The walk in shower could serve as a rehearsal space for a small rock band. Grace counted seven shower heads. Spa jets lined the tub as well. A door led to another room where the toilet was housed. The linen closet was as big as Grace’s single bathroom.
Behind the tub, an entire wall of windows looked out over the sea. Gone was the ratio of wall-to-window in the main house. This was all view, from modern double paned glass, unobstructed for as far as the eye could see.
“What’s with the mirrors?” Paisley asked. She still had her cup of coffee in hand.
“Family tradition. I don’t know from where. But whenever a family member dies, we drape all the mirrors. Mom says we’re supposed to stop the clock in the room where a person died, but there’s no clock in the bathroom.”
“Covering the mirrors is a common mourning tradition,” Grace said. “Jews do it, so do the Irish, the Polish. Some say it’s because evil spirits are attracted to the void left by a dead person, and they torment the living through mirrors, trying to replace the deceased. Others say the dead person’s spirit might get trapped in the mirror, losing its way to heaven, or haunting the home.”
“Oh.” Carlotta went pale.
“Psychologically, a family in mourning is in a vulnerable state. A mirror is a place where you might catch your inner demons, your fears of the future, of your own fate. And one tradition has it that the person who sees his reflection in a house of mourning will soon die.”
Carlotta backed toward the door. Her lower lip trembled, her forehead sheened with damp. “Oh,” she said again.
Paisley smiled wide. “It is so awesome that you know these things, Grace.”
Grace clapped her hands. “Anyway, would you mind if we looked over the room on our own? No offense or anything, I just wouldn’t want you to taint my own first perceptions.”
Carlotta was already down the hall. “Hey, not a problem. I’m just happy you’re here. Thanks for coming. Give a shout if you get lost on your way out. Feel free to join us for lunch.” Carlotta’s footsteps quickly faded.
Paisley drained her coffee and put the cup on the rim of the tub. “What got into her?”
“Not everyone likes ghost stories.”
“What a wuss.”
“You have your iPad? I want you to take photos of everything.”
“Like what?”
“Just—everything.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Look at everything. I might need the pictures as a reference later.”
The replacement knob on the door didn’t lock. Grace didn’t think Carlotta was coming back any time soon. As Paisley clicked away with her iPad, Grace went over the room. Of course, it had been cleaned. Traces of the tragedy remained.
According to Barb at the ME’s office, Prudence had been found at the windows, apparently trying to get out. Only a single window in the whole bathroom actually opened. Not the wall of glass overlooking the ocean, but a case window on an adjacent wall. Grace looked close, angling her head. Faint scratch marks could be seen on the sill. There were others around the lock. Grace slid the lock to the open position. When she tried the window, it wouldn’t budge. She noted scratch marks in the paint of the window in the same places she put her hands—on the top of the top rail, on the underside of the horizontal sash rails. Of course, Grace wasn’t so desperate that she left nail marks.
“Is it painted shut?” Paisley wandered over, taking shots of the window, close ups of the scratches.
Grace stepped back. “Doesn’t look like it, Maybe swollen from the heat.”
Paisley hammered her fist on the top rail. “Here, I’ll pull up here, you push down there,”
“Okay, just don’t break it. I don’t want to know how much it costs to replace a three-hundred-year-old window. On three.”
With a groan, the window opened a few inches. Both women got their hands under the bottom rail, bent their knees, and heaved. Reluctantly, the window gave way. The two of them stared at each other, panting. “Now what?” Paisley asked.
Grace leaned out the window, both hands on the sill, and looked down. The roof of the second floor porch rested one story down. After a moment, she felt the earth spin and quickly ducked back inside.
“You okay?”
“Acrophobia,” Grace breathed.
Paisley stuck herself out the window, her legs bumping the wall as she leaned out. She leaned so far out that Grace had to restrain the urge to pull her back in.
“What am I looking for?”
Grace closed her eyes and looked away. “Do you think Prudence had a chance of getting out this way?”
“Oh, hell,” she called. “I could do it myself.” Paisley stuck a knee on the sill.
