“If there isn’t, we’ll make one up. Maybe it’s a form of psychometry, though. That’s, like, when you put your hand on an old brooch and suddenly ‘see’ the history of the person who wore it.”
“I’ll stay out of the antique business, then. Might be overwhelming.”
“Oh, yes, the Picts,” Fiona said. Intrigued for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, I’d stopped in the Black Hill Branch Library to inquire after books referencing the Picts. “Supposedly they went to earth, literally, when the Romans invaded, hiding in burrows like prairie dogs. Not only were they smaller in stature, with darker skins, than the Celts, they probably emerged covered with dirt—hence the name ‘brownies.’ Some scholars insist that the Picts and Celts were one and the same, but I favor the theory that the Picts predated the Celts in Briton and were a truly aboriginal people. There’s some evidence that they spoke a different language. It was said that the Irish saint Columba needed an interpreter when he spoke to the king of the Picts on the banks of Loch Ness.”
“Loch Ness?” I was getting confused.
“The Picts were the original inhabitants of Scotland—I’ve always thought my tiny Aunt Gwenny MacDonald must have been a Pict throwback. Sharp little bird eyes, never missed a trick. Stood no higher than my shoulder. A true pixie. Taught me just about everything I know.”
“Which is just about everything there is to know,” I commented, still looking through the disappointing history section. Branch libraries are pretty poor pickings. I’d have done better at Fiona’s cottage, which was crammed with esoteric references that rivaled the collection at the New England Center for Physical Research.
While I grumbled over the shelves, Fiona busied herself making tea for the two of us. This was her kingdom, a minimalist library housed on the first floor of a cozy twenties’ bungalow. It was owned by the Plymouth Women’s Cooperative for Folk Arts, who still had a quilting room in the cellar. Furnished with warm, aged oak, it would have seemed like a step back in time except for the computer buzzing and gurgling on Fiona’s desk.
“Strange coincidences,” I said, giving up on the Black Hill reference books. “Someone is poisoning people with homemade brownies. I make an offhand comment about brownies sneaking in at night to help Deidre finish her dolls, and I find out she’s creating prototypes for a line of brownie dolls to sell on the Internet. What do you make of all these ‘brownies’ popping up?”
Fiona poured fragrant ginger tea into two thistle-decorated mugs, handed one to me, and opened a tin of shortbread. Immediately, Omar Khayyám wafted in from mouse patrol in the stacks and jumped gracefully onto her desk. “Never be surprised that synchronicity is woven into our lives. Everything is interconnected in spirit, my dear. The ultimate oneness of the universe is the basis of all magic. And healing.” She gave Omar a shortbread crumb and passed me the tin. “So when you perceive the pattern underlying these ideas and events that seem weird coincidences to you now, you’ll solve the mysterious poisonings.” She turned to the computer, punched a few keys, and clicked on a search item. After starting the printer, she turned back to her tea.
“I expected to do that with a vision. You mean I’m going to have to puzzle this out?” I wondered what she was printing.
“A little of one, a little of the other is my guess. I’m printing out a little essay on the Picts and the pixie-brownie connection for you to take home with you. That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it? I have some things at home, too, that I’ll set aside for you to read. Maybe something there will strike a spark in your psyche. That’s all it will take, my dear. But I wonder, don’t you, who the next target will be?”
Chapter Seven
A note on the table informed me that my bridegroom had gone shopping at Home Warehouse again. What worrisome home improvement was he planning now? My little house didn’t offer all that much scope for remodeling. I felt guilty that Joe hadn’t had the Wagoneer for transport, but relieved that I’d missed having to go with him to that big, drafty, barnlike place filled with the scent of raw pine, bins of dull, utilitarian tools, and toilets lined up like theater seats.
Scruffy had seized the opportunity for a nap on my white chenille bedspread. “Off, off, off!” I commanded. He sprang down instantly and trotted into the kitchen for a long drink of water, as dogs do when they’re embarrassed. What’s the fuss? No one else was using the big bed.
