Four Witches and a Funeral (Wicked Society Book 3)

by Daisy Prescott

  Studying the large map of Cambridge they found in the library, Andrew guesses, “Mount Auburn?”

  “The hospital?” Tate asks.

  “No, the cemetery.” Madison points at the large, green space on the western edge of Cambridge.

  “Why would her final resting place be noted in the book?” Sam asks, and then answers her own question, “Bone magic. You don’t think someone has stolen Alice’s bones?”

  “Is that why she’s a ghost?” Madison asks.

  Tate nods. “Could be.”

  “This should help us narrow our search for her.” Madison gives me thumbs-up. I roll my hand in the charades gesture for keep going.

  Tate finds the cemetery’s website on his phone. “Or not. Almost a hundred thousand people are buried there.”

  “That’s ten times the size of my hometown.” Sam’s mouth opens in shock. “Are there even a hundred thousand names in the book? This is crazy pants.”

  “Where’s your optimism?” Tate asks her. “Call it intuition or a gut feeling, but I think one of our missing pieces is in the Mount Auburn cemetery. Or should be. We need to take a field trip.”

  No, no, no.

  Ask yourselves who wrote the newer information in the margins? Whose penmanship is that? Come on, Scooby gang. The clues are right there in the book and the culprit is inside of the house.

  Instead of lounging around in our pajamas and analyzing the book, the group takes a late night field trip to Mount Auburn cemetery. According to the new information, I’m buried there.

  Someone is either lying or misinformed. Which brings me to my next question, why?

  No one listens to me and that’s how we end up hanging around several Winthrop family graves on a rainy night.

  “Which one belongs to Alice?” Madison’s voice hitches. “Sorry. I didn’t expect to be emotional tonight. Except now we’re here and I’m sad she’s dead like she died recently. I don’t even know Alice. Not really.”

  That’s sweet of her. I think about hugging her but stop myself. Most humans don’t like ghost hugs even when they can’t see me, only sense me.

  “Are we in the right place?” Adorable Andrew studies the obnoxiously oversized memorial erected by some arrogant family member whose own erection was probably tiny.

  “Uh …” Madison trails off.

  “What’s wrong?” Tate and Sam ask

  “Alice is here.” Madison tilts her toward me. I give her a friendly wave of my fingers.

  “You mean her body?” Sam asks.

  “No,” Madison whispers. “Uh, both.”

  “Can you use more words?” Andrew stands and then steps closer to her.

  “Alice the ghost is here. She’s sitting against the memorial where you were reading the inscription. Didn’t you feel her? She was less than a foot away.”

  Stretching out my arm, I poke Andrew’s leg. Of course, he can’t feel it. This fact annoys me and I cross my arms in a childish pout.

  “Makes sense if she’s buried here, there’d be a strong connection.” Tate adds, “What is she doing now?”

  “She’s sitting with her legs outstretched and arms crossed. I can’t tell if she’s angry or upset, but she doesn’t seem happy.”

  “Can you ask her if she’s mad about what we’re doing? I don’t want to piss her off.” Sam’s brow creases with worry, like I’m going to turn into an angry spirit full of wrath and revenge.

  “Tell us to stop, Alice. We’ll respect your wishes.” Madison makes eye contact with me.

  I love how earnest they are in their respect of my wishes. With a shrug, I point at the grave on the end of the row. Settling in for the long wait while they dig up the six feet of dirt, I rest my head on my folded arms on top of my knees.

  Madison relays my movement to the rest of the group

  “That’s it?” Andrew asks.

  “I guess so. She’s not looking at me anymore.” Madison comes and sits next to me.

  I appreciate the gesture, confident she and I would’ve been friends if we met in college. Maybe we’re friends now.

  Andrew walks to the last headstone and stands in front it. “Alice Sarah Winthrop, forever our beloved daughter. Seems like we have the right place.”

