by Ira Bloom
Katy’s gift for necromancy was her most closely guarded secret. Her natural talent for speaking to the dead had manifested at a very early age. She was five before she’d realized people were being condescending when they pretended to believe in her “imaginary” friends, and she’d been secretive about them ever since. Katy cherished the dead. They had so many interesting and quirky observations, and such indifference for the things that the living clung to. It gave Katy her unique perspective, having an ancestor for a mentor.
“Are you there, hon?” Katy asked again, peeking out with one eye.
“Of course I am, dear,” came the answer. The smoke from the smudge, which was still thick and aromatic in the room, gathered and concentrated. It took on the appearance of substance, all in gray but vivid enough to carry on a conversation.
“Thanks for coming,” Katy said. “I love spending time with my favorite great-aunt.”
“And I love spending time with you, dearie,” Aunt Becky replied. “How’s the potion going?”
Katy had predicted that Veronica would either fold or snap after a day of triple whammies. Veronica, it turned out, was not the type of girl to fold. She was a pureblood snapper. Friday at breakfast, Veronica was in a disheveled state, baggy of eye and haggard, with hair that did not qualify as a rat’s nest. Rats have standards.
“Did you sleep well, sweetie?” Katy asked in an overly glib fashion.
“I wouldn’t goad her, if I were you,” Esme advised.
Esme had spent hours with Ronnie in her room the night before, giving big-sisterly comfort in an effort to assuage her guilt. Her clinical impression was that Ronnie was in a state of induced psychosis affected by sleep deprivation, love obsession, hysteria, malnutrition, and a pervasive jinx. She’d made Ronnie some chamomile tea and tucked her in bed and sung her a lullaby. Ronnie could not afford to lose another night’s sleep.
Friday morning, it seemed obvious that Ronnie had, indeed, lost another night’s sleep. Her delicate, waifish beauty had turned sharp and angular. Esme felt the loss as a pang.
Katy was prattling on: “You really missed it, Esme. The way she got nailed by three lunch trays in a row makes you just marvel at the magnificence of the cosmos.” Katy was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook, holding court. Esme was fishing cold cuts out of the fridge. Veronica was behind the counter, peeling a large Fuji apple with a paring knife.
“I don’t want to hear about it, Katy,” Esme said. This was all her fault. She noticed Ronnie had finished peeling the apple and kept on peeling, like she was going to take it to the core. Cue the music from Psycho.
“Lunch trays everywhere!” Katy continued, taking her dishes to the sink. “Spaghetti flying from three tables over like a guided missile—”
What happened next was a blur: Veronica spun with ballerina grace and closed the distance between herself and Katy in a heartbeat. With brutal strength, she grabbed her sister by the hair and tugged her neck sideways, swinging the right arm over her chest and pressing the paring knife into Katy’s throat. The blade indented the skin over Katy’s jugular.
“Remove this jinx, right now,” Veronica instructed. The scary part was, her voice wasn’t hysterical or nervous at all. It was icy cool, like a 911 operator instructing a little girl how to perform a tracheotomy over the phone.
Katy struggled for about a tenth of a second, thinking she could get a hand on Ronnie’s wrist and push the blade away, but Veronica dug the blade into her neck a fraction of an inch, drawing blood. “Esme, do something!” Katy pleaded, her eyes wide with terror.
For the briefest moment, Esme allowed herself to imagine the clear path to Zack, with one sister dead, the other in jail. Did that make her a bad person? Esme was smart and Katy had talent, but Ronnie would always win in the end. A fight with Ronnie was like the number pi: irrational, never ending, and no way to figure any percentage to it. Esme noticed that Veronica was made up for her part, with a raccoon-eyed smudge of mascara and bobby pins holding her hair up in the bag lady motif. If Ronnie had had the foresight to dress the part of a psychotic sister killer, she’d probably also worked the angle that if she did kill Katy, the jinx would never be lifted.
