Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  “I’ve got it.” I picked up the basket as Aunt Gully said good night to her helpers.

  “I wish you were going to the big Halloween party, Aunt Gully,” Verity said. “It’s going to be good.”

  “Oh, Kathleen Parish sent me an invitation but I love the trick-or-treaters,” Aunt Gully said. “I can’t wait to go home and get into my Glinda costume.”

  We stepped out the kitchen door into the cooler, fragrant air of the garden. “Glinda is perfect for your aunt,” Verity whispered to me.

  Traffic clogged the entrance to the parking lot. Cars streamed up the right fork of the road to the Parish mansion but just as many came back down the same way. People parked along the side of the road and walked back toward the mansion.

  “No room left to park by the house,” Aunt Gully said. “You girls may as well walk. I’ve been to receptions at the big house. It’s so close you can actually see the historical society’s kitchen garden and lawn from the mansion.”

  I put the basket in the van as Aunt Gully got in the driver’s seat.

  “Oh, wait!” She rummaged in her glove compartment. “Take this. It’s some newfangled flashlight Hilda gave me. This way people can see you in the dark when you leave the party.”

  I took the flashlight. It was no larger than a pencil and would fit in the pocket of my pants, or—I experimented—I could tuck it into the top of my boot.

  “Have fun, Aunt Gully!”

  We waved as she joined the line of cars waiting to exit.

  “I hope your aunt saves me some candy bars.”

  “She’ll stash some away for us.” She always did.

  Chapter 11

  We joined the stream of revelers walking up the road to the house. Although we’d just left the original Parish House, there was a small carved wooden sign that read PARISH HOUSE halfway up the drive. Unlike the Parish House of 1654, Royal Parish and his family lived in a sprawling modern home, imposing and gray shingled, set on a point that jutted into the bay. The evening breeze carried the scent of salt water—we were close to the shore. Multicolored spotlights lit up the front of the house and as we approached I heard dance music thumping.

  “Otis Parish must be spinning in his grave,” Verity said.

  “If Otis is in his grave,” I said. Verity screamed and punched my arm as we entered.

  * * *

  Inside the front door, Verity and I stopped to stare. The entry was a vast two-story foyer, which had been strung with ship’s rigging. “I just know some guys will be climbing that by the end of the night,” Verity said.

  “I might be,” I breathed.

  A few older folks from the grant presentation passed us, their eyes wide, their smiles unsure.

  A woman in a gray maid’s uniform offered to take our hats and capes. The night was unseasonably warm and I knew I’d be dancing so I handed my cape to her. Some guys didn’t wait in line; they ran into the coat room, threw their capes on a table, then dashed across the foyer into a hallway—probably looking for the keg.

  “No, I need my cape for my costume.” Verity swished hers. “I look too good to take this off.”

  “Verity!”

  We turned and I almost gasped with surprise. There stood the girl from the fencing class, the girl I’d seen fighting with Max.

  But tonight Isobel Parish was beaming in a pirate costume that put ours to shame. She wore a flowing white poet’s shirt with bell sleeves, topped by a blue velvet vest embroidered with gold thread. A paisley scarf was wrapped around her head, her gold hair curling on her shoulders. Her long legs were encased in brown tights with brown leather boots with a full cuff and buckles. The most spectacular part of her outfit was a sword scabbard that hung on a jeweled belt.

  “That’s what I call a costume,” Verity said.

  Isobel Parish looked every inch a pirate queen.

  “Isobel, this is my friend—” Verity began.

  Isobel grabbed my hand in hers, her hand callused, her grip crushingly strong. “Allegra Larkin!”

  If she recognized me from that night I saw her fight with Max Hempstead, she didn’t show it. “Oh my God! Let me get a pic.” She held out her arm to do a selfie. “I’m a huge fan!”

  Her enthusiasm overwhelmed me. We all smiled for the photo.

  “I heard that you’re working at the college with Madame Monachova,” she said.

  “Do you know Madame?” I said.

  “My mom was one of her students years ago,” Isobel said. Ah, now the way Kathleen Parish rushed to Madame after the grant presentation made sense. She must have known how much Madame wanted the grant.

