by Chris Cooper
The drama had taken a toll on Anna’s relationship with her father as well. She hadn’t been herself for several days, and her declining mood was starting to impact those around her. Oliver and Izzy tried to cheer her up to no avail. After a bit of prodding, Oliver got Anna to admit her sourness was the result of a huge argument she and her father had gotten into over the town’s treatment of Oliver and the bakery even though she remained tightlipped about the specifics.
“What did that bread ever do to you?” Oliver asked as Anna stood at the table underneath the tree mosaic and pounded a ball of dough with her rolling pin. She looked down at the rubbery mess, sighed, and slid the lump into the trash bin.
“Must have zoned out,” she said, dismissing the question.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked.
Anna turned around and pointed the rolling pin at Oliver. “You can stay out of my way and let me do my job,” she snapped.
Sitting on the stool at the large metal table, Izzy looked up from her accounting sheets, raising her eyebrows at Oliver. She’d clearly chosen not to push Anna’s buttons and resolved to let the girl work her issues out through the dough.
“All right, all right,” he replied, recoiling from the angry response. “I think it would be good if you got some fresh air. You’re scaring me a little.”
“I’ve got too much to do,” Anna replied.
“He’s right. Go get some fresh air, and take Oliver with you. I think I can hold down the fort here.” Izzy gestured toward the empty storefront. “And drop this basket off at Harry’s. The poor man could probably use a fresh bite to eat.”
“I can’t. I have to redo this loaf.”
“It wasn’t a request,” Izzy replied.
She rarely gave direct commands, so Anna set the rolling pin on the table and folded up her apron. Anna and Oliver left through the back door and walked along the street behind the bakery.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a few strained moments of silence. “I’m just so angry. This isn’t fair. We did nothing wrong. You had nothing to do with Francis’s death. Even the police said so. Why do they always have to come for us, for Izzy?”
“I’m sure Madeline doesn’t actually believe I had anything to do with it,” Oliver said. “She’s just grieving and clearly has no other way to deal with it aside from being a huge bitch.” He didn’t typically swear, so that line made Anna giggle. “This will pass, and everything will go back to normal eventually.”
“Until the next infraction,” she added. “It’s been a never-ending cycle since I started working here.”
“I think Izzy likes being a one-woman rebellion. What fun would it be for her without the drama?” he asked.
They arrived at Francis’s several minutes later. The door had been braced in the center with a piece of lumber clumsily screwed in and bridging the large crack. Several weeks had passed, but Harry hadn’t bothered to have it replaced. He hadn’t bothered to do much of anything, and Oliver hadn’t seen him in public in days. He didn’t blame Harry—he would have locked himself away to grieve in peace as well.
They walked the stone path to the front door.
“He probably doesn’t want to be bothered,” he said. “Maybe we can just leave it on his doorstep.”
“We’ll just ring the bell and leave it if he doesn’t answer,” she replied.
She pressed the doorbell. Oliver looked up at the heavy splintered door and examined the large split in the wood. The feat seemed impossible for an old woman… or anyone, for that matter.
They waited for a minute or so, but no one came. They would have to leave the basket and hope for the best. As he knelt to set the basket on the steps, he noticed a small metal object protruding from the mulch bed next to the door. The view had been obstructed by the hedgerow, but Oliver could see the object clearly from that angle. He reached underneath the bush and plucked it from the dirt.
“Look at this,” he said, holding it out for Anna to see.
“What is it?”
“It’s some kind of metal coin, but I can’t make out what’s on it,” he replied.
The edges were smooth but irregular, and it had the appearance of tarnished gold. Oliver handed it to Anna, who attempted to wipe away the dirt filling the crevices of the coin. She held it close to her eye to get a closer look at the spiraling designs on its face.
“They look like vines,” she said. “And that’s a bird tangled in them.”
The door creaked, startling Anna, and she dropped the coin on the ground.
Harry stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of cotton pajamas and a five-o’clock shadow that appeared to be more ten o’clock in nature.
“Anna, Oliver… what can I do for you?” he asked, forcing a smile.
“Sorry to bother you. We just thought you might like some bread and a few cinnamon rolls.” Anna picked up the basket and handed it to him.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. He looked down at the basket. “Thought of stopping by the bakery this week but just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” The man’s eyes went glossy.
“It’s okay. Whenever you want to drop in, we’re happy to have you. If you need anything, you just say the word,” Anna said.
“I appreciate it. I’ve got to be going, but thanks for stopping by.” Harry started to push the door shut.
“Take care,” she said.
“Harry, wait,” Oliver said. “Before you go, we found this under the hedges. Is it yours?” He bent down to pick up the coin and handed it to Harry.
Harry flipped the coin around in his hand.
“Nope, can’t say that I’ve seen it before. Looks like money of some kind. Maybe Martin can tell you what it is. Take care now,” he said, handing the coin back to Oliver and gingerly shutting the broken door.
“Poor man,” Anna said.
“I can’t imagine what he’s going through,” Oliver replied. “Well, back to the bakery?”
