by Lea Nolan
He doesn’t move.
My heart gallops against my rib cage. I shove him again, this time a little harder. “Beau?” My voice quivers.
His lids pop open as he starts and gasps for air.
I squeal, the sound so high and piercing, it nearly ruptures my eardrums.
He clutches my hand. “I need my ruby,” he rasps. Then his eyes roll back into his head as he slumps onto his side and snores.
My pulse sputters to a trot. He’s only passed out, unconscious from his copious consumption of alcohol. Surveying Beau’s vast, ashy-gray body, I listen to his labored breathing and can’t help but agree that he’s probably on his way out. He’s abused his body for too long, indulging in every vice known to man, the likely consequence of losing his soul. I almost feel sorry for him.
An image of Cooper, distorted and corrupt zooms across my mind. Shaking my head, I force it from my brain. I can’t let him turn into his father.
Glancing at Beau again, I notice the chain that’s affixed to his belt loop. The other end is tucked into his pocket, attached to the key to his private study. An idea forms.
“Hey, Jack. What if we found proof that Claude is a liar? That would be enough to get Beau to turn on him, right?”
“Sure but how are we going to do that? It’s not like he’s going to admit being a conjurer.”
“Beau said he checked Claude’s credentials himself. That they’re the best in the business.”
“Uh-huh?”
“What if they’re fake? I Googled him but couldn’t find anything before he was hired at The King Center. I’m guessing the résumé he gave Beau is full of lies. If we can prove it, Beau will toss him out on his butt.”
“Yeah, but where are we going to find it?”
I point the chain. “In the study. Where else?” I turn and maneuver around Beau’s splayed legs to scoop up my bag, then head toward the door.
He pushes off the couch. “Hey, you forgot the key.”
I spin around. “No I didn’t. You’re up.” I waggle my eyes and thumb my hand toward Beau’s expansive waistline.
Jack’s eyes goggle. “You want me to take it from his pocket?” His voice trembles.
I shrug. “You made me check if he was dead. I’d say it’ll make us about even.”
He shoots me the evil eye. “Fine.” He grumbles to himself as he tiptoes around the couch and sidles up to Beau. Swallowing hard, he extends his long, skinny fingers and skillfully detaches the chain from the belt loop. Beau doesn’t stir. With the free end in his grasp, Jack draws a deep breath and tugs on the other, pulling it ever so slowly from Beau’s pocket. Finally, it’s free. Jack thrusts a victorious fist in the air.
“Congratulations. Now let’s go,” I whisper and point to the hall. “We have no idea how long he’ll be out.”
We race from the room and head to the study. The key turns loose and easy. We slip inside and shut the door behind us, pocketing the key in case we might need it again. My pulse thrums as I take a moment to absorb the room. This is Beau’s private sanctuary, off-limits to us and Cooper for as long as we can remember. It almost feels like we’re in someplace sacred. Which is kind of weird because from the looks of it, it’s nothing special. Just an average office, furnished with a desk, leather wing chairs and a sofa, filing cabinets, and a wall of built-in shelves. No big whoop.
“So what are we looking for?” Jack heads toward the desk.
“Files, I guess. Anything he might have used to hire Claude. There’s got to be a résumé or a list of references or something.” I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and spin it around my back.
Jack gets to work, opening the desk drawers and leafing through whatever papers he finds, while I head for a file cabinet across the room, situated beneath the window. As I grab the handle on the top drawer, the nearby glass-enclosed shelf catches my eye. A squat, antique bottle twinkles in the sunlight. It’s just like the one we found on the beach at the beginning of the summer except this one is green. So much has happened since I stumbled on that first bottle, both good and bad, though lately, it seems like there’s been more bad.
