The Sandstrom house was on Waters Avenue, on the edge of the Baldwin Park neighborhood. It was all chunky lines, painted in varying shades of dull mushroom and surrounded by a sprawling lawn. We parked smack-dab in front of the overblown portico, and I hopped out of the truck with Mungo and marched to the door. I rang the doorbell, then knocked, then rang the doorbell again.
Declan joined me. “If she’s in there she might not answer—”
“Oh, no,” I interrupted.
He looked puzzled.
“You don’t smell that?”
My familiar’s head popped up from my tote bag.
Yip!
Declan glanced down at Mungo and sniffed. Shook his head.
Darn it. “Something’s burning.”
The effect of saying the word burning to a fireman hadn’t occurred to me. Declan pushed past me and pounded on the door. Hard. The sound reverberated through the wall. Anyone inside would have to hear it.
He sniffed again. “Now I smell it, too.”
“You do?” I asked, surprised. Though I had to admit this wasn’t the same nostril-curling stench as burning hair.
His elbow crashed through the glass beside the door. I watched with wide eyes as he reached inside and unlocked the front door. “Stay here,” he said.
“Like heck.” I followed right behind him. The smell was stronger, but I didn’t see any smoke. The atmosphere in the house gave me the creeps. The memory of the ice-cold finger running down my back outside Lawrence Eastmore’s potting shed flickered through my mind. There was something like that here.
Yes, Nel looked like she belonged in Mayberry, but under the surface you wouldn’t find fried chicken and apple pie. There was something cold and dark—and scary.
“Hello?” Declan called. “Hello?! Anyone home?” His baritone echoed through the rooms. There was no response.
It was a big house. We checked room after room on the first floor, jogging from one to the next. A fuzz of dust covered brocade and dark wood furniture, knickknacks, and tabletops. It rose into the air from the carpet in the family room and den, and we left hazy footprints on the wooden floors of the hallway and the dining room. A grand piano dominated the expansive living room, its shiny dark surface grayed with dirt. In contrast, the kitchen counters were sticky with old food stains and the sink was piled with dirty dishes. Some had started to mold, and a whole new smell mingled with the smoky odor that had first caught my attention.
I gagged and followed Declan to the glassed-in sunroom that opened off the kitchen. He ducked his head inside quickly before retracing his steps to the main entryway. I went inside the enclosure, stunned by the graveyard of dead plants. A banana tree, enormous trailing vines that had taken years to grow so large, three tiny bonsai trees perched around a dry fountain, and pot after pot of ornamentals, all shriveled and dry. My throat worked. All that life, gone.
Mungo whined.
Rapid footsteps sounded on the wooden treads of the sweeping staircase, and I hurried back out to the entryway in time so see the bottoms of Declan’s shoes as he turned the corner at the top of the landing.
“Hello!” he called again.
I ran up the stairs, Mungo bobbing beside me. Declan was opening doors off the hallway, one after another.
“Deck—”
He opened the last door, glanced inside, and hurried past me back to the stairs.
I spun to follow him. Nel obviously wasn’t home. Maybe didn’t even live here. Except…that kitchen. Despite the mold, some of the food on the dishes had looked relatively fresh.
Good goddess, I’d let that woman in my kitchen. Yuck.
Mungo made a conversation noise, and I paused at the top of the stairs. His eyes cut to the interior door nearest us.
I peered into the last room Deck had opened up. “Oh. Dear.” Mungo’s snort echoed my sentiments exactly. Slowly, I ventured into the room. It was the master bedroom. An elaborate altar stretched along the back wall, eight feet long at least. A plain black cloth covered the top. After a couple of slow steps, I scurried over to see what was on it.
A brass goblet, a fancy wrapped athame, a heavy silver pentacle, and a red pillar candle clustered in the middle. Pretty typical Wiccan altar fare. The sculptures that took up the rest of the space were a bit out of the ordinary, though. I recognized Venus, Artemis, and Daph-ne. Various three-dimensional dryads and naiads reached toward me, and beyond me to the bed. A simple stylized woman made of dark wood with an opening in the middle looked like an African fertility statue.
In fact, all of the statues represented women—powerful ones. I could sense the female energy just by standing there.
The dowdy woman who looked like Opie’s great-aunt was quite the fervent goddess worshipper. I wondered how that had played with her father. If he even knew.
