Spirits, Pies, and Alibis

by Nicole St Claire

  It took no more than a few seconds to spot the bin I needed. Aunt Gwen must have been feeling particularly well organized when she’d stored them, because each one was clearly labeled on all four sides and the top as well. I could have left right then, except after I’d pushed the blankets into the hallway, but before I’d turned off the light, I heard a sound like a rolling or a scraping coming from the far end of the cavernous space.

  Yes, I know. This is the part where, if I had been watching it in a movie, I would’ve started yelling at myself to run. I even thought that exact thing at the time as I stood there and weighed what to do next. Of course, I didn’t run. I did what all the dumb heroines do and took a few steps in the direction of the noise. So next time you watch one of those films and smugly think you’d be smarter, trust me, you wouldn’t be.

  Immediately, I detected the scent of roses, like what I’d smelled that morning in my bedroom, but stronger and more concentrated. It struck me as odd since it was an enclosed area with no open windows, and I couldn’t imagine where it was coming from. I went deeper into the space, and it was when I was about halfway to the other end that it occurred to me once more what a terrible idea this was. I’d heard scraping and rolling in an attic? Forget ghosts and chainsaw killers. There was about a ninety-percent chance I was going to stumble upon a mouse. Or a rat. I shuddered and turned toward the door, but a black shadow stopped me in my path. My heart pumped like mad as my blood turned to ice water in my veins.

  “Meow,” said the shadow.

  “Gus?” I gave a shaky laugh as two shining green eyes peeked out from behind a trunk. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you bad cat.” Remember when I said I had no interest in owning a cat? Now you know why.

  I walked toward him, moving to scoop him up and carry him out, but he was too quick for me and ran toward the door. Instead of following, I went to investigate the trunk where he’d been hiding and quickly discovered the source of the rose scent. The trunk lid was open, and an old perfume bottle had been knocked over. The last few drops of its highly fragrant contents had dribbled down the side of the trunk. If I had to blame someone for this accident, my money was on Gus.

  I removed the upset bottle, set it on the floor, and peered into the trunk. It was filled with clothing, and with mild curiosity, I pulled out the top piece. It was a gold silk dress, sleeveless like something you’d wear to a fancy evening party, with intricate beading. While I didn’t know much about vintage styles, it looked like something a flapper might have worn, and it was very high quality even to my untrained eye. I longed to pull out the rest and see what they looked like, but I hesitated. Some of the fabrics looked delicate, and I was uncertain if touching them would be harmful. With a sigh, I pulled my hand back and closed the lid of the trunk to keep the dust off. I would have to ask Aunt Gwen later if she knew anything about them.

  As my eyes were drawn along the oily trail the perfume had left, my gaze came to rest on the spot where the bottle’s glass stopper had fallen onto the rough pine floor. Next to the stopper, and partially obscured beneath the trunk, was a short length of dull silver metal. At first, I thought it might be a coin or religious medal, but when I grabbed it and gave it a gentle tug, several additional links emerged, and I realized I was holding a bracelet. It was dirty, but the overall design was beautiful, and I could just make out some engraving on a few of the links. Intrigued, I fastened it around my wrist for safe keeping before I made my way back to the hallway. I grabbed the blankets and then went straight downstairs, partially with the thought of delivering the bin to my aunt as she had requested but also with the intention of cleaning up my newly discovered treasure.

  When I met Aunt Gwen in the kitchen, she was adding a final glass of thick red liquid to a serving tray. I regarded her with squinty-eyed suspicion. “What do you have there?”

  “Secret potion,” my aunt replied with a wink.

  “Really?” My pulse ticked higher, and my throat constricted. Potions? I was so not ready for the conversation to turn in that direction again so soon.

  “My world-renowned hair of the dog potion.” I must still have looked half terrified because Aunt Gwen laughed and added, “Bloody Marys. Some of the ladies over imbibed last night and are having a hard time getting going today, so I whipped up a little something to help out.” As if to strengthen her case for them being nothing but harmless cocktails, she grabbed a handful of celery stalks and plunked one in each glass.

  “Ah, right.” I let out a breath, which I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. If I was going to survive this stay with my aunt, I was going to need to develop a much better sense of humor about all things witchy and magical—and quick. “Do you have any silver polish?”

  “There’s baking soda in the pantry, or I might have something stronger in one of the cupboards. What are you trying to clean?”

  I held out the wrist with the bracelet on it for her to see. “I found it up in the attic. Do you know anything about it?”

  After examining it for a moment, Aunt Gwen shook her head. “I’ve never seen it before. How about you take those drinks out to our guests while I look for something that might work.”

  “Uh,” I replied. It was the best I could manage. The moment I’d looked at the tray of Bloody Marys, a lump formed in my throat. It hadn’t occurred to me before to wonder how that particular cocktail got its name. Now I knew. It looked like blood. I swallowed uncomfortably. I’d just been tasked with delivering goblets of blood to a room full of witches. Was this really my life?

