Sinister Summer

by Colleen Gleason

  Those cats. She disconnected the call, finished her notes on the laptop, and went to see what they’d done.

  The mahogany box was off the piecrust table, and the cards were in a tumble on the floor again. Neither feline was anywhere in sight, of course. Probably skulking in the corner after making the disturbance.

  For the third time, Diana crouched to gather up the worn, oft-handled cards. As she did so, she considered putting the box away somewhere safe from the clumsy paws of Motto and Arty. But it didn’t seem right, when it had sat on that piecrust table for decades.

  Although, she supposed, when she sold the house that would change anyway.

  Once more, she wrapped the cards in their black silk, settled them in the box, and replaced it next to the African violet, which, she noticed, needed watering and dead-heading. Diana started back out of the room when she caught the glimpse of a slender white tail behind Aunt Jean’s chair.

  “There you are,” she scolded lightly, recognizing Arty’s fatter shape. The cat moved, sauntering off without a care in the world as cats were wont to do, and Diana realized Arty had been sitting on top of one of the Tarot cards.

  She bent to pick it up and her heart gave a little skip when she saw that it was The High Priestess.

  Again?

  Diana glanced at Arty’s rear end as it disappeared casually around the corner, slender tail held high and twitching at the very top like an irritated snake.

  “Hmm,” she said aloud, looking at the card. Was there something about this particular one that attracted the cats? She examined it, but found it no more smooth or worn than any of the others. It didn’t smell different or feel different.

  Random. A strange, random coincidence, Diana told herself.

  But when she left the den this time, she took the box of cards with her and put them on the kitchen counter.

  Ethan twisted off the cap of a B-Cubed IPA, courtesy of Baxter’s Beatnik Brewing from here in good old Wicks Hollow.

  “To Genevieve.” He toasted her memory, her ghost, her presence—whatever it was that seemed to hover around him. The full-bodied beer slid down his throat, cool and smooth, and the tangy, hoppy flavor settled on the back of his tongue. “Thank you, Jean!”

  He’d felt strange, entering her house now that she was dead, but he thought it was appropriate to toast her memory with the beer she’d bought him—and had always enjoyed herself. She always said the addition of B-Cubed to Wicks Hollow was the best thing that happened to the small town since she’d moved there, and Ethan didn’t have any argument with that.

  Not only was Baxter James a great guy who did freelance writing for several local newspapers while he was getting his beer business going, but he was also a friend of Ethan’s. Which meant Ethan—and their other friend Declan Zyler—got to taste-test new brews. Not a hardship in the least.

  Most of the time, anyway. There had been that one Bax had tried when he blended honey and coffee in a stout. That hadn’t gone over well with anyone.

  Ethan sipped again, mulling. Jean had always told him he could come and go as he pleased. And since he insisted on taking care of her yard work when he was in Michigan during the summer—which she repaid by baking for him, allowing him to interview her as much as he liked, and the occasional Scrabble game—he was over there quite a bit. Now, he supposed, that would change.

  Ethan had knocked on both the front and back doors for a good five minutes before retrieving the key hidden beneath the bluebird house. He thought he’d seen someone moving around inside the house, even though there was no car in the drive or the garage, but he must have been mistaken. After calling and knocking, he finally went in, Cady on his heels.

  “Ms. Iverson,” he’d called, stopping in the foyer and listening for her response. Silence. He hurried down the hall to the kitchen, feeling like an intruder—which, of course, he was—and opened the refrigerator door to retrieve his six-pack.

  About that time, Cady began barking wildly. He heard her running around up and down the hall, and he went to investigate—and to make sure she didn’t knock anything over in her exuberance. On his way, Ethan glanced outside and didn’t see any evidence of a rabbit, squirrel, chipmunk, or bird—the usual suspects in a Cady bark-a-thon. The cats were nowhere in sight.

  But…he thought he’d seen someone at the window. Could Diana Iverson be so determined to avoid him that she’d sneaked out the back door?

