She needed to arm herself first, anyway. The ammo lay in the leather bound ledgers in the back room of her office. Given the sisters’ interest in Grace, it seemed likely that some centuries-old trinket played a role in Prudence’s death. That could be why the authorities were excluded. Nobody believed in curses or magic anymore. But maybe they should.
Chapter 7
For nearly as long as merchants, privateers and smugglers plied their trade from the tiny inlet and crappy beach now known as Cove Park, Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques Appraisers had assessed the booty. Each of the proprietors had kept careful records, from her own current computer database to the faded, spidery quill marks in ledgers crumbling with age.
Decades before the Boston Tea Party, family patriarch Ezekiel Myerscough engaged in America’s favorite pastime—tax evasion. The sea captain traded extensively in Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Ivory and gold, spices and silks were listed in her great-great-great’s ledgers, with less extravagant cargoes no doubt making an official list in the British colonial records.
Because New Carfax sat on the major roads of the day, it was ideal for moving illicit cargo. Even then, the roads didn’t cross, but made several jogs around the rocks of Liberty Park. This probably made the settlement even more suited for keeping valuable cargo away from the eyes of British tax collectors.
More importantly, John Longstreet noted entries in the Green Ledger. Grace expected as much. Reverently, she took down an aged book bound in emerald-hued leather. The spine creaked when she opened it with gloved hands. Finding the right year, leather cracking in protest, she set it open on an ivory Bible stand.
Longstreet Green Ledgers held information on the most peculiar items recovered by eighteenth century sailors. Her ancient ancestor listed them under the name Objets de Puissance, which loosely translated to power objects.
Her own cameo, inherited from her mother, was one such item. While she didn’t fully understand its power, it seemed to offer visions of life-changing events moments before they occurred. For all the good that did her—she hadn’t found this power useful since she acquired it. But the Yankee traders of yesteryear seemed to collect such artifacts by the bushel, at least, if you believed the Green Ledger entries. Grace found it somewhat ironic that magic objects were assessed, evaluated, sold and traded across the North River from the Salem gallows, where innocent women and men were put to death for diabolical associations.
Thoughts of hanging filled her mind, and her eyes, but she had work to do. Grace put the images aside and focused on the ancient ink. In 1748, Ezekiel Myerscough returned to The Cove several months before docking in Boston Harbor. Great-great-great (and more?) Uncle John’s list of diabolical Objets de Puissance was lengthy.
Of course, in those days, the term diabolical could mean anything stemming from non-Christian worship. There were a number of golden statues of the Buddha, Shiva, Ganesh, these most likely blessed by a priest and melted down to ingots; of ivory andagu steles and temple guardians probably hacked apart for false teeth or harpsichord keys.
It made the archaeologist in her cringe. Guilty eyes strayed to the alabaster statue of Bastet on the shelf above the bench. While she had never fully researched the life-sized cat sculpture, she had no doubt it was of Ancient Egyptian origin. Despite the fact that it was given as a gift to one of her ancestors, it belonged in the Museum of Egyptian Antiques in Cairo. Still, she had grown up with the artifact, even playing with it as a girl. Her fingers found the cameo. Sentimental objects were hard to part with.
After a while, her eyes began to cross. The manifest covered several pages, each puffing with dust and the icky bookmarks formed from the squished bodies of silverfish. It seemed old man Ezekiel had hit the metaphysical jackpot. What circumstances might end in this extensive collection of sacred objects escaped her. Several entries included the opinion of Great-Great-Great-Uncle John that certain artifacts were likely taken from their temples “by blood or by crime.”
Cheery thought.
Despite the diligent entries, she uncovered nothing that might be involved in Prudence Myerscough’s death. When she shut off the lights and moved to the front part of the shop, she was surprised to see the long shadow cast by her little building. It was a little creepy how lost she could get in those old tomes. When she opened the front door, the twinge in her lower back confirmed that she had been sitting there all night long.