  My boring parents couldn’t come up with anything more original or unique? To them, nothing about me was worth mentioning except my place in the world as their daughter. No quote or clever catchphrase to capture a life in the limited space of the rose-colored granite headstone. I despise pink and am positive my mother chose this particular stone to get her way one final time. I’d had preferred a polished black marble like dear, great uncle Alfred is sporting.

  “We should’ve brought flowers or a candle or some gift for her. To say we’re sorry for digging her up.” Sam’s voice wavers like she’s fighting tears. Sweet, but unnecessary.

  “That’s sweet,” Madison says. “Alice is holding her hand over her heart in thanks.”

  Andrew counts out his steps away from my lame headstone. “This might get messy. Probably best if you stand farther away.”

  My ears perk up and I note that he’s not holding a shovel. None of them have anything to dig with. Of course. He’s an earth witch. This should be interesting.

  The ground beneath me vibrates right before a rectangular section of dirt removes itself from my grave.

  Cool trick. I applaud him.

  “What’s down there?” Sam asks, again sounding nervous.

  “A casket.” Andrew peers into the new hole.

  At least the casket is black even if the silk inside is pink. Always with the pink.

  “What’s inside it?” Madison tilts forward, but doesn’t stand.

  “Sadly, I don’t have X-ray vision. Tate, can you help me?” Andrew motions for Tate to join him.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea? What’s Alice’s reaction?” Sam asks Madison.

  With Madison giving a play-by-play of my actions, I decide to have a little fun. Conjuring a black, satin clutch to match my vintage outfit, I open it and pull out a nail file. The answers they seek aren’t in the ground. If they’re going to waste time and energy, I might as well amuse myself.

  Laughing, Sam asks, “She’s filing her nails? Are we boring her?”

  “She just yawned.” Madison gapes at me.

  Shrugging, I gaze up at the thick clouds. I have eternity to hang out.

  “I’m going to take her actions as a sign this coffin isn’t rigged and nothing terrible is about to happen. Everyone okay with moving forward?” Andrew waits a beat for our agreement, then drops down into the open grave. His head pops above the edge a second later. “Did you hear that? Sounds like I landed on a drum.”

  He disappears again and then there’s a creak from the hinges. The children’s song about worms crawling in and out pops into my head, but I resist singing. Too morbid for this bunch.

  Wanting to see Andrew’s expression, I tuck my file inside of my purse and stand.

  “Alice put away her nail file and is walking over to the grave now,” Madison whispers. “Andrew? She’s heading straight for you!”

  What’s with the panic in her tone? Glancing over my shoulder, I check in with her. What exactly is she thinking I’m going to do to him? Movement in my periphery catches my attention. Tate’s sliding into the hole to join Andrew.

  “Stop!” Leaping forward, Sam screams.

  I sigh. Her current dramatics are a little over the top even for me. What does she expect to happen?

  “What the fuck?” Sam vocalizes exactly what I’m thinking.

  Both boys turn to face her. While they discuss Sam’s use of the F word, I decide to have a lie down inside of the coffin. It’s surprisingly less comfortable than it looks. The pink silk is really cheap satin and there’s zero plush padding. More fancy illusions to please my family and spend their money.

  Sam stares at me in my ridiculous coffin. “Where’s Alice? Do we even have the right grave?”

  Smiling, Madison p
oints at me. “She’s in there. She’s trying to appear angelic.”

  Trying? My face is the epitome of innocence right now. Renaissance cherubs look more mischievous than I do in the moment.

  “Apparently our ghost has a morbid sense of humor.” Andrew laughs.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I grin. Our ghost. I like the way that sounds. Like they’re claiming me. Like I belong to them.

  “Is there anything else in the coffin? A note? A clue? A handwritten confession explaining every mystery?” Tate stands on the closed end of the casket and dusts off his backside. Focused on Sam, he holds up his hand for her to take.

  Patting down the sides and slipping my hands underneath the liner, I touch nothing but satin.

  “There’s nothing.” Andrew scrambles up to the surface.

  “Mind giving me some help getting out of here?” Tate lifts his hand toward Sam.

  She grips his arm and he pulls himself out of the hole.

