The Trouble with Magic

by Madelyn Alt

  I mulled this over as the Lexus purred through the residential streets of Stony Mill, and I tried to adopt her pragmatic outlook. So the man had lied. Big deal. People lied all the time, sometimes with good reason, sometimes for no reason at all. It wasn't nice, but it was human nature. His lies meant nothing to me. They were empty. He probably didn't intend for them to impact on me at all.

  Just chalk it up to one man's had habit and get on with your life, O'Neill.

  My mother had a saying she was fond of repeating whenever she was trying to prove a point: Let go and let God.

  I didn't know about that, but I did know that within minutes of turning my back on the cause of my discontent, I felt a physical release as it all fell away, one piece at a time. Relieved of its hold on me, I began to relax as the gentle motion of the car and the familiar roadside sights worked together to lull me into a better mood. Felicity had switched on the heater to drive away the chill. Hot air blew from the front vents at full throttle. It sucked the moisture out of my skin and left my eyes feeling as arid and desiccated as the long-dead flesh of an Egyptian mummy, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. Hot and dry beat the hell out of cold and clammy any day. Cold and clammy reminded me of all those horror movies my mom had tried to keep me from watching, like Horror from Beyond the Grave and Revenge of the Vampire Zombies. I'd had enough of death and darkness for one night.

  The car pulled up to the curb. With a start I recognized the looming outline of my Victorian apartment house.

  Felicity shifted the car into park and smiled over at me. "Feeling better?"

  A few days ago, I would have been ill-at-ease with her uncanny ability to read my thoughts. I'd come a long way, baby. "Much. Sorry. I guess the viewing got to me."

  "No need for apologies. It was my fault. If I hadn't lost hold of myself like that… I'm ashamed of myself. I should have recognized…" She stopped abruptly and shook her head. "I'm afraid I was too caught up in my antagonism toward Jeremy to realize you were uncomfortable."

  "It was the heat. I'm sure of it."

  "Of course it was," she soothed, patting my hand. Then she looked up toward the house, where a single light shone through a gauzy curtain on the second floor. "I like your apartment. I meant to tell you that earlier."

  "It's okay. I'd have preferred one of the upper levels, but the basement apartment is cheaper, and it was the only one available at the time. I was lucky to get it." I groped in the dark, wondering where the car manufacturer had managed to hide the door handle. Ah. Got it. "Will you be going to the funeral tomorrow?"

  Felicity shook her head. "I've said my farewells. My presence at the gravesite would only present problems. And Jacqui, at least, deserves to say her good-byes in peace."

  I paused, my hand frozen on the lever. "Are you sure? I mean, she was your sister."

  "I'm quite sure. No one really wants me there. It would be… awkward."

  "But…"

  "But it makes me look guilty?" Felicity laughed softly as she glimpsed my stricken expression. "Don't look so horrified. It isn't a crime to have a mind, Maggie. You should never feel sorry for using it."

  "I just don't want you to think—"

  "I don't. I promise." She rolled her palms back and forth over the steering wheel. "But Maggie, I refuse to live my life by the rules and expectations of others. They're wrong about me—you know that. Someday, they will come to know it, too."

  I nodded miserably. "Do you think they'll find Isabella's murderer, Liss?"

  She turned to look at me, her eyes as stormy and impenetrable as Lake Michigan. "Good times three. Evil times three. Justice will be done. It's the way of the Universe. I have to believe that." In the blink of an eye, her expression softened, and she smiled at me. "Thank you, my dear, for coming with me this evening. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

  We said our good-byes and I let myself out. As I stepped from the car, the wind picked up again as if by magic. It whined around the corner of the tower room and spun dried leaves around my ankles like the scuttling of crabs. I clutched at my collar to ward off its invading force. Felicity waited in the car as I made my way slowly up the walk and around the corner of the house to the narrow flight of stone steps that led down to my basement apartment.

