“Well, be my guest, Charity,” I told her. “It really doesn’t suit the early American style of Dana’s house either.”
“No, I wouldn’t think of it,” she said tersely. “I don’t beg for things that belong to others. Let it be on your conscience what’s done with it.”
“Oh, really, Charity—Dana was taking this only to accommodate me. It’s too fine a piece of furniture to store. Would you like the big bed, too?” I asked out of pure malice.
“Well—if you’re sure—” Her pride and acquisitiveness met head on. “I can call Ward to send over a truck.”
I led her into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” she said, twisting her gloved hands.
I remembered—Charity was never without gloves, even on hot days. But where was the old poise? She kept blinking and her lips quivered slightly as she spoke.
“I was going to ask you to run over to Richland Center with me,” she said, “but I see you’re busy. Do you suppose Rowan would like to come? I could show her around a bit.”
I felt guilty for my hard thoughts. “That’s nice of you, Charity. I’ll go and ask her.”
“And tell the men not to scratch any of my furniture!”
Rowan was not ecstatic. “Do I have to? Run around with a pokey old aunt, I mean?”
“She’s not your aunt, she’s your cousin—but I suppose it would be best for you to address her as ‘aunt.’ Go on, sweetheart. Then you won’t have to help with the unpacking,” I bribed her.
“Oh, all right,” she assented grudgingly, “but I’m sure I’ll hate it.” She aimed a kick at the headboard of Aunt Bo’s bed, which the movers had propped up against the wall.
Ward’s wife Alison arrived with an aspic just after the movers left.
“Thought you wouldn’t want to bother with lunch,” she explained.
I thanked her. “I just hope I can get things in shape for tonight.”
“Frankly, I think the whole thing’s an imposition, even if we are bringing the food. I tried to get them to wait a few days, but no go. So I came over to offer my help.”
The day was a scorcher. Sticky beads of perspiration darkened my halter between my breasts. Alison accepted a glass of lemonade. She’d aged more than I had anticipated. Her brown eyes were still as luminous as they were the day she married my cousin Ward, but now the fine skin was sallow parchment stretched taut over her bones, and her hair, though swept ingeniously into a figure eight at the nape of her neck, was the color of spun aluminum. I noticed with concern how emaciated were the long legs below her white shorts.
“Where are the children?” she asked.
“Charity took Rowan out for the day and Cari’s fallen asleep in her playpen.”
“Well, don’t disturb her. What can I do? Unpack china?”
“No, that’ll have to wait until I can clear some space in the cupboards. You can show me where everything’s kept. Dana’s settling her things at her house.”
Alison began opening and closing cabinet doors. “Have you seen Dr. Brun yet?”
“No, he and Dana should be here in a little while. I’m looking forward to meeting him again.”
“People here don’t know what to make of him. They can’t understand why he wants to go poking around in caves—a man of his age. I confess, he has even me confused. Did you ever hear of a Prince Madog?”
The strange name reminded me of my first meeting with Dr. Brun in New York, just after Owen had begun work on Lucifer, a rock musical based on Paradise Lost. A famous Swiss archaeologist, psychiatrist and controversial theologian, Dr. Brun had acted as a consultant on the play. He and Owen had spent hours discussing religion in our Village apartment. My father had been impressed by his writings, and I found this rather gnome-like gentleman, with his Van Dyke beard, white hair, and a patch over one eye to be not only remarkable, but compassionate. He’d noticed the amulet that Aunt Bo had given me as a child, and become very excited, asking me all sorts of questions and then recounting the legend of the Welsh prince Madog who’d supposedly come to America before Columbus and, with his party, intermarried into an Indian tribe. It was Dr. Brun’s theory that the tribe had migrated to the area which was now Peacehaven and that the cave in which my amulet had been found might be an old Indian burial ground. He’d vowed to come to Peacehaven someday to explore…
I suddenly realized that Alison was awaiting my reply. “Yes,” I said quickly. “Dr. Brun told me the legend, and of his theory—but I never thought he’d actually come here to prove it.” I fingered my amulet. “Strange that this bit of metal would cause such excitement. I hope for Dr. Brun’s sake the cave really exists. Too bad old Two Knives isn’t still alive.”
“But his daughter lives here.”
“She does?”
“Yes—Dana. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t. She should know about a cave.”
“She says not, but you can never tell with her. Dana’s like the river—she’s quiet on the surface, but her secrets are like submerged sandbars. Looking for something?”
“The paring knife. I thought I’d cut up some celery sticks.”
She took one with a long, curving blade out of a drawer.
“Was there something wrong about Charity’s taking Rowan out?” I demanded suddenly.
“N-no. Why do you ask?”
“The look on your face when I told you.”
“Well, just between us, Charity has some odd quirks,” she said, taking plates out of the cupboard. “Not that I blame her. As a doctor’s wife she’s supposed to show a brave face to the world, but she’s had a rough time of it. First there was Mark’s death—”
“Mark dead!” I was aghast. “I thought he was in medical school. Aunt Bo didn’t write about that.”
“No, she wouldn’t. It affected her too deeply, as it did all of us. Our Bruce, especially. He’s studying medicine now. He always wanted to do everything Mark did.”