I looked around the rest of the room. The open closet showcased a lot of denim, and what I thought of as hippie shoes lay in mismatched piles on the floor. The bedclothes were pulled up to the pillows but the bed wasn’t really made. Dirty clothes spilled out of the hamper. Papers were scattered across the dresser top.
No, not papers, I saw upon closer examination. Brochures.
Brochures for Savannah cemeteries.
And tucked between them, an empty envelope with a return address in Greece.
I grabbed the pile and pushed it in beside Mungo. He panted up at me.
I turned and went back downstairs. “Where are you?” I called.
“In the den.”
Following the sound of his voice, I found Declan standing with his hands on his hips in front of a smoking fireplace. He looked up. “Whatever she tried to burn in here didn’t ignite very well.”
I stooped and peered at the contents. It looked like Nel had tried to burn three or four books, and there were other indefinable papers curled black and ashy. Nudging at the pages with the fireplace poker revealed a title on one of the books that gave me pause. The 33 Curses. But then I saw something that made me catch my breath.
“It’s okay,” Declan said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll have to call the department and report this, though.”
I tore my gaze away from my half-burned hairbrush lying crookedly across the grate as a chill snaked up my spine. “You have to report a fire in a fireplace?”
“An unattended fire…and I broke in, if you recall. I have to report it so we can officially contact the owner and secure the home.”
“Good luck,” I muttered, looking at my watch. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
He grinned and gave me another squeeze, then reached into his pocket. “No worries, lassie. Here—take my truck. I know you’re pressed for time. I’ll get a ride back.”
I took the keys and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”
As I left I heard him talking on the phone.
I tried to call Andersen Lane, but he didn’t answer. I dialed Steve next, breaking all my own rules about not talking on the phone while driving.
“Nel was behind the attack the other night, either alone or with Greer’s help,” I said as soon as he answered. “I need to talk to your father.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“She had my hairbrush.”
A couple of beats while he digested that and then he recited a number. I repeated it back a couple of times to make sure I had it right, then said good-bye. At a red light, I punched it into my cell phone and waited while the line rang on the other end.
When Heinrich answered, he didn’t sound all that happy to hear from me.
I couldn’t help that, though. I explained that the spellbook club knew all about the Dragohs, and that we’d been trying to find Lawrence Eastmore’s killer in order to prevent him from casting the Spell of Necretius.
“Do you think my son hasn’t already told me all that?”
“Oh.” Actually, on the one hand I was surprised, but on the other it seemed that this horrible situation had managed to bring Steve and his father closer together. It was hard to argue that that was a bad thing. “Well, there’s more,” I said, and I told him about all of Nel’s lies, about the altar in her bedroom, about the envelope with Greer’s name on it, and about how she’d accessed my hair in order to psychically attack me.
“I think she killed Dr. Eastmore, Heinrich. She knew about the Spell of Necretius, and she killed him for it.”
“Impossible,” he scoffed.
“Not once you remove the assumption that none of the Dragohs’ wives or daughters know about the society. Whoever bashed your friend over the head with a clay pot didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. Not to be sexist myself, but most women really aren’t as strong as men. If you or any other of the Dragohs—even Andersen—swung a pot at someone’s head, it’s hard to imagine him getting back up.” He was silent.
“I think she stole the spell and killed your friend. Possibly killed his son, too.”
“How would she even know about the Spell of Necretius?”
“Maybe her father told her.” I pulled into an empty spot a block down from the Honeybee and turned the truck’s engine off.
“That’s…” His voice trailed off. A long silence ensued on the other end of the phone line. “She was his only child. It’s possible he told her about us.”
“You think Judge Sandstrom wanted his daughter to take over his position since he didn’t have a son?” I asked.
“Oh, I simply can’t imagine that,” Heinrich said. “It’s never been done. Never. And even if he hoped to go against centuries of tradition, he would have told us. He’d have to, in order to get the rest of the members to agree. Not that we’d ever accept such a thing.”
I wanted to reach through the phone line and shake some sense into this chauvinist druid. Instead, I took a deep breath in order to focus on the matter at hand. “What if he didn’t get a chance to tell the rest of you?”