  That was an unsettling thought.

  A small thump had him hurrying down the hall to Jean’s library, where Cady was currently barking. By the time he got there to investigate whether she’d knocked anything over (she hadn’t), the black lab was rushing past him back to the kitchen.

  But there in the library, his attention landed on the mahogany box in its place on the piecrust table. Jean’s cards. A twinge of melancholy prompted him to remove the lid and open the silk wrappings. He wondered what Diana Iverson was doing with them—if anything.

  Diana doesn’t believe in anything unless it’s in black and white and been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. And even then, if she sees it in black and white, she’s gotta question it and question it. That’s mostly thanks to her mother—who pushed her and criticized her, and never let up on—well, there’s no use in me going on about Melanie. A good lawyer she is, Diana, but she’s missing a whole layer of the world, Ethan—thanks to that so-and-so of a mother of hers. Never let her enjoy life.

  He pushed away a flicker of sympathy for Diana Iverson, and opened the black silk wrapping to reveal the diamond-shaped blue, red, and black pattern of the back of the deck. He closed his eyes, settled his thoughts, and shuffled for a moment. Then he opened his mind and picked up the top card. Flipping it over, he saw The Lovers.

  Ethan knew what it implied—and not necessarily the obvious. Relationships, sexuality, yes, of course, but the card also could mean the joining of any two entities—whether it be people, ideas or thoughts.

  If she were there, Jean would tell him to mull on the card for the day, to open his mind and let the image dig into his unconscious, unlocking answers to questions in his life. She said that the cards unleashed her psychic abilities by opening doors in the back of her mind.

  The thing most people didn’t understand was that Genevieve Fickler never claimed the cards helped her to tell the future. Never once had she done that—and that was why Ethan respected her and the innate sensibilities and intuition she’d clearly possessed. Jean was a believer in using tools like the Tarot for guidance, direction, affirmation, and clarity—as a way to open blockages in one’s mind.

  Not to foresee the future.

  Never that.

  “Everything’s already locked away in your mind—in your subconscious and in the metaphysical that we can all tap into. You just need to open up the channels,” she’d say—telling him something he already believed and understood. “And the cards help to do that by giving you something to focus on.”

  He stared down at The Lovers.

  He’d known Jean for three years—since he bought the cabin here in Wicks Hollow—and they’d spent a lot of time talking about the metaphysical, and how certain, consistent beliefs about it were present in every culture, everywhere—and had been for millennia.

  Ethan, who’d grown up with a mother and a sister who both read palms and tapped into everything from feng shui to chakra balancing, didn’t find Jean’s interests the least bit unsettling. Not that he’d sit around and chat about those things with guys like Declan or Baxter, but there was a time and a place for everything.

  Cady began barking again from the kitchen, jolting Ethan from his thoughts. What is with her?

  He wondered again whether Diana had slipped out the back door to avoid him. The possibility compelled him to make tracks ASAP. If he wasn’t wanted here, he wasn’t wanted.

  Guiltily, he replaced the card, wrapping the deck and slipping the cover back onto the box. Then he found paper and a pen and scrawled a note to Diana, planning to leave it on
the kitchen counter where she’d see it right away.

  He was heading to the kitchen to soothe Cady, but as he glanced down the hall he saw the door open to the bedroom that belonged to Jean. Ethan went to it and stopped in the doorway, looking around the room.

  The bed was made—smooth as glass—and a half dozen lacy, Victorian pillows had been organized in a neat, symmetrical pile at its head. But the rag-rug that covered the wooden floor had a corner flipped up as if someone had left in haste—strange that it was the only thing out of place in the room.

  And it didn’t seem like something the uptight Diana Iverson would overlook.

  Something prickled over the back of his neck.

  Had he interrupted someone inside?

  Ethan stilled and listened. No, he didn’t sense the presence of anyone else nearby. And Cady had stopped barking.

