Spirits, Pies, and Alibis

by Nicole St Claire

  “Curtis can be an acquired taste. The floozy is his mother, Audrey, although she’s less floozy and more boozy tonight. I haven’t seen her this drunk in a while. Uncle Doug usually keeps her in line, but he hasn’t arrived yet.” He looked me squarely in the eyes as he spoke, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Although he managed to keep his outward composure, I knew deep down he was laughing, and I was pretty sure it was less with me than at me. “Tamsyn. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Hello, Noah,” I said, or at least I tried to, only when I reached his name, I swallowed the second syllable and my throat closed up in one of those choking coughing fits where your face turns purple and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. Hadn’t changed a bit? It was impossible to argue, as suddenly, I was displaying all the grace and sophistication of a thirteen-year-old girl.

  His lips stopped twitching, and his look of concern was genuine. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink.”

  He took me by the arm and led me out an open set of French doors and onto an expansive flagstone patio. A bar had been set up on the far side of it, overlooking a stunning ocean view with the tall, black-and-white-striped Cliffside Light in the distance.

  “There’s Sybil,” he said, pointing toward a petite woman whose platinum hair was styled in a short bob. “You were friends, right? Looks like she’s coming over. Wait here with her, and I’ll get you a drink.”

  In my memory, Sybil Wolcott was a freckled kid with braces, whose bright yellow hair was always tinged green at the tips from mornings spent taking swimming lessons at the country club pool. The Wolcotts were fancy like that. Sybil and her mother had lived in Manhattan most of the year and were the type for whom things like country club memberships and art gallery openings came second nature. She wore a brightly colored jumble of silk scarves and shiny baubles over her fashionable black sheath dress, and any one of them probably cost more than I’d earned in a week back in the good old days when I was gainfully employed. I could tell in an instant that Sybil had grown into exactly the self-possessed beauty she’d been raised to be, and my insides churned at how she would react when she found out what a failure I’d become.

  “Tamsyn! I would have recognized you anywhere.” Much to my surprise, Sybil held out both arms and, before I could protest, had folded me into a tight embrace. I laughed with relief. She might have turned into a glamorous socialite, but underneath it all, I could sense she was the same old Sybil I’d had so much fun with years ago. For the first time since my arrival, I felt genuine happiness at being back in Pinecroft Cove. Maybe starting over here wasn’t such a far-fetched goal after all.

  “It’s the hair you recognized, isn’t it?” I joked when she finally let me go, holding up a stray lock of fiery red that was a Bassett family trait.

  “I would’ve killed for that hair when we were kids. Still would.” She grabbed my hand, flipping it back and forth to get a better view of my wrist. “And this gorgeous antique bracelet. Where did you get it?”

  I flushed with pleasure at her compliment of my new treasure, remembering as I did that she’d always had a knack for saying something that instantly made you feel better about yourself, even on the worst days. “Up in Aunt Gwen’s attic. It still needs a good cleaning, but it is pretty, isn’t it?”

  “It’s beautiful. If you want, I can give you some tips on how to clean it properly. Say, was there anything else like this up in that attic?”

  “Tons. There are dozens of steamer trunks and boxes up there with old clothes and all sorts of stuff. Aunt Gwen said I can go through them if I want.”

  “Old clothes?” Sybil’s entire body seemed to perk up. “You mean, like vintage?”

  “I assume so. I don’t know much about that kind of thing. Do you?”

  Sybil laughed. “You could say that. I’m opening up a vintage clothing boutique on Main Street later this summer.”

  “You mean here, on the island? Full-time?” The news surprised me. Neither Sybil nor her mother had ever struck me as the type to consider living on the island year-round.

  “Between you and me, I’m tired of Manhattan and being so close to my mother’s drama. Believe me, I’m looking forward to island life, not to mention our little magical… Wait, I assume your aunt has told you?”

  “Uh, well…” My mind went blank. She couldn’t possibly be referring to the witch thing, could she? I’d accepted the fact that old Aunt Gwen was batty, and the guests at the inn, too, but if Sybil was buying into all the hocus-pocus talk, I really didn’t know what to make of it.

