From Brigit’s Journal:
One thing I’ll say about my home and my village: Blood binds. If I was hurting, my parents gave me solace. If I was hungry, they fed me. Even if they didn’t agree with all of my choices, not once did my father ever turn on me and browbeat me with shame. My mother would never have stood for such a thing. How can parents act like that? How can they treat their children as pawns in a war of social niceties?
Oh, I suppose it happened at home, too, but we were never rich, and so never saw such a thing among our friends. Some days, I think I should just pack and leave without a word. Go home, make what life I can for myself there. And then I think… what’s left for me? William is gone, as are my Ma and Da… but still… the village was so lovely, and I miss it so much.
By the time Joe got home from the lawyer’s office, I’d packed a load of clothes into the washer, picked up enough of the clutter from the living room so I could vacuum, baked two batches of frozen chocolate chip cookies, and scrubbed the counters and all the other small appliances. I was sitting at the table, my second triple-shot mocha close at hand, reading through Brigit’s diary when Joe popped through the kitchen door. He didn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, setting aside the journal.
He leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek, then slipped into the opposite chair and sighed. “What’s wrong? I no longer have any claim to the lot next door, that’s what’s wrong. This sucks. I can’t believe that her lawyer made such a stupid mistake.”
“What are you talking about?” I leaned my elbows on the table.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Apparently Irena Finch misunderstood which parcel I was talking about. I gather she owns several houses and lots around town. Her lawyer said that she can’t proceed with the sale since she and her brother jointly own the lot next door.”
“And he has a problem with selling the land?”
“Apparently so. He lives in Europe, so I can’t just run over to talk to him about it, either.”
Great. Joint ownership could cause massive headaches when the two parties didn’t agree. I’d forced Roy to buy me out of the house that we’d owned together since I didn’t want to keep it and he didn’t want to sell.
“And she has to have his permission?”
“Yeah.” Joe sighed. “Their parents left a stipulation that neither can sell the land without permission from the other. And for some reason, Brent Brunswick won’t agree.” He leaned back and picked up a cookie, toying with it as he stared at the table. “So that effectively screws me over. After all the work I did clearing it. Irena wasn’t too happy to hear about that part, either. I guess she doesn’t like the idea of the foundation being open. Maybe she’s afraid somebody will fall in and sue her.”
“Maybe. Or it could be something else she’s worried about,” I said, thinking about the reddish stains Murray and I’d found. Animal blood? Possibly, but something in my gut told me otherwise. “Well, I’ve got some more news to add to yours.” I told him about the ghost cat and our suspicions.
“Blood stains? Human?”
“Murray doesn’t know yet. She’s having them analyzed. I’m telling you, something happened over there, and whatever it is, it’s been hidden for almost fifty years.”
Joe reached for the journal. “What’s this? You’re reading it? Anything interesting?”
I shrugged. “She goes around and around, never saying anything directly, but from what I can gather, there was something wrong that—if the Brunswicks found out—they’d be terribly upset over. She missed her home, and wanted to go back, but her parents were dead… and someone she refers to as her ‘sweet William.’ And her cat was named Mab—I know that much.”
“Your ghost cat?”
I nodded. “Yes. Mab was a faerie queen, which ties in with the Will o’ the Wisps.”
“Did Brigit ever make it back to Ireland?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve glanced through a few entries but haven’t read the entire diary yet.”
Joe sighed. “My idea to dig up the brambles started all this, didn’t it?”
I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head. “Not started. No, whatever’s going on was set in motion long before we came along. But I think our activity sparked the catalyst that awakened the corpse candles from their dormant state. Or maybe the ghosts and the Will o’ the Wisps were always there—just hidden away in the basement beneath the vines, never peeking out into the light. Whatever the case, there’s no going back. Whether or not you own the land, we have to do something to stop the energy before it spills over into my yard.”
“What have you got in mind? An exorcism?”
“No, not yet.” Maeve’s cautions were still fresh in my mind. “I don’t know enough about what went on in order to do that. I could make matters worse. And with this new development—the blood stains, if that’s what they are—then we may have other factors to consider.”