Stepping toward the shelf to get a better look, I notice the other objects arranged with the bottle. There’s a yellowed beeswax candle, a jeweled hair comb, a cracked silver spoon, and a pewter mug, along with a broken piece of faded china, and a slew of other unrelated historical items that appear to date back to the 1700s. It’s kind of like a museum exhibit without a unifying theme. The shelf below has more of the same, though the artifacts look slightly less old, maybe from the nineteenth century. Among the nearly hundred objects is a lacy linen handkerchief next to a pocket watch, a fan with ivory handles, and a hand-painted picture of a landscape, some brass buttons, and a toy soldier figure. There’s also a long sword that looks like it was used in the civil war. On and on the shelves go, like densely packed time capsules of every decade of High Point Bluff’s history.
“Hey, are you going to get to work?” Jack asks, poised above a stack of files on Beau’s desk.
“In a second. Come look at this stuff. It’s amazing. It’s like a private museum.”
Jack scoffs. “I think we’ve had enough museums this summer, don’t you think?”
I chuckle. “Maybe. But this stuff is so cool.” Bending down to the look at the last shelf, I squint at a button from the last South Carolina governor’s election and a very modern iPhone in a bedazzled case.
My stomach seizes and the air rushes from my lungs in a gush.
“Jack,” I try to call but my mouth is suddenly so dry I barely produce a sound. Swallowing hard, I force the words from my throat. “Come here. Now.”
Perhaps it’s his twin sense, or the fact that I’m trembling and fighting for breath, but he charges across the room.
I point to the last item in the case: the pirate’s dagger, encrusted with a dried, black substance.
The color drains from his olive skin. “Dang.”
I nod, in total agreement.
“What’s it doing there?” His voice is tinged with panic.
“I don’t know.” My mind races about a thousand miles a minute, calculating the knowns and unknowns. After considerable mental acrobatics, I come up with a whole lot of nothing. But one thing is for sure—the knife is here, among Beau’s private belongings, smattered with strange dark stuff, just like Missy.
A jolt of electricity shoots straight from my feet to my brain. I’m on to something, though exactly, what I’m not sure.
I open the glass case, lean close and take a whiff. The odor is faint, but the lingering scent is familiar. “See this black stuff? I think it’s the same gunk that was on Missy’s body.”
He peers at the knife. “But she didn’t have any injuries. So it couldn’t have been used to hurt her.”
“No, but it means it was with her in the bathroom when she died.”
Jack gawks. “Do you think Beau killed her?”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered the same thing. Heck, I even told Cooper as much. Finding the knife here in Beau’s study certainly does seem to implicate him. But still, one thing doesn’t make sense. “Why would Beau put it here with that stuff on it? Wouldn’t he have wiped it off first?”
Jack nods. “Good point.” His eyes light up. “Hey, I know it sounds crazy but what if someone planted it to frame Beau?”
“Who would do that?” Then I recall the morning of Missy’s funeral and a chill tap-dances up my spine. “Claude was here, all by himself. He totally could have done it. But that would mean he killed Missy.”
Jack rubs the scruff on his chin. “If only there was a way to know for sure.”
I smile. “Oh there is.” Reaching into the case, I carefully lift the dagger, then wrap it in a blank piece of paper from the desk and tuck it into my messenger bag.
Chapter Eighteen
“You want to go back to Miss Delia’s? Now?” Jack brow is creased with disbelief, but I think he’s more upset that I made him ret
urn the study key to Beau’s pocket.
“We have to. I can’t work a Psychic Vision charm without the ancestors’ mortar.”
“But we don’t have a car.”
“We’ve got a golf cart.”
He flashes me his best you’re-a-gigantic-hypocrite look. I can’t blame him. I’ve reminded him it’s illegal to drive the main roads a million times, not to mention how terminally slow those carts drive. But that was before, when we could rely on Cooper for transportation. Now, he’s nowhere to be found, his cell clicking straight to voice mail. And we can’t exactly ask Dad to drive us since that’ll raise more questions than we can possibly answer. Desperate times require even more desperate, and occasionally stupid, measures. The golf cart is our only option.
An hour later, after taking as many back roads as possible, we finally arrive at Miss Delia’s. The fluorescent headlights cast a ghostly glow on the bottles hanging from the live oak in front of her house. The electric engine is silent so the only sound is the ground crumbling beneath the cart’s small, fat tires.