  I slowed instinctively as I approached them. I kept remembering the sounds I'd heard before Felicity had picked me up that evening. The whispered voice. And then there was the frigid air. I wasn't convinced I hadn't imagined the whole thing. It was possible, wasn't it? I knew it was silly, but a part of me wanted to hightail it back to Felicity for her protection. There was a safety in numbers that sounded like a pretty good idea right about then.

  The grown-up side of me won out over more childish impulses. With my keys in hand and my heart in my throat, I deliberately descended the steps.

  At the bottom of the sunken stairway, leaning up against my door, I found a sealed manila envelope with my name on it. I bent and picked it up. Not much heft to it. I slid my thumb under the flap and pulled out a note and a few photocopied sheets of paper.

  Maggie, I read, here are copies of all references to the Hardings that I have been able to lay my hands to so far. I hope they help you. If not, well I will keep looking. The historian in me is having a blast, It's amazing the kinds of interesting information one can find in the local newspaper. It was signed: Blessings, Marian

  I flipped through them quickly. The first was an announcement dated January 9, 1991. Harding Enterprises opens its doors officially for the first time. The article named Isabella as new owner of a refurbished medical supplies company, with Jeremy Harding as CEO after the previous owners, Mai and Mo Rodgers, liquidated their local holdings and set out for warmer climes. My mind quickly latched on to the fact that Isabella was the owner. In other words, the person who con trolled the purse strings. The one with all the power.

  The second snippet was copied from the society column from 1993, the year Jacquilyn Harding graduated from prep school. The Hardings honored their daughter with a graduation celebration held at the local country club. The photo above it didn't photocopy well, but from the murky details I was able to make out a smiling father and daughter, arms wrapped about each other's waists, I had to laugh—Jeremy had the look of a yacht club reject, having chosen a nautical themed sweater in lieu of his double-breasted blazer. Very early nineties.

  On Jacqui Harding's right stood a good-looking young man whose arm was slung loosely around her neck. A silly grin split his flushed face as he jutted out his jaw to receive a congratulatory kiss from a fortyish Isabella on his right. Isabella, I noted from what little I could make out from her grainy profile, was dressed to kill in a wide-shouldered (love those Frisbee-sized shoulder pads) but slinky sweater dress that clung to her slender torso like a lover's embrace. The pic was nearly ten years old, but unless things had changed overmuch, Isabella had been quite lovely.

  The caption beneath the photo identified the boy as Justin Marsh. The Marsh name was well known in Stony Mill, appearing on many buildings and historical placards, and common in country club settings. Very much outside my usual stomping grounds. A high school boyfriend of Jacqui's? Possibly. It was obviously a happier time in her life. I wondered what had happened to him, and to her.

  The third and last piece was a letter to the editor, dated July, three years ago. My eyes widened as I skimmed the letter and went back to the top to read it again. It appeared to be a diatribe against the declining morality of Stony Mill, authored by one Reverend Baxter Martin. Though it didn't reference the Hardings by name, details within the letter itself made it clear that his disapproval extended to certain individuals and that he saw it as further illustration of the decline of the town and, more importantly, the world beyond. A notation from Marian, written in red ink: Thought this might be of interest as well. Let me know if you don't understand. M.

  Maybe I should do just that. It would be interesting to see what Marian knew.

  I began to stuff the pi
eces of paper back in the envelope. As I fastened the catch, the security light beside me blinked and fizzled, drawing my attention.

  Just a power glitch, I told myself. Old houses always have trouble with their wiring.

  The light winked out entirely as I turned my key in the lock.

  Apprehension crawled across my skin. It prickled down my spine and lodged itself at the pit of my stomach. Cold as ice.

  Stop it, Mags.

  I made myself open the door. It swung noiselessly inward, bumping against the stopper on the wall behind it. The sound it made as it hit echoed the frightened thud of my heart. So far, so good. I stepped onto the rug just inside the door and stopped. Outside I could hear the retreating purr of a car engine—Felicity's Lexus. Enough time had passed that she must have decided I'd gotten inside, safe and sound. My sense of security disappeared, but it was too late for me to turn back now. Summoning up my nerve, I reached out to flip the light switch to on. It hit me then, as I replayed in my mind my hasty departure—

  I'd left all the lights on.

