Guild Of Immortal Women

by David Alan Morrison

  Then there was Abbey—the wild card.

  It distressed him that he couldn’t discover how much Abbey had remembered before the witches got her. He had seen many an Immortal recover from near death within hours. He hated this waiting. Robert was a man of action, not patience, and his insides itched to do something besides sit and watch the witches of the Tapestry.

  “Want a drink?” Joshua asked. “I could pour you a drink.” “No,” Robert snapped.

  Suddenly a car approached from behind and Robert lowered the binoculars to his lap. The car passed the limo, its left turn signal flashing brilliantly. It turned into the private drive of the Bastille and paused as the driver reached out and pressed the intercom button.

  A sheriff’s police car. What could this mean? Had the women spoken to Abbey and called the authorities? Unlikely. The women of the Guild rarely asked for help and when they did, assistance arrived from other Guild members, not the local police. He wrinkled his brow as he played out the various reasons the police would be at the Bastille.

  Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind and his blood ran cold.

  The Guild must have found one of the bodies.

  No. It could not have been the Guild. If they had, they would bury the corpse before questions surfaced. If the Witches of the Guild uncovered the body, they would recognize the signs of the Tapestry’s Spell and come after him. Someone other than the Guild must have discovered a corpse. Who else had access to the Bastille’s land?

  This would not do. It would not do at all.

  The private gate of the Bastille opened and the police car disappeared around a bend, leaving Robert’s car alone on the deserted road once more.

  “What do you want to do, boss?”

  “Drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Back to the hotel, my thick young man,” Robert snapped, although he didn’t care. He needed to think. He needed to talk to the Doctor about a new plan regarding what to do with Abbey.

  18

  When she felt ready to pry herself from the warmth of her bed, Abbey threw on yesterday’s clothes. Luckily they were not soiled and would suffice for a quick trip to the horse barn. She shoved her feet into a pair of woolen socks Eleanor had left for her and slipped on her shoes. If she was to take up riding, she would have to buy boots.

  As she left her room, she shot a quick glance toward the Tapestry to check up on the embroidered woman standing with outstretched arms. Abbey froze mid-step. The embroidered woman was gone.

  Abbey’s first thought was that she had glanced at the wrong panel; in the confusion of her first night home she must have forgotten on which corner the panel was located. She inched closer to the panel. The picture was the same, no doubt about it: the tree standing in the green glade, the mustard-colored sun, and the muted colors of the grass in the glen. The woman in the picture had disappeared.

  Was she losing her mind? She often frightened the other patients at The Meadows with her auditory hallucinations, but she never suffered from visual hallucinations. Had her mind slipped this much? Had her amnesia somehow deteriorated into full-blown psychosis?

  “Dear?” The voice startled Abbey. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No,” Abbey croaked, trying to smile, “it’s okay, Aunt Eleanor. I…I didn’t hear you, that’s all.”

  “Do you still wish to see the stables?” Abbey nodded. “Then come along, dear. We shall meet Aunt Boo on the lawn, no doubt. Target practice,” she added, rolling her eyes.

  Abbey forced a smile and followed Aunt Eleanor down the corridor, her eyes still fixed upon the Tapestry and the empty space where the tiny woman should be.

  19

  “If I remember correctly, and I do remember correctly,” Martha sniffed, “the policy clearly states that all comp-time will be approved at least one week in advance.”

  Lynn maintained her composure, struggling to keep a façade of professional politeness. What she really wanted to do was grab Martha’s matching silver pen and pencil set and shove them into the bitch’s eyes. She’d been on the run ever since her cell phone woke her at 5:30 AM. The night shift, mostly grad students doing their internships, discovered Mrs. Bailey being intimate with Fung Shi. Mrs. Bailey started screaming about the violation of her pet’s rights, which awoke Mr. Stewart who wanted to come watch Mrs. Bailey make love to the imaginary creature. Mr. Rix felt so inspired, he channeled Barbra Streisand and sang “Evergreen.” Within minutes, the whole wing descended into chaos.

  Ergo, her phone rang before dawn.

