Anthony carried the box like it was full of rattlesnakes, and deposited it in my trunk. I threw a silver-infused net over it, just in case. He thanked me profusely and promised to have Kell and me over for supper soon. I gave him a peck on the cheek and sent him in to get dinner ready for when Teag got home.
I worried about the box in the trunk, but it remained silent as I drove home. When I closed the door, I leaned hard against it, and took several deep breaths. Then I took a shower, lit some sage in an abalone shell incense burner, and headed for the couch. I wrapped Baxter up in my arms and hoped like hell we could figure out how to keep Teag safe and get to the bottom of whatever power lay behind the weirdness. The longer this went on, the worse it got, and I had a sinking feeling we’d only seen the previews, not the main attraction.
The next morning, my cell phone rang before I even got to the store. “Sorry to catch you so early,” Valerie, the top tour guide at Andrews Carriage Rides, greeted me. “But I need your help.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, envisioning black dogs chasing tourists or more injuries from rogue ghosts at the Old Jail.
“Thoroughbred horses and hunting dogs are vanishing out of locked barns,” Valerie said. “Security cameras were on and recorded no one entering or leaving the stables. The gates were locked, and the gatekeeper saw nothing. Security guards patrolling the area reported no unusual incidents. So how in the hell did three two-ton horses—each worth close to half a million dollars—just vanish into thin air? And half a dozen champion hunting dogs, too?”
I parked behind the shop, although I had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t be staying long. “It sounds more like something for the police,” I said, not wanting to leave Maggie with the store again.
“Cassidy, they found really strange markings in the stable, and in the dog kennel. You know about these kinds of things.”
“How did you get involved?” I asked, knowing that my protests staved off the inevitable.
“My cousin is married to the son of the stable owner,” Valerie replied. “This could ruin them.”
“The insurance company is not going to accept ‘magic’ for an answer,” I warned her.
“No, but if you can figure out how they disappeared, maybe there’s a way to get them back,” Valerie said. “I’m desperate, Cassidy.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and felt a headache coming on. “Okay. Fill me in,” I said, and leaned back in my seat, knowing it was going to be a long day.
Teag gave me a look when I walked in fifteen minutes later. I was late, but he’d probably heard me park behind the shop. To my relief, he actually looked rested.
“Sleep a little better last night?” I asked.
He gave a wan smile. “Much. Just normal nightmares, but not like it had been. Anthony told me about what you found. Thank you. From both of us.” He nodded toward the phone in my hand. “Something up?”
“How do you feel about a trip out to Aiken?” I asked. “Valerie called. There’s been some seriously strange goings-on at a horse farm, and she didn’t know who else to ask for help.”
“Don’t worry—I’ve got the store covered,” Maggie volunteered, bustling out from the break room with a fresh cup of hot tea. “Run along and save the horses.”
“Horses?” Teag asked, raising an eyebrow. He went to collect his laptop and messenger bag from my office. I poured more coffee into my travel cup for the trip.
“And hunting dogs. I’ll fill you in on the way,” I promised. Then I turned to Maggie, contrite and grateful. “Thank you.”
She shooed me off with a gesture. “It’s my contribution to saving the world,” she said with a grin. “Make sure you tell me all about it when you get back.”
Ten minutes later, Teag and I had everything we needed loaded into my SUV and were headed out of town. I told him about Valerie’s connection to the owner of Harrison Stables, their thoroughbred hunting horses and championship hunting dogs, and what she’d passed on about the animals’ disappearance.
“How the hell do you make three horses disappear?” Teag asked. “I mean, the dogs would be a challenge. But horses? They’re huge!”
“There’s got to be a connection,” I said. “Everything that’s happened has revolved around fox hunting, hounds, sporting events. And if you’re going to steal prime horseflesh, Aiken’s the place to go.”
Whether the goal was fox hunting, polo, or racing, Aiken knew horses. It had the best stables, jockeys, hunt coordinators, vets, and breeders outside of the Kentucky bluegrass region, and the people behind Aiken’s longstanding success came from old money.