  I froze where I stood, right there on the rug, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. The lights had been on; I knew it. Felicity had even offered to switch them off for me. That could only mean one thing.

  Someone had been in my apartment.

  Chapter Nine

  I wasn't stupid, and I wasn't crazy. Without further ado, I grabbed my Louisville Slugger from where I'd left it by the door and beat a hasty retreat. Christine beckoned at the curb, but even with keys, getting past her accident-prone door locks was iffy, at best. So, I did the next best thing… I raced up the back stairs to Steff's second-floor apartment.

  I pounded on her door. "Steff! Steff, it's me. Let me in, hurry!"

  Footsteps sounded inside, then the click of the deadbolt. She opened the door. Had I not been in such a panic, I might have felt my customary pang of envy. Dressed to the hilt in a clingy black dress and heels, her hair dressed up in a soft cascade of auburn curls, she made my sober suit look like a schoolmarm's getup. As soon as she opened the door, I barged past her, pulled her back inside, slammed the door shut, and turned the bolt.

  "Well, hello to you, too," Steff said, her brows arched in surprise.

  "Hey," I panted by way of greeting as I switched off her lamp and raced back to the window beside her door. I pulled the curtain aside, just a crack, and peered out into the dark side yard.

  "Maggie, what are you doing?"

  I turned to her, a shadow in the inky dark of the room, "Have you seen anyone at my place tonight?"

  "I just got home. What's going on, Mags? Why are you—"

  "I think someone was in my apartment tonight."

  "What? In your apartment? Are you sure?"

  Quickly I told her what I'd found when I relumed.

  Steff switched the lamp back on and we sat down together on the overstuffed sofa. "Okay, lets not lose our heads here. Think. Does anyone else have a key to your apartment besides the one you gave me?"

  I shook my head grimly. "No one. I have one hidden in Christine, but no one else knows that."

  "Not even your mom?"

  I gave her a scathing glance. "Oh, sure. Let's get real. My mother would think a key gave her carte blanche to dig through every aspect of my life." I paused then, wondering whether I should tell her the rest. Guilt nudged at me for even questioning. I hadn't purposely withheld anything from Steff, ever. Why should I start now? "Steff, there's more. Don't… don't think I've gone over the deep end or anything, but there's something I haven't told you."

  "Go on."

  I bit my lip. "I think… no, I know… well, at least I think I know—"

  "Just say it… whatever it is cant be all that bad."

  "I heard a voice in my apartment tonight. Before I left with Felicity. It's why I had all the lights blazing and why I refused to turn them off before we left."

  "A voice? You mean someone was in the apartment with you? Someone just outside? What?"

  "I don't know, I was in my bedroom, getting dressed Something said my name. I grabbed my bat and searched the apartment, but the door was still locked, and—well, you know my apartment, it's not exactly easy to hide in it. There was no one there. It was awfully cold, though. Almost as though the door had been left open long enough to chase the heat out. Except the deadbolt was still shot, so that's impossible."

  Steff frowned at me, her lips pressed tightly together. "And you're absolutely certain…"

  "Positive. I heard the voice. But there was no one there."

  "It doesn't really sound like typical criminal behavior, though, does it. And I know you too well to suspect paranoid delusions." She got to her feet and went to the refrigerator, coming back with two cans of Diet Coke. She handed one to me. "Unless you want something stronger."

  I shook my head. "This is good, thanks."

  "You know, I hate to mention this, but has it occurred to you that it might not have been an actual person at all?"

  "The TV wasn't on either, Steff."

  "I'm not talking about the TV. Tell me, do you know how old this house is?"

  I glanced around her apartment, which was as unlike mine as it could be. Whereas my basement apartment was outfitted in a terrible, dark laminate paneling and hand-me-down furniture, Steff had furnished hers with a flowery, overstuffed chintz sofa and coordinating easy chair, a dainty rocking chair, and decorated the pale yellow walls with framed posters of Monet paintings. Girly to the max, but all the furniture matched, and everything had been pulled together with an obvious overall plan that would have made Steff's interior decorator mom proud. "I don't know. Over a hundred years, I guess."