  During the last six hours she had met with the entire population, coaxing everyone to calm down. Everyone except Mr. Graves who seemed unaffected by the whirlwind of activity. Mr. Graves was not a reactionary person by nature, so this fact didn’t surprise her. What did surprise her was what he said during their previous session. She knocked lightly on his door and listened to hear his whispered permission of entry. He stood on a chair gazing out of the tiny window near the ceiling.

  “Good morning, Mr. Graves.”

  “Abbey?” His voice barely carried across the silent room.

  “Abbey’s with her family.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “Uh…no. No, I haven’t.” The shift from his usual pleasant countenance threw her. “She…”

  “You need to tell her about him. About Robert.”

  Lynn froze. Robert? The strikingly handsome, dark-haired Adonis?

  “Excuse me?” she managed to ask.

  “You desire him,” Mr. Graves stated.

  She cleared her throat, feeling like she had just been caught having sex in her parents’ bed. Was her attraction to the stranger so obvious that even the clients could notice? If so, did that make her ineffectual? Stupid? Horny? She hustled back to her office and flopped into her chair and spun herself in small circles. How in the world did Mr. Graves know about Robert? She sat alone in the room, spinning slowly for what felt like just a few minutes, but in reality must have been more like twenty, for when she answered the phone, Martha sounded more irritable than usual.

  “I do not see the summary of your time breakdown,” she said haughtily, “so I know they must be misplaced. Do you remember where you left them?”

  Lynn sighed. She had forgotten all about the end-of-the-month reporting. Martha knew this, of course, because Martha was good at her job. Why didn’t the nosy woman go into a profession where she got paid more for snooping on her coworkers?

  “I’ll print you out another copy,” Lynn said politely, spinning to her computer. It took her barely an hour to complete her report and she hit the PRINT button without proofreading. Screw the typos. Let Martha suffer through the bad spelling. As Lynn walked down the hallway, summary report in hand, an idea hit her.

  Lynn put on her best shit-eating grin and said to Martha as calmly as she could muster, “I can’t get into the Bastille to see Abbey next week. It must be today or tomorrow. I’ll use some of my comp time for it.”

  “And the reason you cannot schedule a meeting in advance and prepare the proper comp time leave forms would be…?” Martha let the question hang in the air.

  “Because Abbey is busy next week,” Lynn lied.

  “Next week is out because…?” Martha sniffed and grabbed a tissue from the hand-painted china tissue holder.

  “Because Abbey is busy.” Lynn’s smile faltered. She could always bypass the writing implements and bash Martha with the phone. “The Faire, remember? Eleanor told me Abbey is participating in the celebration.” This wasn’t a lie, exactly. Eleanor did mention that Abbey would help.

  “I must remind you that the usual turnaround for this kind of leave is forty-eight to seventy-two hours,” Martha droned.

  “And I appreciate your keeping track of that.” Lynn smiled at her while wondering if putting sugar in the bitch’s tank would be considered pathological. “This is quite nice of you, really. It’s going to help me out so much.”

  Martha gave her one las
t glance before turning her back on Lynn and flipping on the computer.

  “Thank you,” Lynn said, as she headed back to her office. It was not quite one o’clock yet. She would have the entire afternoon off. She could easily drive to the Bastille, do a follow-up on Abbey and be home before The Golden Girls. And, what the heck, she may as well swing by Dairy Queen for a hot fudge sundae. There’s no day so bad that a hot fudge sundae couldn’t make it a whole lot better.

  If she happened to mention Robert while she was chatting with Aunt Eleanor and Abbey, what harm would it do? Maybe she’d find out more about the handsome stranger and his relationship to the Ladies of the Bastille.

  20

  “Sorry to disturb you, Eleanor.” Mathers heard Janet’s voice soften. “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”

  “Of course not, Officer Gage.” Mathers watched as Eleanor extended her hand, palm down, like royalty.

  “Just Janet, please. I’m not an officer.”

  “Janet,” Eleanor smiled, shooting a sideward glance to Mathers. “And you would be…?”

  “Detective Mathers,” Matt said. He glanced at the woman in her form-fitting suit, silk blouse and pearls and suddenly felt underdressed. He flashed his identification and Eleanor barely glanced at it.