“Lars had a heart condition. Had it for years. His death wasn’t exactly out of the blue. He had plenty of chances to bring it up with us.” I heard a door close and imagined Heinrich going outside to talk in private. “No, I’m sure he didn’t plan for Nel to join our ranks, but he loved her very much. And I know there were occasions when they cast spells together. I could possibly imagine Lars telling his daughter about us, just so she’d know who to go to if she got into trouble. So she’d know why her cousin is suddenly moving to Savannah. But that would still be unprecedented.” He was speaking slowly now, thoughtfully.
“Then she might have known about the spell to summon…the Spell of Necretius. All the society members know of it, right?” I asked.
“…Yes, that’s true. But even if Lars told Nel about us, why on earth would he tell her about the spell? Even if she was capable of completing such a spell—and she’s simply not that powerful—why would her father endanger her with that knowledge in the first place? The Spell of Necretius is the last thing I’d want a loved one to know about.”
He had a good point.
“If she’s not the killer, then it’s one of you. I’m going to ask you this once: Would Brandon or Victor or Andersen have murdered Dr. Eastmore?” It was a risk, asking him that, because if I was completely wrong about Nel, then Heinrich could lie to me and I wouldn’t know. After what I’d learned about Nel and what I’d seen at her house, though, I knew I wasn’t wrong.
“No,” he said.
“Did Andersen talk to you about all the Dragohs gathering to keep an eye on each other during Samhain?”
“Yes…Was that your idea?”
“It was.”
“Figures. But yes, we are convening. I’ll expedite our meeting so we can find Nel and deal with her.”
That sounded ominous.
“Good luck with that, but I imagine she’s laying low. Trust me—she’s very powerful, and she can hide her true self. Listen, at her house I found a bunch of brochures about cemeteries in the area. Would a graveyard be a good place for Nel to perform the summoning?”
“Of course, that would be ideal for the spell,” he said. “But it’s Halloween. They’ll be full. They’ll be giving tours. She can’t do this spell with other people around. Tell me the names of the cemeteries.”
Mungo jumped out of my tote so I could grab the pamphlets. I read off the places they advertised: Bonaventure, Colonial Park, Laurel Grove, and several modern “resting places.” “Wait a minute—she scribbled a note on the back of one of these. Drayton Hills.”
“That’s it. It’s small, it’s been closed down for years, it’s not open to the public, and it’s barely maintained if at all. Good work, Katie. We’ll handle it from here.”
“We’ll meet you there,” I said.
“No need. She’s only one woman, and there are four of us.”
“A woman who has likely already killed two of your number. A woman who nearly killed me. You need all the help you can get. All the power you can get.”
There was a long silence. “All right. We’ll meet you there at nine thirty.”
“What are you planning?”
“To bind her before she can cast the spell. We’ll need a poppet.”
I’d never worked with a poppet, and tended to associate them with voodoo curses despite the spellbook club’s explanation that while all voodoo dolls were poppets, not all poppet magic involved voodoo. I didn’t care, though. The Dragohs could bring out as many poppets as they wanted if it would stop Nel.
“I know just who to give that task to,” I said, thinking of Cookie. “You bring whatever else you need for the binding.”
* * *
Staring into the mirror, I fingered the lace at the neckline of my wedding dress. What had I been thinking when I’d bought it last year? Fluffy and pure white, with a fitted bodice, thin straps, and a long, swirly skirt, it wasn’t my style at all. It was traditional to the nth degree. Of course, Mama had pushed for it. Even though she didn’t particularly like my choice of groom, she was happy to offer her opinion about all things wedding related.
Not that the planning got very far.
Traditional had seemed like a good idea to me then. The whole idea of getting married and moving into a cute starter home, getting a dog, and having kids had seemed like what normal people did. What people who belonged did. I’d felt like an outsider my whole life, and I’d thought that getting married would change that.
Now I knew better. And now, thanks to Aunt Lucy and the spellbook club, I knew other people who were like me. I belonged. The thought made me smile as I drew dark circles around my eyes. Then I smudged dark makeup on my face and arms to look like grave dirt and added a scar to my neck. Some gel in my hair to make it stick up funny, and I was good to go.
But when I emerged from the restroom, Ben took one look and shook his head. The gesture made the bells on the tips of his bright red jester hat jingle merrily.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, eyeing his purple leggings and curly-toed shoes.
“The dress. It’s too perfect.”
“I’m not done yet,” I said, heading toward the door that led to the alley behind the Honeybee. Lucy had given me a small bag of potting soil from her garden, Now, with a twinge of regret, I rubbed it into the white fabric, staining the lace and leaving a dark streak along the bodice.