“If I were you, I’d do what she says,” Esme advised Katy as she opened a packet of sliced turkey on the counter. Veronica almost certainly wouldn’t kill Katy, but was it really worth testing the girl’s state of mind? Was it possible to fake a maniacal expression like that? She knew her baby sister well enough not to call her bluffs.
“Expello btfsplk,” Katy intoned, making a Bronx cheer noise of it.
Ronnie shoved her sister away, shivering from toe to crown with the heebie-jeebies. Katy’s counter-jinx had sent a shock of static electricity through her.
“Okay, girls, I’m going to lay down the law,” Esme said with such authority she got no argument. “You two, hug. Now!”
Her sisters embraced tepidly.
“There’s to be no more cursing, hexing, jinxing, or spells of any kind, or so help me Goddess, I’m going to call Mom and tell her you’ve both violated the Wiccan Rede a dozen times each. And she is going to be royally pissed that she has to cancel her trip to Stonehenge to punish you. Am I understood?” Over Katy’s shoulder, Esme noticed her father retreating from the doorway. A remarkably sensible man.
“Yeah,” Katy agreed, rubbing her neck. There were beads of blood, but no serious damage.
“Okay,” Ronnie said, clearly relieved.
“And, Katy, after school today, you go out in the yard and clean up all the dog poop, like you promised. The flies are thick as locusts out there.” As long as Esme was in full-blown bossy mode, she figured she might as well restore some order.
“Okay,” Katy agreed, humble. “Sorry.”
“And, Ronnie, you eat something, or I’m telling Dad you’re bulimic. He’ll send you to puke camp, and they’ll force-feed you cheesecake and duct-tape boxing gloves on you so you can’t shove your fingers down your throat. And yes, it’s a real thing; I saw it on the Internet.”
“I’m not bulimic,” Ronnie challenged, indignant. “Has anyone ever seen me binge? And I don’t purge. I’d never ruin my teeth like that. I’m a ballerina.”
“Okay, anorexic, then. You’re five-seven and you weigh ninety-five pounds. Dad will believe me. I’m the responsible one, and you’re a notorious liar. Now go back to the bathroom and fix yourself up, and I’ll make you a fried egg sandwich with cheese, and we’re not leaving for school until you eat every bite. And I’m packing you a sandwich for lunch, too, and I want to see you eat it. And drink a glass of orange juice, you’re dehydrated.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ronnie agreed. She was half psychotic from sleep deprivation, but not crazy enough to call Esme’s threat.
For a week, Norm had been desperate to talk to Esme, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. His entreaties were getting more pathetic and frantic daily. She and her sisters were in deadly danger, but there was no way of getting them to understand it. He’d gotten his throat slashed out of genuine concern for her, and she’d sided with the monster! And now she was so skeptical of his motives, she didn’t trust him at all. Okay, he got that she thought he was jealous, but she refused to see the bigger picture of the danger he was trying to protect her from, out of his honest feelings of loyalty to her. Loyalty, friendship … or whatever.
Norm also tried his luck with Veronica and Katy, but they’d been forewarned against his pleas, which had turned into a kind of feverish proselytizing about the monster in their midst. They. Didn’t. Want. To. Hear. It. Nobody did. At lunch, Norman sat with Wilson, Nick, and Jackson, watching the sisters, watching Zack.
On Wednesday, Norman confronted Esme in the hall outside the cafeteria and wouldn’t let her past him. With his bulk, he herded her against a bank of lockers. “Esme, you have to believe me,” he pleaded. “My father can confirm all this, just stop by after school. He’s so concerned, he’s staying in town and having his grad students teach the rest of
the semester.”
“Your father?” she mentioned scathingly. “The mad scientist?”
“Zack has a kind of disease,” Norm insisted. “It caused his skin condition. He can’t eat solid food, because part of his intestinal tract is atrophied. Have you ever seen him bite into something solid? And his immune system is all messed up, so he needs to … Esme,” he whispered, lowering himself to her ear and taking her upper arm in an inescapable grip. “His white cells need to be replenished every few days, or his system will—”
“Let go of me!” Esme yelled. She’d spied Vice Principal Shattuck with his Donald Trump comb-over and his hot pink bow tie. She’d heard enough nonsense. She wouldn’t listen to any more of Norm’s lies about her sweet Zack! Shattuck was making right for them. “Get your hands off me!” she yelled, for the vice principal’s benefit. “And stop stalking me! Leave me alone!”