  Some guys stumbled up to us, drunk already, beer slopping from red plastic cups onto the gleaming marble floor. One leered. “You girls want to climb my rigging?”

  “Frat boys!” Isobel snorted. “Come on.”

  We turned on our heels and followed Isobel down a hallway. As we left the foyer, the lights dimmed and multicolored disco lights flashed round the walls and ceiling. Tendrils of white mist swirled in front of us; there must be a fog machine somewhere.

  In the hallway, several portraits of the Parishes looked down their noses at us. Isobel ignored them. She walked with a long-legged stride, a swagger, her head held high, her chin the same prominent one as her forebears. The sword belt she wore rode low on her hips. The scabbard that hung from it didn’t look like a costume.

  “Is your sword real?”

  Isobel unsheathed her sword. “This is an épée.” She made a slashing movement with the narrow, flexible blade.

  “Like Zorro,” a voice behind us slurred.

  The frat guys had followed us. Isobel raised the blade and advanced on them.

  “En garde!” Blade slashing, she ran at them with the same quick advancing steps I’d seen her use on her unfortunate fencing partner. The boys stumbled backward toward the foyer. She whacked one on the bottom as they turned and ran.

  Verity and I laughed and high-fived her. She sheathed her sword. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

  We followed her upstairs through a back staircase near the kitchen, then along a hallway carpeted with oriental rugs so deep our footsteps made no sound. She keyed in a passcode on a heavy wooden door, then pushed it open.

  “The library,” she said.

  “Mrs. White in the library with a candlestick,” Verity whispered.

  “My dad uses it as an office. His inner sanctum.” The bitterness in Isobel’s words surprised me.

  The walls were lined with matching sets of law books. Shelves that didn’t hold books had sailing trophies and photos of Royal and other men with the Parish chin. I didn’t see any photos of Isobel.

  The large room was dominated by a bay window that drew me, Isobel, and Verity. As I crossed the room, I remembered that there had been a break-in here. How on earth had someone gotten into this house? The security system must have cost a fortune.

  A pool and broad patio spread underneath us, lit with torches and dozens of jack-o’-lanterns. Isobel pointed north. “Just down there is the old Parish House.” She pointed at the dark tree line that bordered the broad lawn. “There’s a path that goes just past the stable all the way to Old Farms Road. But it’s shorter to cut across the lawn. Some of our neighbors do it all the time.”

  Verity shuddered. “That path leads to the cemetery, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry, Uriah doesn’t bother us.” Isobel laughed.

  “Don’t you mean Otis?” I said.

  Isobel snorted. “Otis, Uriah, who cares?” She turned back to the window. “And the south side of the house faces the water.”

  I oriented myself—the scent and sound of the ocean flowed in an open window across the room where green plants topped mahogany filing cabinets.

  Isobel leaned against a heavy mahogany desk, the top clear except for a blotter, a silver laptop, and a lamp.

  She nodded toward the fireplace. “That’s our family heirloom. The family heirloom.”

  I ex
pected another portrait but over the fireplace hung a sword. “The sword? The Parish sword?”

  In one step Isobel was at the mantel, reaching up and taking down the family heirloom. She weighed it in her hand. “The real one. The one at the historical society is a repro. You wouldn’t believe how many museums have offered to buy this. Oh, and the collectors. They’re the worst. They’d pay a fortune to hang it over their own fireplace mantel.”

  “It looks like something George Washington would have carried,” I said.

  She held the sword out to me. I hesitated, then took it. It was a long sword, with a thicker blade than the narrow épée at Isobel’s side.

  “It’s lighter than I expected,” I said.

  “It’s got good balance.” Isobel’s eyes gleamed. I didn’t want to say anything to upset her, but weapons were not my thing. To me, the sword vibrated with memories of blood and violence.

  Get a grip, Allie. It’s a party. And it’s just a sword.

