Deadly Curiosities

by Gail Z. Martin

  DEADLY CURIOSITIES

  GAIL Z. MARTIN

  For my wonderful husband Larry and my children, Kyrie, Chandler, and Cody,

  and all of the extended family who rallied to help with the events that inspired this story.

  Much love and gratitude to you!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “HAVE YOU EVER seen something you can’t explain?” The woman peered at me anxiously, looking to me for validation.

  “Sure. Hasn’t everyone?” My answer was meant to put her at ease, but it was a dodge. If I answered her question directly, she definitely wouldn’t rest easy, now or maybe ever again.

  I’m Cassidy Kincaide, owner of Trifles and Folly, an estate auction and antiques shop in historic – and haunted – Charleston, South Carolina. On the side, we’re also a high-end pawn shop. I inherited the shop, which has been in my family since 1670. Most people think we deal in antiques and valuable oddities, and we do. But our real job is getting dangerous supernatural objects off the market before anyone gets hurt. When we succeed, no one notices. When we don’t, the damage usually gets blamed on some sort of natural disaster.

  It’s the perfect job for me since I’m not just a history geek, I’m also a psychometric. I read the strong emotions connected to objects, and often I get bits of memories, voices, and images. So when my customer asked if I’d ever seen anything I can’t explain, I was certain she didn’t really want to know the truth, because I had seen some very scary stuff.

  “Maybe it’s the lenses,” the woman said, bringing me back to our conversation. “In the opera glasses.

  When I look through them at home, or in my yard, they seem to be fine. But when I take them to a show, there are... shadows... and the images get blurry.”

  I was willing to bet that there was more to it, but it didn’t take a psychic to see that my customer was being careful with what she said, worried I would think she was imagining things, or worse.

  “That can happen in old pieces like this,” I said, allowing her to save face. “Lenses are delicate things. Over the years, if they get bumped or jostled too much, they can get out of alignment.”

  In front of me on the counter lay a beautiful set of opera glasses, the kind refined ladies of a bygone era took to the theater for a better view of the stage. They were finely crafted, with mother-of-pearl inlay and brass trim, and I could imagine them being tucked into the beaded handbag of a well-to-do patron of the arts. Without even touching them, I could also sense that they were not entirely what they seemed.

  “Are you interested in purchasing them?” The woman seemed antsy, like she was ready to be rid of the item and be gone.

  I smiled at her. “They’re lovely,” I said. “We’d be happy to purchase them.” I paused. “Can you tell me a little about their history? Buyers love pieces that have a story to go with them.”

  Now that the opera glasses were no longer her problem, the woman seemed to relax a little. She was dressed casually, but I knew enough about clothing to know that her silk t-shirt, designer slacks, and tasteful-yet-expensive shoes probably cost more than the current balance of my bank account, and that was without adding the real gold earrings, Swarovski crystal bangle bracelet, and elegant (and large) diamond wedding set. Although she obviously took good care of herself, I saw a few tell-tale clues that made me guess that she was older than I had originally guessed, probably in her early seventies.

  “They belonged to my great-grandmother,” she said, giving the opera glasses a wary look. “She came from a well-to-do family up North, and moved to Charleston when she married my great-grandfather around the turn of the last century,” she added. “According to family legend, she was quite a patron of the theater. She saw all the greats of the day, actresses like Lillie Langtry and Sarah Bernhardt, and actors like the Barrymores and Eddie Foy, Sr.”

  I nodded, and although the names sounded vaguely familiar from a long-ago college theater history class, I couldn’t remember any details.

  “So early 1900s?” I asked, but the opera glasses had already given me the answer. From their materials, finish, and workmanship, I knew they came from a time when craftsmen took their work seriously.

  The woman nodded. “Of course, I never met her. But the opera glasses have been handed down through the family, and when my aunt died, she left them to me because I always loved going to plays.”

  She sounded wistful, and I followed her gaze to look at the beautiful glasses that had made her so wary.

  It was a shame that whatever supernatural qualities they possessed had made her unable to enjoy the gift.

  I looked over to the other counter where the register sat. “Teag will take care of you,” I said, catching the eye of Teag Logan, my assistant manager. I knew Teag read my look for what it really meant, and that he would be certain to get the name, address, and phone number of our visitor in case the object turned out to be more of a problem than it appeared.

  I waited until Teag paid the woman and she had left the store before I ran my hand just above the opera glasses. Teag came over for a closer look. “Do we have a ‘spooky’ or a ‘sparkler’? He asked.

  That was our short-hand way of describing the items that came into the store that had a supernatural element to them. ‘Mundanes’ were regular items that didn’t require special handling. ‘Sparklers’ had a little something extra about them, but nothing dangerous. ‘Spookies’ had a darker edge, maybe even a malevolence. They go into the back room until my silent partner, Sorren, can safely get rid of them.