We had a drive ahead of us, so Teag pulled out his laptop and went to work. “Harrison Stables is quite an enterprise,” he said, after giving an appreciative whistle when he read the search results. “Plenty of their horses have won big races, all the way up to being Triple Crown contenders,” he said. I wasn’t a “horse person,” but even I knew that the Holy Grail of horse racing was the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont. It took serious money to buy, maintain, and train elite racehorses and to hire the staff required to make it to the top races. And that didn’t count the money wagered on those events, or the lavish social affairs centered on watching the race in style.
“Valerie said that Aiken also is big with steeplechase races, and polo—plus hunting,” I added. “Everything ‘horse.’”
“There are at least ten major fox hunting events held every year, and plenty of pedigree hunting hound breeders in the area, too,” Teag said, reading down through his search results. “Those poor foxes don’t stand a chance.”
Personally, my sympathies were also with the foxes. Racing and polo didn’t bother me, as long as the horses were treated well and found good homes once they no longer competed. But I’d never been a fan of fox hunting, which struck me as cruel and unnecessary. I had plenty of friends who went deer hunting, and shooting pheasants and other game birds was a big deal in the Lowcountry. But at least you could eat what you shot. Fox hunting was about the thrill of the chase, the excitement of running your target to ground, with the quarry hopelessly outnumbered. Maybe someday they’d invent an artificial intelligence fox that could lead the hunters on a merry run, but until then, I wasn’t in favor.
“Aiken’s got quite the history,” Teag remarked. “People with names like Vanderbilt and Astor spent their winters here and brought their money with them. As for the Harrisons…now that’s interesting.”
“Oh?”
“Would you be terribly surprised to find out that the Harrisons of Aiken are related to the Nicholsons of Charleston?”
I sighed. “No, not really. So the plantation with the ghostly hunting hounds has a connection to the missing horses and dogs?”
“Uh huh. One of the Nicholson daughters married into the Harrison family after the Civil War,” Teag recounted, condensing the history he scrolled through on his screen. “According to this, the Harrisons—like the Nicholsons—found a lot of financial success, but were followed by personal tragedy.”
“Or possibly, cursed?”
Teag’s raised brow confirmed my suggestion. “Quite possibly. Unfortunate racing accidents, gunshot wounds on hunts, some questionable deaths that might have been suicides or something even stranger, and a couple of notable disappearances.” He made a face. “Not to mention at least one guy who got trampled to death by his horse in its stall, and another man who was apparently mauled and eaten by his pack of hunting dogs.”
“Eew.”
“So if a long-ago Nicholson made a deal with the devil—or something like him—they didn’t bargain well,” I said. “Or they managed to piss off a really powerful witch.” Curses—the gift that keeps on giving. “Anything else?”
Teag frowned as he scanned the screen. “I recognize some of the organizations that sponsor the races and the hunts. No big surprise—they cater to the well-off. Investment banking firms, wealth management advisors, high-end car dealers, luxury goods. Some of th
e sponsors are celebrating over a hundred years of involvement.”
“So we’ve got a small group of people with big money playing some high-stakes, dangerous games,” I recapped. “They’ve been tight with each other for generations, probably heavily intermarried and involved in each other’s business affairs, maybe even more so than the Charleston norm—and that’s saying something.”
Charleston’s upper crust was notoriously cliquish. Teag and I flitted around the very edges by virtue of Trifles and Folly’s long history and the kind of heirloom goods we handled. Even Anthony’s family, with their South of Broad social circle and Battery address weren’t at the center of the local power brokers, though they were closer. Sorren had moved among that crowd in his very long life, and both Mrs. Morrissey and Alistair McKinnon came from old blood. Aiken sounded even more clannish, and that kind of exclusivity usually didn’t bode well for uncovering secrets. I wondered how far Valerie’s family connections would get us into such a tight-knit community.
We drove into downtown Aiken, a picturesque small town that obviously drew a well-heeled tourist trade, not unlike Charleston. Local boutiques, bistros, and bars lined the sidewalks. The old brick buildings with their colorful awnings were well-maintained, with window boxes and planters for a dash of color. Fancifully-painted statues of horses were everywhere. If Valerie hailed from around here, her love of all things horse-related came naturally.