  “Ahh, good to be back among the living.” He leans down and kisses her.

  I miss kissing. Not the sloppy attempts or smashed mouths of the inept, but toe-curling, incredible kisses with a promise of more.

  It’s clear that Tate and Sam have some serious chemistry. The kind that obscures rational thoughts and erases all of the reasons why a couple shouldn’t be together.

  Like Sam and Tate. Yes, they’re destined for each other, but not until he comes clean about why he’s kept her at arm’s length for years. Only the truth will release them from the curse he’s inherited from the Winthrop lineage.

  Watching them kiss, a sudden surge of anger shoots through me and I grab Sam’s shoulder before I’m conscious of my movements.

  “Hey. Not funny.” Sam loses her balance and tumbles backward toward the grave. Again, she screams and I want to cover my ears. Thankfully, Tate stops her fall and she quiets.

  “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Tate repeats over and over again as he comforts her

  “What happened?” Andrew asks from somewhere close.

  “Someone jerked my shoulder,” Sam mutters into Tate’s chest.

  I feel terrible for scaring her after she was already spooked by being here. I’m a terrible ghost friend.

  Tate rubs soothing circles over her back. “And no one touched you. You jerked back like you’d been shocked.”

  “I felt it. A hand gripped me. I’m sure of it.” She shifts in his embrace to seek out Madison. “Maddy? Did you do it?”

  Feeling bad for scaring Sam, I mouth “I’m sorry” to Madison.

  Madison shakes her head. “I promise it wasn’t me.”

  “Who else could it be?” Andrew asks.

  “Alice.” Madison furrows her brow. “It was Alice.”

  The breeze kicks up, carrying with it the smell of rain.

  “Why would Alice push me? And also, how is that even possible?” Sam rubs her shoulder.

  Madison continues to stare at me, confused. “She could move books in the library and used them to attack Stanford when he kidnapped me. I—I didn’t think she could touch humans, though.”

  This is new. And the possibility of what it could mean thrills me.

  Sam’s still shook. “She pushed me away from Tate.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Feel the glare, cousin dearest.

  As if sensing my perturbed energy, Tate mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like “I’m doomed.” Andrew hears him shakes his head.

  “You haven’t told her?” Andrew’s voice lifts at whatever Tate says. “No wonder Alice got involved. She’s protecting Sam.”

  Damn straight.

  It isn’t fair to drag someone into the curses of the old families. At least until we get everything sorted out. And after all of the crap we’ve suffered through, he should know better that the Winthrops are the worst of the worst.

  I should know. I’ve found out the hardest way possible that love doesn’t always conquer all.

  Twelve

  I probably should’ve saved the Scooby gang the late night visit to my empty casket. Pointless and a waste of time, yet entertaining for me—more than it should be. In fact, I won’t be shamed out of the joy it brought me.

  Knowing my bones weren’t there, the best outcome of the evening was supposed to be the discovery of my life dates, so lovingly engraved on my headstone. No one even commented. I guess an empty casket was too distracting.

  The grave digging, while entertaining, didn’t reveal any new information.

  The questions remain. Where’s Alice? Or more specifically, where are Alice’s remains?

  More importantly, how did I die?

  And why doesn’t Geoffrey know I’m haunting him? Do I need to up my ghost game? Invest in some chains to rattle and a white shroud to wear around the properties? Not sure either of those things are my style. I might have to improvise with some metal bangles and a bed sheet with two eyes cut out so I can see.

  ★★★

  Inside of the library, Madison is explaining her latest theory to Sam while Geoffrey types away on his phone. “The Bramhin Club had an entire collection of lockets like Alice’s. Decorated with initials on the front, most enclosed a lock of hair.”

  I want to tap his head with my shoe to make sure he’s paying attention.

  The Bramhin Club, aka one of Boston’s oldest and most prestigious club, aka a bunch of greedy, pompous bone thieves masquerading as Boston society.

  Founded by my family, the BC as we fondly called it, is where I first met Geoffrey. Through that connection, he was offered the director’s role here at the Wicked Society. A consolation prize for losing the love of his life. The Winthrops are generous, but cold.