In the chill of the morning air, she rubbed her fatigued eyes. At the same time, she felt a strange shaky vigor. It came from being around Objets de Puissance. There were a few stored in the work room; items she kept out of sight, and out of mind. Still, they gave off some invisible energy, like radiation or magnetic fields. Grace felt that some of the objects were dangerous. It was a terrible idea to keep them in the back of the office. But she honestly didn’t know a better way to deal with them.
Unlike the poppets, fetishes and amulets in her private storage, objects from the manifest of sacred objects seemed just that—sacred objects. It may have been that her area of expertise was Pre-Colonial and Colonial American archaeology. She had no grounding in the material culture of Southeast Asia or India, only a basic familiarity with the forms. What she might think of as a beautiful altar piece could turn out to be the equivalent of a voodoo doll or witches ladder. Grace simply didn’t know.
She drove to the nearest Dunkin Donuts at the corner of Hale and Lyons Park Road. A familiar orange scooter stood on the street. As Grace parked, Paisley pushed through the doors, two cups of coffee in hand. She walked over to Grace’s Prius.
“Extra-extra, right?”
Grace frowned. “How did you know I was coming here?”
“I’m haunting you, remember?” Paisley handed over the cup.
“So, what, you paid for two large coffees with spirit money?”
Without being invited, Paisley walked to the passenger door and got in. “You’re a creature of habit, Grace. You stop at this Dunkin Donuts on your way to work every day. On the weekends, you go to Judy’s Java. Since I saw your car parked outside your shop, I figured you’d come here.”
Grace took a slow sip of coffee, giving Paisley the stink-eye. “How long were you a cop?”
“About six months.”
“Huh.” She sat there, thinking. Was Grace really that predictable? Or was there more to Paisley than she knew?
The goth stared out the passenger window. “Sorry about yesterday.”
“Did I say something to offend you?”
“Yeah.” Paisley drank her joe, facing away. “But you didn’t know.”
How about enlightening me? Grace almost said. Instead she remembered something about The Old Lady’s nephew dying about a year ago. To be certain, she would have to look it up, but she thought the nephew was a police officer.
“I’m going to drive up to The Cove. Talk to the sisters.”
Paisley finally faced her. “Visit the scene of the crime?”
“If there was a crime.” Grace shrugged.
“Yeah.”
She took a breath. “Maybe you could come with me. I mean, you’re supposed to be working today, but given your aunt is the boss, I’m sure you won’t get in trouble. So, as long as you don’t get weird on me…”
Grace examined her passenger. Today, she wore a modified witch’s hat with an extra wide brim, a silk jacket with a print of large and small skulls Grace at first mistook for flowers, a lace top with bat embellishments, a leather skirt with a high, studded waist, a pair of red Doc Martens—the only thing not colored black, and sunglasses with small circular lenses.
“…So, as long as you don’t get weirder on me, maybe you could come along.”
Paisley tilted her head. She took off the shades and put them on her hat brim. “Better? You know how much this outfit cost? We’re going to visit a bunch of rich ass hats, and you’re wearing ripped up white Chucks, saggy jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt? Ugh! You really expect them to take you seriously?”
&n
bsp; Grace started the car. “Huh. Maybe you’re right.”
“So we’re going to your house so you can change?”
“I said maybe you’re right.” Grace continued up Hale to Cove Road and started up the steep hill.
Chapter 8
The New Carfax neighborhood known as The Cove was essentially a road that ran along the edge of the cliff, seven or eight mansions, and so many refurbished stables, barns, sheds, pool houses, coach houses, guest houses and in-law apartments you couldn’t find your way around with a GPS.
Like all the stately old homes, the Myerscough mansion stood on the cliff side of the road, facing away, as if the building itself were too snooty to look down at New Carfax, instead preferring a sea view.
It appeared that the original structure of the place was a barn-like Georgian house. With the growing prosperity of the Myerscoughs, steep-roofed salt boxes were added on, and perhaps later, “modern” Victorian features. There were two turrets with bell-shaped roofs flanking the three-story structure, a wrap-around porch on two levels, dormers on the third story, a widow’s walk and small attic structure above those.
“Beautiful,” Paisley said at the same time Grace said, “It looks like the Addams Family lives here.”
