Chapter 4

FOR THE LAST stop on the tour, we headed to Pearl Thornton’s place, an elegant two-story showplace that had been featured in many magazines. As we approached the house, which was set high on the mountain, the damp, foggy weather lifted. A full moon, like a beacon of hope, cut through the clouds and lit a path to the front door.

The interior of the home was exquisite, with high ceilings and expansive rooms, although the extensive use of the color ecru was a little bland for my taste. The view through the plate-glass windows of the living room matched my father’s view—the twinkling lights of Crystal Cove below and eons of miles of ocean. Beautifully carved jack-o’-lanterns flickered on various antique tables. Glossy black bats hung on clear thread that had been slung between the rafters. Actors dressed as vampires or ghouls moved among us. A red goblin rounded the corner and screeched at a pair of women. The women tittered and fanned themselves.

Similarly to our other stops on the journey, we were invited to take a tour of the house. Pearl acted as guide.

“Let’s start with the kitchen,” she said. “That’s where I’ve set up the bar. We’re serving a Witchy Woman cocktail. Demon rum is the secret ingredient.”

The kitchen was fitted with state-of-the-art appliances, hand-painted tiles, and top-of-the-line granite counters.

Rhett handed me a sugar-rimmed martini glass filled with a frothy, bloodred beverage. “Happy early Halloween.”

“Cheers.” We clinked glasses.

As I took my first sip—the drink was deliciously sweet—the kitchen door leading to the garage opened. A woman in her early twenties stormed through the doorway, her umbrella still open.

Pearl yelled, “Trisha, close that umbrella now! It’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck, Mother?” Unlike her plump mother, Trisha was angular and rangy and had possibly the worst skin I’d ever seen. I couldn’t tell if it was a dietary issue or a nerves thing. Her loose clothing did nothing to enhance her figure. She hoisted her crocheted purse and raggedy backpack higher on her shoulder and pushed her hank of black hair that reminded me of furry yarn away from her face. “I’ve already had twenty-three years of bad luck being your daughter.”

Ouch! The ten or so people in the kitchen gasped.

“What’s up with my cell phone?” Trisha shook the umbrella free of moisture and snapped it closed. “I can’t get the darned thing to turn on. Did you cancel the contract?”

“That’s it, young lady. Into the pantry.” Pearl muscled her daughter into a small room at the far end of the kitchen. Sadly, the room wasn’t far enough away. We could still hear every word the two said.

“You did, didn’t you?” Trisha shouted. “You canceled the contract. How dare you.”

“Your expenses are mounting up,” Pearl responded, her voice raspy with anger.

“I’ve got to live.”

“Within a budget.”

Aunt Vera whispered to me, “Trisha is taking a year off between college and grad school. She goes to UCSC, her father’s alma mater.” UC Santa Cruz, a branch of the University of California, was situated in Santa Cruz, a short hop north of Crystal Cove.

“Is Pearl paying all her expenses?”

“It would seem so.”

“That’s pretty gracious.”

“You and your budgets,” Trisha continued, her voice shrill and unkind. “Why don’t you admit what’s really irking you? It’s my boyfriend. You don’t approve of him. I heard you talking to Bingo when she was over the other day. You called him a lab rat.”

Pearl said, “I never said that.”

My aunt and I peeked at Bingo, who flushed red, confirming that Pearl had, indeed, said that. Oops.

“Daddy liked him, Mother,” Trisha countered.

“Your father is no longer alive.”

“Because you drove him to his grave.” Pearl’s husband, a respected geologist, met an early demise. Thanks to foggy conditions, he accidentally drove off a cliff. “You and your witches and your crazy people, and your—”

“That’s enough. Hush.”

“Or what, you’ll cut me off completely? You’ve been threatening to do that ever since I moved home. I want my phone turned on, Mother. Do you hear me? Sean has to be able to get hold of me.”

Bingo cleared her throat and waved a hand at the gawking crowd in the kitchen. “Ahem, everyone. Let’s not eavesdrop any longer. Let’s convene in the den.”

Aunt Vera latched onto Rhett’s and my elbows. “What a shame,” she said as she accompanied us from the room. “Privacy is so hard to preserve.”

The crowd followed us into what turned out to be not just a den but also a grandiose display room. I’d heard of the Thornton Collection, but I had no idea of the collection’s vastness. Glass cabinets lined the walls. Each was internally lit, the lights illuminating large irregularly shaped masses of rocks and minerals. A small placard identified each: azurite from Arizona, topaz from Russia, hematite from Switzerland. Among the mix were a number of large gray rocks called Thorntonite, named after Pearl’s husband, Thomas Thornton, who discovered the rock a mere week before he died. Where the specimen had come from was anyone’s guess. His last trek had taken him from Yosemite all the way to Mt. McKinley.