  As I fumbled for an answer, Sybil’s eyes slid away from me and toward the patio doors. Her face lit up, and she waved her hand vigorously at someone behind me. “Hey! Over here!” She looked back at me apologetically. “We can discuss that more later, but listen, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you’d let me have a look at the clothes in that attic of yours sometime?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I agreed, just as happy to leave the coven discussion for another time, like maybe the Tuesday after never.

  “Excellent!” She waved again. “Cassandra!”

  My body stiffened at the name, and I whipped around to see who this other member of our so-called coven might be. I saw a young woman of medium build and bronze skin, whose curly black hair cascaded down her back almost as far as her waist. Her style of dress was best described as boho, with a long flowing skirt and peasant blouse. I knew without needing an introduction that this was Cassandra Hollings. If I’d had to choose which of us out of the three looked most likely to be a witch, it was Cassandra. She even wore a silver pentacle charm on a ribbon around her neck. Beside her was my aunt Gwen.

  “Cassandra,” Aunt Gwen said, “this is my niece, Tamsyn.”

  Cassandra gave my aunt an inquiring look. “Have you filled her in on everything?”

  “Yes. She’s fully up to speed,” my aunt assured her. I wasn’t so sure her assessment was correct. Hearing what she’d had to say and accepting it as truth were two very different things. I wasn’t exactly certain where I’d gotten with the issue, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t anywhere close to moving full speed ahead. I glanced at the bar, where the bartender was handing Noah a plastic cup with a lime garnish. It could either be plain water, or possibly a gin and tonic. All things considered, my vote was for the latter.

  I could tell by looking at her that Cassandra was a few years younger than I was, but the impression of youth was intensified as she hopped up and down with the type of glee one rarely finds outside a group of kindergarteners who’ve just been shown an all-you-can-eat candy buffet. “Isn’t this so exciting, girls?” She looked from Sybil to me then grasped our hands.

  Teetering off-balance, I reached out and placed my free hand on Sybil’s shoulder to steady myself. The moment I closed the circle, a jolt like an electric current traveled up both of my arms. I gasped. “Did you feel that?” I asked. Both of their faces registered surprise, but before either of them could answer, the deep rumble of rolling thunder sounded above our heads, like a freight train charging across the rapidly darkening sky. It was accompanied by a blast of icy wind that instantly drove away the stifling heat.

  My stomach tightened in a knot. Cassandra’s eyes were wide, and Sybil’s mouth had dropped open, but Aunt Gwen beamed with satisfaction. “Here comes the storm.”

  There was a crack of lightning, and then the skies burst open, and heavy drops of cold rain poured from above. One second, the water was streaming down my face, and I shut my eyes to keep it out, but then I felt a warmth descend around my head and shoulders, along with a hint of scrumptious bay rum aftershave, as a hand pressed gently between my shoulder blades, guiding me. When I opened my eyes again, I was out of the rain and standing inside the mansion’s great hall, with Noah standing beside me and his jacket wrapped around my shoulders. The temperature had plummeted, and another blast of wind through the French doors sent a shiver coursing through me. Noah grabbed the doors and slammed them shut, locking them in place.r />
  Lightning struck again, a jagged bolt that ripped through the sky. A loud boom followed immediately after, shaking the ground. The lights inside the mansion flickered once. Then the room was plunged into darkness. Nervous murmurs echoed throughout the space, and someone cried out in alarm only to be quickly hushed by others before full-out panic could ensue. Outside, the rain fell in sheets, the only illumination coming from the intermittent flashes of lightning and the rhythmic sweep of Cliffside Light as it circled on its path across the edge of the wide backyard before returning to sea. As I watched its movement, almost trancelike, I saw a man standing on the grass, drenched in rain but seemingly unbothered by it. He was too far away to see clearly, but I would have sworn it was the man from the portrait above the fireplace—Douglas Strong. Then the light moved on, and the yard was dark. When it returned, the man was gone. I had no idea what to make of it.