A vintage Rolls-Royce sat on the circular drive, nose to nose with a Tesla. To one side of the drive, a Victorian cottage sat in its own private garden. Skipping around the circle, Lavinia pushed the baby carriage and sang made up songs at the top of her lungs. The drive branched past the requisite restored stable and coach house, but Grace parked near the short portico of the main building.
“Take my picture,” Paisley whispered. “I want to use it for my profile.”
“We’re being discreet, remember?”
Paisley snorted. “This could be any old haunted house. Fine, I’ll do a selfie.”
Shaking her head, Grace got out. The view was spectacular. From here, she could see Cove Park below, lucky people already spreading blankets and towels. The Atlantic stretched all the way to England from here. Tiny sailboats and larger cargo ships were smudges on the hazy horizon.
Lavinia skipped up, singing--“You and me are going to skip around the drive way and we’ll see who’s in the car and then we’ll go to eat some food”—and then skipped past.
“You’re worried about me being weird?” Paisley got out and slipped the shades over her eyes.
Grace ignored her, looking at the separate dwelling. The cottage was bigger than her own Cape Cod. Most notable, bars lined the windows and a solid steel door with three locks guarded the entrance.
“Can you say paranoid?” Paisley whispered.
“I don’t think so.” Grace lifted her chin at the big house. There were no such security measures there.
Paisley’s mouth formed a thoughtful O.
At that moment, Carlotta pushed the front door open, yawning widely. “You two sure are early birds. Come on in. Sorry about Lavinia. She’s having a bad day.”
Carlotta wore saggy jeans with stars on them, Converse Chuck Taylors, and a Red Sox jersey, along with a frayed Sox hat. Grace gave Paisley a long look.
Black brows rose over black lenses. “Those are custom Chucks, vintage Genius Jeans are probably worth more than your car, a Mookie Betts jersey goes for around three hundred bucks, and that hat is signed by Johnny Damon, and since Caveman is a freakin trader, I’m guessing it was worn during the 2004 World Series.”
“Whatever.” Grace followed Carlotta into the house.
The foyer led them into a broad space, all ancient hardwoods and plaster, the lower level divided in half by a grand staircase. Grace goggled at all the leaded glass, hand carved wood, gold leaf, imported wood and tile that served as hallmarks of wealth in the 18th century. Black crepe hung from the mirrors: a house in mourning. They moved through, past a music room, a sitting room. Her few classes in architecture came back to Grace. The case windows, based on the proportion of the Golden Section, the symmetry, made the huge house feel comfortable--all tell-tales signs of Georgian design.
To her surprise, the kitchen was dumpy and small, with linoleum floors, composite counters and fairly standard appliances, only the original cabinetry remained of anything historic. Carlotta grabbed a full coffee pot on her way through. They ended up in a small room formed of floor-to-ceiling windows, the hexagonal table set with delicate china cups and silverware.
Carlotta plunked the carafe down without benefit of a trivet on the rich red table that Grace guessed was hand-carved merbau wood. “Want some coffee? It’s fresh brewed.” She poured herself half a cup, filling the rest with flavored coffee creamer.
Paisley grabbed a cup. Grace stopped her with a hand on her forearm. “Is that kopi luwak?”
After giving Grace a squint, Paisley’s eyes popped open. “Oh, the cat turd coffee? I’ve been dying to try that.”
“Civet poop,” Grace corrected.
Carlotta made a half-disgusted smile. “Is that what this is? Well, live it up, I guess.” She set her own cup down. “I’m glad you’re here. When Bentley called, I though you weren’t taking this on.”
The coffee smelled rich and heady, but Grace wasn’t willing to drink something that came from a civet’s butt. “He’s sensitive about your grandmother’s image. Her reputation.”
Paisley made an animal grunt of pleasure, eyes rolled back in her head. “This is gooooood.”
“Well, I appreciate you coming up here to tell me in person. A lot of people wouldn’t.” Carlotta absently stirred her civet poop coffee. “People kinda suck.”
“Well, I told you I’d look into it, and I will. At least, unless I don’t find anything compelling, you understand.”