Joe took my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Do you think somebody was murdered there?” he asked.
I’d had quite enough of murder, whether it was in the past or the present. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that a violent death had been involved. I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I haven’t got any desire to tune in and find out. Suppose we wait and see what Murray has to say? Meanwhile, how’s your arm?”
He rolled up his sleeve. The bruise was brilliant purple and yellow, and the lacerations were beginning to heal. “It’ll be okay.”
The buzzer in the pantry sounded and I pulled the clothes out of the dryer. We sat at the table, folding clothes in silence, then I brought out one of the leftover sandwiches that I’d saved from lunch. “Eat, you need it.”
“You know, I think I’ll pay a visit to Irena’s lawyer this afternoon. My lawyer doesn’t want me to; he said that it’s best to avoid pressuring them, but I can’t just sit here.” He grabbed the sandwich, downed a glass of milk, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and took off out the front door.
As I watched him pull out of the driveway, I realized how easy it was having him here. At first, I’d been afraid of losing my privacy, of losing myself in the relationship. But Joe fit into my life in a way that I thought no one ever would. He meshed without intruding. He worked with us rather than trying to take over. Slowly, my resistance had faded and now it was hard to imagine life without him.
Brushing away thoughts of murder and ghosts and dangerous faeries, I retreated upstairs to put away the clothes. Then, grabbing my keys, I headed for the animal shelter. Almost eleven months ago, I’d walked into the building and come face-to-face with Sammy and her babies. They stared out of the cage at me, so hopeful, and I knew I couldn’t leave without them. Even though I knew she was alive, I didn’t know where she was—and one thing Nanna always taught me: Always do the practical, before you trust the magical.
I wandered through the line of meowing cats, my heart aching. One calico, in particular, caught my eye. A Persian, her scrunched-in face was so sweet that I almost broke down and took her home. She reached from between the bars of her cage and lightly pawed at my hand. I glanced at the volunteer who was cleaning out cages.
“They’re all so wonderful. I hate working here, but somebody has to do it.” She poured litter into a pan and set it back in with a little black shorthair who tried to engage her in a game of bat-bat.
I nodded, unable to say a word. A thorough check of every cage provided no sign of Samantha and, heavy-hearted, I headed home, stopping to pick up a couple of movies that the kids had wanted to see. I knew they’d have a hard time with the news that Sammy wasn’t back yet, and the least I could do was distract them the best I could.
By the time that Joe got home again, Miranda and Kip had persuaded me that, since we were watching movies, we should also order pizza. Since Joe had joined the household, we’d been eating a lot more home-cooked meals but for tonight, I gave in and called the Pizza Shack. I’d just hung up the phone when Joe walked through the door.
“Pizza okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “What toppings?”
“Pepperoni and extra cheese on one, Canadian bacon and pineapple on the other. How’d the meeting go?”
“Not too great,” he said. “He couldn’t tell me any more than my lawyer. They’re drafting out a check to return my down payment and earnest money. I won’t lose anything on the deal except the time spent. In fact, I gather Irena instructed her lawyer to give me an extra thousand dollars for work done on the lot, but they’re serious about us keeping off the place. Her lawyer said they’re bringing in an excavator to fill the foundation and bury it for good next week.”
“That’s odd, very odd.” Something wasn’t tracking right, but I couldn’t place it. I shook it off and plugged a movie into the DVD player, hoping that the kids would be able to relax. Both had been visibly depressed when I told them that I hadn’t found Sammy at the animal shelter.
By the time nine o’clock came around, everybody in the house was ready for bed. Joe and I had just snuggled down to some seriously good foreplay when a yell echoed from the hall. I leapt out of bed, grabbed on my robe, and raced out to find Kip standing outside his door, staring into his room.
“What on earth’s wrong?” I checked to make sure he was okay, but he seemed unhurt.
“I thought I saw Sammy in my room, but she vanished! Is Sammy dead? Was that her spirit?”
