Chapter 14

The Historic district in Waterford was a five-block radius of Victorian homes that boasted all of the best clichés: stained glass windows, pointed gables, and colors you’d rarely find outside an extra-large crayon box. The who’s-who of Waterford resided in the Historic district, whether in the quaint and quirky shops or their own well-kept homes.

I loved to visit because some of my favorite shops were there. But what usually dragged me into town on a Monday afternoon was work.

Waterford happened to be a tourist town: the kind of northern beauty that drew people from cities due south, especially in the summer and at holidays. With such a rotating door of new blood, quirky stores popped up left and right.

Andromeda’s Antiques was one of those beautiful homes that had quietly decomposed uninterrupted for years before it was auctioned and sold to Andromeda Casey for a mere five thousand dollars. It sat on one of the nicest street corners in downtown Waterford with doors that opened to two cross-streets and flower gardens to rival the most professional of nurseries. These days, you wouldn’t even know the three-story, pale pink house had ever been on the verge of being condemned. Of course, I hadn’t moved to Waterford yet when Andy bought and renovated the place; it was already pretty as a picture when I arrived.

I parked on the street and gathered my laundry basket of goodies from the backseat. It was a warm, windy day that smelled like sunshine and salt. I’d hated having to say goodbye to Sarah and Tierney to travel into town. I was glad I’d worn my short denim skirt and favorite lacy white tank top, though. There was just something magickal about the wind on my bare skin.

I couldn’t help but glance at the last of the fallen Victorians. All the houses on the street had been bought and slowly brought back to life, except for one. It sat to the left of Andy’s place: dark windows, peeling paint gray with time, broken windows boarded up. There were legends swirling about the place being haunted, but I guess that happened to any house that fell to ruin. I shivered, trying not to be intimidated by the way the house seemed to watch me.

The heavy wooden door at Andy’s was propped open by a gorgeous red witch ball on a sturdy concrete base. I smiled, watching my miniature, distorted reflection float across the red surface as I passed. Witch balls were hollow glass spheres meant to protect a household from evil witches, evil spirits, and ill intentions. An Americanized version became popular in nineteenth century gardens, but what set Andy’s apart as a true eighteenth century witch ball were the tiny fibrous strands visible inside. Folk practices suggested evil spirits would be drawn by the bright colors, and then they’d become tangled in the strands inside, effectively caging the evil spirit. Despite the fact they were once meant to capture witches, I adored the protective quality of the witch ball today. I liked to see magick being used by everyone.

Just inside the door, I was announced by the tinkling of a bell.

Andy dealt mainly in antiques. Her store was three floors of old furniture, trunks, and racks of vintage clothing and accessories. If it was old, Andy probably sold it.

But she kept a shelving unit near the cash register for things she considered “pretty.” Like my wares.

Andy peeked over the glass display counter. When she saw it was me, she broke into a lovely smile. “Mena! So fabulous to see you, dear. Did you bring me presents?”

“Hi, Andy,” I said, leaning to give her a kiss on the cheek as I set the basket on the counter. “I did.”

Andromeda Casey reminded me of my late grandmother. She had a long, snow-white braid and dancing green eyes. Her skin was pale and freckled, from her nose to the backs of her hands. Andy usually dressed her plump, womanly body in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, but today she wore a simple black dress.

Her shop was just as earthy as she was. It sprawled the length of the first floor, knickknacks and furniture tucked into every nook and cranny including the fireplace and windowsills. The crowded nature of the shop should have felt awkward, but instead it was homey. The windows were tall and the glass that wavy, distorted kind common in pre-Civil War homes. Dark red walls with plaster molding and brand new hardwood floors rounded out the Victorian look.

Andy wiped her hands on the frilly pink apron she wore over her dress before digging into the basket. “Oh, you know I love these,” she said, pulling out the five sage wreaths and laying them on the glass. “I just adore how you make them all look so different. What’s this one — sage and chamomile flowers?”