  Maybe he should take a look around outside. Just in case. After all, apparently the place had been empty for a few weeks. Someone might have decided to move in.

  He didn’t like that thought, and though he dismissed it as foolish, Ethan did take a quick walk around the house’s perimeter. The whole time, he was uncomfortably prepared to encounter Diana, as it was probably she who’d left to avoid him.

  He didn’t notice anything that bothered him, so, in an effort to make certain he didn’t run into the ice-cold attorney, he left with his beer.

  And even now, as he relaxed at home in his leather armchair with a cold one in hand, Ethan felt an unpleasant tightening in his middle. Whether someone had been there or whether Diana was purposely staying away from him, he didn’t know.

  But either way, he didn’t like it.

  Chapter Three

  Diana had another debilitating migraine that forced her to go to bed at seven o’clock that evening, snuggling under the quilt in Aunt Jean's bed before the sun had even set.

  Some time later, she woke, sweating and shaking, trying to throw off the heavy blackness of another horrific nightmare. She couldn’t breathe, and she felt as if a great weight had settled on her chest, pressing and pressing down into her…

  Confused, exhausted, and terrified, she stumbled down the hall into the library and dove onto the sofa, where a short time later she was able to find a more peaceful rest.

  When she finally peeled her eyes open to bright sunlight, it was nearly ten o’clock—but today, she wasn’t surprised that she’d overslept. Time and place seemed different here in Wicks Hollow. And aside from that, Diana realized with clinical detachment that she was surely suffering from a bit of depression, thanks to Jonathan’s betrayal and Aunt Jean’s death.

  When Diana entered her aunt’s bedroom to select her clothing after an invigorating shower, trepidation skittered up her spine.

  There was something about this room that made her feel as if the nightmares lingered, heavy and dark and hot, even in the broad daylight. She hadn’t spent a full night in the room since she’d arrived.

  Yes, Aunt Jean had died in here, but there was nothing more natural than an elderly lady easing into death while in repose. After all, Aunt Jean had been over seventy. Practical Diana had no qualms about such a natural occurrence.

  She tightened the scratchy, threadbare towel from Aunt Jean's aged collection tighter around her chest and told herself firmly she was being ridiculous. Still, she hesitated before stepping into the room, as if afraid the nightmares might come back even in broad morning light—but upon seeing Motto, the smaller cat with a fat, bottle brush tail, sprawled in the middle of the bed, she forgot her disquiet.

  “Hi kitty,” she crooned, moving carefully toward the beady-green-eyed feline. The cat had burrowed right into the center of the maelstrom of sheets and was busily licking the inside of her back leg until the interruption of a mere human caused her to pause.

  Diana was surprised but pleased when she was able to get close enough to scoop Motto into her arms. She nuzzled the thick white fur of the feline’s head. “I’m so glad you decided to come out of hiding, sweet-thing,” she said. “Now if only Arty would be as brave.”

  The annoyance plain on her face—most likely due to Diana’s undignified tone—Motto struggled out of her captor’s arms and plopped lightly to the floor. Tail swishing in a last gesture of disdain, the cat ducked her head and disappeared under the bed.

  “Well, fine, then. See if I bring you anymore catnip toys,” Diana told her. But the cat’s presence and warm, furry body had done something to alleviate her strange discomfort with the bedroom.

  And just at that moment, it struck her that Jonathan was arriving tomorrow and they would be, presumably, sharing the bed in here.

  She bit her lip and pushed the thought away. “I really should grow a pair and tell him not to come,” she said aloud.

  But Diana was honest enough with herself to know the reason why she hadn’t: she wasn’t quite ready to end things with him.

  She didn’t want to be alone again, and it was so difficult to meet people and have a social life with her demanding job. She wasn’t good with people anyway; she knew she often came across as stiff and reserved. But Jonathan didn’t mind, and he was the most interesting and accomplished man she’d ever dated

  I knew you’d never be able to keep a man like Jonathan Wertinger. If you’d just—

  Diana closed her eyes against the memory of her mother’s voice and blocked it away. “I have to go to the FedEx drop box,” she said out loud, like a mantra to stop the thoughts. “I have to get there before noon so they’re on the early truck.”