I sighed as Joe, dressed in pajamas and a robe, joined us. Leading Kip back to his bed, I sat next to him. He rubbed his eyes as Randa peeked in to see what the fuss was about.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “Okay, kiddos, I wanted to wait, but I guess I’d better tell you now.” They settled down to listen. “Two ghosts have moved in next door. A woman and her cat.” I turned to Kip. “Randa saw the woman’s ghost, by her bed. Anyway, the ghost cat looks a lot like our Sammy.”
“But it’s not her?” Kip asked. I could hear the fear in his voice.
“No, baby. It’s not Sammy, that much I can tell you.”
“How can we tell whether what we see is the ghost or really Samantha?” Randa asked.
“Good question. From a distance, it’s hard to tell the difference. But up close you’ll notice that her paws are different and her eyes are topaz, not green.” I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got a picture downstairs. The woman’s name was Brigit, and the cat was hers.” Of course, they had to see so we all trooped down to the kitchen where I showed them Brigit’s photograph.
Miranda held it for a while, looking softly at the photo. “That’s the lady who was by my bed. Can I look at her journal?”
I silently handed the diary to Randa.
Kip stared at the photograph. “That’s the cat I saw. The lady was pretty.”
“I bet she was in love, wasn’t she?” Randa said, flipping through the pages. “She missed somebody, right?”
I jerked my head up. “We think so. How did you know that?”
She shrugged, twirling the end of her hair around her finger. “I dunno… just a feeling. May I read the journal?”
I hadn’t seen anything remotely objectionable in my perusal. “I suppose, but don’t lose it or take it out of the house,” I said. Carrying the half-century-old volume, she started for the stairs, mumbling under her breath. “What did you say?” I asked.
Without turning around, she said, “I just said that I thought she looks like a damsel in distress. You know, like in the old days with knights and ladies-in-waiting, when everything was still romantic.”
And then, my precocious, logical daughter raced upstairs to bed, leaving me speechless. I took a deep breath, wondering what had come over her. She was usually so focused on her astronomy that I found her new dreaminess disconcerting at best.
Kip took another look at the photograph, then handed it back. “Is the lady ghost dangerous?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so, honey. I don’t even know if she’s what we usually think of as a ghost. We might be seeing an image of something that happened in the past, like a filmstrip from an old movie.”
He thought for a moment, then bounded off to bed. I turned to Joe and gave him a wistful look. Ghosts and poetry and murals. Randa was right. This was the stuff romance was made of, even when it got a little spooky. He seemed to sense my mood because he held out his hand and led me to the bedroom, where our passion overrode our weariness and we finished our lovemaking in a frenzied burst of energy.
Joe wandered in while I finished toasting the waffles. He set the table as the kids dragged themselves downstairs. We gathered around, nobody saying very much. After a moment, I remembered to ask Randa about her visit to Gunner.
She shrugged. “He’s pretty depressed. His folks are still in intensive care and the doctors say that even if they make it through, they’ll take a long time to heal. They both are going to need a lot of plastic surgery. I bought a big bouquet of chrysanthemums and roses with the money you gave me. Gunner sends his thanks.”
Poor kid. He was probably scared as hell. “Would you like to invite him over for dinner? It might do him some good to get out for a bit.”
She brightened. “Yeah, in a day or so. Thanks, Mom.” She wiped her mouth neatly on her napkin and then pushed her chair back. “I need to get to class early. I’ve got a science experiment I want to check on.”
Grateful to hear the enthusiasm in her voice, I waved her off. Maybe she wasn’t entering that mopey, angst-ridden phase all girls seem to go through when they discovered boys. At least, I hoped not.
“Okay, but come home right after school. I’m making an early dinner.”
She grabbed her pack and ran out the door. Kip followed more slowly, turning back to plead, “Could you call me at school if Sammy comes home?”
He looked so forlorn that I swept him into my arms and gave him a tight hug. “Sure thing, kiddo. Now off to school, and please try not to worry.”
Joe polished off the last of his waffles. “I should go down and check on things at the station. What are you planning for the day?”
I shrugged. “I guess I’ll head out to the shop for a bit.” Truth was, I was getting bored of being at home 24/7. The stress from coping with the spirits and Samantha’s disappearance didn’t make playing house very appealing.
