by John Mackie
Ted was seated on the other side of the sofa, leaning away from her. I flashed the Sleemans label at him, and he nodded.
I am by no means a wine hound. We kept a bottle or two of red in the apartment for guests, but more often in case we needed to bring something to a party or a friend’s place. Come to think of it, that would have been a sensible thing to do for the visit to Clay’s place. Duh.
The wine selection process was very simple. I just walk into the local Vintages and pick something I’ve never had off the shelf. Sometimes I’ll read the little review cards below the bottles, but more often than not I’ll just go for it. The result is that sometimes I pick real crap, other times I look like a wine genius.
I pulled the nicest, or perhaps more accurately, the most expensive – a Barbaresco – Dante Rivetti 1997. Fumbled through the utensil drawer until I found the opener, and worked the cork out. I then did something that would cause many a vintner to cringe, or crush me like a grape. Without decanting or even allowing it to air, I filled a tall narrow glass to just below the rim. At least it was stemware.
I didn’t think my mother would care, and I was right.
The three of us sipped at our drinks in quiet for a moment, then she broke the silence.
“What is this about a love potion?”
Great. What better place to start.
I walked her and Ted through my first few weeks at work. The robbery, most of which they had already heard. I gave her the PG-13 version of the story about the love potion, embarrassing as that was to discuss with my mother. Jamar’s ring, the tiger’s eye stone, even what I had been able to find out about Niki the Bull and his connections to Ruscan Industries.
“So you have this fearstone on you?”
“Yep.” I pulled it from my pocket and dropped it on the table, with the leper coin beside it. She picked up each, one at a time, and studied them as though through a jeweler’s loupe. I noticed that she held the coin like I would hold any common object, calmly turning it in her hand to read both sides and study the simple stampings. The tiger’s egg was another story. That she picked up with her thumb and forefinger, as though mimicking the gesture of picking up a tea cup. And she held it at arm’s reach.
Ted leaned forward to examine both as well, but when he reached out to pick up the stone she slapped his hand away. It was a true déjà vu moment – the exact motion she would use when we were kids, to keep us from grabbing a warm cookie off the baking tray. Ted’s reaction was a déjà vu moment as well. He slumped back in the sofa with his lower lip jutting out, just as it had when he was a tyke. Déjà two.
God, we were dysfunctional.
“This stone worked with your friends at the office?”
“Yup. Ted, too.”
“What? No it didn’t.”
I debated telling them the whole story, but thought better of it. He would be pissed I hadn’t told him. And her? Well, she would either be heartbroken or proud.
“When you were sleeping last night.”
“It isn’t working now.” My mother still held it in her hands.
“I know. It’s weird. With others, if I was far enough away from the stone, it would activate. With Ted it only happened when he was sleeping.”
“So it may not be working because you are close to us?”
“I think so. Don’t know for sure.”
“What did people see? Images, or something concrete?”
“They were real. I could touch them. Didn’t seem dangerous, though. Might move around, but it seemed to me that the illusion was the scary part.”
“Why don’t you move back, to the wall there.”
I stared at her for a moment. I wasn’t liking this at all. But the look on her face suggested that this was not a request.
I gestured to Ted, and he slipped off the sofa and joined me. The two of us then backed away several feet. Nothing, so we backed up a few more.
And the stone began to glow. The air before my mother rippled, then flash.
A man stood before her. Tall, slim, brown hair and beard salted with gray. He was taller than Ted, maybe six three. Wearing a tuxedo, of all things.
Ted and I slid along the wall to get a better look at the man, and in the process we were able to see my mother’s expression. Her eyes were round with fear, mouth open and lip trembling. I sensed revulsion as well, in the way she hunched her shoulders and leaned back into the cushions. She was terrified.
So I cut the experiment short. I stepped forward and snatched the stone from her hand, causing the illusion to dissolve before our eyes.
“Mon Dieu.”
I said nothing, but Ted returned to the sofa, this time by her side. She was wringing her hands, but her breathing slowed and her shoulders dropped.
“Who was that?”
She didn’t answer Ted, just shaking her head as if to deny him or the illusion we had just observed.
“Give me that thing.”
I glared at Ted, determined not to have another member of my family go through with this nonsense. But the look on his face brooked no argument, and my mother stood and joined my side.
“Give it to him, Darnell. We must see what happens.”
Great. My mother was about to discover that her youngest son’s greatest fear was a conversation with her. I sensed years of therapy in the offing. Still, there was no sense in arguing. Two of the three most stubborn people I know had set their minds on this path.
I laid the stone on the coffee table, and my mother and I backed to the spot where I had observed the previous illusion. Ted reached out and picked up the stone, tentative at first, but then flipping it in the air like a coin. He tossed it from hand to hand, and my mother let out a sigh of exasperation.
Nothing.
“Huh. Maybe I’m still too close.” I walked past the sofa, my mother’s heels clacking as she followed me down the hall towards the bathroom. We turned, now twice the distance we had been before.
Now Ted was rolling the stone over his knuckles. I stepped into my bedroom and moved to the far wall.
“Anything?”