  “It’s got some kind of juju,” I said, “but I’m not sure what just yet.” I gave Teag a sidelong look. “I thought I’d wait until the customer left before I pick it up, just in case I put on a show.” I tucked a stray strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind my ear. Late spring in Charleston meant it was already hot and humid, and although I was twenty-six and possibly ready for a more ‘grown up’ hairstyle, most of the time I wrestled my hair into a ponytail and hoped for the best. With my green eyes and pale skin, I often felt light-headed from the Southern heat, even when I didn’t handle an item with a questionable supernatural past.

  Teag chuckled, but it sounded forced. Sometimes, when I handle an object, the emotions and memories are overwhelming and I get pulled in to its energy. When that happens, I can end up flat on my back – or unconscious. Teag isn’t just my assistant store manager. He’s also my assistant auctioneer, archivist, and occasional bodyguard, with his own powerful magical gift.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked Teag. I was stalling before touching the opera glasses, and both of us knew it.

  “Without looking them up, I’d say mid- to late nineteenth century, possibly imported, defi
nitely expensive,” Teag replied.

  Once upon a time, Teag had been studying for his doctorate in history at the University of Charleston before Sorren and I recruited him to work at Trifles and Folly. The history and the mystery of what we do got him hooked, and now he’s ABD (All But Dissertation) and in no particular hurry to finish his degree.

  He’s good looking, tall, and slender, with a skater boy mop of dark hair, and a wicked sense of humor.

  And right now, he looked worried.

  “Let’s see what I see,” I said, working up my nerve to pick up the glasses. Teag moved a little closer, the better to keep me from falling to the floor if things went wrong.

  My fingers tingled when I picked up the opera glasses; a sure sign there was some supernatural juice flowing through them. I picked up a jumble of feelings: confusion, fear, sadness. Then I took a deep breath and held the glasses up to my eyes. It was like looking through a miniature pair of very ornate binoculars. I could see the other side of the store very clearly, and when I turned toward Teag, I could see the pores in his skin and the stubble from his morning shave. “Well?”

  I set the glasses down and sighed. “Nothing unusual. But that’s what she said – strange things only happened when she took the glasses to the theater.”

  “There’s a production of Arsenic and Old Lace at the Academy Theater,” Teag said, naming one of Charleston’s many wonderful refurbished old theaters. “Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

  Since my love life at the moment was also ABD (All But Defunct), the chances of me having big plans on a Saturday night were slim. And since Maggie, our part-time helper, had called off sick, I’d be spending the weekend working at the shop anyway. I checked the calendar on my phone, just to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I hadn’t.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the City Players, and I’d love to go.” I frowned. “Don’t you and Anthony have anything planned? I don’t want to mess up date night.”

  Anthony was Teag’s other diversion from finishing his Ph.D. With his blond hair, blue eyed boy-next door good looks, and his Battery Row charm, I could definitely see the attraction. Anthony had just finished law school and taken a position with the family law firm. He and Teag had been a couple now for over a year, and the three of us often went out together, or double dated when I was seeing someone.

  “He’s got a couple of big cases going right now,” Teag said, shaking his head. “I’ve barely seen him all week, and he warned me that he’d be working late all weekend. So I was resigned to spending the night alone with a movie.”

  “In that case, let’s see the show,” I said. I don’t mind a quiet evening at home, but the idea of an impromptu night out was sounding better and better.

  “How about if I slip over and see if I can get tickets?” Teag suggested. “I’ll be right back.” “Sounds good,” I agreed. “Did you get a name for our seller?”

  Teag nodded. “Trinket Ellison. Of the Battery Park Ellisons. Don’t you ever read the social page? Her family has been in Charleston as long as yours has; in other words, practically since the first ships dropped anchor.”

  “I don’t pay a lot of attention to that kind of thing,” I said, and it was true, although in Charleston, the old families all knew each other socially. “The real mystery is, how did a woman from up north – no matter how wealthy – end up marrying into an old Charleston family like the Ellisons back in the day?” I shook my head. “Some folks in these parts hadn’t gotten over The War by then.”

  Truth be told, even now, some folks hereabouts still weren’t over The War. That would be what folks up north called the Civil War and what Charlestonians were more likely to call the War Between the States if they were being polite and the War of Northern Aggression if they weren’t.

  Teag shrugged. “Beats me. I’ll ask Anthony. He usually knows everything about everybody.”

  Trust a lawyer from an old established family to know all the dirt, I thought.

  While Teag went out for tickets, I went through my email. One of the messages caught my eye. The sender was ‘Rebecca@GardeniaLandingB&B.com’ and I was almost ready to hit ‘delete’ expecting a sales pitch before I read the message.

  We’re having some problems with several antique décor pieces we recently acquired. Maggie told me that you’re good with this kind of thing and I was hoping you could please stop by. She says you have a knack for dealing with haunted items. I’ll be happy to comp your stay for a night or two if you would come. I don’t know who else to ask, and I can’t put up with things the way they are.