“Valerie is meeting us at the bed and breakfast where she’s staying,” I relayed. “She’ll go out to the stables with us.”
The charming downtown and the many lovely B&Bs made me decide to add Aiken to my mental list of places to take Kell on a getaway weekend. From the way Teag noted the restaurants and commented on a few of the shops, I figured he had the same idea for a mini-vacation with Anthony. After we settled all the strange goings-on, we’d both need some time off.
Valerie waited on a porch swing on the wide veranda of a beautiful white Victorian clapboard turned into the Bluebells Bed and Breakfast. A well-managed cottage garden in the front sported color and blooms, and pretty decorative flags fluttered as wind chimes made bell-like sounds in the breeze.
“Teag! Cassidy! Thank you so much for coming.” Valerie hopped down from the swing and headed for us before we’d barely gotten out of the car. She looked worried, and between the strange apparitions causing problems for the tours in Charleston and now trouble for a family member, I imagine she’d been under a lot of stress.
“Of course,” I reassured her. “We did some research on the way, and I brought Teag up to speed after our phone call. What now?”
Valerie managed a tired smile. “Ronnie Harrison, my cousin’s husband—and the owner of the stables—is meeting us for lunch out at the clubhouse. He’s eager to meet you. I told him a little bit about your gift, but since he’s a big donor to a lot of local history non-profits, he already knew Mrs. Morrison and Alistair from the museum, and they’ve sung your praises.”
“I hope we can help,” I said. Our abilities went far beyond what Valerie or the others knew, but with luck, none of those “extras” would be necessary.
“If Ronnie’s married to your cousin, isn’t he a bit young to be running such a big operation?” Teag asked as we drove.
“Ronnie’s the public face for the stables, but everyone knows that the real power lies in his grandfather, Norris. The man is ancient. He outlived Ronnie’s father, and he’ll probably outlive the rest of us,” she said. “Mean as a snake. He’d still be running the business if he could, but he’s had a series of strokes and can’t get out of bed.”
“So Ronnie handles the day to day stuff—” I started.
“But the big decisions—and the real money—goes through Norris,” Valerie confirmed. “No one sees him except Ronnie and the nurses who care for Norris. And from what I’ve heard, no one misses him, either.”
When we drove through the wrought iron gates at the end of the long driveway to Harrison Stables, it felt like entering another world. An allée of live oak trees hung over the winding drive, leading up to the big house with white pillars that was the original Harrison home and now served as the clubhouse. Off in the distance, down another gated road, I saw the new—and even more grand—homestead. Betting on the track might be for suckers, but apparently owning the horses paid big.
I followed Valerie up the steps into the club. Inside the atmosphere was dark wood, leather chairs, and paint the color of the felt on a pool table. In other words, it felt like a rich man’s den, minus the cigar smoke.
A tall, dark-haired man came striding toward us as if he owned the place, and I figured him for Ronnie Harrison. “Valerie!” he called out, greeting her with a hug. He turned to me and extended his hand. “You must be Ms. Kincaid.”
“Cassidy,” I replied, shaking his hand.
“And Teag Logan,” Valerie added, leading to another round of handshaking.
“Ronnie,” he answered. He stood aside and waved us past him into what I guessed was his office. “Come on in. Thank you for coming.” He motioned for us to sit in the very comfortable leather chairs in front of his desk, while he sat in his expensively ergonomic office chair.
Ronnie’s office smelled like tack oil and bourbon. Paintings of horses and fox hunters covered his walls, and I noted that they all appeared to be original oils. Crystal decanters on an antique mahogany stand held liquor, with engraved silver tags to mark the types. Ronnie’s burled wood desk had to be at least a hundred and fifty years old, fine craftsmanship, famous maker.
“The desk’s been in my family for a long time,” Ronnie remarked, noting my interest.
I grinned. “Sorry. Antiques are my business, and I can’t switch off my mental appraisal.”