“What happened to Mark?”
“No one really knows. His body was washed up on the river bank just a little downstream from the Faulkner house. He must have gone for a midnight swim—kids do crazy things. There were no marks of violence.”
Near the Faulkner house! “Was Iris here then?” I asked.
“Yes, but she claimed she didn’t hear or see anything. Charity was devastated. I think that’s what really made her lose the baby.”
“Baby? At her age?”
“Yes, after all those years she’d gotten pregnant again. Some women would have wanted to shoot themselves, but both Charity and Damon were delighted. Anyway, right after Mark’s death the baby was stillborn and she got it in her head that Dana had killed the child by overlooking her.”
“By what?”
“Overlooking her—it’s an old Salem term for the Evil Eye. It happened here. She tripped on the circular stairs leading to the tower. Dana kept her from falling, but when the baby was born dead several weeks later, she swore Dana had killed the baby with her glance.”
“How absurd! What did Damon say?”
“That the child—a girl—died of natural causes; but Charity couldn’t be persuaded. There is a rumor that Dana’s own people thought she was a witch. Charity went so far as to hint that Dana had something to do with Mark’s death, too.”
“I should think Damon would have sent her to a psychiatrist.”
“Oh, he did, but I don’t think the analyst ever rid her of her obsession—beyond helping her gain a measure of self-control. She seldom talks about it now and we don’t dare speak of it to her. But you know Charity. When she gets an idea in her head, it’s impossible to get it out. I just hope she doesn’t monopolize Rowan.”
“Why should she do that?”
“Ever since she lost the baby sh
e gets—well, crushes on adolescent girls in town. My Linda was first. Charity took her places, showered gifts on her, even had a bedroom decorated in pink, with a pink ruffled canopy bed, so Linda could sleep over. I believe she envisions her Elaine as a girl about Rowan’s age. Anyway, the situation with Linda got so thick it became an embarrassment, and I was about to protest when she dropped her like a hot potato and turned her attentions to Cissie Osburn instead.”
“Melvin’s daughter?”
“Yes. He married Elspeth Bishop and they operate his father’s funeral home now. Then after Cissie it was Jessica Willard and after that Lucy Leroi, the minister’s daughter—and so on. I suppose it’ll be Rowan’s turn now. Just don’t let Charity take your daughter away from you.”
I thanked her. “I need you, Alison, to fill in the blanks. Darcy’s marriage, for instance. I’d always thought—”
“So had everyone else. Marion came to Peacehaven with a partner who had emphysema and moved out here for his health. Their antique shop was a failure. The town had them tagged as gay right off the bat.”
“But homosexuality isn’t new to Peacehaven. After all, Darcy and Hannah…”
Alison shook her head. “Homegrown lesbians can be swept under the rug much more easily than outsiders. When his partner died, Marion was utterly lost. Then the town rowdies began to harass him. I think they might eventually have done him physical harm, but Darcy spirited him out of town, and when they returned a week later—Darcy and Marion were man and wife.”
“In that order?”
“That was a slip, but it raises a good question. Which is which? Darcy does all the heavy work around the place. Marion cooks and cleans and polishes antiques. Darcy lowered her status a little, but Marion is now under the protective wing of local kinship and—what the devil is that?” she exclaimed as a commotion outside brought us both to the window. “What has Mother’s Little Darling done now?”
Dana was chasing a teen-aged boy down the drive. A plaintive bleating sounded in the background.
“That’s Junior Osburn,” Alison said, turning to me. “Dirty little bully! I’ll bet he was teasing Dana’s goat.”
“So that’s the bleating I heard last night. I didn’t know Dana had a goat.”
The boy ducked just as Dana aimed a blow, danced out of reach, then turned and made an obscene gesture.
“Rotten little punk!” Alison sputtered. “Trouble is, he’ll pay Dana back in some underhanded way and then he’ll go down to the Patch and brag about it.”
“The Patch?”
“Iris Faulkner’s store. She’s back in town, you know.” The knife slipped in my hand and gashed my thumb. Iron is not a seemly metal! Where had I heard that? I held my hand under cold water, more to suppress a sudden rush of nausea than to stem the blood.
“I—I thought she’d married and moved away long ago,” I said.
“She did, but after two husbands she’s back—and so’s her maiden name. She operates the Patch where your grandfather’s general store used to be. Sells levis, leather purses, macramé, records—teen stuff. Her store is a hangout for the kids from all over the county—Peacehaven’s equivalent of a discotheque. Rowan will be down there before you know it.”
Heaven forbid! “Who owns the building now?”
“She does. Judge Faulkner bought it from Ward’s mother years ago. He left his fortune in trust to Iris, provided she lives in Peacehaven. Being fresh out of husbands and money, she had little choice.”
“She was divorced twice?”
“Not divorced—widowed.”
“Natural causes?”
She gave me a sharp look. “You still think she was to blame for Gareth’s death, don’t you?”
“No one else does, so—forget it.”
“Some do,” Alison said, snapping off a stalk of celery. “At first your story seemed incredible, and of course the Faulkners had influence, but afterwards… Well, nothing much was said—Peacehaven likes to bury its dirty linen—but folks began to shun her, even the boys.”