After booting the dog outdoors, I booted up my computer and was pleased to see a note from Freddie, my former protégée who now worked for a computer firm in Atlanta—an entry-level job at Iconomics, Inc. that she’d wheedled out of my son, who was a resident whiz at that firm.
From: witch freddie [email protected]
To: witch cass [email protected]
Subject: what’s up?
hi, cass. it’s me, don’t have to email from the library thanx to adam generously donating his old computer when he upgraded.
job’s going great. haven’t screwed up the works yet, so i got another mini-raise and a shot at fem management training (so iconomics gets to keep their government contracts.)
things are not so great, tho, at my apartment building. first it was the frizzling of the laundry room, for which i got blamed (hey, i do my best to keep control, but every time i was a wee bit late getting my stuff out of the dryer, someone dumped my undies all over the floor. third time it happened, i was major p.o.’d and the dryers blew up. quelle surprise! as the french say.) then there’s this thing with all the buzzers ringing every time i come in or go out. well, you get the picture. i am renter non grata, sez her royal majesty queen of the tenants’ org. doesn’t know i got a cat, tho. yes, am trying not to think bad thoughts about her, harm none and all. but you know that zen saying, enlightenment will come when you stop thinking of the white horse…. sure, baby.
i’m guessing married life with the greek dude is groovy, since i haven’t heard from you for awhile. maybe i’ll give it a try myself one of these days if i can dazzle some hot hunk like your boy, ha ha.
what’s this i’ve been reading about some alice b. toklas brownies poisoning you guys in plymouth? like i bet you’re up to your eyebrows in this one, am i right? need advice from yr favorite pixie, i’m available. i could, like, catch a ride up there with adam at thanksgiving.
send full details—inquiring minds need to know!
stay healthy
hugs to all the witches. tummy scratches to Scruffy.
freddie.
P.S. i’m thinking i might, like, take some college courses, maybe catch a degree one of these days. what do you think?
The word “pixie” rather leaped out at me, but I decided I was really being silly now. It seemed that Freddie still had her eye on my son, Adam, who was much too old for her. Apparently he’d resisted her wiles so far, and since he’d been transferred to upper management offices in a different building, it would be more difficult for her to practice her spells on him. Hence her offer to drive up with Adam at Thanksgiving. A long ride, usually a sleepover. Oh well, I could hardly say no. Being with Freddie was like opening a window to a fresh breeze from the west, cleaning the cobwebs right out of my brain. Of course, there was that little problem of her amazing talent for psychokinesis. I’d tried to teach her to master her mind-over-matter ability, but from time to time it jumped out in maverick poltergeist activity. Still, it would be great to see her.
From: Cass [email protected]
To: Freddie [email protected]
Subject: Yes!!!
Love to have you here for Thanksgiving! Didn’t know Adam was planning the trip. A word of warning: do not stop at Atlantic City this time. If you hit that dollar machine big time again, someone may get nosy about you. A low profile is the Wiccan way.
About your apartment—if you don’t want to have to keep moving, behave yourself with the tenants. You know it’s within your control, even the buzzers. Remember the threefold law—those frizzles could boomerang right back to you!
&nb
sp; Someone is indeed poisoning people in Plymouth. Seems to be indiscriminate. First a church social, then a TV cooking show (Phil’s), and then the senior center. But we think there may be a method in this madness.
The “Greek dude” (isn’t it time you called him Joe?) and I are still officially on our honeymoon until our first anniversary at Yule.
See you at turkey time. We’ll have a talk about college, great goal! Meanwhile, keep in touch and I’ll keep you posted, too.
Love,
Cass
Once I got started writing e-mails, I kept on, sending a short note to each of my three children, who were much more liable to answer this impersonal form of communication than some tedious message on their answering machines in their mother’s well-remembered nagging tone.
In order of age, the oldest first, I began with my Becky, who worked for a firm that specialized in family law. She’d recently separated from her husband, Ron Lowell. I had to tread carefully around this one—she might make up again with that philandering jerk.