“Oh, what?” Carlotta sat forward. “You’re still taking a look? That’s awesome.”
Grace held up her palms. “Don’t get too excited. From everything I’ve heard, this is pretty open and shut. I’m not a cop, I’m not a doctor, I’m not a lawyer, and I’m making no promises. I don’t even know why you want to hire me.”
Carlotta picked up her coffee. “Is this really cat poop?”
“Not a cat, but a civet, which is like a cat. Poop is part of the process,” Grace shrugged.
Eyes rolled in ecstasy, Paisley whispered, “I’m gonna find me a cat who eats coffee beans.”
Carlotta shrugged back and drank some more. “Gramma talked a lot about family history, and local history. She mentioned the Longstreets a bunch. Said we wouldn’t be where we were at without the Longstreets’ help. There was a lot of stuff about magic, about witchcraft, but hey, she was old, she was eccentric. I loved that about her. But when she died, your name was the first I thought of. You do investigate things, that much I know. It just seemed to fit.”
The answer didn’t really satisfy Grace, but she didn’t expect to find anything anyway. “Well, then, I’d like to see where your grandmother died.”
Chapter 9
“This place is confusing as hell, I know.” Carlotta led the way up the stairs.
Grace marveled at the medallions the chandeliers dangled from, the molding and plaster work. All of it was exquisite, a journey back in time. As an archaeologist, she had visited museums less complete than this mansion. The second floor had staircases on the north and south ends at the end of a long hallway.
“Is your sister going to be okay out there?” Paisley glanced out a window.
“Oh, yeah, she’ll be fine. She loves playing outside. You should see her snow forts in the winter. There’s a full time medical staff on the property. They look after her, and Mom, too.”
“Sorry to hear your mother’s sick.” Grace found this a good point to pry.
Carlotta’s step faltered, but just a bit. “She’s not sick. Not physically. Mom’s just a little off her rocker. But everyone in this town knows that.”
“Your mother actually inherits from your grandmother, right?”
“Well, technically. She’s not in any better shape than Lavinia. I rely on the accountants and
lawyers to keep everything in order, but at least I understand what they tell me. Mom couldn’t make a financial decision if her next dose of painkillers depended on it.”
Paisley looked at her from over her shades. Grace nodded. Time to press. “Well, that kinda sucks, that she gets the house and the money and everything.”
“Well, we’re all stuck together. Mom can’t live in the real world without ending up in jail or the psych ward. I can’t afford my own place—not one that I’d live in anyway. And Lavinia is fine as long as she doesn’t get confused or angry. She has to stay here. The world is far too confrontational. Strange as she is, I love her to death.”
The third floor turned into a maze. Perpendicular halls ran from the stairs, additional halls branching off. From outside, it looked like this floor was smaller than the other two, but up here, it seemed bigger. Carlotta took a left turn, moved past two halls, and took a right. They passed closed doors and open doorways. There were no windows, the light coming from skylights above.
“So if you could afford a nice place, would you move?”
Carlotta whirled on Grace. “What’s with all these questions? Am I a suspect?”
Grace had learned long ago that sometimes the best way to get people to talk was to let them. She didn’t say a word. The younger woman shifted her stance. “Well? Do you think I did it? Why would I?”
Shrugging, palms out, Grace still didn’t speak.
“I’m the only sane one here, okay? My mother’s a psycho, my sister’s a zombie, and you’re questioning me? I’m the one who’s not crazy.”
“Okay,” Grace finally said. “If you could show us the bathroom?”
Recent repairs and fresh paint showed the emergency entrance when Prudence proved unresponsive. With a few heartbeats of hesitation, Carlotta opened the door and stepped aside.
Like every other room, the bathroom where Prudence Myerscough died was a study in luxury. But not Georgian luxury. The sunken tub was bigger than some pools Grace had swam in. White Carrara marble dominated, in huge squares, in tiny hexagons, horizontally and vertically. Only the box beams of the ceiling and the transom over the door revealed the space to be part of an old home.
The Sinister Secrets of the Snake Mirror Page 3
