Deadly Curiosities

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Think about it. Who is the average person going to call if they bring home a new antique and everything goes haywire?” Teag said.

  I responded with the obvious answer. “Ghostbusters.”

  Teag raised an eyebrow. “Seriously. You know folks in Charleston. The first inclination is to keep everything hush-hush.”

  Teag was right. Charleston valued propriety. “They’re just going to put up with it,” I said.

  Teag nodded. “Exactly. But if we can figure out what’s behind it, maybe when we deal with whatever is at the Navy yard, it will take the juice out of any other items. I think we ought to see if any of the objects we know about came from the storage place at the Navy yard.”

  “And we also need to figure out how the salvage team is connected to the Navy yard,” I added. “I have a feeling they’re at the heart of this whole thing.”

  Teag grabbed my laptop and started to work his Weaver magic. While he worked, I cleaned up the kitchen and put the leftovers in the fridge. Baxter had already eaten his kibble, and he curled up under Teag’s feet.

  “Old articles about the crew of the Privateer aren’t hard to find,” he said. “They were among the top wreck-finders several years running. They were good, and they were careful.”

  “Can you find anything about how they disappeared?” I asked.

  Teag studied his screen. “That’s where it all gets sketchy,” he said. “Accounts don’t agree. Some say their ship was headed out of Antigua when it disappeared, and others say Barbados. The Coast Guard spotted them a hundred miles off the Charleston coast.” He shook his head. “There are even a few sightings days after the official reports say the ship disappeared.”

  “Someone with magic could arrange confusion like that,” I said, leaning back against the counter and taking a sip of my wine.

  Teag nodded. “A wizard like Corban Moran, even damaged, could make people doubt their senses, see things that weren’t there.” He scrolled through more screens, frowning.

  “Was there any indication what treasure they were after when they disappeared?” I asked.

  That took a little more digging, and some of Teag’s magic to crack a few password-protected sites. He cracked his knuckles, then sat back with a grin.

  “They were after the treasure of the Cristobal, a Cuban pirate ship that sank off the South Carolina coast a hundred and thirty years ago,” he said. He was silent for a while as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

  “That’s interesting,” he said, hunching toward his screen. I came around to stand behind him.

  “What?”

  Teag frowned. “When I went out on the Darke Web to see if there was any mention of the Cristobal, I got more hits than I expected.” He twirled a pencil as he thought. “Seems there’s been a lot of conjecture about just what the Cristobal was carrying when it sank. Salvage teams like the Privateer

  might have been after gold, but the wizards and conjurors on the Darke Web were after more practical treasures.”

  “Artifacts?”

  He nodded. “Magic’s thick like molasses down in the Islands,” he said. “Just as dark as molasses, too, polluted by all the slavery and death. I recognize the pseudonyms of the people who were interested.”

  He looked up at me. “They aren’t the Alliance’s kind of people.”

  “The Family?”

  Teag shrugged. “I’m sure they’d have liked to get some powerful dark artifacts, but if they were part of this crowd, it was through proxies.”

  “Seems like the trouble started before the Cristobal even left port,” he went on. “There were several suspicious fires on the docks that day, and three men were found dead under mysterious circumstances.” He raised an eyebrow. “The Cristobal was in such a hurry to leave port that the harbor master made a note of it.” He frowned. “What’s interesting is that no one’s sure just why it sank.”

  “I thought it went down in a storm?”

  Teag made a face. “It did – but it was a freak storm. The most reliable witness was a sighting from the Lady Jane, a merchant ship. They saw a ship they believed to be the Cristobal sailing into a bad squall.

  Whoever kept the duty log noted that the storm seemed to come out of nowhere and dissipate just as quickly. They logged that they tried to find survivors, but only found a few floating crates after the storm passed.”

  “Magic,” I said quietly. Teag nodded. “And it ties back to what Rebecca said about Harrison’s ship – the Lady Jane.”