  I struck the same pose I’d seen her do in class and downstairs then advanced on her. Lightning-fast, she whipped out her sword and countered me, her steel ringing on my blade and forcing mine to the floor. “You know, you’d make a good swordswoman. You’ve got the footwork down already.”

  “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” I handed back the sword. She held it out to Verity.

  Verity took it in both hands. “Whoa. This is really old, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. In my family for hundreds of years. I think if there were a fire, my dad would grab this before he’d grab me.” She said it like a fact, not a joke. “And that portrait.” She nodded toward a portrait on the wood-paneled wall next to the fireplace. The man pictured looked uncannily like her father—same prominent chin and eyebrows, a long thin nose with deep-set eyes, wearing a long black cape—stood at a table, his finger pointing to a spot on a map, probably Mystic Bay. The gesture said, I own this.

  “That looks like your dad.”

  “Yep. He used it to create his costume, so did his friend Professor Smith. But enough of a history lesson.” She returned the sword to its place. “Let’s get back to the party.”

  We followed her from the quiet room into the buzz of music and laughing voices. I looked down the hallway and saw a hooded figure in a black cape disappear around a corner. Isobel pulled the door closed and we went downstairs.

  At the foot of the stairs, a tall guy with dreads grabbed Isobel’s hand and tugged her onto the dance floor. Shouting led us outside, where floodlights illuminated the broad patio and lawn.

  Isobel had strung doughnuts from the branches of trees. “I haven’t seen this since fifth grade!” I said. Partygoers held their hands behind their backs and raced to see who could eat a doughnut fastest.

  Verity and I went straight for the doughnuts, skirting the huge swimming pool lined with kegs.

  Some guys barreled into the pool, splashing everyone. I wiped water from my lips. “Saltwater pool.” I grimaced. “I think there’s beer in there, too.”

  Verity and I simply tugged down our doughnuts, then walked back into the house, munching. Maybe it was sad that I thought of it this way, but the college-age kids—and I wasn’t much older—well, I thought of them as kids. The two boys who’d been scared off by Isobel earlier tailed me and Verity.

  “We have stalkers.” I sighed.

  “We’ll lose them. I need the restroom.”

  Down a quiet hallway, we found the powder room, which had marble floors and white velvet couches. “Of course, everyone has four stalls in their powder room,” Verity said.

  When we finished, we stepped into the hall. Just a few feet from us Royal Parish grabbed Isobel’s arm and yanked her into an alcove. Verity and I stopped short, afraid to move. We couldn’t see Isobel and her father, but their voices carried.

  “Enough!” Royal shouted. “You’ve had enough to drink!”

  “Dad, for heaven’s sake, shut up.”

  Despite the party music that thumped in the background, we could still hear them.

  “Who’s that boy? How many are you juggling this week?” Royal Parish’s voice shook with barely restrained fury.

  Isobel shouted, “None of your business, Dad. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Clearly you don’t. Isobel, you embarrass yourself, you embarrass our family! You’ve already dragged our family name, our family honor, in the mud enough.”

  “Funny you should mention mud, Dad. After what you did in the cemetery.”

  Isobel shot out of the alcove and ran down the hallway. Royal stalked after her, his cape flowing behind him.

  Neither had looked our way. Thank goodness. Verity and I exchanged glances.

  “Family honor?” I said. “Who talks like that?”

  “I feel for her,” Verity said. “Her dad’s unhinged.”

  My upbeat party mood disappeared. I was uneasy now, keeping watch for Isobel and Royal.

  Now it struck me that the crowd was such an odd mix. A few guests from the earlier grant ceremony stood stiffly as frat boys stumbled by spilling beer from red plastic cups. One of them handed us drinks.

  “There’s Isobel.” Verity jutted her chin.

  Isobel and a different guy, this one with a full beard dressed in a black robe, danced close, then she pulled him through the patio doors and they melted into the shadows of the garden. Clearly Isobel had no interest in heeding her father’s warning.

  “Look, there’s Fred and Gladys.” Across the patio, Fred looked uncertainly at a doughnut on a string. Gladys fished in her pocket and took out what looked like a switchblade. She slashed the string and handed Fred the doughnut.