“What do you say we stop at the antique shop on the way? Harry has a good point. If anyone in this town knows anything about the coin, it’s probably Martin. I’m sure he would be willing to take a look for us. Could be a fun little distraction. The bakery isn’t exactly booming today.”
Chapter Ten
Fletcher Antiquities sat directly across the square from the bakery. The storefront was made of delicately carved woodwork painted a deep maroon, and the large bay window gave a preview of all the treasures hidden within. Once inside, they walked toward the back of the store, passing a hodgepodge of metal lanterns suspended from the ceiling. Paintings and family portraits hung from the walls, obscured by antique furniture that jutted out into the aisle. Knickknacks of various shapes and sizes sat in containers atop the furniture, and precious necklaces lay draped across old cigar boxes and ashtrays. The place was filled to the brim as if the owner were a raccoon and the store was his den of shiny stolen bobbles.
Martin sat watch at an old mahogany desk in the back of the store. He was scribbling something in a ledger with a fancy-looking fountain pen when Oliver and Anna approached.
“Good to see you two. What brings you in?” he asked, looking up from his work.
“We were hoping you could take a look at this coin for us,” Anna said, as Oliver was distracted by a large glass case of especially valuable trinkets.
At one end of the case, a beautiful ruby ring sat in the middle of a delicate gold necklace, and at the other, several fountain pens were fanned out on a pad of soft purple velvet.
“Sure! Let’s have a look, then,” Martin replied.
Oliver was still lost in the antiques, and Anna jabbed him with her elbow.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” he said, handing Martin the coin.
Martin opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a small eyepiece, which he wedged between his brow and cheekbone and held in place with a squint. He flipped the coin over in his hand and examined the etching on its surface.
“Huh,” he said. “Never seen a coin li
ke this before. Where did you find it?”
“Sticking out of a flower bed,” Oliver replied.
Martin sat back in his chair. “You know, I have seen something like this before, but not in coin form.” He pulled a small ring of keys from his pocket, rose from his chair, and turned toward the narrow door next to him, which looked as if it led to a broom closet.
“This is my own little private collection.” He beamed, sliding one of the keys into the lock. “The town once had a small printing press, believe it or not. The press is long gone now, but I’ve managed to find copies of nearly every book that it ever printed—a bit of a passion project of mine, actually.”
The small room was just wide enough to fit a set of narrow bookshelves against one wall while leaving a small path on the other. Martin traced his finger along a row of leather spines until he found the book he’d been searching for. The book was clad in deep-brown leather and embossed with golden lettering.
“This is one of my favorites.” He pulled the book from the shelf and brought it back to his work desk. Then he gestured for Oliver and Anna to take a seat. “Shortly before the town’s founder, Samuel Hale, passed, the townsfolk made a concerted effort to capture the town’s history. He’d been the story keeper, and they didn’t want tales of Christchurch’s early days to be lost when he died.”
Martin carefully opened the front cover and flipped through the pages.
“Samuel was actually a twin, believe it or not. He and his brother founded the town in 1719–something most people around here aren’t quick to acknowledge and seem eager to forget, but things quickly went sour. Samuel was a pious man, obsessed with order, obedience, and the cross. His brother, Nathaniel, on the other hand, had a wild streak about him. Samuel even accused his brother of being a male witch and claimed he had tried to sabotage his efforts to keep order in the town. Apparently, the doors in the town jail cells would come open sporadically. Livestock would vanish, and Samuel even returned home one day to discover all of his family’s belongings neatly stacked on the roof of his home. No one was ever caught red-handed, so the next logical explanation, at least at the time, was witchcraft. Of course, accusations of witchcraft were still en vogue, and the penalties of being found a witch were well documented, so instead of staying and risking his life, Nathaniel fled. That’s when things get a bit fuzzy. Samuel claimed he caught up with Nathaniel, who’d become snagged in a briar patch at the edge of the woods. According to him, the patch slowly wrapped itself around his brother as if it were some sort of carnivorous beast. Samuel thought it was God’s way of punishing Nathaniel for his misdeeds—as any good brother would do—so he stood there and watched. A great Christian indeed, eh?”
Martin pointed at a picture in the book. The image showed a struggling Nathaniel reaching a hand out toward his brother, who sat on horseback next to the pit of briars.
“But it didn’t end there for Nathaniel, and what happens next somewhat suggests he may have actually been a witch or, more likely, his brother was a liar. Samuel said the tree line had been speckled with crows and his brother reached toward them, as if pulling them from the trees with an invisible grip. A swirling murder formed overhead and descended upon the briars like some sort of feathered tornado, plunging into the thorns and sacrificing themselves to save Nathaniel.”
Martin flipped the page. A crow lay entangled in a patch of bloody briars, wings crushed by the tensing branches. He set the coin on top of the picture. “Seem familiar?”
“So, what happened to Nathaniel?” Oliver asked.
