A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Just wanted to know what the situation was,” said Sailor.

  “Honestly,” said the guard, “every once in a while some of the college kids get drunk and dare each other to break in, but other than that we don’t usually have much trouble. You wanna know what I think? People are too scared, afraid the widow’s ghost’ll come after them or something.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Sailor. I pulled slowly through the gates.

  I had read about the Rodchester House of Spirits last night in the book I’d cadged from Aidan’s office. It was full of photos, but the stories and pictures didn’t do the mansion justice. In person it was much more impressive: a multistoried Queen Anne Victorian, painted a cheery yellow with maroon trim. There were turrets and spires, miles of pointy roofs, balconies, and gables. It was massive, more suited to a boarding school or a grand hotel than to the home of a lonely widow.

  I didn’t often “read” buildings from the outside, and even within them didn’t feel things the way I did with clothes. But still, there was something forlorn about this house. It was grand and rich, and yet it seemed . . . so very sad.

  But perhaps my imagination was running away with me, stoked as it was with the stories of the lonely Widow Rodchester searching for spirits at night and toiling away at her architectural drawings by day, seeking something she would never find in life: peace.

  The ornate entry was framed by two mature palm trees, and the drive lined with formal manicured hedges. What I could see of the extensive gardens included mature trees, gravel walks, and topiary and statuary.

  We drove around to the left and found the purple van. We didn’t have to look any farther. As soon as we pulled up we were met by Bronwyn and her “wacky” coven.

  “Oh, my goddess,” she gushed, clapping her hands together under her chin. “We’re all set up in the ballroom! There are forty bedrooms in the house, but we’re in the ballroom so we can all be together; isn’t that amazing? Oh, this place has forty-seven fireplaces and ten thousand windows! Can you believe this? We have the run of the place!”

  The group gathered around and helped us to unpack, though we hadn’t brought all that much: just sleeping bags and a small pack each, plus my shopping bag full of protection brew, the sprite dust, and some packs of herbs and stones. Just in case. Bronwyn had assured me the coven had snacks and dessert—and cocktails—covered.

  “Too bad Oscar couldn’t come!” said Val, one of the coven sisters.

  “He really wanted to, but I made him mac ’n’ cheese, so he’s okay.”

  They laughed.

  “So, really? We have the run of the whole mansion, and the grounds?”

  “As long as we obey the signs,” put in Wendy. Wendy was the head barista at Coffee to the People, and she was also one of the high priestesses of the Welcome coven. She liked to shop in Aunt Cora’s Closet for vintage lingerie—slips, camisoles, garters, and the like—which she then wore as outerwear to complement her combat boots and tattoos and Bettie Page haircut. Despite her distinctive style—or perhaps because of it?—she was extremely practical and levelheaded, and I knew her to be one of the more law-abiding of the bunch. “Or else they reserve the right to send us out into the night.”

  “Well, then, by all means, let’s obey the signs.”

  “And also velvet ropes,” added Wendy. “We ‘must respect the velvet ropes.’ They have surveillance cameras as well, so they’re pretty strict. There’s still more than enough house to check out. This place is huge, as you can see.” Her eyes swept over Sailor.

  “Hey, he’s not staying, too, is he?”

  Her objection reminded me of the discussion I’d had with the squabbling witches yesterday.

  “He won’t be participating in the circle,” Bronwyn said. “Sailor’s here as our bodyguard.”

  “A psychic bodyguard?”

  “Only the best for the Welcome coven,” Sailor said with a slight shrug. “I like to think I can see ’em comin’ and goin’.”

  “It’s just in case,” I said. “I wasn’t sure . . . I don’t know, haunted houses make me a little nervous. So Sailor and I wanted to make sure Bronwyn’s birthday bash was just good, safe fun.”

  Wendy studied Sailor for another moment, then nodded slowly and said, “That’s cool. Thanks.”