  “Gladys takes care of business,” Verity said.

  “Fred’s so much better on the water than on dry land,” I said. “He knows what he’s doing on a boat.”

  Verity frowned at her red plastic cup of beer. “I don’t want to waste calories on beer.”

  “Agreed. I’d rather have a margarita. Or really, anything else. Let’s check out the bar.”

  We danced back to the other side of the ballroom. The older crowd had taken over a small room off the ballroom. I nudged Verity. “In here.”

  The room was wood paneled and clubby. A small bar staffed by two bartenders was surrounded by older folks escaping from the pirate bacchanal in the other rooms. A waiter circulated with a tray of champagne.

  A group by a fireplace surrounded Royal. I recognized people from the grant ceremony. Professor Smith was flushed, beaming. Royal still wore his splendid cape and there was no sign of his argument with Isobel on his haughty face. He held a tumbler of what was probably very good Scotch and made a toasting gesture toward the portrait over the fireplace. He did look royal, I thought, and the others were his court. They posed for a photo.

  Verity and I snagged champagne flutes and clinked glasses. “Let’s get out of here before anyone tries to give us another history lesson,” I said.

  We followed the crowd to the dining room.

  The dining room was huge, almost forty feet long, wood paneled and formal. Orange and white twinkle lights crisscrossed the ceiling along with white, yellow, black, and orange balloons. A buffet was spread underneath with dozens of dishes, a carving station for roast beef, a hibachi with Korean BBQ, fish tacos, lamb kebabs, and falafel wraps from Montauk House, my favorite café in nearby New London. We filled our plates and took them outside.

  “No lobster,” Verity said.

  “I’m actually okay with that.” I nibbled a lamb kebab.

  We found two chairs on the patio, and Verity and I dug in. The food was amazing, the setting gorgeous. I felt my muscles relax. When I finished eating, I set aside my plate and sipped my champagne.

  The two college freshmen who’d been tailing us returned and sat on the slate patio at our feet. “Who’s Otis Parish? I just heard Professor Smith telling the guys by the keg that he walks on Halloween night.”

  Across the pool I could see a crowd gathering by the row of kegs. Laughter subsided a
nd I could make out the undercurrent of a warm, deep voice. Professor Smith seemed like a jerk but evidently he was a good storyteller. Music from the house obscured the words, but I could tell that the crowd was hanging on every word.

  I considered the crowd. I hadn’t recognized any of the partygoers. I’d heard Kathleen Parish mention the fraternity. Many of these students probably weren’t local. They’d never heard the legend of Otis Parish.

  Verity and I looked at each other.

  “Let’s take pity on them. They’re kind of cute,” she said.

  “Like puppies,” I said.

  Verity took a deep breath. “When Mystic Bay was first founded in the late 1600s—”

  “The British Crown gave land to a worthy gentlemen, Otis—”

  “Get to the dramatic stuff,” Verity said.

  “Right.” I considered. “People don’t mention this about the founding of our town, but at one point, the Parishes led the slaughter of the native village. Chased the survivors off of their own land. As he died, the tribe’s chief put a curse on Otis Parish, the founder of Mystic Bay.” I sipped my drink.

  “There’s an altar in the woods that was used by the native people for centuries,” Verity said. “That’s where Otis’s ghost will chop off your head and hands if he catches you on Halloween night.”

  I choked on my champagne. Verity was embroidering the tale. Well, everyone did.

  I coughed and took a tiny sip. Much better. “Now the neighborhood witches use it.”

  One guy said, “I’ve got to see this!”

  “They say that Otis rests uneasily in his grave, because of the guilt. And that on his birthday, October thirty-first, he is cursed to walk. So that’s why people put stones on his grave, so he can’t get out.” I considered. If Otis hadn’t had a Halloween birthday, probably nobody would have paid him a bit of attention.

  Verity leaned forward. “And the curse? The curse took effect years later. The town was struck by a terrible disease. We do know that his favorite son, Uriah, was killed and became a vampire. But that part is murky.”

  I was waiting for the history professor to step forward and correct us for spreading old stories.