  I sat back and stared at the screen. At first, I thought maybe she had purchased some items to decorate her bed and breakfast and changed her mind about them. It happens. Several local interior decorators shop at our store on a regular basis (of course, we only show them the mundanes or the tame sparklers).

  But it didn’t sound like the problem had to do with a decorator’s style. Maggie didn’t know the full story about what we do at Trifles and Folly, but she did know I had a gift for recognizing haunted things.

  She was discreet enough to only mention that if the client raised the issue first. Rebecca’s last line sounded desperate, and scared. I frowned. If Rebecca was correct, how on earth had she gotten her hands on a sparkler without my knowing about it?

  I thought for a moment, then hit reply. I’ll be glad to help, I wrote, but can you please tell me more about the problem? I hit send and went back to my email, deleting a few spammy messages. I figured Rebecca probably wouldn’t get back to me until tomorrow, but just as I was getting ready to step away from the computer, a new message popped into my inbox.

  You really need to see for yourself, Rebecca had written. Please, please come – soon.

  Well, that was interesting. The desperation was unmistakable. Although it was Friday, I wasn’t quite spontaneous enough to consider packing up and heading out to her B&B.

  But come to think of it, I was due to have some work done on my house next week. I live in the house my parents inherited from my great-uncle Evanston, the same one who left me Trifles and Folly. It’s what folks in Charleston call a ‘single house’, a two-story brick house from the 1880s that’s only one room wide, with a porch (called a piazza) that runs along one side. It’s a lovely house, but its age means there’s a lot of upkeep. My parents happily sold the house to me for a token payment when they moved to Charlotte, leaving me the proud owner of a home I absolutely loved and couldn’t possibly afford otherwise.

  I was getting the hardwood floors refinished, and between the mess and the smell, that meant that that Baxter, my little Maltese, and I were going to have to find another place to stay for a few days. I’d already booked Baxter into the local puppy spa, and I’d made reservations for myself at a chain hotel, but Rebecca’s invitation could turn necessity into a mini-vacation – depending on just how much of a problem Rebecca was having, and how easy it was to fix.

  How about next Tuesday and Wednesday? I emailed back.

  THANK YOU!!! Rebecca replied, and I figured from the all caps and the extra punctuation that she was very happy.

  * * *

  Teag wasn’t back yet, so I plugged Gardenia Landing into Google and did a little online sleuthing. A tasteful web page popped up, with images of an idyllic old home that looked both restful and expensive.

  The bed and breakfast looked charming.

  I read through the home’s history. The house dated from the 1850s, practically qualifying it as new construction in a city as old as Charleston. That meant it had seen a lot of history, and stood a good chance of having a few resident ghosts, like many of the older homes in Charleston.

  Heck, if you believed the guides on the nightly ghost tour carriage rides, every house, garage, and alleyway was haunted. Some of that made for good fun for the tourists, but there was an uncomfortable undercurrent of truth. Charleston was a beautiful city, but it had been built on the blood, toil, and misery of Afri
can slaves. Pirates had been tried and hanged here, duels were once common, and the plagues, earthquakes, and hurricanes that claimed thousands of lives over the years left restless spirits aplenty. In nearly four hundred years, Charleston also had more than a few sensational murders. Stories of the taverns and brothels of long ago – and the inevitable fights they spawned – still made good gossip. Charleston might prefer its nickname of ‘the Holy City’ for its many churches, but it was one of the most haunted places in the country, for good reason.

  So Gardenia Landing might have a few resident ghosts, I mused. I’d have to do some digging into its history. Beneath many a charming façade lay tawdry tales of mayhem and murder. Some places played up their checkered history, while others tried all the harder for respectability. Gardenia Landing wasn’t hawking ghost tours, so I guessed that its owner wasn’t viewing supernatural activity as being good for business.

  “Got them!” Teag sang out as he burst into the shop, sending the strip of sleigh bells on the front door jangling. “Two tickets, Grand Tier. So we’re in the first balcony, but up against the railing with a good view of the stage.” He was grinning ear to ear.

  “Technically, the show is sold out, but the theater manager is a friend of mine, and I wheedled a favor out of him, for old times’ sake,” Teag added with a conspiratorial wink.

  “What’s it going to cost us?” I asked with a smile. Teag could work social connections – real or online – better than anyone I know, but there was usually some quid pro quo involved.

  Teag shrugged. “I might have said we would consider loaning a few pieces for one of their upcoming plays – with proper credit in the program book, of course, so it’s almost like free advertising.”

  I chuckled. In my opinion, Teag had been wasting his talent on a Ph.D. in history. He had the instincts of an impresario coupled with the social finesse of a master fundraiser. Turns out it wasn’t just his magnetic personality: some of it was magic. Fairly recently, Teag discovered he had a supernatural gift as a ‘Weaver’, someone who could work spells into woven goods – and into the ‘web’ of the Internet.