  I huddled in the dark with Sybil and Cassandra. Noah had wandered off, to where I wasn’t sure. My pulse beat like a hummingbird’s wings until finally the lights came on again. When they did, Noah was standing at the front door. Two men in police uniforms stood there, too, dripping from the deluge. Curtis and Audrey stood nearby, and when one of the officers addressed her, Audrey shrieked and crumpled to a heap on the floor. The room grew completely still, and then the whispers began, like a swarm of bees buzzing through the crowd, until finally I could hear what was being said.

  “His plane went down in the bay,” the voices said. “Douglas Strong is dead.”

  Chapter Six

  “More pies?” I stared in astonishment as my aunt dumped another basket of blueberries into the large pot on the stove. And yes, it took every ounce of restraint for me not to call it a cauldron because that’s what it looked like, a cauldron filled with a sweet, syrupy mass of bubbling, boiling fruit. “Don’t get me wrong. I love pie. But didn’t we make two dozen pies yesterday?”

  It had been a simple cooking lesson, not a magic lesson, as Aunt Gwen had been quick to assure me. Just pies. “What could be easier than that?” she’d wanted to know. I mean, I could think of several things that were easier. Those brownies that get microwaved in a mug, for instance. I hardly ever messed up those. But pie? I seriously thought pies emerged from factories, fully formed. After a few tedious hours of rolling out crusts, cutting perfect circles, and weaving strips into lattice across the tops, I’d gone to bed early, utterly drained. Now she wanted me to make more?

  “The funeral’s tomorrow, and half the island will be there. Grieving people like to eat,” she replied without looking up from her work. “Besides, a few of the pies needed to be replaced.”

  “Oh no.” She’d said it in an offhanded way, but immediately I knew I was to blame. “I warned you I wasn’t good in the kitchen. What did I do wrong?”

  “Oh, it was nothing, dear. Simple mistake. Salt and sugar look so similar even I have a hard time telling them apart sometimes.”

  Yeah, right. I watched as my aunt moved with almost choreographed precision, filling the cauldron—I mean the pot—with all the necessary ingredients without even stopping to measure. By now, I’d had a chance to sample the finished product, and Walter at the ferry had been right. Her blueberry pie was the best in the world. She didn’t need to follow a recipe. She knew with all the instinct and skill of a master artisan exactly what was needed to make each batch perfect. Was it magic? I wasn’t sure, but it was something special.

  “Do you need some help?” It was only polite to ask, but I tensed, praying the answer would be no. I didn’t want to risk another disaster.

  “As a matter of fact, I have a whole load of pies boxed up and ready to deliver to Cliffside, if you wouldn’t mind running them over.”

  Smart woman. The best way to guarantee this batch of replacement pies came out perfectly was to get me as far away from them as possible. There were just a few problems. I had yet to get my car to the mechanic. Plus, every time I closed my eyes, I saw Douglas Strong’s face, and the thought of returning to Cliffside turned my insides cold. I decided to address the first issue only and keep the other strictly to myself.

  “I’d like to, but I’m not sure Miss Josephine can manage it.”

  “Why don’t you load them into my car, then?”

  “I can do that,” I told her, with slightly more confidence than I felt considering the damage I’d already caused. But seriously, how hard could it be to deliver a carload of baked goods? You’ve got this, Tamsyn.

  As I drove slowly down the long driveway to Cliffside Manor, my tension grew, though I did my best to tamp it down. It had been almost a week since the party that had ended so tragically, and the first difference that struck me was that this time there were no other cars or people in sight. I parked close to the massive front door, which—unlike last time—was shut tight as if to discourage visitors of any kind. Aunt Gwen had given me one of those collapsible wagons, the type you can keep in your car, and I unfolded it now and began loading it with boxes. She’d really outdone herself. In addition to her famous blueberry pies, she’d made peach, cherry, and apple. There was enough to feed the entire island for a week.

