by Nancy Warren
“Antiques Roadshow. It’s always the Antiques Roadshow.”
Even for Biddy O’Donnell, that was a strange choice. I wondered if there really was something wrong in the O’Donnell house’s new wiring. “Have you talked to the electrician?”
“The electrician says it’s nothing to do with them. If the TV’s turning on, that means it’s getting electricity all right.”
“Maybe the cable provider?”
“No. When I explained the problem, the man on the phone laughed and said maybe I had a ghost.”
I laughed, but it was a feeble effort.
While Biddy O’Donnell occasionally paid me a visit, usually with her horrible familiar, Pyewacket, she hadn’t been by recently. I thought she was getting quite comfortable in the O’Donnell house. I suspected I’d have to visit her and see if she had a new favorite show. It was easy to find an excuse to visit. “I’m dying to see how the new place is coming along. When can I see it?”
“I’d be thrilled if you’d come over. I can show the place off, and you can help me decide about which antiques to display. I’m displaying some of my father’s collections.” Her voice softened. She’d only become close to her father late in his life, and she clearly missed him. He’d been an enthusiastic collector of everything from old toys to antique glass, so she had lots of stuff to display for her guests. “I’ve also got stock from Granny’s Drawers, but I don’t want to overdo it.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “So you’ve essentially got a second store. Will you hang price tags from the furniture and the china?”
She shook her head so hard, her ponytail bounced. “Nothing so tacky. But there will be a discreet card indicating that all one-of-a-kind items and antiques are available for purchase.”
“Nice. Classy.”
“Are you teasing me?”
I laughed. “Only a little.”
“Why don’t you come tonight?”
“I can’t wait.”
Even though I wanted to have a quiet word with Biddy, I was excited to see what Karen Tate had done with the place. Last time I’d seen it, the beautiful old home had faded with age and some unpleasant things had happened there. But since Karen had inherited the O’Donnell house, she’d turned the place around.
Still, I was going to suggest a smudging ceremony, just to get rid of any remaining bad energy. I knew a smudging ceremony wasn’t strong enough to get rid of Biddy O’Donnell, but there was some other old energy that needed cleaning out as well.
I’d made it very clear to Biddy that she was above ground in Ballydehag on probation. If she started causing trouble, she’d have to go back underground. Naturally, the old crone had promised to behave, but I could tell from her beady, crafty eyes that she was wondering, if it came to a fight, which of us was stronger and was probably pretty certain it would be she. I didn’t want to put this to the test because I suspected she’d win as well. Still, it was better for both of us if she kept a very low profile. No doubt the guests at the B&B would find a little ghostly activity quirky and charming. But if she went too far, she’d have to go back.
So far, the rest of the coven didn’t know that she was still out and about causing trouble. If I had to, I would threaten her with the combined power of me; Kathleen, my sister witch who ran the grocery; and the head of our coven, Pendress Kennedy. Kathleen and I weren’t too much of a threat. Pendress looked like Glinda the Good Witch on the outside, but on the inside, she could be as cold and ruthless as Biddy had ever been.
I really hoped we could avoid a war of the witches.
I wondered if I would ever be able to tell Karen Tate that she was also a very distant cousin of mine. She didn’t come through the magic side of the family, so she wasn’t a witch, but I’d never had extended family. How strange to travel thousands of miles and discover my roots.
Karen was about to leave when there was a bang and a moan from upstairs. She tilted her head and looked startled. “Is there someone upstairs?”
I did my best to look nonchalant. “It’s just Cerridwen. That cat seems to use up eight of its nine lives every day, jumping and bonking around up there.”
Cerridwen didn’t usually groan, but Karen accepted my explanation and said she’d see me later.
When she was gone, I ran upstairs to check on my unwanted writer in residence. I found him grabbing at his hair again, looking petulant. “What’s the matter? I told you, you have to be quiet up here. I had a customer in the shop, and you were banging and groaning like a man possessed.”
He banged his fist on the desktop, but softly. “I am a man possessed. I’m possessed of a story. But it’s hopeless, Quinn. I need to call my researchers. I’m not sure if the missile I’m describing is the Harpoon or the Hellfire.”
“Wow. That sounds serious.”
“The fate of the world is in my character’s hands. And readers care about the technology. I have to get it right. I’m not even sure whether I want active radar homing or GPS.”
“Really? I thought you thriller writers made all that weapons stuff up.”
He looked as though I’d slapped him with a dead fish. “Make it up? Quinn, I’ll have you know that technical detail is one of the hallmarks of my books. My readers would be very upset if I wasn’t completely accurate in my research.”
“Well, can’t you use the internet?” Then I hastily said, “It’s not very good here, but at the castle, I know Lochlan Balfour has super high-speed internet. Well, he would, seeing as he owns a tech firm.”
Bartholomew sank deeper into my chair. “I can’t write there properly. I’m sensitive to atmosphere, you see. And the ambience at Devil’s Keep is not good.”
I suspected he meant that Oscar Wilde made his life hideous using his extremely sarcastic wit at Bartholomew’s expense.
He looked at me hopefully. “Could you phone the United States Department of Defense and find out? I’ll give you my list of questions.”