  “Well, now, let’s all go inside and get you settled,” said Bronwyn. “We were just having a quick arrival ceremony in this lovely grove of trees—which was where the Widow Rodchester used to sit and contemplate, apparently—but we’re losing the light, so let’s go inside! They don’t use the actual front door here, except for very special occasions. And since we’re practically like family already, we just use the side door!”

  She looped her arm through mine and led me to the side entrance.

  “According to Clyde, the front door was used maybe half a dozen times in all the years Sally Rodchester lived here. Can you imagine? In fact, she tried to use a different door every day and asked the servants to do so as well. They say when the bell tolled at midnight, she would take a different route to the Russet Room for her séances. Every night she would consult the spirits in her special séance room and then in the morning she would come out to the grove to analyze what the spirits had told her.”

  “And what sorts of things did they tell her?”

  “Oh . . . all sorts of things! But mostly what to build next.”

  We passed through the small oak door. Inside, the hallway was cramped, low ceilinged, and lined with tongue-and-groove paneling painted a creamy white. Bronwyn, an intricate floor plan of the house in hand, led our group left, then right, this way and that. Up a few stairs, down some more. We passed myriad doors and windows, staircases, and narrow passages. “Labyrinthine” was the word that came to mind.

  “I’ve always liked the servants’ quarters in old homes, don’t you?” Bronwyn asked as she led the way. She’d been here all of an hour but already seemed prepared to lead a tour. “The upstairs is quite grand, as you’ll see, with paneling and stained glass windows and fine furniture, but if you asked me, the best parts of Masterpiece Theatre take place among the servants, in the basement service rooms and the kitchens. And speaking of which, there are six kitchens in the Rodchester House.”

  “You already seem quite at home,” I said. “And honestly, you have the run of the place?”

  “Well . . .”

  “As I was saying, and reminding my coven sisters, there are pretty strict rules,” said Wendy, behind me. “All the velvet-rope places are off-limits, and of course any locked door. We’re pretty much restricted to the regular tourist areas, though we get to check them out at our leisure, which, I’ll admit, is pretty darned cool.”

  “They made us practically sign away our firstborn when we arrived,” said Winona, another one of the group’s high priestesses. The coven had several leaders, as any self-respecting nonhierarchical group would. Only recently had I learned that Winona, in addition to practicing witchcraft, was a very well-regarded paralegal in a high-powered law firm with offices in a high-rise on Market Street. Starr was a bookkeeper, and Kendall was a surgical nurse. We witchy women were to be found everywhere these days, it seemed.

  We continued through the maze of hallways and chambers and past a second kitchen. Then we mounted a staircase made of very shallow steps and emerged in a broad wood-paneled hallway. There was a thick oriental runner on the polished inlaid oak floors, beautiful amber sconces glowing along the wall, and a row of stained glass windows overlooking the garden.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” asked Bronwyn. “This is a side hall, and right down here we take a left, and then we come upon the ballroom. I have to say, I’m glad to have the map in hand; I think it would be awfully easy to get lost in here, don’t you?”

  “I don’t suppose it could go too badly,” said Starr. “There are security cameras, and Clyde says they’ll be watching.”


  “And Clyde is . . . ?” I asked as we headed down the hallway toward the ballroom.

  “Clyde’s the caretaker. He lives in a cottage on the grounds, so he’ll be around if we need— Oh, here he is now!”

  I was glad she pointed him out to me as a real person. Otherwise, I might have assumed he was a ghost. Not that he appeared to be floating or misty or fading in and out, but the fiftyish man sported an honest-to-goddess walrus mustache, and his portly physique was encased in an old-fashioned brocade waistcoat. I wondered what the well-coiffed boys at the David Gallery would make of him: I reckoned they’d either love his look—and therefore try to emulate it—or make fun of it.

  “These are the rest of your folks?” he asked. He had a decided limp as he walked toward us.

  “Yes, Clyde,” answered Bronwyn. “The last two stragglers! Let me introduce Lily Ivory, and this is Sailor . . .”

  “Just Sailor,” he said as he stepped forward and put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Clyde.”

  Clyde looked Sailor up and down. “Don’t tell me they’re lettin’ menfolk into the covens these days?”