Vice Principal Shattuck approached them. People were watching, now. “Mr. Stein, would you please take your hand off of Miss Silver?” he requested reasonably. The vice principal’s voice was naturally high-pitched, with a softness that made him sound gentle, though Esme knew him to be a rigid pedant with a sadistic streak.
Norman did as instructed, dropping his hands to his sides passively. “Sir, I was just—”
“Tut-tut, Mr. Stein,” the vice principal interjected. “Let me hear Miss Silver’s side of the story first.” He turned and asked unctuously, “Was this young man accosting you, Miss Silver?”
Okay, she was the one who brought Shattuck into it. But Norman had to learn. Esme cast her eyes at the ground modestly and nodded, once, twice.
“And did Mr. Stein have your permission to lay his hands on your person?”
This was the killer. There was an online package that you had to sign off on to register every year, with twelve pages of rules, and Esme was one of the few people who’d read them all instead of just scrolling down and clicking. Shattuck was talking about an automatic suspension. But the truth was, she hadn’t given Norm permission to touch her. She was a feminist, wasn’t she? He needed to learn about boundaries. She shook her head slowly. “No. He didn’t.”
“That will be all, Miss Silver,” Shattuck said. “Would you like to go visit the school nurse?”
Esme told the vice principal that it wouldn’t be necessary. As she headed into the cafeteria, she heard Mr. Shattuck instruct Norm to accompany him to his office. She had to avert her eyes, to avoid the look of devastation and betrayal on Norm’s face.
That evening, Barry informed the girls that he was meeting a new client and would appreciate if they’d refrain from thunderous farting noises and keep their dogs quiet. He addressed all three, but Katy took it personally, as she was the only one who’d ever had dogs or made thunderous farting noises. Barry asked Esme to vacuum the living room. He always asked Esme, never Ronnie, because he knew Veronica would complain about being persecuted and storm off to her room. Esme got all the chores because she was the only one who didn’t complain. She considered this arrangement entirely unfair, a travesty of justice that rewarded the evil and punished the good, but she didn’t like to complain, so she vacuumed the living room.
At eight o’clock the doorbell rang and Barry called down the hall for Veronica to answer it. Veronica grumbled at the injustice of having to get up from studying her pores in the mirror just to let her father’s clients in. It was a conspiracy. They should hire somebody to answer the door, this wasn’t the middle ages. Clients shouldn’t visit lawyers at eight o’clock at night. They were probably criminals, why else would they need the lawyer?
Veronica opened the front door. It was Zack. She had to be dreaming. She blinked. He was still there. “Oh. It’s you.”
Next to Zack, now that she had a chance to notice him, was an older gentleman who must have been his father. He was a little shorter than Zack, and the resemblance was nonexistent, but he had an air about him, an irresistible magnetism. Definitely Zack’s father. Ronnie rarely thought older men were attractive, but Zack’s dad was something else altogether.
“How do you do, sir,” she said, “I’m Veronica Silver. I assume you’re here for the appointment with my father? Won’t you come in, please?” She couldn’t imagine where all the manners had come from. Zack’s dad was so classy, he just brought it out of her.
They entered. “How very lovely,” the father said in the entry hall. He offered a hand as if to shake, but when Veronica offered her own in return, he took her hand in both of his, intimately, and brought it to his lips. Veronica felt a tingle creep up her arm like a large, hairy spider.
“Oh, Zackery,” the father said, “she’s far more charming than you described.” He was still in possession of Veronica’s hand. “Darling child, would you be so kind as to summon your two elder sisters? I’d like to meet the entire family.”