  He leaned back again and laced his fingers behind his head, wincing as he touched a sore place from last night’s fight. “What if our theory is right, and one of the artifacts that sank with the Cristobal could strengthen a man’s hold over a demon?” he asked. “What if that’s why Jeremiah Abernathy wanted it so badly – badly enough to hire pirates to bring it to him?”

  “If it’s true that he raised a demon – and Sorren was in Charleston back then, so I’m betting he’s got the story right – then I’d say that if Abernathy thought his grip over the demon was slipping, he’d be willing to do anything to hold onto it.”

  Teag stared at his screen as if he could will it to provide the answer. “I’ll keep digging,” he said. “Both on Abernathy and on the crew of the Privateer. The salvage crew wasn’t based in Charleston, but they did a lot of business here. Maybe someone who knew them has a piece of the puzzle.”

  “Come to think of it, Mrs. Morrissey mentioned Jeremiah Abernathy when I told her I was going to stay at Gardenia Landing,” I said. “I think it’s time I go pay the Historical Association a visit.”

  Just then, Baxter came tearing out of his bed under the desk, snarling and yapping like a hell hound. Teag set the laptop aside and we both got to our feet warily. Alard’s walking stick and Grandma Sarah’s mixing spoon were on the counter where I’d left them this morning. I grabbed both of them, hoping I didn’t need to use the cane. I had no desire to burn down my own house.

  “See anything?” I asked. Teag had gone around the left side of the downstairs, looking out windows, while I circled on the right.

  Teag shook his head. “Nothing out of place,” he said. Baxter barked frantically, baring his teeth.

  “Someone’s out there,” I said, spotting a movement in the shadows.

  “If it’s Moran, he’s not wearing his hat,” Teag replied.

  I put my hand to the agate necklace, and felt nothing. Damn. Last night had probably drained it of all its protective mojo, and we had gotten home just before dawn, so cleansing it in the moonlight wasn’t possible, even if I had been awake enough to think about it.

  Sorren was in no shape to rescue us. Lucinda was out of town. We were on our own.

  The lights went out.

  Lucinda had warded the house, and Sorren assured me it was strong magic. Maybe so, but the warding apparently didn’t include the power lines. We waited, listening. Baxter was giving a deep throated growl. Too deep, in fact, for it to be Baxter. I looked up, and saw that he had been joined by Bo’s ghost, who was barking like a rabid guard dog. Oddly enough, Baxter didn’t seem to be fazed at all by the spectral ghost dog, and the two of them staked out positions watching the front door.

  Outside, I heard the wind begin to howl on what had been a quiet evening. I moved over to the window, keeping myself out of the sight of anyone outside, and saw that despite the noise, none of the shrubs close to the house were bending, and none of the shutters banged. The air about six feet out from the house had an odd iridescence, and I wondered again just how Lucinda had placed her magical protections.

  What will the neighbors think of my glowing house? I wondered, then debated whether they would even be aware of the magical struggle going on.

  “Do we call the police?” Teag asked.

  “And tell them what?” I asked.

  As I watched, opaque darkness rose on the other side of the opalescent protective field. It warred with Lucinda’s warding, making it impossible for us to see the garden or the stre
et. The darkness seemed to absorb light, and it was clear that Lucinda’s magic was fighting against it. If the shroud of darkness could snuff out her protections, I didn’t want to know what it would do to us.

  This was a lot more excitement than I ever wanted. Teag felt his way down the wall and back into the kitchen to where he had left his jacket and messenger bag, then dug out the lantern and its blue-black candle along with his lighter. Its cleansing light flooded the room, out of proportion to the size of the candle.

  “Are you crazy?” I shouted. “He’ll see us!”

  Teag shot me a grin. “Yes, I am. No, I don’t think so.” With that, Teag rushed toward the front door and flung it open. I was a step behind him, walking stick in my right hand, wooden spoon in my left.

  Teag’s lantern shone a brilliant glare that made the garden and the entire side street bright as day.