My mother peered at Ted. “Nothing.”
“Huh.” I returned to the hall, then the two of us headed back to the living room. “Maybe he isn’t—.”
“AAAACHOOOOOOOOO!”
Scared the hell out of me. Again. My mother and I both stopped dead in our tracks, startled by the explosion of noise.
“Cover your mouth.”
“Sorry. I must be—. AAACHHOOOOO!”
For God’s sake. This building was not earthquake proof.
“Man. My allergies are acting up big time.”
“Well, at least it seems like you aren’t susceptible to magic. Not when you’re awake, anyways.”
He tossed the stone to me, and I palmed it, then slipped it back into my pocket. No point risking another glowing green visitor in the night.
I was expecting some sort of snide remark, but Ted was staring at his hand, the way he would if a puck beat him on his glove side.
“What is it?” My mother moved to his side.
“Look at this.” He held up his hand, the one he had been holding the stone with, and it was dotted with angry red bumps. “Some kind of rash.”
Now that was weird.
“Do you have any calamine lotion?” Count on my mother to remain practical.
We did, and I recovered it for Ted, who then lathered it onto both hands, his left hand also beginning to show the rash, though in a much milder form.
“I didn’t get a rash from any of that crap the Crazy Bitch threw at us.”
I knew my mother was caught up in the moment, because the B word slid on by.
“No. Though, weren’t you loaded up on meds?”
“Benadryl. What, you think I’m allergic to magic?”
My mother slumped back in the sofa, and the three of us sat without talking. Finally my mother broke the moment by finishing her wine with a tip of her head, then returning the glass to the coffee ta
ble.
“What was this about a witch up North?”
I filled her in on my trip with Ted up North – the visit to Crazy Lady’s estate, the fire, my call to Amy, and even the mystery delivery to the Founders’ cemetery outside Anadale Corners. Through the whole thing she listened quietly, her face set in its usual expression of disapproval and suspicion. But when I mentioned Anadale, she gasped.
“Anadale? Anadale Corners? West of Orillia?”
“Yup.”
“Why were you there?”
“Arcane has a quarterly drop-off. Pre-scheduled, three packages come in from local shops and one from New Orleans. We bundle and deliver. Two week window. Not exactly a big customer, but we find a way to tie it into our delivery schedule.”
“Who is the customer?”
“Don’t know. Anonymous delivery.”
“I did not know this.”
I studied her eyes, but she was ignoring me, caught up in her own thoughts. As usual, Ted took the direct route.
“And why, exactly, would you expect to know anything about it?”
“Hm? Oh, it’s—.” She paused, and I finally saw her exhaustion. As though I were merely an observer, distinct from these people and this conversation. The slump in her strong back, shoulders dropped, bags under her eyes. She was tired. We were all tired. Too many strange things in one day. But apparently there was one more to come.
“Anadale. Your father was from Anadale Corners.”
“Okay, too much wine for you.” Ted picked up her wine glass and began moving to the kitchen. I stayed behind, turning over her statement in my mind.
“Dad was from Hamilton. I’ve even got his old passport floating around somewhere. 1950. Hamilton, Ontario. Didn’t you say he was born at St. Joe’s?”
“He was born in Hamilton, yes. But his family was from Anadale. His mother was to deliver at home as she had done with your uncle, bless his soul. But the midwife determined that it was to be a breech birth, a very awkward position, so they were put in touch with a specialist in Hamilton who was familiar with newer techniques to avoid risk of injury to the mother or child.”
“Hunh.” That brought Ted to a halt, and he set the wine glass and beer bottle on the counter by the apartment door, no doubt to stay there until I removed them.
“He lived in Anadale Corners with his family until he was fourteen. When his father passed away, Robert’s older brother took over the running of the grocery they owned. But his mother was unwell, and needed medical treatment in the city. So while the brother ran the store, Robert moved to Toronto to care for his mother. They lived downtown, in a basement flat off of Beverley. He spent his mornings in school, walked his mother to the hospital at lunch, spent the afternoon with her, walked her home, made her dinner, put her to bed then did his homework. Worked at the local grocery Fridays and weekends. For three years, until she passed away.”
Tough life. One of the few memories I have of my Father was of him talking to us of his childhood and the hardships they had endured.
“Didn’t you meet him in Toronto?”
“Yes, we met that last year, before his mother passed. That summer I visited Toronto and stayed with my Aunt and Uncle. I worked as a candy striper. We met at the hospital.”
That was something I didn’t know.
“I thought you moved in together while he went to University?”
“Yes, but first he moved back to Anadale. Lived there from – let’s see, 70 to 72. Two years. Then his brother died, and Robert decided to move back to Toronto. He closed the grocery and there was a bit of insurance to pay the family’s debts. When he moved here, he had nothing. A canvas bag with his clothes, a few pictures, and the names of several friends of his parents. Still, he managed to find a job and a place to live. When I found out he had returned, I visited my Aunt and Uncle again. As they say, the rest is history.”
This was kind of interesting. It had been years since we had last talked about Dad, and frankly I couldn’t remember much.