Joe vanished with a kiss and a wave. I gathered my purse and keys and headed out the door. By the time I reached the Chintz ’n China, Cinnamon was just opening shop. She seemed surprised, but happy, to see me.
“Emerald! What are you doing here? You’re still on vacation.”
I grinned. “Maybe not. Plans are falling apart. I thought I’d drop down and take a gander at how things are going.”
Going, they were. Business was brisk and I was impressed by how smoothly Cinnamon and Lana were running the shop. Of course, there were things they couldn’t tend to but overall, they were doing a good job. I headed for my office to spend an hour or so catching up on paperwork. Twenty minutes in, my cell phone rang. It was Harlow.
“I’ve got the information you wanted about the Brunswicks. Do you want me to run it on over?” She sounded excited and I could sense that she’d found something that wasn’t quite so run-of-the-mill.
“Can you bring it down to the shop? That’s where I’m at right now.”
“Do you mind if I bring Eileen?”
“Mind? Why should I mind? Bring my goddess-daughter down here so I can spoil her.”
Harlow had recently discovered New Age philosophy. I had the feeling it was her way of compensating for all the psychic work that Murray and I did together, but wasn’t about to say so. It made her happy, and so far, there was no harm in it. She’d joined a local women’s empowerment group, and therefore, I had a goddess-daughter instead of a goddaughter. Made no difference to me, as long as I got to see her.
We made plans to meet at lunchtime and I went back to my inventory and invoices. The Abbotshire China Company was offering several seasonal teapots and I wanted to order a few Christmas-themed ones. I knew they’d sell; the craftsmanship was high quality. I also needed to restock water biscuits, lemon curd, marmalade, and chocolates that we ordered from a London-based supplier. After that I should call Beatrice MacAlvy, a local candy maker, and place an order for Christmas mints and handmade candy canes.
I sighed as I stared at the ever-growing to-do list and added a note to restock all the regular teas and jellies and cookies, and to pay the insurance. It was almost noon by the time I finished making phone calls and had worked my way through the pile of invoices and accounts. I sat back, satisfied. After lunch with Harlow, I’d take off for home, but right now, the work felt good.
Cinnamon was busy with Farrah Warnoff, one of our regulars, who was trying to decide between a plain pumpkin teapot or a jack-o’-lantern teapot.
“Who’s it for?” I asked, stepping in.
She gave me a helpless smile. “My niece. Mandy turns thirteen next week, and I have no idea which she’d prefer.”
I thought about Miranda, who had always been a little older than her years. “Pumpkin,” I said. “That way, she can use it year-round.”
Farrah grinned. “What would we do without you?” She selected a handful of teas—maple, cranberry, and a new cinnamon-pear flavor that had just arrived, and Cinnamon packaged her order and gift wrapped it for her.
My work done, I headed into the alcove that nestled our tearoom and staked out the staff’s table. Larry had delivered two types of soup—chicken noodle and pumpkin—along with sandwiches befitting the season. I dished up a big bowl of chicken soup and thumbed through the sandwiches until I found a pastrami on rye. I’d had just settled in when Harlow strode through the door, all five-foot-ten of her.
Her hair gleamed in golden cornrows that hung down to her shoulders, and her flawless lips broadened into a huge smile. She carried a Louis Vuitton handbag in one hand, a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, and was pushing a snazzy stroller. Little Eileen, just two months old and bundled up like a butterball, snoozed away in the seat. Harl had already lost every ounce of pregnancy fat, but I had the feeling she would never return to her pre-pregnancy gauntness. Her curves were in all the right places, and while before she had been a beauty, now she was stunning.
She parked the stroller next to me and hurried over to the counter, where she asked Lana to bring her a bowl of pumpkin soup and a turkey on whole wheat. By the time she returned, I was engrossed in a staring match with the sleeping Eileen. A real cutie, all right. Harl had given her Randa’s middle name, an honor and a gift, considering that Randa had helped her deliver the baby on my kitchen floor.