The pièce de résistance of the Thornton Collection, a large blob about the size of a tennis ball of grayish indigo stone, stood inside a glass box mounted on a pedestal at the center of the room. Its placard read: rough sapphire, Kashmir. What quality of gem lay hidden inside the blob had to be worth millions. A half-carat cut sapphire ran in the neighborhood of eight hundred dollars. My husband had wanted to buy me a sapphire for my thirtieth birthday. We’d laughed out loud when we heard of the sale of a twenty-two-carat sapphire going at auction at Christie’s for over three million dollars. Of such dreams are memories made.

“Wow,” I uttered under my breath and moved closer for a better look.

“Copy that,” Rhett said.

“Ditto.” Maya, who had closed The Enchanted Garden and joined the rest of the Winsome Witches for the party, drew near. “Can you imagine how many hours it would take to polish that stone?”

Emma said, “The veterinarian I assist would give an arm and a leg to get her hands on some of the shavings.”

“Shavings?” I said.

“When a stone is polished, it leaves shavings,” Emma explained. “Sapphire, if worn or ingested, has been credited with the ability to cure all sorts of mental and physical conditions.”

I said, “But the shavings wouldn’t help, would they? Doesn’t it have to be the stone itself?”

“Maya, do you know?” Emma said. “Aren’t all aspects of minerals used in New Age concoctions?”

“I don’t know for certain, sugar. I work mostly with herbs.”

Emma nodded. “Yes, all aspects. I’m positive. My husband told me so. I’ve seen something like that mentioned in articles, too. At the library and online. Have you heard of Paradigm Solutions and Aquarius Awareness? Wonderful e-zines. I like to stay current, don’t you?” Like I said, Emma could talk up a storm. “Some pundits say stones are magical, right, Maya?”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “People believe what they want to believe.”

I grinned. “Which means we will never know whether they work or whether it’s a person’s mind doing the healing.”

Rhett elbowed me and whispered, “Don’t be a cynic.”

Pearl joined the group. She looked teary-eyed. Her cheeks were flushed. I gazed past her for signs of her daughter, but Trisha was not to be seen. Everyone welcomed Pearl, and then she joined the conversation, acting as if nothing untoward had happened. “I see you’re admiring the sapphire. Thomas was so proud of that find. He discovered it on a trek through the northernmost part of India.”

“It’s certainly not for every woman’s budget,” I joked.

“I have an amethyst necklace,” Emma said. “My husband gave it to me. Amethyst is supposed to stimulate psychic intuition.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Aunt Vera said.

Pearl frowned. “Hogwash.”

“It’s true. Amethyst has healing properties,” Emma went on. “In Greek folklore, the story goes that the god of wine—”

“Bacchus,” Maya chimed in.

Emma nodded. “Bacchus was mad at humans. But the goddess Diana intervened and turned a young woman into amethyst to protect her. Bacchus, realizing his evil, cried, and the stone turned purple from his tears. Isn’t that romantic?”

“My, my,” Pearl said. “Aren’t you being emotive?”

“Don’t be dismissive, Pearl,” Maya said. “Many of our superstitions come from folklore. I noticed you have all the chairs on your patio facing the ocean. Why is that? Feng shui?”

Pearl said, “Uh, because the sun sets in the west, Maya.”

A cat yowled. A woman swore. Then a calico darted into the room and raced around in a circle, gazing upward as if searching for its owner. Trisha stomped in after the cat, a tall glass of something amber-colored in her hand. “Darned nuisance. I’ve told you to bell the cat, Mother.”

Emma clicked her tongue as a cue. The calico darted to her and leaped into her arms.

“Are you telling your guests how much everything costs, Mother?” Trisha continued. “Are you lording it over them like you lord it over me?”

“Trisha, please.”

“Hey, everyone.” Trisha tapped her glass with her stubby fingernails to get the crowd’s attention. “Did my mother tell you she has been approached by at least a dozen museums asking her to donate the Thornton Collection? No? She hasn’t? Surprise, surprise. Did she tell you that she won’t give it up? Not even a sliver. She claims my father wouldn’t have wanted her to. But he did.”

“He did not,” Pearl snapped.

“Yes, he did, Mother. He told me the night before he died that the rocks he hoarded were evil.”

“You’re lying.”

Trisha whirled around, her backpack swinging to and fro with the quick move, and glared at Maya. “You think they’re evil, too.”

