To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  “Charming,” he said. “Like a postcard cottage.” The outside was whitewashed stone, the roof thatched in flaxen reeds, and the surrounding fields—greener than anything he’d seen so far—were fenced in stone.

  “So I’m told. There’s always someone after having it to film something or other.” Reaching inside, she opened the latch to the bottom door. “In you come. Those clouds are about to explode.” Sure enough, as they stepped inside, the rain pelted down.

  The cottage itself was tiny—two small rooms, kitchen and sitting room, separated by a central stone hearth that heated both sides.

  “Where’s the bedroom?”

  “Down boy. We sleep in the loft.” She laughed and shook her head. “I’ve never met a man so driven by desire. You’ve a healthy libido, Sorcerer.”

  Suddenly sensitive, Estrada shrugged. He busied himself by snooping around the cottage while Primrose lit an oil lamp and built a peat fire. The tiny windowpanes were edged in red, and another red leather sofa, quite like the one in her Galway flat, stood in front of the fireplace. Comfortably edged in vibrant pillows and knitted throws, he thought how wonderful it would be to forget the hectic world and live in a bygone era.

  Wandering into the kitchen, he skirted the wooden table and chairs, ducked around a large wooden dresser with shelves of vine-patterned dishes, and poked his head into the pantry. There seemed to be no sink or running water, no refrigerator or stove. Not even a bathroom.

  “Is this your grandparents’ cottage?”

  “It was. The Macaulay family farmed this land for generations. If they knew the cash this cottage brings in now, just for having her picture taken, they’d be shocked.”

  He peeked at her through the open hearth. The peat had flared and its oily scent filled the room with a homey feeling. Despite her tight leather jacket and tattooed head, she seemed a creature from another time.

  “Primrose,” he mused to himself.

  “Aye?”

  “I was just wondering about your name.”

  “I was born with hair the colour of farmhouse butter, just like the flower. It means first rose, and I was their first and only child. So there you have it.”

  She came around the corner then and wrapped her arms around him, as if she’d done it a million times. He held her to his chest and hugged her. When she drew away he continued to hold her hands as they talked. He couldn’t let her go.

  “I can understand why you were an only child. Where could your parents go to be alone?”

  “Are you kidding me, man? Have you any idea how many good Catholic wives trudged around pregnant year after year, just spitting out babies in cottages like this? When you’re wanting it, there’s always a place to have it; even if it means cavorting in the hills, or being stealthy, like.”

  “Stealthy has its own appeal. We lived in a place like this too, in Mexico, when my parents were first married.”

  “And later?”

  “Later, my father got rich and famous—”

  “Ah, you’re having me on.” She hopped up on the kitchen table, slipped off her jacket, and unwound her vibrant scarf. In bright yellow leggings and red pointy boots, she looked elfish, but a tight sapphire sweater that fell off her shoulders and showed every line of her nipples, reminded him just how much of a woman she was.

  “I’m not,” he growled. He desperately wanted to touch one, to lower his mouth and close his lips around it, sweater and all. Placing her finger beneath his chin, she tilted his face upwards to meet her eyes, and he laughed, caught in his own lustful nature. “It’s true. My father was a movie star in Mexico. He shot a couple of big roles in Los Angeles, so we moved there, and then—”

  “Then your troubles began.”

  Estrada nodded. “Yeah. He changed, and soon after that, he disappeared.”

  “I’m sorry, Sorcerer. But it seems you gained some good along with the bad.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, look at you. There’s movie star written all over you. Of course, there’s flaws too, and well, you saw some of that last night. But your past has made you strong; stronger than you know.”

  “I hope so,” he said, watching as she fondled the scarf. Winding it around both hands, she flipped it over his head and drew him towards her.

  “You’ve been aching to kiss me since we first met,” she said, tilting her lips upwards. “Standing here so close like, with your movie star charm, I wish you would.”