“No offense taken,” he assured me. Ronnie’s voice sounded deep and smooth, with the softened consonants and easy cadence of the old patrician South. “Valerie’s told me a lot about you. I’m so glad you came.”
I cleared my throat. Willing as I was to help out Valerie’s friend, I needed to be honest. “I’m not a detective, Ronnie. I run an antique store. I’m glad to help any way I can, but surely there are people who are better qualified.”
Ronnie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I’ve already talked to those ‘qualified’ people, Cassidy, and they’ve drawn a blank. Local police, state police, even the FBI because of the dollar amount involved, and no one’s turned up anything. We went so far as to ask them to check into the possibility that organized crime might have had something to do with the horse theft, because of track betting. Nothing.”
He met my gaze. “This isn’t about the money. We run a family business, and that includes the horses and the dogs. Their bloodlines go all the way back with ours, and there’s a bond there at least as strong as what most people feel for their pets, maybe stronger. We raised those horses from foals, put a lifetime of knowledge and effort into training them, caring for them. Same with the dogs. To have them gone, no idea what happened or whether they’re all right,” his voice broke. “I can’t let it go.”
I liked Ronnie, and his grief over the missing animals made my decision for me. “I’m a psychometric. I can read the memories and…energy…of objects by touching them. Not all objects have resonance—imprinted images. Most don’t.” And that was a good thing, or I’d probably go mad. “The pieces that have the strongest resonance either are connected to vivid memories of important events or were part of a tragedy.” I decided to leave out curses and magic for now.
“All right.” Ronnie didn’t bat an eye at my revelation. “Valerie didn’t give me that much detail, but she told me you’ve uncovered evidence to solve crimes, and I’m desperate, Cassidy. I went to a Tarot reader my assistant swears by, and she told me the cards spoke of secrets, curses, and old grudges. So my takeaway is that the answers aren’t going to be conventional.”
He sat up, grief etched on his face. “I want my horses and dogs back safely. But if that’s not possible, I need to
know what happened.”
I didn’t need to know anything about horse racing to appreciate the sentiment behind his words. “I’ll do everything I can to try to give you that,” I replied. “Just as long as you realize, I can’t promise.”
“That’s enough,” Ronnie said.
He placed a call, instructing someone to meet us at the barns, and then stood. We followed him back outside, and as we crossed the yard toward the nearest barn, Ronnie constantly waved or smiled at the people we passed who hailed him by name. Ronnie chatted as we walked, filling us in on the essentials of the racing season. I listened in fascination since I knew nothing about horse racing. At the same time, I kept my Gift near the surface, casting out my senses as I walked, alert for anything that felt off.
Teag walked beside me, and I wished we had enough privacy for me to ask for his take on what he saw. He’d been quiet in Ronnie’s office, and since Valerie didn’t know about his Weaver magic, he didn’t volunteer any insights. Maybe she and Ronnie thought he was there for backup, but I knew in my gut that all the weirdness going on had something to do not only with Weaving, but with Teag himself. I didn’t want to let him out of my sight unless I handed him off to Sorren or someone with even stronger magic than mine. So the reality was, we were watching each other’s backs, as usual.
All around us, the stables hummed with activity. The air smelled of horses and feed, straw and worn leather. Trainers led horses from one place to another, and the animals were beautiful enough to be swoon-worthy. I could believe each one was worth a small fortune, not for their prowess on the race track, but because they were magnificent creatures, all sleek muscle and sinuous power. Maybe I’d take up watching the Derby, I mused. If nothing else, it offered the opportunity for Mint Juleps and fancy hats.
“Cassidy, Valerie, Teag, I’d like you to meet Corbin Hahn, our head groundsman,” Ronnie said as a man stepped out of the stable to greet us. Hahn was a sturdy man in his middle years, with a shock of white hair tucked beneath a cabbie hat and bushy gray eyebrows over piercingly blue eyes. He defined “craggy,” a weathered face with plenty of character, a strong jaw, and fine lines around his eyes from squinting at the sun. With his tweed shooting jacket, Wellington boots, and a shotgun broken open across his left arm, Hahn might have stepped out of central casting from the BBC.
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