Grace felt the blood leave her brain. “Paisley, please don’t! Please, please, please, please—”
The goth girl pulled herself back inside and closed the window. “Jeeze, Grace—are you shaking?”
With a nod, she said again: “Acrophobia.”
“Well, chill, Grace. You’re not the one who’s falling out the window. I am.”
Grace sat on the rim of the tub. It took a moment to catch her breath. “How the hell can you be afraid of everything, but not be afraid of heights?”
“I’m afraid of rational things. I’m not going to randomly fall out of a window for God’s sake.”
“Rational things.”
“Yeah. Sharks, needles, blood borne pathogens, bridges, bees, dogs, germs, clowns, hospitals, you know, stuff you should be afraid of. I got pictures. You wanna get outta here?”
Chapter 10
The third floor proved much more confusing without a guide. Prudence liked her privacy more than Grace would’ve guessed. She had her own kitchen up here, nicer than the main kitchen downstairs. There was a sun room, a sitting room, a small theater, a library, some of the rooms connecting, some dead-ending.
“Where the hell are the stairs?” Paisley asked. “Aren’t there two staircases leading down? I didn’t think we’d need a Sherpa to get us downstairs.”
They wandered, and found two more staircases. One led to the widow’s walk, the other probably to the add-on attic. Neither led down.
“It’s like the freakin Winchester Mystery House!” Paisley complained.
Grace opened a door on a dark hallway with no windows. She guessed it to be at the center of the house. “You’ve been to San Jose?”
“No,” Paisley said. “I’ve seen it on TV. Stairs that lead nowhere, doors that open on nothing. It’s kinda freaking me out.”
“Are you claustrophobic?”
“No, I’m afraid of dropping dead up here and not being found for decades.”
Grace stepped into the hall. “Easy, Paize, let’s go down here. I think it might be the way out.”
On the far end of the hall, a huge mirror hung. Without windows, it was tough to make out. Grace flipped a light switch as Paisley walked behind her. She vaguely recalled a set of mirrors in the Green Ledger. But on the nearer wall, there was nothing. No, wait, she thought, leaning closer. A faint fade pattern in the paint revealed an irregular shape that matched the mirror at the other end.
“Whoa, that’s cool,” Paisley said, moving to the antique. A black drape lay on the floor beneath. She bent to pick it up, but Grace stopped her.
“I’ve never seen a mirror like this.” It was easily four feet across, six feet tall.
“Black glass and dragons—this would look really nice in my home office,” Paisley mused.
“It must weigh a ton.” Grace looked closer, seeing the reflective surface was highly polished onyx. The work on the dragon scales was primitive, but captured the reptilian essence. Her fingers played over the cool surface. Was it solid gold?
A fierce tingle emanated from the cameo, raced down her arm like lighting. She felt the shock where her fingers met the mirror. With a gasp, Grace stepped back.
“What was that?” Paisley’s voice sounded tight.
Grace hurried to
the nearest door. “I don’t know, but I really, really wanna get outta here now.”
The door opened on a bedroom with an actual window. Grace felt she could get her bearings from here. They were at the back of the house, where the second floor stairs terminated. “Okay, let’s go through the door in the bedroom.”
“That looks like a closet.”
“No way,” Grace said. She opened the door to the landing hall.
Paisley squinted at her. “How did you now it wasn’t a closet?”
“They hid closets in Georgian homes. C’mon, let’s go.”
They took the stairs a little fast, the old house taking its toll on them. Even as they reached the portico, breathing heavily, at least Grace felt like she was breathing free.
“Shouldn’t we tell Carlotta we’re leaving?” Paisley asked.
“Seriously? We couldn’t even find a staircase.”
Paisley pushed out the door ahead of her. “You’re right. She’ll figure it out when she sees the car gone.”
Lavinia skipped along the far side of the drive, still singing. She had a lot of energy for such a large woman. Grace hid a smile. Until the cameo sent another jolt through her. The world narrowed to tunnel vision, the sky going red. A monstrous face appeared, bounding forward, face twisted in fury, in madness. It howled, fetid breath in her face, fangs bared, jutting and slobbering. Lethal claws swiped at Grace—a fatal blow.