  “That appears to be a matter of some contention,” I murmured.

  “Our dear Sailor isn’t one of the sisters,” said Bronwyn. “He’s a protector. And so’s Lily, in this instance. She won’t be taking part in the circle. But they’re both here as friends of the coven.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Clyde said with a broad wink toward Sailor. “Keep ’em in line, eh, Sailor? That way I don’t have to get out of bed, come get you to quiet down with the giggling. I know how girls get.”

  “So, I take it the idea of the coven activities doesn’t bother you?” I said, ignoring Clyde’s blatant sexism.

  “I’ve been caretaker to this house for several years now,” said Clyde. “Our dear departed Mrs. Rodchester was quite a spiritualist herself, you know. She was a medium, I believe. Used her planchette—an early form of the Ouija board—every evening in the séance room to communicate with her husband and other friendly spirits. I do believe she’d be pleased as punch to welcome the likes of the Welcome coven.”

  “That’s very accommodating.”

  “You know, we just started this overnight program and got lots of requests from people wanting to have bachelorette parties, that sort of thing. But I choose carefully—I don’t like the idea of people staying here, hoping to be scared out of their wits or to scare their friends. Seems . . . disrespectful, don’t you think?”

  “I agree,” I said. “I think that’s a good way to approach this.”

  “Anyway, Bronwyn’s got all the paperwork in the ballroom. You’ll need to sign a release, if you don’t mind—it’s an insurance thing. And the girls can give you the floor plan map and inform you of all the rules. Remember: Always use the buddy system, and ring the bell if lost or anything goes wrong.” He gestured toward a tasseled strip of heavy cloth hanging at the end of the hallway; I had seen several as we walked through the corridors. An old-fashioned bell pull, I gathered.

  “We’ll fill them in on everything,” said Wendy.

  “Good. I’m about to retire for the evening, now that you’re all here. Just one thing I forgot to say: No sneaking around looking for the wine cellar.”

  The coven sisters looked at one another. Finally, Starr said: “There’s a wine cellar?”

  “There was, once,” said Clyde. “If you didn’t know, though, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. But it comes up sometimes. It’s in the architectural records. But one day Mrs. Rodchester went down there and she saw . . .”

  Several of the women leaned forward.

  “A handprint.”

  “A handprint?” repeated Wendy, clearly unimpressed.

  “Now, that print was likely from one of the workers, but it scared her good and proper,” said Clyde. “Took it as a sign. She had her boys seal it over, and no one’s found it since. But some folks like to look for it.”

  “Ooooh,” said a few in the group, cracking jokes about old wine and haunted cellars.

  “But I’m telling you, you don’t have to go into any off-limits areas to get a sense of the spirits in this house. That’s why we’re called the House of Spirits. I’m not gonna deny there are”—he paused and seemed to be searching for the word—“entities here in this house, but that’s why you’re here—am I right?”

  The coven sisters nodded. Clyde cast a rather nervous glance toward Sailor, who now stood in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering, reminding me of the man I’d first met in a dim bar. I imagined he didn’t enjoy the idea of Clyde putting ideas of spirits in the heads of the coven members. Either that, or he just didn’t like Clyde. Sailor would have made a terrible diplomat; he didn’t hide his feelings.

  “All righty, then. I’m going to take off,” Clyde said, apparently anxious to go home, yet simultaneously loath to leave us alone. “Call me if anything goes drastically wrong, or you need anything. Except for hauntings—I do not want to be awakened because you get spooked by something otherworldly. Understood?”

  We all nodded our agreement and bid him farewell, telling him we’d see him in the morning.

  Bronwyn led us down the hall to the left and into the ballroom. A massive pipe organ occupied one wall, and on the opposite was a colossal fireplace. Three huge crystal chandeliers hung from the peak of a beamed cathedral ceiling. The green-and-red embossed wallpaper was old-fashioned and ornate, making me think of what Parmelee had told me about the William Morris poisoned wallpaper. On the floor were thick rugs but no period furniture, and overnight cases and sleeping bags were lined up at the base of the wall. Sailor and I dropped our bags with the others.