  "One hundred and thirty-two, to be exact. It has a history all its own." She cocked her can in my direction. "Do you know how many people can live and die in a place within that kind of a time frame?"

  "Yeah. Sure. A lot. What does that have to do with anything?"

  "What if what you heard wasn't human? I'm serious!" she insisted when she saw me raise my brows. "What you've described sounds just like what went on at our house in Massachusetts before we moved here. I mean, I was just a little girl, but you just don't forget stuff like that."

  "What do you mean… ghosts?" I said with a snort. "Devils? Things that go bump in the night?"

  She gave me her laugh-if-you-will look, the face she made whenever she felt I was questioning her authority. Nurturing as Steff had always been, she could get downright testy when someone didn't respect her opinion.

  "Foolish mortal," she said, shaking her head reproachfully as she patted my hand. "I know, I know, you haven't had the same experiences I have. How can I expect you to be open-minded when you're untouched by the unknown?"

  I made a face at her. "Very funny."

  "It wasn't meant to be. I was trying to make excuses for you, because obviously I was demanding too much of your unenlightened sensibilities. How can you understand what you've never seen, or heard, or felt?"

  I let out a deep breath. She was right. I did owe it. to her to at least try to keep an open mind. And besides, hadn't my mind taken me to that same dark place on its own? The difference was, I'd talked myself out of it.

  Perhaps too soon.

  "All right, then. Say it was a ghost. It seems ludicrous to even think that, but—for the sake of argument—let's just say. What does it want from me?"

  "Who the hell knows? I never said I was an expert. But since you're asking, I'll tell you what I do know. Our spirit didn't seem to want anything, really. She just moved things around when we weren't looking, and then she'd put them back when we least expected it. Every once in a while, she might make some noise if you were home alone. Or if we had guests. I think she liked the excitement of our response. Oh, and she would sit on the end of my bed at night sometimes. Nothing too terrifying."

  I gaped at her in abject horror. "Speak for yourself! Anything that sits down on the edge of my bed had better be male and plenty warm blooded. And he'd better have a puls
e!"

  She laughed at that and patted my hand. "Aw, honey."

  "I'm supposed to be a grown woman. Don't you think I'm a little old to be seeing things and hearing things?"

  "Oh, I don't know. It's not just kids. You wouldn't believe how many nurses at the hospital have experienced something out of the ordinary on the night shift. Heard something. Seen something. It isn't even confined to places where people have died. I read somewhere that it can happen even in newly built homes."

  "But how? Why?" I gripped my can harder, my fingers leaving indents in the soft aluminum. "I don't understand any of it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I… I don't believe in the supernatural."

  "Looks like you don't have to believe."

  Wasn't that the truth.

  Steff slipped off her high-heeled sandals and folded her legs beneath her. "You said you went to the Harding viewing tonight?"

  I nodded. "With Felicity."

  "How did that go?"

  "Before I nearly lost control of my faculties or after?"

  She winced sympathetically. "Oooh. That bad, huh?"

  "It was"—I paused, searching for the right word—"interesting."

  "How is your boss handling it?"

  "Okay, I guess. Matter-of-factly, which is pretty much her usual modus operandi. Except for when she had to talk to Jeremy Harding—Isabella Harding's husband."

  Carefully I described the conversation that had transpired between these two charismatic people and the animosity that filled the space between them until it had seemed a physical thing, dense and impenetrable.

  Steff chewed thoughtfully on her lip as I finished my tale. "So the family wasn't without its problems. You have the estranged sisters—"

  "One of whom, if rumor is to be believed, had an affair with the other's late husband. Poor Felicity."

  "You have your basic loathing between the remaining sister and her former brother-in-law."

  "Not that either of them feels the need to apologize for it. And Liss doesn't seem the type to entertain petty feuds or jealousies, so I can't help but think she must have a good reason for her hostility. She did call him 'Isabella's unfaithful husband.' Oh! How could I have forgotten this? He brought his, um, lady friend to the viewing."