  He caught her tiny face in the palms of his hands and lightly brushed his lips against her cheek, and then softly across her lips. It was a fraction of what he wanted, but he was determined to wait—though he felt like pulling down her leggings and bending her over the kitchen table. A week ago, he would have and got away with it. In exorcizing those who’d come before, she’d made him feel vulnerable, virginal even. He kissed the top of her head where the three trees merged.

  “You’re a strange man. You’re the size of a fence post, yet you kiss me like I’m a porcelain doll. Tell me, Sorcerer, if I fell to my knees right now on this cold stone floor, would you turn my face away?”

  “Oh, please don’t. You know I couldn’t, and I don’t want it to be like that for us.”

  “Hmmmm,” she breathed, and he felt that somehow he’d passed a test. “Will you help me brew the potion for tonight, then?” Leaving the scarf around his neck, she grasped his shoulders and jumped off the table. “If you can walk, mind.”

  “Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog,” he chanted.

  “Are you after brewing a hell broth?”

  “You tell me. What’s going to happen tonight?”

  Dropping her head back suddenly, she rolled her eyes so only the whites were visible. He’d never seen this before and it scared him. Even when Sensara drew down the moon, she never looked possessed, not like this. He watched and waited.

  “Your man’s close,” she said, at last.

  “Jesus. We have to get back to Maggie.”

  “He’s not here for Maggie. He’s here for you.”

  A noise at the open doorway broke the spell. They both jumped, and she was suddenly herself again. “Ah, it’s just Angus Murphy wanting a bite in out of the rain.” Taking a sheaf of dried clover from the countless bundles of herbs hanging from the oak beams above their heads, she held it out for the old merino sheep, who caught it between his tiny teeth and yanked.

  “Wait,” he said, catching her hand. “If you know this much, tell me, how will it end?”

  “That I cannot say. All I can do is stoke the peat and brew you a protective potion. I’m counting on you to know the right thing to do when the time comes. And Sorcerer, sometimes what you think is right and what needs to be done doesn’t quite align. You must trust that whatever happens is fated.”

  He didn’t like that and clutched her to his chest while Hecate’s prophecy rattled through his brain. Four souls pass over into light. As his chin settled on the top of her head, he could feel her moist lips against his heart. Running his thumb along the tips of her ears, she tilted her head back, and he gazed into her amber eyes.

  “I do love you, Primrose, and I haven’t been able to say that to anyone in a very long time—not for years. Whatever happens you need to know that. And, you’re right. I do want to make love to you. As you said, I am driven by lust, but it’s more than that with you. If it never happened, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “All that and a poet too,” she said, with a smile. “But, you forget that I’m a woman with needs of my own, and as romantic as you sound, if it never happened, why, I’d toss you out with the wash water.”

  Picking her up in his arms, he cradled her, opening his lips to her dancing tongue, as the late winter sun slipped through the open doorway.

  Suddenly, breaking the kiss, she whispered, “Put me down, Sorcerer.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t something he’d done.

  “Your killer’s close, so close I can smell him.”<
br />
  “What does he smell like?”

  “Cinnamon.”

  ≈

  Maggie looked through some of her mother’s old books, then fell asleep listening to the raindrops patter against the windowpane. She slept so soundly, she suspected Moira of spiking her tea with some sedative herb, as Primrose had done the night before. She didn’t usually take afternoon naps. When she awoke, she went looking for Moira, and found her outside in the garden.

  After the rain, the Vallely’s back garden sparkled, as tiny raindrops adhered to the myriad leaves and reflected the pale rays of the late afternoon sun. Standing on the back step, she watched her gran glide through the garden greeting her plants and feeding her birds. No cane needed here. How had Shannon left this enchanted place? And how did she turn out so mean when Moira was so kind? Questions bubbled through her mind.

  Finally, unable to restrain herself, Maggie blurted out: “What happened to my mother?”

  “Ah, now that’s a long story,” said Gran, coming to the back door, “but it’s yours, so you’ve a right to hear it. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  The story revolved around a man named Frank Burke, who owned a large equestrian centre just a couple of miles from the Vallely’s home. Part of his two hundred acres, bordered the other side of the creek just beyond their garden. According to Moira, Shannon had worked for Frank Burke since she was a child, as a groom and stable hand.

