, then turned, wide-eyed, to me. “I've been dreaming poetry, does that count?”

  “You’re dreaming poems?” I laughed. Only Lenore. “No. It doesn’t count.” But I wondered about Lenore's dreams, and about what she wasn't telling me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Karin finally woke up. Settling around her hospital bed, we talked about the murder and the unseelie and the rose rabbit.

  And we got nowhere.

  Then Nick arrived, roses in hand. Lenore and I left the lovebirds alone.

  Lenore followed me to my truck in the hospital parking lot. A waning crescent moon curved like a scimitar over the sawtooth mountains. The night was still and brittle with cold.

  “What’s going on, Lenore?” I asked.

  “Regarding magic or murder?”

  “Regarding you.”

  A lamp in the parking lot flickered amber, making her face look jaundiced.

  Lenore bit her bottom lip. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. I wasn’t sure if it meant anything or was just my subconscious in overdrive. But I've been dreaming strange things.”

  Dread rooted in my stomach, and I slumped against the F-150. “What sorts of things?”