“He disappeared, never to be seen again. Possible, I guess. I think it’s more likely Samuel and a few of the townsfolk may have subjected him to an unofficial trial. One doesn’t typically survive tests for witchcraft, and survival only indicated guilt. No, I think his brother murdered him. It didn’t go over well with some of the townsfolk either, and several started to disappear after Nathaniel’s departure, starting with Nathaniel’s wife and child. According to Samuel, several deserted after his brother fled, likely guilty of witchcraft themselves. It’s also possible they started to ask too many questions, and he found it easier to do away with them—that or they realized his delusion and left of their own accord. A few accounts do exist of missing livestock, rations, and tools from around that time, so it’s possible they did escape to the woods. Whether it was exile or secret execution, Samuel wasn’t exactly the benevolent force the town makes him out to be. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though. Madeline would have my head.”
Martin flipped the cover of the book closed and handed the coin back to Oliver. “I have no idea where this came from, though. The town did have its own currency, of which I have a complete collection, but this isn’t like any of those coins. I doubt people would have been eager to commemorate an exiled witch, but the coin is old and certainly made of gold. Perhaps one of the owners of the town mint had a little vanity project on the side.” Martin leaned forward. “Would love to add this to my collection. If you ever decide you’d be interested in selling it, promise me you’ll bring it back here first. I think I could make a fair offer.”
“After all the help that you’ve given us, you can count on it,” Oliver said. “But if it’s worth something, we’d just give it back to Harry. We found it in his yard, after all.”
Martin’s smile faded. “Have you spoken to the poor fellow recently?”
“Just dropped off a basket of baked goods this morning,” Anna replied.
“How’s he holding up?”
“Doesn’t seem to be doing too well. We were surprised he answered the door,” she said.
“I stopped by the other day, but he didn’t answer. Figured he just wanted to be left alone for a while. Can’t imagine what he’s going through.” He paused. “Well, do keep me in the loop with the coin. It’s a pretty nifty find. Thanks for bringing it in, and feel free to have a look around before you go.”
“One more thing, Martin. Any idea where that briar patch was located?” Oliver asked. “The one from the story, that is.”
“Not exactly, but there’s a huge patch near the edge of the woods on the outskirts of town. Should be right past your aunt’s house, actually. The tree line’s been in the same place for centuries,” he said. “There’s no other place like it near town, so my guess is that it’s the same one from the story.”
Once outside the store, Oliver could hardly contain his excitement. “Have you heard that story about the town before?” he asked.
“No, never,” Anna replied. “I mean, I knew a little bit about Samuel’s life, but no one ever mentioned his brother may have been exiled or murdered. I can see why. It doesn’t necessarily paint Samuel in a positive light.”
“This town does have a habit of believing what it wants despite the evidence,” he replied.
Although the official line was that Francis had died of a heart attack, the court of public opinion clearly believed otherwise. Even though Oliver was firm in his own innocence, the suspicious in power had nearly shuttered Izzy’s shop as a passive-aggressive form of retribution.
Chapter Eleven
Pan lay underneath Izzy’s feet as she sat on the porch. His legs were splayed out to the sides as if he were impersonating a bearskin rug. Izzy slid her glasses farther down her nose and held the coin out at arm’s length until it came into focus.
“Martin says it’s a reference to the town founder’s twin,” Oliver said.
“Nathaniel Hale,” Izzy said, handing the coin back to Oliver
“That’s right. So you know the story?”
“Ha! Know it? The story provided me a great deal of inspiration. Come with me, and I’ll show you,” she said, standing up and waiting for Oliver.
He tucked the coin into his pocket and followed her to the studio upstairs, with Pan close on their heels. Oliver had never been inside Izzy’s studio before, but he’d seen plenty of her paintings strewn about the house. Her work was full of color and whimsy, mostly exaggerated caricatures and obsc
ure landscapes. She had even painted a larger-than-life portrait of Pan, using solely the pup’s own paw prints.
Izzy stood on a chair outside her studio, reached up to the sill of the transom window, and pulled a skeleton key from atop the frame.
“Worried someone’s going to steal your masterpieces?” he asked.
“Oh, you joke, but it’s a legitimate concern. I do most of my painting here, but it’s also where I keep my most-controversial works,” she replied, straight-faced.
Sometimes, he found her self-importance comical. She pushed the door open to reveal a room lined with half-finished canvases and piles of paint tubes.
A mammoth canvas on the opposite wall immediately caught Oliver’s attention. The abstract shapes, deep lines, and dark color palette took several moments to decode, but an interpretation of the scene from Martin’s book slowly emerged. An obscure representation of who must have been Nathaniel Hale lay entangled in a briar patch, reaching up to the heavens for help. Samuel sat at a safe distance on horseback, watching his brother’s agony with little emotion. Cubist crows circled overhead, blotting out the sun.
“You mean, you don’t think the Elders would want to hang this up in the town hall?” Oliver joked. “I can see why you might keep this out of sight. It reminds me of Picasso’s Guernica. It’s incredible!”
“I consider it to be one of my most influential pieces,” she said, rubbing her chin between her thumb and index finger, in clear appreciation of her own genius. “I brought it to the town art show, and it didn’t go over very well. Turns out the town’s all about the sanitized bits of its history, but things like this are only found hidden on bookshelves in Martin’s shop. Needless to say, I think this may have put me on the wrong side of the Elders for good. Nothing’s been the same since that art show. I liked to think my work was illuminating, but I don’t think Madeline appreciated being illuminated.”