Back inside, Ben jingled his approval. “Better.”
Lucy swirled by, a gypsy vision of layered skirts, smocked blouse, and kerchief. Bangles piled up on her arms, rings flashed from her fingers, and three-inch hoops hung from her earlobes. “You look lovely, Katie.”
“I don’t want to look lovely!”
She waved her hand at me. “You know what I mean.”
Ben went next door to check in with Croft Barrow at the bookstore. Moments later, Bianca came in, dressed in a long white flowing robe. I’d seen her wear it for spell work—she liked to dress the part—but now it was transformed into a Princess Leia costume by the wig with the huge buns over her ears. Apparently some things never grow old.
Jaida and Cookie followed behind her. Jaida was a musketeer, complete with feathered three-corner hat and sexy thigh-high boots. Cookie had gone with Cleopatra: straight dark wig, glittering makeup, thick eyeliner, and exposed midsection.
“Thank you,” Cookie said, twirling once.
Jaida grinned at me. “Nice dress. For a dead bride, I mean.”
I curtsied. “Thanks. Now how about helping me set out the food for the living?”
All over the Honeybee, we put out bowls of sticky popcorn balls individually wrapped in cellophane next to plates of frosted sugar cookies in the shapes of orange jack-o’-lanterns, autumn leaves, and black cats. I set a platter of salted caramel apples in the display case, figuring they’d go quickly. We’d baked the ginger pecan cakes in miniature Bundt pans, then used icing to stick them together at the bottom to form little pumpkins. Lucy had decorated each with a marzipan stem and leaf, and they looked too pretty to eat. Somehow, I didn’t think that would stop people. There were bowls of chocolate eyeballs and brightly colored gummy worms for the kids, and another of chocolate-covered espresso beans for the adults.
Black paper streamers dripped from the ceiling, and orange crepe paper covered the bistro tables. On top of each one was a small vase of black carnations that Mimsey had supplied and a battery-operated candle held upright in a bowl of candy corn. I wondered how long it would take for the candles to start tipping over as partiers sampled the decor. Lucy had brought her black cast-iron Dutch oven—which she also used as a cauldron on occasion—and we filled it with dry ice and set it high on the display case where little hands couldn’t reach it and adults wouldn’t knock it off. Wisps of vapor trailed up as the ice began to melt.
Mimsey breezed in the front door. “Hello-o-o-o-o!” She’d replaced her black ensemble with a multicolored floor-length caftan…and a towering hat topped with fake fruit. A parrot perched in the middle of it.
“Carmen Miranda?” I asked, peering at the bird to make sure she hadn’t actually brought Heckle along.
Her head bobbed in confirmation, and I braced for oranges and bananas to go flying. Everything stayed put, though. “My version, at least,” she said.
Now that the last member of the spellbook club had arrived, I waved them all into the reading area. First I told them what Declan and I had found at Nel’s house. “I spoke with Heinrich Dawes on my way back here.”
Everyone moved a little closer.
“He said a cemetery would be the ideal place for her to perform the summoning spell, but that tonight there would be too many people roaming around. But on the corner of one of the cemetery brochures Nel had made a notation about a place called Drayton Hills.”
“I know that place. It’s been closed down for decades, as a cemetery at least. The city took it over for back taxes, and now they’re stuck with it unless they relocate the graves,” Mimsey said.
“It’s little known, isolated, and not at all a tourist attraction. Heinrich feels it would be the ideal place for Nel to summon”—I swallowed—“Zesh tonight. I told him we’d meet the Dragohs there at nine thirty to stop her.”
Mimsey’s lips pressed into a thin line.
I held up a hand. “If any—or all—of you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I don’t blame you. But as I told Heinrich, I think the more power we have in place to stop Nel, the better. And for whatever reason, I’ve been dragged into this from the beginning. I’m going to see it through.”
Silent, we all exchanged glances. Then Cookie stepped forward. “I’ll go.”
“Me, too,” Jaida said.
Lucy took my hand and squeezed it. “You can count on me.”
Bianca looked at the floor and shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll come with you.”
Mimsey threw up her hands. “Fine.”
I smiled. “Thanks. I mean it. Lucy, the little kids will be thinning out by then, but we advertised that the Honeybee would be open until eleven. I hate the idea of shutting down in the middle of the party.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll talk to Ben.”