“Of course, sir,” Ronnie returned, blushing. “But I can’t leave you here in the foyer. Please, let me take your hat and coat.” Take your hat and coat? Where did she get this stuff? And where she’d put the hat and coat she hadn’t a clue. She wasn’t even certain the entry hall was a foyer. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever having used the word before.
In the living room, Drake Kallas made a fuss over each of the sisters, kissing their hands and complimenting them on their beauty and charm. They found themselves blushing, craving the compliments. Mr. Kallas was also lavish with his praise for Barry, as the progenitor of the three. Even Zack was congratulated, for having such lovely schoolmates. “I’d like to meet their mother as well,” Drake mentioned. “I imagine she must be a great beauty.”
“She’s away in Europe for a few months,” Barry apologized. “But we’d certainly love to have you and your son over for dinner sometime, when she returns.”
Esme thought Zack’s father was the most charming, sophisticated man she’d ever met. She imagined what it would be like to be accepted into such a cultured family. They’d lived all over Europe and traveled to exotic lands. Mr. Kallas vaguely explained that he was involved in “commodities,” which he described as items of great value to those who appreciated their significance.
“Antiquities?” Esme asked.
This elicited an enthusiastic response from Zack’s father. “What a clever, intelligent question, my dear. But no, let’s just call them ‘artworks,’ since they are items of exceptional beauty.” He used the opportunity to take Esme’s hand again. She wished he’d never let it go.
The six of them chatted for a while, then Barry and Mr. Kallas excused themselves to discuss business in the den. The three sisters invited Zack to the kitchen for tea and a slice of banana bread Esme had made. They’d never seen him at night before, without his goggles and gloves. They were not disappointed.
“The tea, please,” Zack requested. “But I’ll have to give a pass on the banana bread. I have so many food allergies I never eat anything unless Dad or I prepare it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Katy consoled, taking Zack’s arm and rubbing his hand possessively. “What are you allergic to? I’m a vegetarian, I’ll bet I can scrounge up something you can eat.”
“Ta,” he replied. “But don’t bother. I’d rather not talk about it, you all must think me a git, with me skin problems and me dodgy immune system. Just the tea please, I’m madferit.”
“I’ve come to hire your services,” Drake Kallas told Barry when they were alone in the den. “I’ve asked around. Your name came up several times, and my son mentioned he knew your daughters and that they were wonderful girls who’d made him feel welcome in a new school. A man who could raise such girls must have the qualities I require in my legal representative.”
Barry was pleased. “That’s quite a compliment, Mr. Kallas—”
“Do call me Drake,” the Master insisted.
“I specialize in family law,” Barry said. “Mostly divorce work, but I do estate planning and of course criminal law, not that there’s much call for it in these parts.”
“It’s a won
derful community,” Drake agreed. “People have been very kind to us.”
“I hope you aren’t put off by the recent spate of missing persons, or that terrible fire a few weeks ago,” Barry said. “I’ve lived here for almost twenty years, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“That’s precisely what I’ve come to talk to you about.” They were sitting opposite each other across Barry’s desk, before a wall of law books. Drake leaned forward and put his hand on top of Barry’s hand. Barry thought nothing of the intimacy. European customs were odd. They were always kissing one another on the cheeks. “Some allegations have come to my attention. It seems my son knew all three of the girls—one was a young woman, in fact—who disappeared.”
“I’m not surprised,” Barry replied. “They were all in the same school. My daughter Esme knew all three of them herself, and nobody is making allegations about her.”
“Ah, but your daughter isn’t new in town. I’m glad we see eye to eye on this, Barry,” Drake said, squeezing his hand. Drake was very direct with the eye contact as well. “We had nothing to do with the disappearance of those girls.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Barry agreed, nodding his head. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“I’d had an interview with Detective Sharp. A jealous ex-boyfriend had seen my son with his girl, Sandy, and he was trying to incite trouble for Zack, we assume. Zack was exonerated, but then that terrible tragedy happened to the poor detective’s family.”
“The Sharps were clients of mine,” Barry said. “Such a tragedy. And the boys … so young.”