  Alard’s walking stick remained dark, but the same coruscating light that had shone from the spoon turned-athame rolled out from the piazza, past the brick garden wall and beyond, a protective, powerful surge of power.

  Teag’s magic candle and my white light strengthened Lucinda’s warding, and the opaque darkness began to flake away, like paint off a crystal ball. The wind died abruptly, and the electricity came back on. The opalescent light faded, and Teag’s candle was just an unremarkable flickering flame. Baxter sat on his haunches, looking confused. Bo’s ghost was gone.

  “Do you think whoever it is will come back?” I whispered, afraid to trust the apparent victory. Teag shrugged. “Who knows? I mean, we don’t even know who sent that. Moran? The demon?”

  I’d reached my limit for the night. Teag looked worried, peering out through the night to where his Volvo was parked. He would have to go outside of Lucinda’s warding to get to his car, and drive a mile or two before he got back to his own warded space. Too risky, in my opinion.

  “Come on,” I said. “You can sleep on the couch tonight. Let’s do some more digging online. I’ll pour us both another glass of wine.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “CASSIDY, DEAR! SO good to see you! And how is that adorable little Baxter?” Mrs. Morrissey looked up when I entered the Charleston Historical Archive the next morning, and gave me a big smile.

  “Baxter’s doing fine,” I told her. “Thanks for asking.”

  She glanced at me over her glasses. “What brings you over here early in the morning? Did you come to find out more about the B&B?”

  “Not today,” I said. “Got something else to look up. And I brought you a hazelnut latte,” I added, holding out my good-will gift. I happened to know Mrs. Morrissey had a weakness for good java.

  “That’s so sweet of you!” she said. “Thank you!”

  I marked my name on the sign-in sheet. Just for good measure, I signed Teag in, too. The Archive liked to be able to document how many people used its services. That information came in handy when it was time to ask for grants and donations, and Mrs. Morrissey listed Trifles and Folly among their staunch supporters on a prominent plaque on the wall. Teag had been known to use his Weaver talent from time to time to help Mrs. Morrissey hunt down odd bits of local history, so we ranked high on her list.

  The Charleston Historical Archive was housed in a beautiful home South of Broad. Families with names like Rutledge, Calhoun, and Gadsden had called the house home at some point in their lives, signers of the Declaration of Independence, governors, senators, pivotal figures in the run-up to Civil War, wealthy land owners, and politicians.

  The home’s final private owner, Claudia Drayton, had been an heiress whose family tree mingled the bluest blood in South Carolina. Claudia’s will left her beloved home and its furnishings to the City of Charleston on the provision that it become the city’s permanent historical archive. Mrs. Morrissey was Claudia Drayton’s granddaughter. She was also one of many dowagers in her social circle who volunteered time and donations to further the Archive’s work.

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  Mrs. Morrissey liked to be helpful, but she also liked to be in the know. I could see that twinkle in her eye, and I intended to shamelessly encourage her. I’d learned from past forays that a trained librarian will stop at nothing to get to the bottom of a juicy research question.

  “I’m looking for information about a piece of property out in the old Navy yards,” I said. “There’s a hint that a piece that came into the shop may have a connection to the history of that land. And I’ve got to admit, I don’t know much about the area out there.”

  Mrs. Morrissey nodded, and I could practically see the wheels begin to turn. “Well, now. That strip of land has quite a history,” she said, and the corners of her mouth quirked up in a smile. “In fact, it’s been part of some of the biggest scandals in Charleston’s history.”

  For a prim society matron, I detected an unmistakable delight in her voice at the idea of digging up dirt. I suspected that, at heart, Mrs. Morrissey was my kind of lady.

  “Point me in the right direction,” I said.

  Mrs. Morrissey looked around the Archive’s first floor, which was empty of people except for the two of us. “I can do you one better. I’ll be glad to lend you a hand,” she said.

  She led the way. The Historical Archive was a mansion converted to its new purpose without completely losing its character as a home. Mrs. Morrissey’s office still looked like the parlor of a wealthy family, complete with couch and arm chairs in case donors dropped by for tea.