“You’re getting better!” I teased. I reached in and pulled out a couple of the pressed flower tiles. “These are new. What do you think?”

Each tile was earth-toned: beige, tan, brown, clay red, or green. Affixed to each was either a small bouquet or a single sprig of dried flowers from my garden, lacquered flat. Hung in groups or singly, I thought they made lovely decorations for the walls. I already had my favorites hanging in the living room at home. Whether Andy would like them or not was another story.

I held my breath, waiting for her response.

“Oh, Mena, they’re gorgeous. You’re so crafty.” Andy clucked as she ran her fingers over a dainty purple sage flower. “Could I pay extra for sole rights to these?”

“Of course.” Inwardly, I rejoiced. Ramona, my other main client, had paid for sole rights to certain products before, but Andy had never expressed interest. This was major.

“And unfortunately, I’ve yet to sell out on a couple of these dried herbs.” Andy touched the cluster of Mason jars in the corner of my basket. “Do you think Ramona will have room for them in her shop?”

“I’m sure she will, Andy. Don’t bother yourself over it. You both do so much for me.” I pulled out my invoice pad and began tallying up the items she had chosen.

“Oh, and are you carting around milk and eggs today, love? I need to buy some from you, if you have extras.”

“I do,” I told her with a smile. I gestured to her dress with my pen and returned to my calculations. “Why are you all dressed up? It’s weird to see you in something other than blue jeans.”

Andy shook her head, tsking. “Just another friend’s passing, Mena. When you get to be my age, you watch them fall like dominoes.”

“Oh, Andy.” I frowned and put down my pen. I walked around the counter to wrap her in a hug. She smelled like baby powder. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, no, Mena. Just say a prayer for me, and give me some of your yummy milk and eggs. That will make an old woman happy.”

As Andy counted out what she owed me, I noticed the bubble-shaped television behind her was set to the local news channel. It’d been quite a few days since I’d watched the news at Sarah’s house, so I read the scroll at the bottom of the screen to catch up.

Suddenly, a headline flashed beneath the grim-faced anchorman: Local woman found dead, eight-months pregnant.

“Andy, could you turn that up, please?” I asked, heart rate accelerating. No. Please, no.

Andy turned around and hit the button on the bottom of the screen.

“Around 11:00 a.m. this morning, authorities report the body of twenty-eight-year-old Justine Montgomery was found in Haverton Cemetery just outside of Gables.” A color photo flashed on the screen, a face I recognized from my simple candle spell. The screen shifted back to the newsroom. “Police aren’t releasing any further information at this time, pending investigation, but it is possible Montgomery’s death is tied to the Boston and Portland ‘Mother Murders.’”

The anchor thanked the reporter, and they moved on to the next segment. Andy looked at me. “Did you know her, hon?”

I shook my head, my heart somewhere in the pit of my stomach. “No, but Sarah did. I need to make a phone call.”

*

I sat behind the wheel and stared at my cell phone. I wasn’t sure how close Sarah had been to Justine Montgomery, but she had such a big heart, and she’d really taken to that group. And the strength of their bond during the spell… Damn it. Being the bearer of bad news — if she hadn’t already heard it — was not what I wanted to do with my day.

She answered on the third ring, but I could barely hear her over the background noise. “Hello? Mena?”

“Hey, where are you?” I asked, holding the phone away from my ear before it deafened me. I’d left her at my house not an hour ago.

“I just got to Gables. I’m with Justine’s mom.” Her voice was flat and unhappy. “Did you hear?”

“I did.”

“I’ll come over later.”

We said goodbye, and I ended the call. I just couldn’t imagine. I didn’t want Justine’s death to be tied to a serial killer that should have been a hundred miles away from us. Could Justine have killed herself? Goddess forbid. How could any mother murder her unborn child only weeks before birth?

But if her husband was right, and she hadn’t left of her own free will, that only left one other option: The Mother. That was a reality I didn’t want to face.