From: Mom [email protected]
To: Becky [email protected]
Subject: How are you?
Hi, Honey.
Been thinking about you and wondering how things are going. Still loving your job?
Thanks again for the sweet get-well card and your call. Only one night in the hospital, and no lingering effects. And don’t worry, I’m barely involved—I just happened to be speaking at the church when the incident happened. I don’t have to tell you that the world is full of crazies. You must meet them every day at K & K.
Have you made any plans for Thanksgiving? Would love to have you here, with or without Ron, up to you! Freddie writes me that she and Adam are driving up, so it will be a real family get-together. Well, it’s a tad early—no rush letting me know.
Love,
Mom
Adam’s metamorphosis from computer nerd to confident, upwardly mobile, highly paid professional had been a matter of joyous amazement to me. Our warm and easy relationship never veered into those muddy waters I sometimes found myself in with my daughters, but he did maintain a certain distance, not entirely due to the mileage. So I was somewhat surprised and pleased that he was planning on a Thanksgiving visit, if that wasn’t a figment of Freddie’s fertile imagination. I decided to proceed on faith.
From: Your Ma [email protected]
To: Adam [email protected]
Subject: Thanksgiving
Hi, Adam.
Delighted to learn from Freddie that you’re planning to spend Thanksgiving with Joe and me, and that she’s going to hitch a ride with you.
Hope the job is going great, and you’re well!
As Joe explained when you called, I’m not really involved in the poison problem in Plymouth. It was only by a bizarre coincidence that I happened to be giving a talk at the church when the first incident occurred. Not to worry!
Do send a note to confirm about Thanksgiving!
Love,
Ma
My youngest, a hopeful actress, lived with her partner, Irene, in California. We’d wallowed in some emotional quicksand while she was in therapy, but I felt we’d pulled out of it finally. Recently, the girls had moved from San Francisco to Los Angeles in pursuit of film work.
From: Mother [email protected]
To: Cathy [email protected]
Subject: How are things?
Hi, Cathy!
Thinking of you and wondering how things are going in your new place. I’m saying a prayer that you and Irene will each find some great career breaks in L.A. I remember that you planned to change agents, too—hope you found someone who appreciates your talent and works hard for you.
Also wanted to tell you that Adam and maybe Becky will be in Plymouth for Thanksgiving—just in case you and Irene are coming East around that time. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all get together!
I hope you’re keeping healthy and haven’t lost any more weight. I know Irene worries, and so do I. Take care of yourself!
Love,
Mother.
All these plaintive e-mails left me feeling rather melancholy, so I welcomed the sound of Joe crashing through the kitchen door with supplies from Home Warehouse. “Want some help, honey?” I called from my snug little office, which in an earlier time had been the borning room, right beside the kitchen.
“Just open the cellar door for me. I thought I’d rough together a better worktable for you. There’s not enough room on that thing you’ve got in your old storage room, which appears to be on its last gateleg anyway.”
“I know, but it belonged to Grandma. It’s got a certain sentimental value for me.”
“Sure, I get that. My idea is to move Grandma’s table to stand against the unshelved wall, and then to build you a new, bigger one under the light. Speaking of which, I got some track lighting, too. What you’ve got down there now is much too feeble for a workroom.”
“It has a sort of atmosphere,” I ventured. “Spooky and inspiring.”
“I don’t know how you can even see the labels when you’re putting together your herb mixtures. You ought to think of your workroom as a kind of laboratory, not some alchemist’s cave.”
Joe’s face shone with do-it-yourselfer enthusiasm. His eyes hoped for praise. What’s a gal to do?
“You’re wonderful, honey! I’m so excited!” I opened the cellar door and snapped on the light, noticing for the first time that it was a bit gloomy down there. Even the stairs were in shadow. “This is such a thoughtful idea. Will you have time to finish it, do you think, before Greenpeace sends you off to tilt at windmills?”
