The Sinister Secrets of the Enchanted Blaze
by
Constance Barker
Copyright 2018 Constance Barker
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Thanks for Reading
Catalog of Books
Chapter 1
Grace Longstreet finished a leisurely breakfast at Judy’s Java at around the same time she would have arrived at the office. Her usual screaming halt at the Dunkin Donuts on Town Square before speeding to Cartwright and Sons Insurance in Salem had been replaced by a drive to Boxford during the peak of the fall leaves turning. She was evaluating a rare book collection. The clients were switching insurance to Cartwright. Their former carrier gouged the hell out of them. But book assessment was a volume by volume slog. A sit down breakfast was Grace’s reward to herself.
“Where’s your weirdo buddy?” Judy McCaffrey owned the diner. In honor of the month, her hair was bright orange this October. Her beehive hairdo was a wonder of modern hair chemicals. Judy bobbed her do at the ceramic jack-o’-lanterns. “She’d really bring out our Halloween décor.”
Grace finished her coffee. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Paisley Cartwright was the boss’ niece. The Old Lady thought Grace was the one to train Paisley as an insurance assessor. As it turned out, Paisley was probably a better investigator than Grace. It was tough to imagine Paisley being good at anything. She looked like a combination of a witch and a vampire. And not just during the Halloween season. In truth, Grace didn’t know what Paisley looked like during the Halloween season.
“Ever since I started this book collection thing, Paisley’s been scarce.” No surprise there. Paisley was an avid non- reader. And in the meantime, Carole, the regular receptionist, had returned from maternity leave. She hadn’t seen Paisley at the front desk, either.
“Aren’t you supposed to be training her?” Judy refilled Grace’s cup. “I only see her hanging around on your days off.”
“Huh.” Grace sipped her coffee. “Maybe that’s why I feel like I never have a day off.”
Judy angled her head in suspicion. “Is today a day off?”
“Nope, just a late starter. It’s easier to assess books in a quiet house. I go in after the kids are in school and the parents at work.”
“What are they, bankers? It’s after ten.”
“Actually, they are bankers. Investment bankers.” Grace stared at her reflection in the black coffee. “Okay, I’m busted. I’ve been going through hundreds of books. Most of them aren’t worth much. The few gems they have aren’t worth what they’ve been previously valued at. I’m sick of it, I’m bored with it, and frankly, I’m just stalling.”
Even during the week, the breakfast rush at Judy’s would preclude her from eating there. But at this hour, the crowd had diminished. What was wrong with treating herself?
“I’m not your boss. And, hey, it’s nice to have company.” Judy looked at the empty tables. “When I’m not busy, that is. But at the speed you’re going, you’ll be here when the lunch crowd arrives.”
That Yankee work ethic.
“Okay, okay, I’ll go hit the books.” She paid her tab and shouldered her laptop case. Grace had tried looking up current prices for books on her phone. It turned out the bigger screen of the computer made work a lot easier. Despite the weight of the obsolete old thing. Before she could shuffle off, encumbered, to her Prius, Grace’s cell phone rang.
Work.
Uh-oh.
“Grace Longstreet,” she answered.
“I’m glad I caught you. Cell phone reception can be spotty in Boxford.”
Grace quailed at the voice of The Old Lady, Victoria Cartwright, her boss. Sounds of the diner would give her away. She was utterly busted. Grace tried not to avoid playing any more rope. “Right.”
“How is the assessment going?”
Grace gave Judy a finger wave and shoved out the doors, trying not to jingle the bell above. “Steadily,” was an honest answer.
“Let me guess—the books aren’t worth what’s stated in the prior evaluation.”
“That’s it. The collection hasn’t been appraised since the nineties, back when speculation was a huge thing.”
“Not to worry. The collection, the library, the whole house was an inheritance. I’m sure the new owners will be happy to hear they don’t have to pay out the nose for a stack of books they’ll probably never even crack.”
Grace wouldn’t be swayed either way, evaluating the books high or low. They were worth what the market said they were worth. “Sorry it’s taking so long. I’m not an expert with collectible books.”
“I understand.”
There was a silence on the line. Grace hauled the laptop to the roof of her car. Was there some hemming and hawing on the other side of the call? The Old Lady was not known to be hesitant.
“Could you come into the office?”
Grace looked down at herself. Red Sox T-shirt, jammy pants, ragged sneakers. Book evaluation in the private library turned out to be a dusty job. Grace was dressed for it. She said: “Um.”
“I don’t care what you look like.”
Sometimes, Grace thought The Old Lady was psychic. Or maybe it was years of experience with assessors taking advantage of field work days. Taking advantage like a late, sit-down breakfast. “Okay, sure.”
“Don’t take the Essex Bridge. There’s some asinine protest blocking it this morning.”
Grace had heard something about it on radio traffic segments. While New Carfax sat right across the bridge from the office in Salem, she’d have to take a roundabout way. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
“As soon as you can,” The Old Lady said. And then she said something Grace had never heard from her mouth. “Please.”