Maya recoiled. “No.”

“Yes. I saw you at the history museum. Two months ago. You were with a little boy. Sandy hair, freckled cheeks. He was tugging you toward the rock room. That’s what he called it. But you wouldn’t let him enter.”

Maya glanced from Pearl to the rest of us. She looked helpless. “My nephew,” she conceded.

“Why didn’t you want to go in?” Trisha sneered. “I’ll tell you why. Because rocks are evil, that’s why. You know it. I know it.”

Maya shook her head. “He was being a brat. I don’t think they’re evil. I—”

“In the end,” Trisha interrupted, “my father believed the old saying, Ashes to ashes. What belonged to the earth should return to the earth. He wanted to get rid of the whole thing.”

Pearl sniffed. “He never said that.”

“Yes, he did. I told you, Mother, he confided in me. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you and he were not close. This is a fairy tale you’ve made up in your mind. You miss your father and want to believe that he held the same beliefs you did. He didn’t.”

Tears sprang to Trisha’s eyes. She pointed an accusatory finger at Pearl. “Why do you keep them, Mother?”

“Because it’s all I have left of him.”

“Wrong. You have me, but I guess that’s not enough.” Trisha jutted her chin. “If you sold these collections and that ugly hunk of rock”—she pointed to the rough sapphire—“you could donate the money to charity or research. Heck, you could probably add an entire geology wing at UCSC. You’d even have enough to fund libraries across the country,” Trisha persisted. “But you won’t because you’re selfish.”

“Enough.” Pearl clapped her hands. “I know your endgame, young lady. You want the money for yourself. Well, you can’t have it. You are no longer welcome in this house. Leave.”

Trisha slammed her beverage glass on the display case. “Over my dead body.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Witch,” Trisha muttered—or something very close to that—as she stomped out of the room.

Bingo hurried to Pearl and offered her arm. Pearl clutched it like a lifeline. Bingo said, “Why don’t we head outside? The moon is full, the weather temperate. It’s time for the Welcoming.”

The crowd murmured its relief. One of the guests lit the fire that was preset in the fire pit centered in the all-brick patio. Flames curled toward the sky in a plume.

Pearl, as the High Priestess of the Winsome Witches, took up a position on the opposite side of the fire. With the darkening ocean as her backdrop, she said, “Good evening to all. It is time to induct Emma into the fold. Put on your hats if you have removed them.”

Everyone obeyed.

Rhett leaned into me. “I didn’t think I was allowed to stay for this moment.”

“Remember, they’re not real witches. My aunt told me the ceremony is as harmless as bridging from a Girl Scout Brownie to a Junior. You have sisters. You must know what I mean.”

He held up three fingers and started to recite the Girl Scout promise: “On my honor—”

I laid a finger across his mouth to quiet him. He kissed it and a zing of passion ran straight to my toes.

“Emma, come forward,” Pearl said.

Emma, with her scarlet witch hat slightly atilt and her eyes glowing with excitement, hurried to Pearl. After righting Emma’s hat, Pearl patted Emma’s cheek.

“What makes a woman a Winsome Witch?” Pearl asked the throng. She didn’t wait for a response. “We seek balance and harmony. We seek to help others. We use our kinship to brighten this world. We are fire, we are energy, and we are all things positive. We welcome you, Emma Wright, as the newest member of the Winsome Witches. Do you accept this honor?”

“Aye,” Emma gushed.

“You will be my handmaiden for the next year.” A handmaiden, Aunt Vera had told me, helped the High Priestess in all ritual purposes. Each year’s new inductee—and there was only one—assumed the responsibility. “Are you prepared to take on such a task?”

“Aye.”

“Then welcome, Emma Wright, into our family.”

The crowd applauded, and Pearl handed Emma a gold box wrapped with a gold bow. The pair exchanged a few quiet words, and then Emma moved toward me.

I stopped her and said, “Is your husband here to celebrate?”

Emma blanched. “Um, no, he . . . he . . .” She seemed panicked and unable to form a sentence.

I felt the urge to steady her but held back. Maybe she was overstimulated from the ceremony. “What happened? Couldn’t he break free from work?” I asked.

“Not exactly. He—” She shuddered. “He said he wouldn’t be caught dead in the presence of witches.”

*   *   *

WHEN I ARRIVED home, I was wound tighter than a top. The evening’s affairs that had included the spooked Boots, the trio of black cats, the anxious calico, and me almost walking beneath a ladder—well, scaffolding—not to mention the raw emotions pouring out of Trisha, and finally, the dread that Emma displayed following her induction, had set me off. Sleep was out of the question for at least an hour.