  “Guests?” a cheery voice floated into the foyer as Mathers and Janet entered. An elderly woman turned the corner and stopped in the doorway, her dress belying the wealth she possessed; a plain brown cotton shift with Birkenstocks. Her grey hair spilled out of the bun upon her head and a single band of gold hung around her neck, a dainty Star of David dangling from its center. This woman reeked of prudish elegance.

  “Janet, you remember my elder sister, Ruth,” Eleanor said.

  “Yes, of course,” Janet replied, “good to see you again, Ruth.”

  “This is Detective Mathers.” Matt noticed Eleanor’s eyes scrutinizing him.

  “Cookies!” Ruth screamed and bounced out of the foyer.

  “Forgive her,” Eleanor sighed, “she does love entertaining so.” She ushered Janet and Mathers into the elegant sitting room, where a roaring fire snapped within the confines of the immense fireplace. Mathers took a seat in the overstuffed chair opposite Eleanor and next to Janet Gage.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Eleanor,” Janet said. “Yesterday, I went on your property to set the posts for the Bastille’s festival.”

  “Ah, yes!” Eleanor interrupted, “one of those city ordinances which, I fear, I forget about every year.”

  “That’s all right,” Janet said sheepishly. “Livia fills the forms out for the party. That’s not the problem.” Janet paused a moment and Mathers thought he saw her blush. “The problem is we can’t use the northern part of the woods as the front gate this year. With all the rain and runoff we’ve had, the area is practically a bog.”

  “Not a party, Janet,” Eleanor interrupted, her voice polite but fierce. “A Faire. A re-creation of history—from the best part of history in my opinion—the dawning of the age of enlightenment.”

  Janet nodded. “Of course. My point is, all of our boundary markers had to be redone for this year’s par-” she caught herself, “Faire. You know, making sure the land for the parking was not water heavy, the trees are wide enough to accommodate porta-potties, and the like.”

  “A great favor to us.” Eleanor smiled without passion. “My! We have this down to a science, do we not?”

  “Yeah. I’d hate for you to call Tony’s Garage every time one of your guests got stuck in the mud.” She paused for Eleanor to chuckle. Eleanor didn’t. “Well, I was pacing out the distance from the state lands to a dry spot on the Bastille grounds and…I…we, actually, Mathers was with me…”

  “Was he now?” Eleanor’s eyes shot in Mathers’ direction. “How did one of Montpelier’s finest get down here?” Mathers was caught off guard and shot Eleanor a suspicious look. “Your police identification,” Eleanor explained.

  “Uh…” Janet intercepted the question, “grilling out, actually. Sal invited him.”

  “So, Detective, you are…friendly…with Janet, or her husband?”

  “Both,” Mathers shot back. “We’re old friends.”

  “Anyway,” Janet continued quickly, “we found something.” Janet paused. Eleanor waited. “A body.” “Body?” Eleanor repeated.

  “Yes.” Janet avoided her gaze. “A body. Caucasian woman. Looks to be about eighty or so.”

  “Well…” Now it was Eleanor’s turn to be taken by surprise. “That is quite unexpected.”

  “Cookies!” Ruth’s voice screeched across the room. With a flurry, the woman entered with a huge silver platter. “Enjoy!”

  Mathers looked down and saw at least four kinds of cookies, several brownie squares, and what appeared to be a small waffle.

  “Ruth, dear, Officer Gage…” she stopped herself and smiled, “Ranger Gage and Detective Mathers found a dead body on our property.”

  “Body?” Ruth asked. Eleanor nodded. “Dead?” Eleanor nodded again. “Dead body?”

  Eleanor snapped, “Would you please ask our sisters to come here?”

  “Yes,” Ruth muttered. “I will. Dear…dear…dear…” she muttered as she left the room. She dodged back in to say, “Eat. Plenty of cookies.” She ran out again.

  “What kind of attention can we expect?” Eleanor’s voice took a sharper, harsher tone that Mathers picked up on instantly.