  “They say there were no nails used in this room,” said Bronwyn. “Just glue and wood pegs.”

  “Was that an occult thing?” Sailor asked, running his fingers lightly along the joinery of the wood finishes.

  “They say it was for the acoustics, but who really knows?” Bronwyn answered. “Apparently the Widow Rodchester never entertained, so why would she have built a ballroom in the first place? Perhaps it was for the spirits! Oh, that reminds me, they were very specific about which bathroom we can use—apparently there’s a little bit of a plumbing issue, moaning pipes, if you can imagine in such a place as this.”

  She and Starr looked at each other and said in unison, “Or so they say!”

  “Maybe it’s not the pipes at all,” piped up Winona, “but something . . . else.”

  And then they burst into laughter.

  A large folding table had been covered with a decidedly modern vinyl tablecloth and topped with the kind of smorgasbord I was accustomed to seeing when attending any coven function: from cookies to brownies to chips and dips. Crowning the spread, on a cut-glass cake plate, was a triple-tiered cake with pink icing that was listing radically to one side, so it had to be held up by a couple of strategically placed chopsticks.

  “Had a little problem in the transportation end,” explained Sylvie, another coven sister.

  Bronwyn waved this off. “I think it’s about the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen! I almost asked for cupcakes, but I think I ate my fill the other day. And this is homemade!”

  On another folding table sat a large punch bowl and several bottles. This was, evidently, the cocktail area.

  “We have the fixings for mojitos, whiskey whatever, and punch,” said Wendy.

  “What’s in the punch?”

  Several women looked at one another, grinned, and said at the same time, “Midnight margaritas!”

  And then they all started repeating lines from yet another movie I had never seen.

  “You haven’t seen Practical Magic?” one of the women said, aghast. All conversation stopped as a coven of thirteen stared at me.

  “Now, now,” said Bronwyn. “We all know Lily’s a little different.
She’s never even played Clue!”

  I knew Bronwyn was just playing, and trying to make me feel included, but I could feel my cheeks burn. My childhood was somewhat stunted by the trauma of being shunned and “different.”

  Sailor, standing back against the wall near the door, caught my eye from across the room crowded with coven sisters. He gave me a slow, slight smile.

  “Now, you two!” said Bronwyn. “I declare, y’all are just a pair!”

  Wendy smiled. “Lily’s accent’s rubbing off on you, Bron. But she’s right, Lily and Sailor. You know, there are forty bedrooms in this place. Maybe you ought to retire to one . . .”

  “Very funny,” said Bronwyn. “They’re our protection tonight, remember? Speaking of which—do you really think we need protection? I’m no expert, but all the vibes here feel very warm and supportive to me. I love it! And isn’t Clyde a lovely man?”

  “You think everyone’s lovely, Bronwyn,” said Wendy.

  “Well, sure, just about. I mean, not everyone, but most people are awfully likable.”

  “You’re incorrigible.” Wendy smiled and gave Bronwyn a quick hug. Though I respected Wendy, I had never felt close to her, so it was nice to see this side of the sometimes prickly barista. “I’d say our average age is hovering around forty-five. I haven’t been a girl for some time. And yet he calls us ‘girls’ having a ‘sleepover’?”

  “But, so do I,” said Bronwyn, as though truly confused as to Wendy’s point.

  “Yes, but . . .” Wendy glanced at me and Starr. “A little help here?”

  “I agree Clyde has a little work to do on the whole woman thing,” I said. “But at least he’s open-minded about the work of the coven.”

  “True enough,” said Starr. “And that’s rare. This way there’ll be no negativity for the circle!”

  “Oh, Lily, I forgot to tell you,” said Bronwyn. “As a special treat, we’re allowed to call down the moon in the Russet Room.”

  “What’s the Russet Room?”

  “That’s the séance room.”

  “Ah. This is where the Widow Rodchester communed with spirits every night?”