The word shocked her into motion. She beeped open the trunk and slung the computer inside. “Quick as a bunny,” she said.
Chapter 2
Finding an all-news station, Grace plotted a roundabout course toward Salem. The protest involved Judge Marvin Stanton’s penchant for sentencing known drug dealers to probation instead of jail time. One of Grace’s recent cases involved two other of Stanton’s probation releases. Both of these men were dead, so perhaps justice had been meted out by a higher power.
Grace took 62, bypassing both the Kernwood Avenue and Liberty Street bridges, connecting with the highway and taking Anderson into residential Peabody. She avoided most
of the back-up, and caught most of the news.
Block the Mainline was the group responsible for the bridge protests. Although this was the third bridge closure, it was the first that had any impact on Grace. Demonstrators gathered flash-mob style at each site. Police had yet to figure out a way to warn drivers of sudden bridge closures. What would Paisley call them? Douche canoes? Turd weasels? Or perhaps her ersatz partner would laud the protests. Paisley was scared to death of bridges. One of her so-called rational fears. If you believed what she said, Paisley closed her eyes and crossed the Essex Bridge at full speed. Not that full speed amounted to much on a Vespa scooter.
Rumor had it that Block the Mainline planned to impact traffic on the Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge in Boston. That was fine with Grace. She didn’t plan on visiting the city anytime soon.
Luckily, she found late parking at the jog in Central Street and walked back to the brick edifice housing Cartwright and Sons Insurance. The company insured valuable antiques, art and collectibles, everything from classic cars to expensive jewelry. Grace was an archaeologist by education, an insurance adjuster by profession, and an antiques appraiser by a long-standing family business. Out of all of these, only her insurance job actually paid a regular salary. She did her best not to screw that up.
Cartwright and Sons occupied the second and third floor. The front offered access to an elevator large enough to move larger pieces to be examined in the workshop. But most of the investigators worked in the field. Something told Grace to take the stairs at the back of the building. Winded by the time she reached the third floor, she glanced out the windows. There was a view of the Burying Point, Salem’s first cemetery. A colonial governor, an accused witch and a Mayflower passenger were buried there. She took in the view for a while, deep in thought. Early America was her archaeological focus. She had more pressing matters to focus on.
Grace moved into a quiet, carpeted hall. Below, there were three large open areas: the bullpen where Grace worked in a cubicle farm, the reception lobby, and the little-used workshop. Up here, offices were private, doors were closed, executives, apparently, needing silence, dark wood trim, and nice floor covering in order to work. The Old Lady’s office terminated the hall. Grace knocked.
“Come!”
Grace had been inside the office once. The day she was hired. At the juncture of the L-shaped room sat a huge mahogany desk. To her surprise, Grace noted that the name block on the desk read “The Old Lady.” While there was space for a receptionist, The Old Lady was widely known as a Yankee-style spendthrift. Still, with no receptionist, Grace had no idea where the boss might be. Until she smelled smoke.
“Over here, Miss Longstreet.”
Grace moved around the desk. Victoria Cartwright sat in a lounge chair pulled up to a window. There was an ashtray on the brick sill, a bottle of scotch whiskey, a finger of amber liquid in a glass. The Old Lady blew smoke out the open window. She gestured at the bottle. “Join me?”
“No thanks.”
“What, no ‘it’s a little early in the day for me?’” she took another drag. “Thank you for that. All the pansy rules in this world, no smoking in your own office, drinking starts at five p.m. I’m forced to sit on our little patio and listen to people’s passive aggressive fake coughing.”
After a moment’s thought, Grace dragged the desk chair to the corner and sat. “Frankly, I’m scared of you, so criticism is pretty much out.”
The Old Lady’s wrinkles wrinkled even more when she smiled. “Then I’m doing something right.”
“Obviously, you’re stressed out.” Grace gripped the armrests. “I’ll do what I can to help. As long as I’m not being fired.”
Victoria crushed out her smoke and immediately lit another one. “I’m not asking for favors. You’re on salary, and there is a substantial bonus when you solve my little problem.”
“The book collection—”
“Can wait.”
Grace sat silently, waiting for The Old Lady to work up to whatever she had to say. It took the rest of the cigarette, the rest of the liquor, before she spoke. “I want you to find Paisley.”
Stunned by the words, Grace couldn’t even ask the question. Paisley was The Old Lady’s great-niece. She lived in her house over on Chestnut. Grace had given the Goth girl enough rides home to know that much. Because of the relationship, Paisley, and by extension her trainer, Grace, got away with a lot of extracurricular activity.
“Why me?” The question finally arose.
“Because Paisley is an adult. I talked to Will’s old partner, on the QT. Lisa O’Malley. Lieutenant O’Malley now. I could file a missing persons report, and it might amount to an APB, a cursory search. Bottom line, Paisley is allowed to do what she wants. There’s no law against her not living in our house. However, given the time of year, I’m extremely worried.”