  “She had the knack, our Shannon. Could get a horse to do anything. Only had to ask.”

  “My mother hates horses.”

  “Ah, not then. Shannon adored horses, could talk to them and they talked back. She really loved them as much as she loved Colin.” Maggie touched her horse tattoo and thought about how many times she’d asked Shannon if she could go riding next door and been vehemently refused.

  “Colin, my father?”

  “Aye, loveen. Young Colin was his father’s son, and when Shannon got in the family way, sure he’d have nothing to do with her. Broke her heart, poor lass.” She stopped talking to sip her tea and gaze into the garden. Maggie waited. “I knew right off—could feel the difference in her, the stirring of a new life. That was you.”

  Maggie smiled. How could she not? She felt like such a child with Gran.

  “Here in Ireland, if a girl gets pregnant, either she marries or her family raises the child. And I suppose a few babies are given away.”

  “What about abortion?”

  “It’s illegal, unless the mother’s life is at risk. Oh, some girls disappear off to England, and come back empty, and the sadder for it. We didn’t want our Shannon to do that. We’re Catholic, you see. We don’t accept it.”

  “You’re Catholic and you’re a witch?”

  “Ah, things aren’t always black and white. You’ve got to understand our history, what we’ve lived through in this country. Frank Burke is old money Protestant: insists his people are descended from William de Burgh, an Anglo-Norman knight who invaded Ireland in the Twelfth Century. His son, Richard de Burgh built Ashford Castle in 1228.” She rolled her eyes. “Still lords that over us.

  “Twelfth Century,” she scoffed. “Why that’s yesterday. Our people have been on this island for six thousand years, since the first ones sailed across the channel with their sheep and cows. Burke’s no lord over us. Ah, it makes me mad, it does. I need a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Maggie. “Just one minute. I want to hear the rest of this story.”

  “Thank you, pet.”

  As Moira sipped her tea, she relaxed into her comfy chair. Maggie found her gran the easiest person in the world to listen to, not just because she had a pleasant lilting voice, but because she knew that she spoke the truth—her truth—and she realized that most of her life she’d been living a lie. Her true identity was all tied up in the history of this place and its people.

  “Where were we? Aye, I remember. Shannon was in the family way. Himself, Frank Burke—brute of a man he is still—insisted that she end it. Said he’d pay all costs. Well, poor Paddy wouldn’t allow that. Murder, he said it was. So, a huge feud broke out, went on for years. Why, it’s still going on.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” said Maggie, facetiously.

  “Ah, you’re just like your mother. She had the wit too. Bless her soul.”

  “So, what did she do?”

  “Well, poor girl was in a spot. Couldn’t kill her child and thank the Lord for that. Yet, she couldn’t stay here and raise you either. Burke would have destroyed her, destroyed us all. Made it his life’s mission at the very least.”

  “So what did she do?”

  “Took the payoff and despised herself for it. You see, when she refused to end it, Burke offered her money to disappear. Paid her passage to Canada aboard a freighter. Shipped her off with some of his horses; pretended she was going along to look after them. Of course, she didn’t tell Paddy she was leaving. He would never have let her go.”

  “Really?”

  “As God is my witness. Sent her off to his sister’s home in Toronto. She was to get Shannon settled, that was all. But, her son fell in love with Shannon and wanted to marry her. And, he loved you too, Maggie. Why you’d been born on the ship, just before they docked.”

  “I was born on a ship?”

  “In a stall like a foal. But look at you now. You’re strong, and you’re wearing the mark of the horse on your arm. You’ve affinity with them, sure.”

  “And the man that loved us—who was that?”

  “Ah,” she sighed. “John Taylor was his name.”

  “No way! I can’t believe it. Do you know what that means?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It means that my father, at least the father I grew up with, is really my cousin.”

  “Very astute, just like your mother.”

  “She said we had no relatives.”