  No feeling sorry for yourself, Tamsyn, I chided myself silently. Your life may be in shambles, but you have a job to do at the inn, and you need to do your best at it. I straightened my shoulders and picked up the silver tray, trying to keep my hands from shaking as I walked through the dining room toward the living room, where they had assembled. Did all the women in there really believe they could turn people into frogs by waving magic wands? And, if so, was I going to need to get a psych consult for the whole house?

  As I entered the room, I honestly was not sure what I expected a gathering of self-proclaimed witches to look like in their downtime. Like, when they weren’t dressed specially for a ritual, what did they wear to relax in? I pictured a room filled with old crones in pointy hats and shiny black shoes with big brass buckles. Maybe green skin, too. What I got was the most ordinary collection of middle-aged women I could’ve imagined. I’ll admit, it was kind of a letdown.

  Contrary to my imagination, not a single one of them had a wart on her nose, a broomstick at her side, or a cat on her lap. Gone were the white robes, floral wreaths, and flowing hair from the night before. Instead, the women wore yoga pants and T-shirts with slogans on them that proclaimed their interest in topics that mostly ranged from books to wine, or a combination of the two. Their graying hair was caught up in messy buns. Those who weren’t napping were reading, except for a few who were knitting. They wore reading glasses. Reading glasses! If they had any true magical powers at all, wouldn’t they at least fix their eyesight?

  Deflated but no longer the least bit intimidated, I cleared my throat. “Would anyone like a drink?”

  There were grateful murmurings all around, and I began to circle the room, holding out the tray. As each guest took a glass, I kept one eye on a woman who sat in the corner, playing a game of solitaire. She was very much unlike the rest. This woman appeared to be older than the other guests by about a decade, though her long, pure silver hair was somewhat at odds with her more youthful-looking skin. I found myself unable to say for certain whether she was barely sixty or well over eighty years of age. One thing I did know was that, dressed from head to toe in black linen, this witch looked the part.

  When everyone else had been served, I approached her with the final drink balanced on the tray in front of me. “Would you like a Bloody Mary?”

  She plunked down a couple of cards before looking up, and as I studied them, I realized this wasn’t a regular pack of playing cards. The b
acks had an intricate design of moon and stars, and the faces had pictures of things like cups and swords instead of the more typical hearts or spades.

  I took the cocktail from the tray and held it out to her. “Last one.”

  As she reached out, the hand brushed against the silver bracelet on my wrist. Her face settled into a deep frown. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

  I swallowed, unnerved. “I found it in the attic a few minutes ago.”

  “Sit down, and I’ll read your cards.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t really think—”

  “You don’t want to see your future?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, suddenly remembering the sight of all these women in their see-through nighties. I’d seen my future then, all right, and it wasn’t pretty.

  “The tarot is a powerful tool, child,” she prodded.

  “I’m sure it is, but it’s really not my thing.”

  She shrugged and took a sip of her drink. “Suit yourself. May I take a closer look at that bracelet?”

  I eyed her nervously but eventually stuck out my hand. “I guess so.”

  She ran her index finger over each tarnished link. “I see the letter L and an airplane.”

  “See them, you mean the engraving?” I took my hand back and squinted at the bracelet but couldn’t make out anything. For a silver-haired woman, she sure had good eyesight. No reading glasses for her, so maybe she had a touch of real magic after all.

  “That’s not exactly the type of seeing I meant. Here.” She pulled a card from the velvet bag on the table and handed it to me. It had the same design on the back that her tarot cards did. At first I thought she was giving me one of them, but when I flipped it over, I saw that the name Madame Alexandria was written across the top in fancy script, and there was a phone number and address for a shop on the mainland.

  “A business card?”

  “I know you think you don’t need me,” she said, and I tried not to laugh out loud. Didn’t think I needed her, huh? It hardly took a psychic to pick up on that. “Keep it anyway, and call when it’s time.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I shoved the card in my pocket, hoping it would humor her long enough for me to get away before the interaction became any weirder than it already was.

  “Promise me, Tamsyn.”

  I nodded then spun around and headed as quickly as I could for the stairs. She only looked like a witch, I reminded myself as I dashed across the second-floor landing and took the stairs to my bedroom two at a time. I knew this was true, because witches and magic weren’t real. They weren’t real. They weren’t. Even so, I couldn’t shake the coldness that had overtaken me when she’d looked me in the eyes and said my name as if she could see into my soul.

  Chapter Five

  It was late in the afternoon when my aunt called upstairs to remind me of the party at Cliffside Manor. Just what I needed, a daunting event where dozens of virtual strangers would be sure to ask, “So, what do you do for a living?” Yeah, my unemployed self was really looking forward to that social gem. But, having already tried once, I knew I couldn’t back out of going, so I rummaged through one of the suitcases I’d brought up the night before and found what I hoped would be a suitable outfit for the occasion. It was a wraparound dress with spaghetti straps, in white knit jersey with navy blue stripes that gave it a nautical appearance. It wasn’t fancy, but it was the best I could do on short notice.

  When I entered the living room, my aunt’s quick review of my ensemble earned an approving nod. “You’ll want a sweater,” she told me.

  “It’s almost ninety degrees,” I said with a laugh and followed her to her car without heeding her advice.