  I’d like to believe he’s made it his life’s mission to solve the mystery of my murder and avenge my death, but all of my observations point toward him moping around this enormous brownstone, alone.

  Well, that’s going to change and soon. Sooner if this bunch of witches will focus.

  “Typically, the lock of hair corresponds to the initials,” Madison continues.

  “Why would someone carry around their own hair? That makes zero sense.” Sam taps the glass covering the dark hair coiled beneath just as it was when I added it all those years ago. “Wouldn’t pulling a few strands off of their own head be easier?”

  “It’s typically not their own hair,” Geoffrey responds, still focused on his screen. “Momenti mori is the common explanation.”

  “Keepsake of the dead?” Sam stares more intently at the locket. “So this isn’t Alice’s DNA?”

  He gives a subtle shake of his head.

  “Then who does it belong to if not her?” Sam asks, flipping over the locket and studying the engraved surface for more clues.

  “A love interest? Victorian mourning jewelry was made for the living to hold onto a physical piece of their departed beloved.” Madison types rapidly on her desktop’s keyboard.

  “What are you looking for?” Geoffrey asks, finally dragging his attention from his device to Madison’s screen. “What’s all that?”

  “Andrew, Mr. Biochemist, pulled all of the known DNA data for the Salem Witches and the Brahmin Society. Want to guess who the other hair belongs to, Geoffrey?”

  “It’s mine.” He finally glances up from his screen.

  “Were you brother and sister? Was Alice your mother?” Sam asks.

  Geoffrey cringes and pales. “No. Neither.”

  The women wait for him to elaborate. He’s a man of few words. This may be all they get out of him.

  “Who was she to you?” Madison presses.

  “Alice Winthrop was my love.” He sets his phone down and scrubs his hands down his face before interlocking his fingers behind his head. “My girlfriend and the woman I’d hoped to marry one day.”

  I sigh and it comes out like a swoon.

  Both Sam and Madison gawk at him.

  “Hold on. She’s your girlfriend?” Sam asks. “If she’s a Winthrop, why doesn’t Tate remember
her?”

  “Was. She died fifteen years ago. He would’ve been six at the time. No one in the family speaks of her death because of the scandal.”

  “How did she die?” Madison asks.

  “Which version do you want to hear?” His eyes are sad, his voice weary. He’s breaking my heart all over again.

  “The truth?” Sam’s response ends up sounding more like a question.

  “The official version in the obituary was she had an unfortunate accident involving an improperly installed window screen. The family gossip said she jumped. I believe she was pushed.”

  “Where?” Madison asks.

  “The Marblehead summer house.”

  My favorite second story bedroom, the one in the corner with the view.

  I didn’t jump that much I know for certain.

  “Alice says she didn’t jump.” Madison translates my head shaking.

  “I never believed she did.” Geoffrey gives her a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nor do I think it was an accident.”

  “Which leaves murder,” Sam says. “An unsolved murder like the ones from my favorite podcasts.”

  “Do you think that’s why she’s a ghost?” Madison stares at me. “A violent, premature death. Perhaps she doesn’t realize she’s dead.”

  When I frown at her and then roll my eyes, she backtracks.

  “Okay, okay, she knows she’s dead,” she explains my reaction. “Why am I the only one who can see her? Shouldn’t the two of you have a deeper bond?”

  Geoffrey straightens in his seat.

  Come on, admit the dreams. Please remember them. Give me something.

  “Is she here now?” he asks instead.

  Madison points right at me. “She’s there.”

  Way to out me, Maddy.

  No matter how much he squints or tilts his head, I can tell that Geoffrey is unable to see me. “Are you sure?”

  Yeah, we’re sure.

  Madison frowns. “To me she’s as real as you or Sam.”

  The line between his eyebrows deepens. “There are times I wake up clinging to the remnants of a dream about her. They feel so real, I’ve taken to napping in my office in the afternoons, hoping to encounter her again.”