The front light is on and Miss Delia’s out on the porch, her chair midway down the ramp. She stops short. “Who’s there?” Her voice is firm, but I could swear there’s a there’s a hint of fear there, too. “That you, Taneea?”
“It’s me, Emma. And Jack,” I call back, realizing this is the first time I’ve ever been here at night. We probably scared the crap out of her.
“Lord, child, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to end me. I thought I’d be alone this evening.” She flicks the chair into reverse and rolls backward up the ramp.
“Sorry,” I say as we climb the porch steps to meet her. “We didn’t interrupt anything did we?”
“Never you mind what an old lady does at night. Now, what’s brought you over this evening?”
“We found something important that couldn’t wait. I need to do a Psychic Vision charm. Like now.” I flip open my messenger bag and pull out the pirate’s dagger, then point to the dried black substance that’s embedded in the engraving on the handle and blade.
Her lips turn down. “I thought we were through with that thing.”
“Me too.” I reach for the screen door and hold it open for her.
Once inside, Jack plops on the couch. “Emma thinks that black gunk on the blade proves it was with Missy when she died.”
I nod. “I’m guessing it was either Beau or Claude, heck maybe even both of them. Someone put it in Beau’s study. A Psychic Vision might clear everything up.”
Miss Delia’s eyes turn hard. “I’d love to know what Claude is really up to. I got a bad feeling the moment I laid eyes on him. At first I though he was just interested in the missing artifacts, but now I’m sure he’s the one teaching Taneea hoodoo. Ain’t no way she conjured that gambling charm herself.”
“But why would he do that? And what’s his connection to Beau and Missy?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Money? Power? Isn’t that what most crime usually boils down to? Beau’s got both of those in spades. If Claude is a conjurer, there’s no end to what he could squeeze out of Beau if he framed him for Missy’s death.” She nods toward the kitchen. “You’ve got work to do while Jack and I have a little chat. Call me when you’re ready.”
Under the bright light of the kitchen’s overhead fixture, I purify myself with the citronella oil and then assemble the ingredients necessary for the spell and set the kettle on to boil. Laying out the ingredients, I yawn, deep and cavernous, as fatigue-laced tears spring to my eyes.
It’s been the longest day ever between my sweaty bike ride here this morning, casting the Law Keep Away spells, the altercation with Taneea and being abandoned by Cooper, then the excruciatingly slow walk home with Jack. Not to mention our strange meeting with Beau. Even if I wasn’t practicing hoodoo, I’d be exhausted, but astonishingly, thanks to my energy tea, I’m only slightly tired. Gold star for Emma!
Speaking of which, I need some more if I’m going to pull off this Psychic Vision. Glancing around to make sure I’m still alone, I slip my hand into my bag and retrieve the flask of tea that I refilled before we left. Flipping the top, I hold my breath and guzzle the vile, bitter concoction.
Yellow pulsing energy swells in my chest, then surges through my body, shivering down through my fingers and toes. My pulse rages and breath speeds as every centimeter of my skin comes alive. I feel my pores open, the pads of my fingers prickle as they clutch the smooth bottle, even the eyelash that’s about to tumble from its follicle. I’m literally bursting with energy.
A couple minutes later, hopping like the Energizer Bunny, I lunge through the swinging door. Miss Delia starts. “We’re ready,” I say and then zoom back into the kitchen. Sitting on my stool next to the mortar, my fingers rap the counter as I wait for her to wheel in. I stare, captivated by the sound and sensation of my nails clicking against the butcher block. My heart keeps pace with my tapping.
Miss Delia rolls in and dabs some citronella on her wrists and behind her ears. Her eyebrow hitches. “Are you sure you’re up to this? It’s been a long day. We can always do this tomorrow.”
My head snaps in her direction. “No, I’m fine.” The veins in my neck throb, stretching my skin with each beat.
“You sure? ’Cause messing up the spell will cost us three days, which is all we’ve got left till that boy’s birthday. The mortar will need to rest before it can be used again.”