  The locksmith had come the day before, and now that all the locks were changed, Diana felt much more secure about leaving the house. Not that there was much of value actually here in Wicks Hollow. Most of Aunt Jean’s considerable wealth was in securities and a few real estate investments, due to her husband’s successful business—and was not at all evident in her manner of living, Diana thought with a wry smile at the memory of the threadbare bath towels and off-brand strawberry shampoo.

  There’s not much here of any value except a few antiques—unless someone wants a deck of old Tarot cards.

  At the thought, queasiness started in her stomach and she took another sip of the tea she’d made.

  It was cold and it was…tea.

  Diana mentally added another stop at the market to her list of things to do. How could she have forgotten to buy coffee yesterday?

  The only brew available in Aunt Jean's house was her choice of herbal tea: peppermint, chamomile, and blends of rose hips, lemon verbena, all of the mints, and comfrey. The lack of options for caffeine was alarming.

  Oh crap…she’d need to buy a coffee maker too.

  Curiously, Diana had also found a box of dog biscuits when foraging for a source of caffeine, and wondered if the cats liked canine treats. But when she offered, neither of them bothered to even show and turn up their pink noses at the cookies, and so she left to go on her errands.

  The quaint town of Wicks Hollow was cocooned in the center of a handful of rolling hills—none of them large enough to be considered even the smallest of mountains, but nonetheless, they had the effect of protecting and containing the village like a large hand cupping the village in its palm. During most of the year, the town’s population was barely two thousand. But when the tourist season came—beginning with Memorial Day and ending with Labor Day, and then at the end of September into October for the Fall Color Tours—its population swelled to five thousand or more.

  Many of the houses were considered historic “painted ladies”—built at the turn of last century with all the curlicues and garrets and towers characteristic of the Victorian era. They were painted bright colors: sky blue, rose, tangerine, Kelly green, and many different shades of violet and purple. They had small, neatly manicured yards, sprawling, mature trees, and some even boasted iron-spiked fences along the front.

  Some were mansion-sized, and others were single-family residences or cottages, and others were stately farmhouses. Three blocks of Elizabeth Str
eet were lined on both sides with the most charming of homes. That was known as B&B Row, where each house was a small inn or bed and breakfast. A few even had glimpses of Lake Michigan, only two miles to the west, from their upper floors.

  The downtown, business and tourist district was just as manicured and inviting. It boasted two main streets—optimistically named Faith Avenue and Pamela Boulevard after the daughters of the town’s founder, George Wicks—that intersected in the middle of the tourist district. Despite their lofty names, neither were anything close to an avenue or a boulevard, but were barely wide enough for two cars to pass if there were vehicles parked on one side. However, huge, overflowing flower pots and Victorian style streetlamps decorated the walkways, and the broad sidewalks themselves provided plenty of room for the tourists that filled the streets.

  For two blocks in each of the four directions from the town’s center, shops, restaurants, cafes, and other businesses sprang up. Every one was a brick-fronted building of various heights, widths, and brick choice. Diana eyed all of them, including the Balanced Chakra Yoga Studio, a vintage clothing shop, and the trendy, urban-looking Trib’s, which Diana had been told was the best restaurant in the county.

  The post office and visitors’ center, which moonlighted as the town hall, were near the central intersection. But beyond the main tourist area, yet still within walking distance, were the three blocks of B&B Row.

  To the south and east of the town, a bank of thickly wooded hills rose like a natural, protective wall. Through the trees, she caught a glimpse of some of the peaks and towers of more Victorian mansions—including the empty Shenstone House, which sat on the highest hill and was reputed to be haunted.

  Upon leaving the post office, Diana decided her first—very first—order of business now that she’d dropped her packages at the FedEx box was to locate some caffeine.