Grace didn’t ask what she was worried about. She sat back and let her boss talk.
More liquor poured into the glass, another smoke was lit.
“Paisley is an odd girl. You’ve probably noticed. Not just her outward presentation. She grew up with me as a mother figure, for better or worse. She was an emergency C-section. My nephew and her mother were in a terrible car accident. So I raised her from an infant, along with William, her brother. They were so close, if not for the age difference, you’d think they were twins.”
Suddenly, Grace understood the worry. Will Cartwright committed suicide, and Grace guessed the anniversary was at hand. Grace’s mother had taken her own life when Grace was in high school. It had been a struggle to function normally at the end of September ever since.
“You know Paisley. Do you think she’s one to run away?”
Grace almost smiled. Paisley was so weird, and, as her great-aunt said, not just in her Gothic attire and undead makeup. Still, even though she’d only known the girl a few months, she shook her head. Obsessive described Paisley. The word could be used to describe Grace as well. She might look like she’d recently risen from the grave, but Paisley Cartwright was no flake.
The Old Lady’s worry now became Grace’s. “Can I take a look at her room?”
Victoria Cartwright rose. Despite the scotch she’d consumed, she seemed as sober as a judge. She walked to her desk, retrieving a purse from the bottom drawer. “Let’s go. It’s close enough to lunch. And before you can start with me, we’ll take your car. I will be smoking in it, by the way.”
Chapter 3
Victoria Cartwright’s big Federal-era brick house sat on tree-lined Chestnut Street in Salem. The city was littered with them, but this one was big. Columns framed a narrow porch, supporting a balcony above. Dormers stood out from the attic. The austere façade matched that of The Old Lady—you could confuse the house for an old government building, except for the two-car garage in the back. From her relationship with Paisley, Grace knew the Goth’s room was on the second floor, at the end. She’d seen a candle burning in that window every time she’d dropped the girl off. Paisley’s scooter was not that practical a ride.
Victoria Cartwright unlocked the front door and handed Grace the keys. “You might need to get in here, and I don’t want you to have to wait for me. I have a spare set.”
Grace glanced up at the spider web arch transom as they entered. The motif was repeated over French doors to each side, a central staircase ahead in a broad, tiled foyer. She spotted a cozy little sitting room decorated in French Empire style. The historian in her remarked that the period was correct for the house, even though French Empire furniture would’ve been a notch above locally crafted Federal-era pieces. Framed photos sat on the mantle. Making a note to take a look, she followed her boss upstairs.
“When did you notice her missing?” Grace asked.
The Old Lady didn’t pause. “Two weeks ago. Usually, we share breakfast. Share, except for that disgusting coffee she’s become addicted to. I made her buy her own coffee press. We ride together to work most days. One Monday, she simply wasn’t there, wasn’t
in the house. No note, no text, no call.”
“No word since?”
“Nada.” Victoria reached the upstairs hall. She opened the door to the last room. Grace was shocked.
Inside, a canopy bed in pink dominated, a dresser and night stand matching. There were no clothes on the floor, or hastily changed shoes—boots in Paisley’s case. This being a corner room, Paisley had two windows. The one facing the street had a white candle on the sill. Now extinguished, it had burned halfway down. An area rug with a pattern of tiny pink roses covered the hardwood.
“This is Paisley’s room?” Grace walked in, absently picking up the candle, wondering why it was extinguished. It was a simple white jar candle. On the bottom was a bird in flight. She put it back.
“Will used to occupy the one next door. Take as long as you need. I’ll be downstairs giving my cleaning woman the creeps.”
Grace watched The Old Lady exit, perfectly dressed in a black and white plaid suit that would go well with her own jammy pants. Her iron gray coif sat perfectly, her low-heeled shoes black and glossy. While it was a polar opposite of Paisley’s usual outrageous look, there was a definite style to Victoria Cartwright.
She began a search. With no idea what she was doing, or what she was looking for, she went through Paisley’s things. Feeling voyeuristic, and not in a good way, she found a dresser full of undies, a closet full of black coats hanging, black boots below, two ornate and nonsensical motorcycle helmets above. None of it spoke to the Goth’s incredible wardrobe. But one thing at a time.
Other than the pink furniture, there was also a crammed bookcase and something tall, obscured by a cover. Grace approached the bookcase. So maybe Paisley wasn’t so vehemently “a-literate,” as she put it: able to read but unwilling to do so. She saw hardcover Michael Connelly books—the Harry Bosch series, she recognized—along with police and forensic procedural manual. Paisley had been a Boston police officer for a short time.
When Grace glanced at the pink shadow boxes on the eggshell walls, Paisley finally popped. They were collections of insects and spiders. Sharing a wall with the bed was the large piece shrouded in black silk. Grace raised the cover. Inside a glass cage, a five-foot snake writhed around a tree branch, tongue darting. It was yellow and white, an albino python. What did Paisley say its name was? Patricia, Grace remembered. Patricia probably needed feeding.
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