I scoff and wave away her concern. “I know. That’s why I want to get this over with now. The sooner we figure this out, the sooner we can get back to the Beaumont Curse.”
“Okay.” Despite the wary expression on her face, she scoots the chair up to the mortar and pulls her collier out from beneath her housedress.
I pull the spent teabags from the mugs and get to work on the rest of the spell, layering the herbs and roots until the kitchen smells like a musty old church perfumed with ancient incense. Through it all, my blood’s tap-dancing through my veins. Gone are the usual magic-induced yawns, drooping eyelids, and crushing fatigue that made my arms and legs feel like lead weights. I’ve got more than enough zip to complete this charm. Heck, I could probably conjure all night if I had to.
Leaning over the ancestors’ mortar, Miss Delia and I each grab an end of the pirate’s dagger and hold it above the smoke. Then, with our free hands, we raise our mugs of steaming Psychic Vision tea, the ingredient to kick this spell into action.
“Bottoms up!” I laugh a little too loud and then tip the reddish-brown liquid down my throat as she does the same. Compared to my energy brew, the sour-cherry and burned-spinach flavor tastes great. Gulping it down, I smack my lips.
Miss Delia purses her lips in disgust. “You like that nasty stuff?”
I shrug. “It’s kind of good.”
I close my eyes and breath deep, waiting for my mind to clear and an incantation to spring from my lips.
Nothing comes.
Nada.
Not one single, solitary word.
I peek at the smoke above the mortar. There’s no flickering lights, no mini-movie screen on which to watch the vision. Come to think of it, the wind hasn’t blown, the rain hasn’t fallen, and there’s no clap of thunder, either.
Something’s wrong.
My heart skips a couple beats, then trips into overdrive, propelling my panic. I clutch at my collier and rub the red and white beads, which are supposed to promote spoken word and prayer. Still, no words leap from my mouth.
Adrenaline dumps into my system, increasing both my heart and respiration rate. Sucking in lungfuls of mortar smoke, I beg my mind to quiet, to find a moment of stillness to allow the spell’s words to come. But the more I try, the faster it races, and the more errant thoughts crowd in. Why am I thinking about the duck-billed platypus, the Pythagorean Theorem, and my grandfather’s scuffed wing-tip shoes, all at the same time? Forcing those images from my brain, they’re quickly replaced by even more random ideas.
“Wh
at’s happening?” Miss Delia’s voice is stern.
I lift my eyes to hers. “Nothing.”
“I can see that. But why?” She points a bony finger at me. “You’ve done something to thwart this spell.”
I shake my head. “No. Everything’s here.” I scan the worktable, making sure I haven’t screwed something up. “The ingredients are right and I know I layered them in the correct order.”
Her lips mash into a hard line. “Then why isn’t the charm working?”
I tremble. “I don’t know.” My fingers shake as I lift them to my silent, treacherous mouth. “No matter how hard I try, the incantation won’t come. I swear. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“I think you do.” She drops the knife, causing the blade to dip down into the coals. I scoop it out and set it on the table.
I shake my head, as dumbfounded as before. “I don’t. I promise. What could possibly cause this?”
“Some kind of shortcut.” The words fly like a vicious accusation.
I recoil as they land like a jab to the chin. Guilty and caught, my shoulders sink and my chest caves. I wish I could crawl under the table and never come out. I glance up at her. “I was only trying to—”
“Outsmart hoodoo. Thinking that somehow, after only a couple months of training you’ve learned enough to outwit the laws of nature. What did you do? And tell me the truth.”
Fighting off tears, I confess everything about the energy tea, including how I created my own recipe using her spell book, the weak first batches and the last, much-more-powerful brew. Though I’ve bared my soul, I don’t feel any better. In fact, now that it’s all laid out and the consequences are becoming clear, I feel worse.
She shakes her head. “I should have known. Bouncing around here, talking a mile a minute. You had my head spinning, girl. That energy you’re feeling? It’s not real.”