Harl plunked herself down in the chair and began to nibble on her sandwich. “I’m beat. We’ve been shopping for the past two hours. Eileen is such a good girl—she didn’t fuss at all. But I think this motherhood stuff is taking more out of me than I want to admit. I need a nap and I still have to work out today. And my feet are swollen—that ticks me off.” She held out one foot and I saw that the narrow Prada shoe was playing tight squeeze today. Like most tall, thin women, Harlow had long narrow feet and could pull off the designer look without a hitch.
I grinned. “Lily helping any?” Lily was Harlow’s baby nurse. It would have been nice to have a baby nurse when my two were young, but those days were long ago and far away, thank heaven.
“Oh, yeah. I’m just worn out.”
“I remember that bone-weary tiredness,” I said. “You never forget it.”
Harl shook her head. “How did you do it, Em? You raised two children without any real input from Roy, no nurse, no time to yourself. I don’t know if I could have managed it. You’re amazing.”
A warm glow rushed through me. Harlow was so perfect in so many ways that it felt good for a change to hear her admit that she admired me.
“So, what did you find out about the Brunswicks?” I poked at her shopping bags. “And then tell me what you bought.” Harl’s shopping trips were notorious for their length and scope. She seldom ever left a store without a handful of bags and boxes.
She pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. “Did I tell you that I’m going back to work next month? Professor Abrams wants me back as soon as possible. He said I can telecommute without a problem. And I’m signing up for a class in antiquities come winter quarter. Next fall, I’ll ease into half-time.”
So she was going through with her plan to go back to school. I had to hand it to her—she was a trooper. Though I had my B.A., the thought of returning to school at this time in my life would have overwhelmed me. Harlow was thirty-five, only a couple of years younger than I, and here she was, just stepping into motherhood and planning a return to college to get her degree.
She pushed the notebook in front of me. “It wasn’t hard to find out the basics about the Brunswicks, but I also dug up a few skeletons that were hidden.” With a satisfied smile, she sat back and ate her soup while I glanced over the material.
“Normal rich family?”
She gave me a lopsided grin. “Eh, normal is as normal does. In many ways yes, but there are a couple things you should be aware of. Everything seems fine with the mother, father, and daughter, but the son had some serious problems. The family told everybody that he went overseas, but he actually had a breakdown and was committed to Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital. The kicker is, he’s still there. Almost fifty years after he was first locked up.”
I jerked my head up. “The son? Brent Brunswick? Irena’s brother?”
Harlow checked over her notes. “That’s the one. They were twins. Irena married a banker named Thomas Finch and they’re still married. The parents moved back east and both died there some time later, the father from a heart attack, the mother from booze.”
Hmm… something was wrong. Irena had specifically said her brother lived overseas, and that he had refused to sell the property. She was obviously lying about the former, but what about the latter? Had Brent even heard of the deal? Or was he just a convenient excuse to keep hold of the lot? And if so, why?
“Does it mention why Brent’s there? And when did they commit him?” I finished my sandwich and picked up my cup of soup, slurping it down much to Harlow’s dismay.
She grimaced. “Try a spoon, babe. Anyway, let me see…” She flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Brent was committed when he was twenty years old. A few days later, his parents told everyone in town that he’d run off overseas. Given his family name and their place in society, nobody ever questioned the matter. A month or so after that the house burned down, Irena got married, and Mr. and Mrs. Brunswick moved back to the east coast.”
A warning bell rang in my head. Something was off. “Is there any mention of a cousin or anybody named Brigit O’Reilly?”
Harl snorted. “Not likely. The Brunswicks are old money. They can trace their family origins back to Henry the Lion, a powerful German prince back in the 1100s. I doubt if they’d even admit to cousins from Ireland—from what I gather, Edward and Lauren Brunswick were hoitytoity types. Edward especially. Irena took after him. Lauren was a lot nicer, I gather. So nice, she turned to drink in order to keep her mouth shut around her husband, according to Patricia Jones, who knew the two after they moved. I made a few calls.”
So where did Brigit fit in? Was she an exchange student? A friend? A maid? Her clothes suggested genteel poverty; her journal, youthful angst.
“Okay, thanks. Can I keep all this?” I gathered up the papers.