“Hey, Grace?” Paisley stood beside her, a hand on her arm. “You okay?”
The vision subsided as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah, I’m good.” Grace tracked around, looking for anything that might inspire such frightening foresight. A guard dog maybe, gotten loose. She saw nothing. As they headed to the Prius, a tall, slender woman stepped to greet them.
She was older, maybe late fifties, but the dark summer dress clung to her revealing a nice figure. Blonde and gray hair mingled to a natural ashy color. Her bare shoulders and legs were tan. Cheeks dimpled as she smiled and held out her hand. “I apologize for the rudeness of my girls. They don’t know how to make introductions. I’m Tibby Myerscough.”
Grace tried not to show reluctance as she took the woman’s hand. “Grace Longstreet. This is Paisley Cartwright.”
Warmth suffused Tibby’s features. “Good, strong local family names. Are you here for lunch?”
“Oh, no, we were just leaving,” Paisley said.
“That’s great, just great. Could I beg a ride off you? I’m being held prisoner here, but I don’t think they’d try to stop me if I were with you two.”
Grace felt Paisley tense. “Well, there’s hardly any room in my car.”
An understanding smile spread over Tibby’s face. She waved at the cottage. “Yes, I know, it seems so nice here. But a gilded cage is still a cage. Safer than the main house, certainly. You’ve been inside, right? You’ve seen the monsters in there?”
Paisley decided to contribute to the crazy. “Oh, no, no monsters. They covered all the mirrors.”
“Ah. Smart of them,” Tibby gave them a knowing look. “Only a temporary fix, of course.”
“Of course,” Grace said. And stopped herself. “Aren’t you supposed to be with someone, Tibby?”
Friendly features became a snarl. “I see. More jailers. You want to keep me locked up, too.”
“Let’s calm down, Tibby.”
“Calm down? You want to chain me up, leave me for the monsters!” Insanity gleamed in the woman’s eyes. “I won’t let you!”
Tibby came at Grace, her hands claws. Grace stepped back, to find that she was already against her car. Hands closed on her throat, Tibby’s face inches from hers. Blood left Grace’s head. She couldn’t breathe. Grace could see the woman’s dental work as she screamed. “I won’t let you!”
Suddenly, the woman was pulled off. Two large women in nurse’s whites gently subdued Tibby. The older woman struggled, but she was overpowered.
“Time for lunch, Miz Myerscough,” one of the nurses said in a soft voice.
After a moment in a full nelson, Tibby finally stopped resisting. The nurses let her go. Like magic, the civil Tibby reappeared. “Lunch. Thank goodness. I’m famished. Nice meeting you young ladies.”
Grace panted, hands at her bruised throat. Paisley opened the passenger door. “You want me to drive?”
She could only nod and hand over the keys. The moment she shut the door, the Toyota jerked into motion.
“You hurt?” Paisley leaned forward, squinting over the wheel.
“Fine,” Grace managed to croak.
“What do you think? Tibby a potential suspect?”
Or maybe a potential victim, Grace thought. But instead she said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m done with the Myerscoughs.”
Chapter 11
After a restless night, Grace rolled out of bed. A glance in the mirror said she needed a shower. She could probably use some makeup on the bruises left by Tibby’s hands. They were right above the cameo. Dreams from the night sifted into her consciousness. The cameo, her mother, elegant older women trying to kill her. Negativity, depression, they fell on her flesh, a sluggish weight. She looked in her own eyes. “Screw this. You’re not going there. You’re going to the beach.”