  The evening was in full swing as Aunt Gwen and I made our way past Cliffside's intricate wrought iron gate and up the tree-lined avenue to the front door, which stood open wide to receive guests. The sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and a live jazz band drifted through the open doors of a house that could have come straight from the pages of Architectural Digest. I’d seen it from a distance but had never been inside. As far as I knew, the house had been unoccupied for decades, but apparently, Douglas Strong had staked his claim and restored it to its former glory.

  Compared to other parts of the island, houses in Pinecroft Cove had a reputation for being large and stately. Most of them had sprung up during the Gilded Age, built as summer cottages for wealthy New Yorkers who were always trying to outdo one another. How my own family had ended up living in one, I have no idea, because we were never part of the upper crust. But compared to its neighbors, Cliffside Manor was in a league of its own. It had been modeled after a chateau in France and hovered at the edge of the island’s jagged tip like an imperial presence lording it over the rest of us, surrounded on three sides by the sea. I could see the chateau's high mansard roof and towering turrets from my bedroom window, and the beam from the lighthouse that sat on the edge of the estate could be seen as far away as the mainland on a clear night.

  As I entered the house for the very first time, I stopped dead in the massive foyer, my mouth agape. To my right, a marble staircase swept in a graceful curve, like something Cinderella would lose a shoe on while running down it at the stroke of midnight. The steps were wide enough that five adults could easily walk down them side by side, and they were cushioned with a thick carpet that looked like red velvet. Ahead of me, at least a hundred people filled the great hall, a room made completely of marble and carved throughout with sea serpents and mermaids. In the center of the room was a fireplace large enough to stand in, and hanging above it in a place of honor was a life-size painting of a distinguished-looking man with sandy-blond hair that had grayed slightly at the temples. His suit and tie were modern in style, so this was not a portrait of a long-dead ancestor, and I assumed it must be our host, Douglas Strong.

  I clutched Aunt Gwen’s arm as we made our way into the crowded room, and she gave my hand a pat, seemingly unfazed by our surroundings. I wasn’t sure if that was because she’d visited before, or just that it was a lot harder to be intimidated by things when you honestly believed yourself to be a witch.

  Moments after we’d entered, we were greeted by a man with the type of preppy good looks that were usually confined to the glossy pages of a Vineyard Vines catalog. His blond hair had been tousled to exactly the correct degree to project a carefully calculated sense of casualness, and he wore immaculately pressed khaki trousers, boat shoes without socks, and a button-down shirt that anywhere else on the planet would be described as pink but for some reason in certain northeast social circles was known instead as Nantucket red. Though he bore a passing resemblance to the portrait above the mantel, he seemed much too young to be our host, probably just a few years older than me at most, yet he strode toward us with the air of a man who owned the place.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he said, flashing a distractingly white smile and oozing charm in a way that immediately put me on guard. I’d only just met him, but already I could tell he had all the sincerity of a used-car salesman who was behind on his quota. He held out his hand to me. “I’m Curtis Strong.”

  “Hi, I’m Ta—”

  “No way, it’s Polly Parrot!” He said it loudly enough that several heads swiveled to look in our direction. A couple hands went up to wave, and I could’ve sworn I heard someone from across the room yell Polly wanna cracker? If I’d been worried the islanders had forgotten that incident, I could rest assured they had not. “Haven’t seen you around for a while, Polly.”

  “It’s Tamsyn. Tamsyn Bassett.” I corrected him through gritted teeth, too focused on masking my annoyance to realize I hadn’t gone by that last name in fifteen years.

  “Oh, I know. I just got such a kick out of teasing my cousin over all that poetry of his. Man, he had it bad for you back then.” As Curtis uttered a hearty laugh, I realized he didn’t just remember the defining embarrassment of my childhood; he’d been the one who coined the phrase. “We really should catch up now that you’re bac
k.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I agreed, my heart not in it at all.

  “Maybe drinks on the balcony later on, just the two of us? You should see the sunset.” It was obvious he wasn’t actually interested in me, just turning on the charm out of habit, and I had a feeling he’d said this to every halfway attractive woman under the age of forty who’d come through the door that night. But as I fumbled for a polite way to decline, his eyes narrowed and his face darkened. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  He stormed across the room to where a woman in a bright red cocktail dress was draping herself over an unsuspecting and very uncomfortable-looking gentleman. She straightened up a bit as Curtis got closer, and though I couldn’t see her face, her body language signaled repentance. From the scolding look Curtis gave her, he wouldn’t be so easily placated. I kind of felt sorry for the woman, whomever she might be.

  However, his departure was a lucky break for me, and I let out a massive sigh of pure relief. “Was he smarmy or what? I thought I’d never get rid of him. And who on earth is that floozy in the red dress?”

  I said all this to Aunt Gwen, who was standing beside me, only when I turned, it wasn’t Aunt Gwen there after all. It was a tall man with thick, dark hair, soulful brown eyes, and a strong lantern jaw brushed with just a trace of shadowy stubble. He wore a button-down shirt of pastel plaid, left open at the collar, and a lightweight linen jacket. Turns out those busybodies from the ferry had been right about the young Dr. Caldwell after all. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn I was staring at a carbon copy of a young George Clooney.