If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all!
—Albert King, Born Under a Bad Sign
IT WAS THREE o’clock before we turned onto Cranberry Street and pulled into the alleyway behind my bookshop. Stiff from the drive, the three of us were happy to put our muscles to work moving Walt’s paintings and easels from the van to the bookshop’s stockroom.
Finally, it was time for us to part, and Seymour and Brainert climbed back into the van. But when Seymour slammed his door, the driver’s side mirror slipped out of its frame and shattered on the concrete.
“Great! Now I’ve got fourteen years of bad luck!”
Brainert rolled his eyes. “That’s seven years, you clown.”
“Not when you break two mirrors in one week it isn’t. I cracked my bathroom mirror last Thursday.”
“Forget that silly superstition and get this heap of rusty tin moving.”
“It’s no use,” Seymour declared after continually twisting the key. “The engine won’t turn over. This VW is deader than a Triassic dinosaur.”
“This Volkswagen is a dinosaur. You should have donated it to a natural history museum back in the twentieth century.”
Ignoring the professor, Seymour exited the van and pocketed his keys. “Man, this is going to set me back a chunk of change. I’ll need a tow truck, plus I’ll have to replace that blown tire, and who knows how much the engine repairs will cost!”
“You’re broke because you overpaid for that ridiculous painting. Maybe that’s the curse.”
Seymour’s eyes narrowed. “There is no curse!”
Brainert just tapped his cheek and pretended to ponder the sky. “Now, what is it they say about a fool and his money?”
“Hey, this fool got us home in one piece, didn’t he?”
“You got us as far as Pen’s bookstore. But I’m due to teach an afternoon class, at the university.”
“Can’t you catch the school’s shuttle bus?”
“I just missed it. And there won’t be another for at least two hours.”
“Then I guess you better start walking, because my Magic Bus is going nowhere.”
The professor looked ready to take Seymour’s head off.
You better call the coppers, doll, before there’s another dead body.
My friends don’t need a cop, Jack, just a referee.
Then get in there and stop the sparring.
“Don’t worry, Brainert!” I called from the shop’s back door. “I’ll get you to your class on time.”
We were all hot and sweaty, and tempers were frayed. Thank goodness our shop assistant was cool and collected. When Bonnie Franzetti came out to help me clean up the broken glass, she offered to drive Brainert to the campus for me.
As the two sped away, Seymour called for a tow truck. Then he waved me back over to his van to ask a favor.
“I’d like to leave my Harriet in your shop until I get my van back. I hate to part with her, but I don’t want this beauty hauled off to a smelly garage where a bunch of grease-soaked Neanderthals will drool all over her. You don’t mind, do you?”
I hesitated, not sure if I should mind or not.
Like Seymour, I’d initially dismissed Walt’s talk about the so-called cursed portrait bringing bad luck, but ever since the painting entered Seymour’s life—and, by extension, my own—things had been taking a freakish turn.
Don’t tell me you’re letting your fears make decisions for you, Jack challenged. You never used to be the superstitious kind. Didn’t you once say there’s no such thing as curses?
I once said there’s no such thing as ghosts, either.
Jack’s chuckle came with a chilly breeze that sent goose bumps over my skin.
“Earth to Pen!” Seymour called. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you. And, yes, you can keep your picture here. Let’s move it into the stockroom with the rest of the art.”
“Great!”
Though Seymour was relieved, I couldn’t help feeling a stab of dread. At least it wouldn’t be here long, I reasoned, so where was the harm?
Exactly, Jack agreed. And better here than your friend’s house, that’s for sure.
Why?
Because you didn’t write an address in that missing notebook. He did.
I tensed, remembering Walt’s late-night visitor. I don’t want Seymour to end up like Walt.
Then maybe your pal should get his hands on a gat.
A what?
A burner. A roscoe. A heater—
You mean a gun?
Yeah, Seymour should be strapping.
That’s a very bad idea. I can hardly trust Seymour behind the wheel of this VW, let alone with a lethal weapon . . .
As my head continued to argue with Jack, my arms helped Seymour carry his carefully wrapped painting out of the van and into our stockroom. Then Seymour strode onto our shop’s selling floor to wait for his tow truck. I followed, lagging behind to check the aisles.
The air-conditioned interior of Buy the Book felt heavenly after the unseasonable warmth of the fall afternoon, and I was happy to see all was well. Our shelves were neat and well stocked with this week’s delivery of new releases. The comfy mismatched chairs were set in place, the lamps and tables had been dusted, and our newest displays were looking good, including our cozy mystery book group’s monthly reader recommendations (Meat Your Maker and Bone Yard, the first two titles in the new Butcher Block culinary series).
Animated voices brought my attention to the cash register, where Seymour was now regaling my aunt with the details of his purchase. “Wait until you see the weird elements in my Harriet original—and how hauntingly unhinged it is. She looks young in this self-portrait, too, and I have to say, she’s pretty hot for a madwoman.”
Sadie folded her arms. “I’ve always been skeptical about those ‘Crazy Harriet’ stories. Maybe the woman was simply shy or reclusive. Seems to me when you’re the least bit different, people talk. And people can say cruel things.”
“Well, if she wasn’t crazy, she put on a good act,” Seymour countered. “Living alone all those years? Spending day after day painting nothing but images of herself—”
“Have you told Fiona Finch about the painting?” Sadie raised an eyebrow at Seymour. “You know she and Barney have a proprietary interest in acquiring Harriet’s work. After all, their Finch Inn was originally Harriet’s home.”
“Sorry, but it’s not her home anymore. It’s a posh bed-and-breakfast, and the Finches already have several of Harriet’s paintings. They can’t have mine. Not for any price. They’d have to pry it from my cold, dead hands, which actually isn’t a stretch from how I got the thing, now that I think about it.”
“What does that mean?” Sadie asked with a frown. “Did someone die?”
I tensed, fearing Seymour was about to tactlessly blurt out the story of Old Walt’s demise, but this wasn’t the time or place to do it.
Thank goodness my son came to the rescue.