“No. I couldn’t.” Not only did I not have time to be Bartholomew’s research assistant, but I’d probably end up on some Homeland Security watchlist.
He looked aggrieved. “Very well. I’ll make a list of the books I shall require. You can order them for me.”
“This is a bookshop, not a library. I can do that. But you’ll have to pay for the books.”
“And how do you suggest I do that? Use my credit card? My debit card, perhaps?” His words dripped with sarcasm.
I had no idea how vampires managed to pay for things, but from what I’d seen, cash wasn’t an issue. “Don’t you have money?”
“I have millions. I just can’t get to them.” This seemed to be another thing that was irking him.
“Have you talked to Lochlan about it?”
“He says I must be patient. Find something to do that earns money, and over time, savings and property will grow.”
“But what are you supposed to do in the meantime?”
He let out a huge sigh. “Exactly.”
“Even writing this book, then, won’t do anything but flatter your…” I stopped myself before I used the word “ego.”
“I may have to take a nom de plume.” He looked very sad at the prospect. “They’ll bill me as the next Bartholomew Branson. But I don’t want to be the next one. I want to be this one.”
“It must be really difficult,” I said, feeling sympathy for his plight. “But at least you’re still around and able to write.”
“Cold comfort, Quinn,” he said in sepulchral tones. Then he shook his head. “Cold comfort.”
I was about to leave him to his cold comfort when he stopped me. “When I’ve finished writing for the day, we must get busy sending letters and emails about the Irish launch of Killer in His Sights. How many copies have you preordered? I should think two hundred would be enough. It’s a shame I can’t sign them.”
Luckily, he didn’t stop talking long enough for me to reply, as I hadn’t ordered any yet. Two hundred copies? I doubted a small shop in a small Irish
village could move half that number, but I decided to order them anyway, knowing I might have to return a lot of unsold copies.
“When you call the publisher, don’t let them fob you off. There’s a sizable advertising budget, and you’re going to require some of it. We’ll need plenty of posters for the event. We’d better do those ourselves and some local advertising that we control. But for now, I must get back to my writing.”
I went back to the shop, where it was surprisingly busy. I could never work out why a flurry of people would suddenly all decide to go to the bookshop at once. Even accounting for variables like weather and time of day, it seemed random.
However, I managed to find time to order Bartholomew’s research books for him. He’d still have to pay, but I decided to sell him the books at my cost.
While I was thinking about Bartholomew and his books, I called my supplier and ordered two hundred copies of A Killer in His Sights.
For the launch of an undead author’s novel.
What had I dropped myself into?
Chapter 3
Since I was bringing a bottle of wine to Karen, I decided to ride my bike up to the O’Donnell house. My route took me past the church where, thanks to a village fundraising effort, the old steeple was being repaired and the church made safe. Behind it I could see the old, gnarled yew tree that had received a most unfortunate haircut, weakening it enough that my ancestor, Biddy O’Donnell, the fearsome and dreaded witch who’d been hanged back in the seventeenth century and buried under that yew, had managed to escape.
I averted my eyes and pedaled on. I was excited to see what Karen had done with the O’Donnell house. I’d seen gardeners at work and some stonemasons outside when I’d driven by a couple of times, but I had not yet been inside.
In my backpack was a bottle of wine for her housewarming and a special gift I’d made myself. A suncatcher, it was an ornament to hang in the window and sparkle when the sun hit it. What Karen wouldn’t know was that I’d made it in the shape of the evil eye, using clear quartz and black tourmaline for their protective properties against evil. Then I’d imbued the crystals with extra magic to keep away evil spirits. I considered it like a Biddy repellent.
I knocked very properly on the front door. Karen opened it, her eyes twinkling. I thought she was delighted to be able to show someone around.
“Welcome,” she said.
Before I even crossed the threshold, I said, “I can’t believe what you’ve done to the front. It’s transformed.”
She chuckled, obviously pleased with the compliment. “It’s amazing what a team of four strong gardeners can do. Then I had the rock walls fixed and the house repainted. It was desperately in need of some tender, loving care.”
She was right. The old girl had cheered right up under a bit of pampering. The garden was tidied, and she’d added new trees and shrubs. There was a sign up outside, and she’d added extra outdoor lighting so the home looked more inviting than I’d ever seen it.
The windows gleamed from a recent cleaning, and the whole place looked cheerful and welcoming where, when I’d been here for Mr. O’Donnell’s wake, it had looked dilapidated and tired.
“I’m so happy to show the place off,” she said. “Knowing you were coming, I scurried around and got all the new beds made up. Come and see.” She’d been much more efficient with her time and resources than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams.
I barely got inside the newly painted front door when she grabbed me.
“Guess what? I’ve got my first booking next week.”
This might be good news for her, but it didn’t feel like very good news to me. I wanted Biddy under control before innocent guests arrived. “Really? So soon?”
“I know. Isn’t it grand? I’m excited but nervous as well. I’ve got everything riding on making a success of O’Donnell House.”
I asked her the question that I’d been wondering for a while. “How can you run a bed and breakfast and run your shop at the same time?”