  “Well, I suppose that was true in a way. John and Shannon were disowned, thrown out of the Taylor home in Toronto. John turned Catholic for Shannon before he married her, and they were livid at that. Frank sent Shannon money for her education and to help care for you, but disparaged poor Paddy every chance he got. Made his life hell. I think that’s why Paddy’s never been able to settle. He’s been wandering for years, just like one of the old bards.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “Ah, the Burkes don’t bother me. I’m just a batty old woman what grows plants.”

  “Where’s Frank Burke now?”

  “Still lord of the manor. Just not as spry as he used to be. Colin runs things now, and they’re not welcoming men, so don’t go over there alone. You wait for Primrose.”

  “Yeah. What time is it? They’ve been gone for hours.”

  “Perhaps they’ve gone for a tramp in the hills. The sky’s clearing tonight and she’ll be brewing something special. Speaking of brewing, it must nearly be time for supper.”

  But, supper came and went, and still they had not appeared. Moira grew sleepy again after eating and dozed off in her armchair, so Maggie stoked up the peat fire, blew out most of the remaining candles, and slipped out the red door.

  Just as Gran had said, the moon was rising like a silver curl over the hill. She walked down the lane towards the highway and turned in the direction of the Burke’s Horse Farm. Before her mother moved back home, Maggie had a score to settle with the bastards who’d wanted her killed before she’d even been born.

  16: A Deed of Dreadful Note

  “DRINK YOUR BREW,” said Primrose. “I’ll not have you out tonight without some sort of protection, not when this devil has you in his sights.”

  “What about you? Aren’t you having any?” Lying on his side in the damp grass, Estrada rested his head on his palm, entranced by the silvery moon reflected in her eyes.

  “Your man has no quarrel with me. Now, drink up.”

  Taking the canteen from her hands, he unscrewed the cap and took a healthy swig. “Ugh. This tastes like shit. What is it? Dirt and weeds?”


  “Must be the pinch of sheep dung you taste, courtesy of Angus Murphy. All the great poets drank it. Your man Yeats marvelled at its capacity to connect a man with his muse.”

  “Sheep dung. I believe you.”

  “Good man. I’ll not steer you wrong.” She giggled. “Truth is: it’s just herbs you taste. My gran had an affinity with all sentient beings and because of her kindness, they still share their spirit.”

  “Really? I know someone like that too,” he said, thinking of Daphne. And for a moment, his thoughts drifted back to Hollystone and home, and Sensara who hated him, and Michael who loved him.

  “There’s hawthorn, hazel, and heather for protection,” she explained, breaking his reverie, “and a little ginger root and thyme for courage—not that I don’t think you have your own, but it never hurts to have more.”

  “Do I have to drink it all?”

  “Do you want to live?” Her tone, suddenly grave, frightened him, and sitting up he tilted his head back and guzzled every drop.

  When he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he shivered. “I feel weird. Did you spike it with something? Ecstasy, perhaps?”

  “Ah, we’ve no need of that synthetic stuff here, not with all of this natural bounty,” she said, looking widely at the surrounding countryside. “You see that solitary whitethorn tree?” She pointed to the thin tree in the centre of the hill, its naked branches tilting upwards towards the moon.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, she’s never been cut for a reason. They say the whitethorn marks the door to the home of the Good People. The ones who’ve lived before and live still, beneath this faerie ráth.

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh, aye. So if you’re feeling anything peculiar, Sorcerer, it’s magic.”

  ≈

  Burke’s Equestrian Centre bustled with activity as everyone hurried to complete tasks in the early dusk. Though the moon was waxing, late November days grew shorter as nights grew longer, and that left little time for outdoor pursuits. Maggie peered inside, at the indoor ring, where children wearing their customary riding attire, trotted around on magnificent ponies; their tan breeches, tall riding boots, and black velveteen helmets, a trademark of their sport. By contrast, a couple of shabbily dressed stable hands hovered nearby on the alert to catch anything that might drop and soil the smooth earthen floor.