“And now?”
“Oh, she’s back in the fold—reconstituted by our present minister, who’s a real hell-raiser.”
I had had enough of Iris for the moment. “Tell me about Dana,” I said. “She—she’s strange. I heard an odd noise last night—like someone chanting or something. It must have been her.”
“Dana’s—Dana,” she shrugged. “Some think she’s a witch. One of her Indian ancestors was a medicine man and her English mother and grandmother were supposed to have had powers.”
“What do you mean—powers?”
“Oh, second sight, controlling the weather, that sort of thing. Dana knows a lot about herbs.”
“Do you believe that?”
She showed me a tiny scar on her right middle finger. “I had a wart there. Damon excised it, but it grew back. So Dana mixed sesame oil with the juice of impatiens, then plunged a red hot poker into the mixture. She told me to apply this ‘medicine’ three times a day for three days. It was a blend of two remedies, she said. If one didn’t work the other would. And it did.”
The scar showed white against the sallow, purple-veined hand.
“Are you well, Alison?” I asked.
She withdrew her hand quickly. “I—I’m fine.”
“You look as if you’d been on a hunger strike.”
“Me? I eat like a horse.”
“Maybe Dana could give you a tonic.”
“I did ask Damon about it,” she admitted. “He said it was hypertension and gave me tranquilizers.”
I was about to tell her it wasn’t her nature to be nervous when Dana and Dr. Brun entered.
“Always I have trouble with that one,” she was fuming. “Once he stuck Darcy’s cat’s tail in wet cement and left the poor thing out in the woods to starve. I found Jupiter trying to drag a hunk of concrete. The tail was so infected I had to cut it off. Now he’s tried to burn my Caper. Singed his beard off with a propane torch.”
“Only the hair is burned,” Dr. Brun soothed her. He turned to me and held out his hand. “So nice to see you after all this time.”
I greeted him warmly. “Sit down, you two. Alison brought this aspic.”
“Am I invited, too?”
“Damon!”
The object of my first girlhood crush stood in the door—handsomer than ever now, his dark hair silvered. I had adored him secretly and iniquitously even after he married Charity. Perhaps it had been his unattainability.
But now, as he kissed me, I was conscious only of the wetness of his mouth. So much for schoolgirl romance!
“Do join us,” I said.
“No thanks, I’m making house calls. I just thought I’d see if you needed anything from the farmers’ market.”
I opened the refrigerator, favoring my bandaged thumb. “I could use some eggs.”
“What did you do to yourself?”
“My knife slipped.”
“Better let me check it.”
“No, really, it’s nothing.”
“Okay, but keep it clean. A dozen enough?”
“Plenty. Thanks, Damon.”
As his Mark IV glided out of the drive, another car rounded the crest of the hill. “Well, if it isn’t the pope himself!” Alison exclaimed irreverently. Dana and Dr. Brun exchanged amused glances. “It’s the pastor of the Community church,” she went on. “Couldn’t wait for the party. Remember Gladys?”
“The church organist? Sure! Did she ever marry?”
“Gladys Pudeator, the preacher-eater! No, but she’s still trying. I think our previous minister resigned because he was tired of dodging her. She was in her wig phase then. People used to lay bets on which one she’d wear next. After that it was yoga. I think she’s into pyramids now.�
��
“Is the new pastor single?” I asked.
“He’s a widower, and before he gets here, I’d better warn you that people are already pairing you off with him—or Gregory Towne, the newspaper editor. But beware Iris. Her tentacles are out, too.”
“Ach, you disappoint me, Mrs. Proctor,” Dr. Brun sighed with mock seriousness. “Am I not also eligible? A little old, perhaps, but not too old, I hope.”
He did seem young and robust for his rather advanced age. Maybe it was his tan or what he was wearing—an open-necked white shirt, and brown shorts.
“You’ll always be eligible, doctor,” I assured him. “You’re coming to the party tonight, I hope.”
“Nein, danke. Such an event is for family and I must work on my book. Another time, meine liebe Freundin. Ah, guten Morgen,” he addressed the man who entered now. “Mrs. Llewellyn, may I present Lucian Leroi.”
The newcomer had already had lunch, but he accepted the glass of lemonade I offered. As he sipped it, I watched him covertly, wondering why anyone would cast him as a suitor. He was of medium height, and his dark hair—shot with silver—swept back from a sunken, sallow face. Then I looked into his eyes—compelling, smoky eyes set deep in the hollows beneath peaked eyebrows. I felt myself shiver, whether from like or dislike I couldn’t tell. I was about to ask him to say grace when Alison anticipated me.
“Dr. Brun was just about to say the blessing,” she lied smoothly, nudging me under the table. Dana looked at her gratefully.
“I came to extend the right hand of fellowship,” he said after the amen.
What would ministers do without that cliché?
“I would like to welcome you to Community church,” he continued. “As you may know, the Congregational church no longer exists. Except for a few Catholics, who go to mass elsewhere, most of the people here attend Community or,” he looked straight at my guests, “just don’t go at all.”
The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users Page 10