I cuddled Tigger, freshened his water bowl, and ogled the empty antique bookcase I had purchased last week. Way back when I was eight years old and had needed to stay home sick with the flu, I became an avid reader. I read the entire set of Nancy Drew novels that week, and even though I couldn’t cook, I devoured The Nancy Drew Cookbook: Clues to Good Cooking, too. How could I resist? I graduated to The Chronicles of Narnia, and then, thanks to Bailey’s mother who was a devout reader herself, I discovered books like The Secret Garden, The Yearling, Black Beauty, and more. Over the years, I bought and saved my favorite titles, but when David and I married, because he liked to live in a sparse environment that didn’t attract dust, I packed up my books and stored them. It was time to put them on display.

The cottage I lived in was like a bachelor apartment with a tiny kitchen at one end, a living space complete with fireplace in the middle, and a bedroom setup at the other end, lovingly decorated by my aunt with the addition of a Chinese cabinet I’d brought with me . . . and now the bookcase. I fetched the boxes filled with books that I had stowed on the far side of the brass bed.

“No time like the present.” Tigger scampered to me as if he were going to help. “Back up, little buddy,” I said. “I don’t want you getting bonked with a hardback.” I arranged the books in alphabetical order by title, not author: The Giver, Gone with the Wind, The Grapes of Wrath, To Kill a Mockingbird, Old Yeller, White Fang. I managed about thirty books on each shelf. At the bottom of the case, I set up the array of adult cookbooks I was amassing, including titles by celebrity chefs like Flay, Garten, and Bourdain.

As I was placing the last grouping of cookbooks on the shelf, I paused. The Betty Crocker Halloween Cookbook, which had an adorable purple cover adorned with pumpkins, black cats, and foodie pictures, made me think of the Halloween party I’d offered to throw. Now, as the hour neared midnight, I wondered what had possessed me to suggest such a ridiculous thing. Me? Hostess a party? Gack. Sure, I had been practicing in the kitchen, but I wasn’t a cook. Would my friends and family mind if I changed the menu to potluck?

My pulse began to race. Get a grip, Jenna. You can do this.

I opened the cookbook and reviewed the table of contents. Each section sounded so fun: Bewitching Bites and Drinks and Mystifying Main Dishes. Some of the recipes, most accompanied by photographs, made me laugh out loud: Wart-Topped Quesadilla Wedges, a Brie jack-o’-lantern, and Bugs in a Blanket. There was even a section for planning the party, complete with hints on how to decorate the table. After a few minutes, my heart rate settled back to normal; I could do this.

Divining a menu might be a good idea; beverages first. A memory from college came back to me, and I started to giggle. I remembered attending a frat party. As a few of my dorm mates and I entered, a guy dressed in a toga handed us oranges and Sharpie pens. We were supposed to draw a face on our oranges, like you would a pumpkin, and then, using a flavor injector that looked like a syringe, we were told to insert a shot’s worth of vodka into the fruit. While we obeyed, Toga Guy gave us a lecture about hypodermics. He explained that the first hypodermic involved animal bladders and goose quills. One of my pals heaved. Though I would forgo the history lesson at my party, I decided that something whimsical like funny-faced, liquor-infused oranges would be fun.

I switched on my computer and did a search for food injectors. I found one that was quite stylish with a green handle. I purchased a few so we would be able to offer them for sale in the store. Next, I considered the main course. I tracked down a recipe for turkey basted with maple syrup. Yum, I thought, until I read through the ingredients. Over fifteen. Yipes. And the steps were complicated. I started to perspire, but rather than go berserk, I did the rational thing. Just as I would when preparing for a new ad campaign, I wrote a list, or in this case, an industrious menu. It consisted of seven courses. I paused, crossed off two items, and settled on five. Next, I made a shopping list, which by the end—heart be still—seemed to be as long as my arm.

More deep breaths.

I folded the list and stowed it in my purse and suddenly felt better. Stronger. Nearly confident. I could pull off this party. I could.

When I went to sleep, the spooky events of the night were all but erased from my memory.

However, at 6:04 A.M. Wednesday morning, when the telephone jangled, I bolted to a sitting position in my bed. Tigger awoke, too, and bounded from my feet to my chin in two seconds flat. He kneaded my arm.

“Stop. Off, kitty.” With my heart hammering my rib cage, I switched on a light and snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

“Jenna, darling. It’s so . . . oh, dear—” Aunt Vera’s voice cut out. The line crackled with static. “She’s—” Aunt Vera gasped. She sounded freaked out. “Bingo—” More static. “She’s dead.”