  “I think I can keep it under wraps for a while,” Janet said with a flourish, “but I’m not sure how long before the Times Argus finds out. Maybe a day?” She looked to Mathers, but he sat studying Eleanor.

  Janet continued, “WPTZ and WCAX are bound to get wind of it.” Eleanor nodded. “Can we expect an investigation?”

  Janet nodded. “But since Mathers was with me, he’ll probably get the case.”

  “Can you do that, Detective Mathers?” Eleanor looked in his direction. “Isn’t the Bastille out of your jurisdiction?”

  Mathers smiled. “I believe our working relationship with local authorities is solid enough that I can arrange something.”

  “How fortunate, then, that you…happened…to be present.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the investigation.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be too invasive.” Mathers locked eyes with the woman. “I’m sure you have no idea where the body came from?” “Has the investigation already begun?” she shot back.

  “Investigation? What investigation?” a hoarse voice asked.

  Mathers spun around to see four women standing alongside Ruth, who nervously wrung her hands. One was black, with colorful clothing and striking facial features; one was dressed in a business suit and looked Italian; one was a huge woman with broad shoulders and flaming red hair, wearing leather pants; and the fourth was a thin, dark-skinned woman with feathers and bells in her hair. She had an iPod in one hand and a leash attached to four of the ugliest dogs he had ever seen in her other hand. Individually, they were imposing. In a group, they were frightening.

  “Janet, you remember my other sisters.” “Sisters?” Mathers asked.

  “Yes,” Eleanor responded icily. “Some by birth, others by marriage.” As if the explanation was unimportant. “Detective Mathers, this is Boo, Livia, Zenobia and Tomyris.”

  With no further expansion of which sister belonged to which name, Mathers simply nodded.

  “Investigation?” the red-haired one said again. “What investigation?”

  “Of the dead body, Boo.” Eleanor’s voice remained flat. “Which was found on the grounds of the Bastille yesterday as the lines were drawn for the Faire’s new boundaries.”

  “I had to set the posts for your party,” Janet said.

  “Faire,” Eleanor corrected.

  “Faire,” Janet said.

  “This is unacceptable!” Boo grunted and fled the room.

  “Forgive Boo. She has a tendency for overdramatic entrances and exits.”

 
; “Officer Gage,” the Italian-looking woman in the business suit said, “where?”

  “The southwest corner. Near the guest entrance to the Faire site.

  And I’m not an officer.”

  Livia nodded and followed Boo out of the room.

  “I would like to know more,” the black-skinned woman said briskly. “Yes, Ms.—?” Mathers began.

  “Zen. Zenobia, if you prefer.” The woman smiled broadly. “What do you know?”

  Mathers flipped open his notebook. “The body appears to be approximately eighty. Caucasian female. Tattoo. Mickey Mouse. On her ankle.” He paused for a reaction from the women. Seeing none, he continued. “Actually there were several inconsistencies. Such as a pierced—” he paused. He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘labia’ in front of these women. “Tongue … as well. She was dressed in medieval clothing, however, if that has any importance.”

  “Tattoo?” Zen asked. “An eighty-year-old woman with a Mickey Mouse tattoo?”

  “That is what I would like to know,” Mathers said looking at her. “Along with why she was wearing clothing from a few centuries ago?”

  “Any clue is a clue of importance, is it not?” Eleanor snapped.

  Mathers nodded.

  “Is there anything more you can tell me?”

  “It seems you do not know much to begin with,” Zenobia said with a smile.

  Mathers smiled back. Twice he prodded for information and twice the Ladies sidestepped providing anything. The plot keeps thickening here at the Bastille. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Not yet.”

  This delighted Zenobia. “Well, that is your job, isn’t it?”

  “Well, then, when you formulate a hypothesis, you must pay us another visit,” Eleanor said, standing up.

  Mathers stood as well. This discussion was obviously over.

  “Like I said, Eleanor, I’ll do what I can to keep it quiet, but there’s bound to be some questions.” Janet sounded apologetic.

  “I appreciate anything you can do. The Bastille has been a part of this community for over two hundred years. I would like to avoid tarnishing our reputation.”