She didn’t bother dressing, other than her bathing suit and a wrap over top, and flip-flops. A jaunty sun hat hid her bed-head. After a ride with Paisley, any thoughts of researching that ostentatious mirror left her. Instead, she’d ordered a pizza and watched old movies. Extra pepperoni and double cheese, hours in a recliner, and the latest Melissa McCarthy movie hadn’t done anything to either energize or relax her. A similar sense of melancholy and lethargy struck her this way the last time she’d uncovered an Objet de Puissance. If she’d had any doubts that that was what she was dealing with before, she had none now. Had some sacred, or evil, object killed Prudence Myerscough? If so, what the hell could Grace do about it? The best she had was locking the thing away in the back room of her shop. She was totally out of her depth. And she wasn’t about to put herself in harm’s way for fifty large.
“Breakfast,” she said aloud. “Breakfast will make me feel better.”
Judy’s Java sat on the corner of Orchard Street and Lyons Park, an old-fashioned diner that tried to make bank on the fancy coffee drink craze. Ironically, it was one of the few places in New Carfax where you could buy one hundred percent wild kopi luwak.
Judy slid a normal cup of coffee across the bar before Grace could sit.
“You look pretty glum, chum.” Judy was probably in her mid-sixties, with magic unicorn hair up in a bun. “What the heck happened to your neck? I say, it’s rhyming day.”
“Please no.” Grace’s voice sounded hoarse.
“Sorry, Hon. You look like you’re heading to the beach. The usual?”
“Better make it a meat lover’s omelet.”
Judy’s brow lowered. “Rough night, huh?” She called into the kitchen, “Hey, Stu, barnyard orgy in a sleeping bag!”
Grace finished her coffee, and Judy refilled the cup. “You know a lot about New Carfax, Judy. What can you tell me about the Myerscough family?”
“Weirdos, all of them. Prudence did a lot of charity work, Boys and Girls Club, soup kitchen, but not to speak ill of the dead, she was kind of a hermit. From what I hear, she had a whole setup on the top floor of that mansion, her own servants and everything. Hardly ever came downstairs, let alone outside.”
Grace sipped. “Tibby?”
“My goodness, what a beautiful disaster she is. A lot of drugs and drink, she got into some fights in the local bars, which she got away with, and some in Boston, which she didn’t. With Myerscough money, she never did time, even for some serious assaults. But I’m pretty sure she was forced into rehab, into the psych ward, too, but I can’t say for sure.” Judy wiped down the counter. “She seemed to settle down some, and had those two girls. Never got married.”
She hadn’t really settled down, Grace thought. She was still in prison—even if only in h
er mind. “How about her two girls?”
“Well, Carlotta is the only Myerscough who doesn’t seem to be a lunatic. Went to private schools, but she had some local friends. Nice, polite, doesn’t put on airs. But the big one, Lavinia? Depending on the situation, she’s either a super-sized eight-year-old, or the Incredible Hulkette. Par for the Myerscough course.”
“Hulkette?”
Judy poured a cup for herself. “Beat up the New Carfax High quarterback one time. Put him in the hospital for calling her names.”
“I never heard that,” Grace saw her breakfast land in the window.
Judy grabbed it for her and set it on the counter. “Lawyer got her out of it. It wasn’t like a strapping high school senior with his sites on Notre Dame wanted it to get out, if you know what I’m saying. But, hell, have you seen Lavinia? She’s at least six-three, and not gangly by any means.”
Grace thought about what she said and dug into her omelet. Judy’s eyes went wide. Over her shoulder, Grace caught Paisley pushing through the door. She had toned it down today, a simple sheath dress with spider web lace at the collar and sleeves, a choker of silver skulls, thigh-high stockings and knee-high boots.
“Mommy, Mommy, look, a mime!” A little girl at one of the window seats pulled her mother’s sleeve.
Paisley turned to the girl. “I’m not a mime. I hate mimes.”
“Mimes aren’t supposed to talk,” the girl scolded.
“Well, hey, maybe you should be a mime.”
Grace shouted, “Paisley!”
Reluctantly, the goth turned from her battle with the little girl and took a stool. “What’s up for today, boss?”
“I’m not your boss. What are you doing here?”
Her black-and-white features pulled down in confusion. “After all that yesterday, we’re not investigating?”
Grace sliced her fork into her omelet. “I said I was done with that family.”
The Sinister Secrets of the Snake Mirror Page 4