“Sure, as long as you let me know when you find out what happened.” Harl then launched into her morning’s shopping, pulling out all of the baby clothes she’d bought, including Eileen’s miniature leather jacket. I stifled my amusement and let her prattle on. After a while, the baby woke up and I held her, breathing in the smell of baby shampoo, burp-up, and Ivory soap, then transferred her to Harlow and led them back into my office where she changed the baby and fed her. By one, they were ready to head out.
As she kissed my cheek and waved, pushing the stroller toward the door, I couldn’t help but feel a little wistful. Whether it was because I missed the days when Harl and I could hang for hours together, or whether it was because I missed the days when my own children were babies, I didn’t know. And maybe, I thought, it was better that way.
By the time I got home, Joe was gone. He’d left a note. Robert Kindle, from the station, called in sick and they needed a substitute. Since Joe had been on vacation and all the other men had worked long shifts lately, it was only right that he take up the slack. He warned me he might not be back for a day or two, depending on how busy they were, and asked me to call him down at the station.
I put in a quick call to reassure him that everything was fine. I also filled him in on the fact that Irena had lied to him about her brother and spelled out exactly what I’d learned. Joe was furious, but right then he was called out—a small brush fire had got out of hand—and I stood holding a silent receiver. I puttered through the house, thinking I should start dinner. The kids would be home soon.
We had a quiet evening of macaroni and cheese and broccoli, and then Randa retreated to her room and Kip headed upstairs to play. I read for a bit, glanced over the info that Harl had found for me, and decided to make an early night of it. After making sure the kids were asleep, I crawled under the covers. The bed felt so big without Joe. We spent every night we could together now, and it was hard for me to sleep without his strong arm curled around my waist, but fall asleep, I eventually did.
At some point, I awoke with the feeling I was being watched. I sat up and saw the ghost cat on the bottom of my bed.
“Well, hello,” I said softly, trying to avoid startling her.
She looked at me and mouthed a “meow” and I had the strangest impulse to follow as she hopped off and headed for the door. I hurried into a sweat suit and chased after her. In the darkened night, every sense seemed heightened, every nuance of perception clarified.
She silently padded down the stairs and through the front door as if it didn’t exist. Without a second thought I followed, into the rainy night, flashlight in hand as the cat led me under the cloud-covered sky. The wind was whipping around my shoulders, stirring up a granddaddy of a storm.
The calico led me next door, through the maze of roots and branches, into the darkened lot. I wondered where the corpse candles were, but was grateful for their absence. I was getting tired of my unwelcome neighbors.
We stopped near the back of the lot where the ancient yew rose out of what had been a huge patch of brambles, but was now reduced to roots and scrub. Its branches were gnarled and bent as if the weight of a thousand years rested on them. The massive trunk was woven of many smaller trunks that twined together to form the whole, calved off the main root. Mother and children bound together forever. I could almost see faces etched within the burled bark, filled with pain and anguish, with hope and trepidation, and the entire area felt prickly, as if there was deep earth mana flowing here.
I stood there for a moment, then turned, uncertain what to do next. My flashlight beam caught a puddle that had formed at the base of the tree from the rain. As I glanced into it, the reflection of a woman stared at me from the water. Brigit, her eyes closed in endless slumber. My breath caught in my throat and—without thinking about what I was doing—I dropped to my knees and began clawing at the thickly layered mulch around the trunk.
After a few minutes, I uncovered a depression leading under the trunk—a hollow at the base of the yew that was deep and wide. As I pulled away another clump of old branches and leaves, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing. A spider ran over my hand and I stifled a scream. Enough! Time to go home. As I started to stand, I happened to glance at the excavated cavity beneath the tree again, and my flashlight caught something in the beam. I paused, unwilling to believe my eyes. But there it was—stuffed into the hole beneath the yew, reaching out from what looked like a swath of tattered material still covered by compost.
A skeletal hand. Bones. Gleaming ivory bones.
At that moment, I knew that I’d found Brigit. She’d rested beneath the yew in a long night’s slumber of almost fifty years. Unclaimed and missed by no one, she had remained hidden from the world until we awakened her by opening the door to her secret world.