  I pulled the pie-laden wagon as far as the front steps, leaving it at the bottom while I went the rest of the way up to the door and rang the bell. I could hear the chime echo inside, a low and forlorn sound, and even though I knew they were expecting the delivery, I immediately regretted intruding on their private grief. A foreboding feeling settled over me, and I almost turned around to leave, but just at that moment, I heard someone approaching the door. Aunt Gwen had explained that Curtis and his mother, Audrey, lived in the big house, which they had shared with the recently departed Douglas Strong. Hoping to avoid an awkward moment, I’d prepared myself to say a few kind words to whichever one of them would open it. As it turned out, it was neither of them.

  “Oh, Noah. It’s you.” Belatedly, I snapped my mouth shut. It had dropped open as soon as I saw him standing in the doorway. I had no idea why. It’s not like I had been the one with the teenage crush, but for some reason I couldn’t seem to stop staring even once my mouth was closed. So much for avoiding those pesky awkward moments.

  “Tamsyn, it’s nice to see you again,” he said, not looking the least bit flustered. How was that even possible? When we were teenagers, he’d been nothing but flustered. Now he was the cool one, whereas I…

  “I brought pies,” I blurted out, sounding mentally deranged. I tried to laugh it off, but the sound that emerged from my mouth was like nothing I’d ever heard a human make before, some sort of snort-cackle that left the impression I must be the love child of a goose and a potbellied pig.

  He blinked, his politeness covering whatever horror he surely must have felt at my animal-like outburst. “Oh, right. Audrey mentioned your aunt was sending some over. Do you need some help?”

  I looked at the wagon, trying to figure out how I could get it up the three large granite steps on my own, but it was no use. I nodded meekly. “Yes, please.”

  We each took one end of the wagon and lifted it easily into the foyer. Without pausing to ask, Noah took hold of the handle and began to pull it across the marble floor. I followed behind him, forcing myself not to notice how nicely his jeans fit and, instead, quizzing myself as to why, after fifteen years of never giving the man a second thought, being around Noah Caldwell suddenly had this bizarre effect on me. My pulse was racing, and I felt like a tongue-tied teenager. Were love potions a real thing? Because if they were, I was beginning to suspect Aunt Gwen had slipped one in my tea.

  When we reached the kitchen, Noah began to unload the boxes onto the huge butcher-block island that dominated the middle of the room. It was the biggest kitchen I had ever seen outside of a restaurant, but unlike Aunt Gwen’s cozy mess of a workspace back at the inn, this one had an almost antiseptic, clinical feel to it. The stainless-steel appliances gleamed as if they had never been used, and I had a hard time picturing anyone cooking a meal here.

  “I’m s
orry about your uncle,” I said as it suddenly occurred to me that I’d been so thrown off when he was the one to answer the door that I hadn’t actually shared any of the polite condolences I’d planned. “Were you two close?”

  “He was a good guy. I’m going to miss him.” A mistiness settled across Noah’s deep-brown eyes, making them sparkle. I quickly reminded myself it was in very poor taste to think how attractive it made him look. “Although Curtis was his favorite nephew, of course.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” I assured him, with absolutely no proof to offer since I’d never met the man. It just seemed like the thing to say.

  “No, it’s okay. Uncle Doug was like a father to Curt, ever since his dad died when he was in college. Uncle Doug really took him under his wing after that, gave him a job, invited both him and Audrey to live here. He was grooming Curt to take over his real estate development business someday. It made sense. Curtis shares the Strong name.”

  “Why’s that important?” First the Bassetts, now the Strongs. Seriously, what was it about the people on this island and their weird obsession with last names?

  “Uncle Doug was really big on preserving the Strong family legacy. It was his passion, really, genealogy and family history. He was convinced the Strongs were related to the Davenports, who built this mansion back in the eighteen hundreds. It’s why he bought it. He’d even ordered a bunch of those DNA kits recently for all of us, to see if he could prove it.” Noah closed his eyes, and I got the impression he was holding back tears.