What’s the big furry-faced guy doing now? I ought to go first down the stairs. It’s a canine tradition, in case there are dangers down there.
But I held Scruffy out of the way while Joe trotted past me with an armful of boards. I heard them hit the cellar floor with a thud. Then he was back upstairs, barely winded. “Got about five more trips,” he said cheerfully, stopping for a quick kiss from his admiring wife.
“I’ll help you.” I had to let Scruffy go, which meant the dog danced around and in front of us with every trip from the overloaded rental car to the cellar.
By the time we got through, my workroom was a sea of boards, tools, and lighting equipment. How in the world would I be able to fill my orders while all this home improvement was going on? Oh well, it could have been worse. He could have got an urge to remodel the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I took out a slab of salmon from its bed of ice.
Instantly, Scruffy was under my elbow, inhaling deeply. Hotdiggity-dog! Is that fish? I love fish. The fishier the better.
“I know you do. I remember all those times you rolled in dead fish on the beach and I had to give you a vanilla bath. But don’t worry. You’ll get your share in your supper dish tonight. Now move out the way so that I can get what I need for the sauce.”
Fish oil is good for my gleaming coat. We French briards don’t need baths. Baths are for retrievers, those saps. Hey, what’s with the green weed, Toots?
“Fresh dill. Now, will you stop nagging?”
“I haven’t said a word.” Joe, who was now washing up in the half-bath with the door open, felt the need to defend himself.
“Not you. Scruffy.”
“You really do talk to him, is that it?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Hey, get used to it, bearded guy! What do you think I am, some kind of dumb animal? My senses are sharp and my paws are stealthy, so watch yourself, fella.
It was just as well that Joe didn’t hear what I heard.
Chapter Eight
During the next few weeks, my third eye, the clairvoyant eye, remained stubbornly closed to whatever dangers were brewing. Perhaps the constant pounding in my cellar workroom kept me distracted. There was definitely no chance of slipping into an alpha brain-wave state while Joe was at work in the house. I did my best to visualize him finishing t
he project soon—particularly before he was called away. Meanwhile, I was forced to put together my herbal orders in the kitchen, an additional mess, just when I was trying to focus on Thanksgiving, only a week away.
As I suspected, Adam hadn’t been thinking about driving up to Plymouth for the holiday but had been maneuvered neatly into it by Freddie. Becky seemed pleased to join us, too, as well as glad to throw cold water on Ron’s hopes that she’d spend the day enjoying the Lowells’ chilly hospitality and perfectly presented Norman Rockwell bird. “We’re in a bit of chaos here now,” I warned her, “but no doubt Joe will have everything shipshape by the time the turkey goes into the oven.”
“With Grandma’s secret Nine-Herb Stuffing? Which you keep promising to write out for me.”
“Of course, Grandma’s stuffing. I’m a firm believer in tradition.” I still relied on Grandma’s notebooks of handwritten recipes. Shipton women had always been famous for their herbal lore: not only for well-seasoned New England food but also for medicinal teas, herbal cosmetics, and useful potions of all kinds.
“Oh sure, Mom…you’re the quintessential traditionalist.”
“Actually, I am. Only my traditions go back a long, long way. Anyway, I’m looking forward to a lovely family party. Cathy won’t be coming east, but that was really too much to hope for. She and Irene are organizing a vegetarian feast for out-of-work theater friends.”
“I bet that will be a rockin’ good time.” Becky’s tone betrayed a trace of envy for her sister’s lifestyle.
“If you like tofu-turkey and chili. It’s a hand-to-mouth existence, Becky. Not for you or me, but the very insecurity seems to suit them. So far away from home, too—I’m just glad that Cathy has Irene to watch over her.”
“Wouldn’t you rather she found a guy to look after her?”
“I don’t even think I was surprised that she chose differently. Besides, I like Irene, and I think she’s good for Cathy. I’m just happy to see all you little birds fly off on your own chosen flight paths.”
Ladies Courting Trouble Page 6