“Married in—.”
“1975. He was twenty-five, and I was twenty-four.” Ted blew out a breath, as though astonished anyone could consider such a thing. “I had you in 1978, then your brother the next year.
We found out about your father’s cancer two years later, and he passed in 1984.”
“That’s when Aunt Nicole moved here?”
“Yes. It was a huge move for her. She had never been outside of Quebec, let alone to a big city like Toronto. But she insisted on helping with the two of you. She loved you very much.”
That brought a moment’s silence to the room. Ted and I had adored Nicole.
“Weird. Anadale Corners, huh?”
“Yes. I had not heard that name in over twenty years.”
“But Dad didn’t have any relatives left, did he?”
“No. The two of you are the last of the family line.”
“Okay. So where does all of this leave us? I may be unaffected to magic. Ted may be – what? Allergic? No idea how, or why. Arcane may be making deliveries to Dad’s old hometown, which is probably just a coincidence, though we all know there are no coincidences. I haven’t even asked who that man was that you imagined. Or why Clay and I were mugged.” I stared at my mother, sensing she might know more, but convinced she had few of the answers. The look on her face told me that.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER 18
The week after the BBQ started out on the same upbeat tone that was becoming the standard. On the way into work, Harper called me to say that Clay had been readmitted. The excitement of the weekend had been a bit much for him, and they were bringing him back for a few days of further observation. We spoke briefly, and she reassured me that all would be fine.
Still, the roads were quiet, and no one mugged me or tried to kill me with a refrigerator.
I arrived back at Arcane for lunch to find paper spread out all over the conference room table. Kara seemed to be energized by the assignment I had given her to investigate the source of the fearstone. Unfortunately, the Miscellaneous files were a lot more paper than I would have anticipated – three thick folders running back twelve years. But if there was anything about a Lost and Found item in our records, this was where it would be.
After a quick visit to the little boy’s room, I grabbed my lunch and a chair.
Today Kara was sporting a company polo, but in a nice lavender color. I didn’t even know we had them in any color other than black, though black worked just fine for me. For her, lavender was very, very good. Hugged her figure without being so tight as to have me drooling on the floor. Dark low cut jeans with a belt that didn’t show off any skin, but hinted at a narrow waist and flat stomach. Black pumps over bare feet.
In the presence of this lovely, I could sit and go through old files all day.
“Take a look at this.”
“Hm.” It was a bill of lading, from several years earlier.
“Is this for the jacket?”
“Yup. I checked against the tag.”
And how about that. The bill identified Bindings as the destination, and... “Is that their account number?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
The bill was stamped “Overnight Drop”.
So someone had dropped off a package in our overnight slot containing one Burberry coat, addressed for delivery to Bindings, and referencing Bindings’ account number.
“So we delivered to Bindings, and what happened?”
“They said it wasn’t theirs. Refused delivery. Harvey made the delivery, said it confused the heck out of him, but they were insistent.”
Weird. Still, it had to be someone who knew Bindings was a client, even knew their account number (which was printed in neat capital letters in the appropriate box).
“Nice signature.”
“No kidding.” Chicken scratch. It looked like a real signature. Frankly, there was no need to make up a name if your handwriting was that bad. Damn
ed if I could figure out what it said.
But so far Kara had had no luck in matching the signature to the names for any Bindings employees we knew.
“What is that, an S?” I would classify the handwriting as twitchy cursive. The first letter seemed to have a tiny loop at the top, with a larger loop below. S was a good guess. I suppose D, maybe even R. They may as well have just scratched an X in the signature box.
“Sott? Maybe Scott?”
I glanced at the original bill of lading. Short would be a stretch (excuse the pun). I could see the S and the T, but the rest didn’t match up. I shrugged, and Kara agreed.
“Maybe if I pull the Bindings file, we can try to match up a name in the file with the signature?”
I’d endured less pleasurable lunch hours, so I was open to the idea.
“Okay.”
And that’s how we spent the next fifteen minutes, with one of us reading names from the correspondence in the file, and both of us examining the signature to see if it might be a possible match. Boring, to be honest. But it had the advantage of causing Kara to shift her seat next to mine, so we could both look at the signature at the same time.
In the process, I noticed her perfume. A blend of Obsession, I think, with a hint of orange and flowers, and her own natural scent. That smell conjured up images that were causing me to shift in my chair every minute or two.
“Did they change receptionists?”
I missed that, and had to ask her to repeat herself. She turned, and whispered it into my ear with a smile on her face. I shifted again in my chair, and started to wonder about how I was going to escape this room without experiencing serious embarrassment.
“Uh, the one I met was a redhead. Thirty-ish?”
“Uh huh? Hot?”
I could feel the heat rising under my collar, then creeping up the back of my neck to my ears. God help me, but I was pathetic around women.
“She was attractive.”
“Yeah. Well, I think they may have changed receptionists. The one I knew was a brunette. Boobs the size of watermelons?”
I smirked. “Don’t recall seeing those.”
“You would have recalled them. Believe me. Her name was—,” she referred to one of the older bills, “Dianne Morgan.”