  The Board Room was really the former dining room, which still boasted a Chippendale table and chairs, and a full set of Waterford crystal. Having helped out at fundraisers over the year, I knew that the ‘good stuff’ was pulled out for VIP receptions.

  A sweeping grand staircase rose from the front hall to the upstairs, where the bedrooms of the second and third floors had been converted to house collections of rare books and artifacts. The front entrance to the home boasted a foyer large enough to be considered a room of its own. I noticed that today the entranceway boasted a new collection, something I hadn’t taken the time to examine when I had entered.

  “Using the foyer for exhibit space?” I asked.

  Mrs. Morrissey laughed. “Our new Board chairman pointed out that we have such an extensive collection of interesting items, it’s a shame not to have more on display. So we’ve started to create more small exhibits and we’ll rotate them every few months. It’s good for publicity, and maybe it will help donations, too!”

  I made a quick glance around the foyer. ‘Healers and Helpers’ was the title, and the exhibit managed to pack a lot of fascinating objects into a small space. One case held an antique doctor’s bag and vintage nurse hats, plus memorabilia from Wayside Hospital, a long-forgotten Civil War-era facility. On the wall hung what looked like a shaman’s staff, and beneath it were bags of dried herbs, tinctures and teas along with a card that talked about root medicine and folk cures. Pictures of old ambulances, now defunct hospitals, and even the long-gone Charleston Medical College hung on the walls.

  I glanced in passing at a huge oil painting on the wall across from the stairs as Mrs. Morrissey headed up. Something about it caught my eye, and I resolved to have a good look before I left. Then I hustled to keep pace with my hostess, who was already a few steps ahead of me.

  The stairs opened to a wide second-floor gallery. Mrs. Morrissey swept past several rooms. A flash of red in one of the rooms made me pause.

  “Do you have a new exhibit?” I asked, unable to resist sticking my head into the room.

  “We will as of Monday,” Mrs. Morrissey replied with a touch of pride in her voice. “‘Ramblers and Rogues’ has been several years in the making. It’s a nod to some of our city’s more notorious residents.”

  She walked into the room and gestured for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”

  We walked in and she flicked on the lights. “Do you like what we’ve done with the room?” Mrs. Morrissey asked, obviously proud
of the outcome. Large, colorful red banners hung against the walls, each with different inset larger-than-life portraits of men and women from by-gone years. Throughout the room, encased in glass cases, were all kinds of objects. I strained for a better look.

  “I love it,” I said. The graphics on the banners had punch and looked modern and inviting. A bundle of individual audio headsets hung near the door, awaiting the first visitors.

  “It’s part of our capitulation to modern sensibilities,” she said with a sigh. “The only way to get people interested in history, it seems, is to get their attention with the salacious and outrageous, and hope that a little knowledge seeps in around the edges. Even the History Network and the Discovery Channel seem to be going that way.”

  “Is it working?”

  She grinned. “Like a charm. We’ve already pre-sold a full house for opening night for the exhibit.”

  “Ooh… show me!” I begged Mrs. Morrissey flipped another switch. The television monitors came to life, and the display cases glowed. Over the speakers in the corners of the room, I heard the strains of a song on an old-time music box.

  “It’s a walk on the wild side of our fair city,” she said, and I could hear the enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Black sheep, pirates, duelists, gamblers, ne’er-do-wells, and poisoners,” she said with a sweeping gesture that took in the whole room and its contents. “Most of them are the stuff of local ghost tours, but we wanted people to realize that they were real people who were part of the city’s history.”

  I felt a tingle down my spine and took a step backward, remembering what had happened when I wandered through the ‘Plagues and Pestilence’ exhibit at the Lowcountry Museum. Maybe the sneak peek wasn’t such a good idea. Still, I thought, it couldn’t hurt to look from the doorway, and maybe I would get an idea that would help with the Navy yard problems.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at a portrait of a dark-haired woman whose beauty was tempered by the coldness in her eyes.