She nodded, her brow wrinkling in concentration. One businesswoman to another. “It’s a good question you raise, Quinn. And I’ve struggled. But if I’m to make a success of both these enterprises, I simply need more help. I’ve taken out a loan. That will allow me to hire some help in the shop and finish getting the bed and breakfast in tip-top shape.”
I didn’t like the sound of a loan. I knew from my own experience in The Blarney Tome that nobody was going to get rich running a little shop in Ballydehag. We shopkeepers made what you might call a reasonable living. Enough to buy the essentials of life, but the minute we started paying out wages, the numbers didn’t look so good. I knew because I’d done that math myself. More than once. I would love to get some help. But to do it, I would have to earn more money or dip into my savings. And speaking of which…
“Don’t you have any savings?”
She laughed. But it wasn’t a very amused sound. “I’ve put every penny I’ve saved into the O’Donnell renovation. It cost a lot more than I thought, Quinn. I took an online course and learned ever so much. It’s the tourists, you see. They expect a certain level of comfort. The prices I could charge for an en suite as opposed to simply a bedroom with a bathroom down the hall was ridiculous. Plus, the Americans won’t come if they don’t have their own bathroom.” She glared at me as though it were my personal fault that Americans were so fussy. She was right, though. Most people I knew, middle-aged Americans, would expect to have their own bathroom. We were long past the hostel stage. When we got up in the middle of the night, we wanted our own facilities.
“But you’ve only got the one big family bathroom upstairs, haven’t you? And was there an en suite off the master?”
“That’s right. What I’ve had to do is take one of the smaller bedrooms and break it into two bathrooms. So now I’ve got three bedrooms with en suite and two smaller ones that share the family bathroom.”
There had been six bedrooms upstairs, and she’d accounted for all of them. “But where will you sleep?”
“I had a small bedroom made when I renovated the kitchen. You remember what a huge room that was.”
I nodded. A big, old kitchen that had badly needed renovating last time I’d seen it. “You renovated the kitchen as well. You have been busy.”
“You’ll have to come and see it. It’s beautiful. Walk around with me and let me know if you think anything’s missing. You, with your American’s eye.”
Again, as though I stood in for my entire country. Still, I was dying to see the place. Even more important, if she had guests coming to stay next week, I needed to have a firm word with Biddy O’Donnell. I’d been more than lenient considering the old witch was a distant relative, but I couldn’t have her ruining this enterprise that Karen Tate was so excited about. It wasn’t just a business, and I understood that. Karen’s father hadn’t publicly acknowledged her until after his death, when she ended up the beneficiary of his estate.
For her, I knew, this was her way of honoring his legacy. Her late father had been an avid collector, and she had told me she was going to try to theme the rooms around the collections he’d loved the most. I thought it was a great idea. I knew when I stayed in bed and breakfasts, I liked the quirkier ones. Anyone could stay in a soulless chain hotel, but to travel in Ireland and stay in a real family home with personality seemed so much more interesting to me.
Inside, the transformation was dramatic. She walked me around like a tour guide, pointing out what she’d done. “I pulled up all the carpets and had the floors refinished.” They were beautiful. Wide plank, original floors. She had big throw rugs that I suspected she’d either bought at auction or had borrowed from Granny’s Drawers. They were faded but lovely and perfectly suited the house. The same old sideboard still sat in the big hallway, but it was polished now and held a heavy crystal vase just ready for a bouquet of fresh flowers. The living room that had been so drab and dreary now welcomed me with soft lighting, freshly painted walls and furnitur
e that wasn’t new but repurposed. All the woodwork had been polished, the curtains replaced. The big fireplace was ready for a comforting blaze, and a good-size television took up one corner.
The display cabinets that had previously been so crammed with Billy O’Donnell’s many collections now highlighted china, glass, and fresh-polished silver. There was a Victorian tea set complete with china-faced dolls and a sparkling collection of early Waterford crystal.
There was a bookshelf with old and interesting-looking books, some of which she’d bought from The Blarney Tome.
The big dining room, with its table that seated twelve, would be perfect for breakfasts. Again, I remembered the display cabinets as stuffed with everything from old tin toys to china figurines. Now there was space, and she’d displayed collectibles. I peered into a cabinet and said, “This is nice. Very Irish.” A whole shelf was dedicated to Belleek, glowing cream-colored porcelain jugs, plates, vases, and dishes embellished with green shamrocks.
“Too much? I’ve really showcased everything Irish I could find. Belleek and Waterford, and all the linens are Irish. I also have some lesser known Irish potters and silversmiths on display.”
“No. I think it’s fine. Your visitors can shop for souvenirs to take back home without even leaving the comfort of the B&B.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. And wait until you see the kitchen.”
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen had been completely transformed. Gone were the ancient cupboards and appliances that looked rusty and dangerous. Now she had a big industrial range, a huge, stainless-steel fridge, two dishwashers, a small seating area and a desk that looked out onto the back garden. The kitchen was smaller than I remembered because, as she’d told me, she’d built a bedroom off the kitchen. She took me in, and it was as though she’d run out of money and made her own room as simple as possible. There was nothing in it but a double bed, a dresser, and a cupboard. She’d also put in a small bathroom for herself.
