Spells of the Heart

by Ellen Dugan

He laughed and patted my back. “It’s going to be okay.”

  I handed him the paperwork. “Right now it doesn’t feel that way.”

  He went over the papers. “I can repair the damage in the basement,” Duncan offered.

  “I’m sure you can, but I really can’t afford any more construction work on the bungalow right now.” Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but I jumped in before he could say anything. “I’m not taking advantage of our friendship by having you do the work for free.”

  “We’re more than friends,” he said softly.

  I took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “And that’s exactly why, I’m not going to do that. If I have to, I’ll tear out the old paneling myself, and leave the studs and concrete showing.”

  Duncan stared at me for a moment. “Okay.”

  “This really burns my ass,” I said, and grimaced when Duncan started to laugh. “Let me rephrase that. I was hoping to put in a new vanity and sink in the upstairs bathroom. I’d been trying to figure out how long it would take me to save up to cover the cost of the installation. If I’ve learned anything from the reno, nothing with plumbing is ever simple in an older home.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Now instead I have to work on the basement.”

  “Would it make you feel better to get started on the tear-out today?” Duncan asked.

  I sighed. “You know me too well.”

  A Quinn construction truck pulled up to the curb in front of my house. To my surprise, Marshall from Duncan’s crew hopped out. He waved at us and went around to the back of the pickup truck.

  “Before you yell,” Duncan began, “Marshall dropped by to help me haul the washing machine out of the basement.”

  “I could have helped you,” I said.

  “Marshall has an appliance dolly. It’s quicker and safer to move it that way.”

  Marshall began wheeling the dolly up the driveway. His long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his baseball cap had seen better days. “Hey there.” He nodded to me all good cheer.

  “Hi Marshall. How’s Felicia and your daughter?”

  “They’re doing good. Wife’s not feeling too great at the moment.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Duncan asked, sounding concerned.

  Marshall stopped at the base of the steps. “Oh nothing that won’t sort itself out in a few months. She’s pregnant. We’re pregnant. Again.”

  Duncan went bounding down the steps and gave his friend a quick hug. I watched as the two men slapped each other on the back, and laughed.

  “When is she due?” I asked.

  “April,” he answered.

  I smiled. “That’d be a great name if you have another girl.”

  Marshall tipped back his hat and sighed. “That’s what the wife thinks.”

  Marshall and Duncan went right to work. They strapped the washing machine to the appliance dolly and hauled it up the basement steps. I tried not to laugh at the good natured swearing they indulged in while they wrangled it up the stairs and out the kitchen door. Once it was out, they rolled it around and I helped them load it up in the back of the truck. Next, they went for the dryer that was still in the backyard, and added that to the pickup bed.

  When Marshall offered to haul away the damaged paneling, I took a pair of work gloves out of the garage, grabbed my hammer and went down to the basement. Together the three of us began pulling it down. It was quick work, as the paneling had simply been tacked to the studs. There hadn’t even been any insulation.

  “Someone probably did this in the late 1960’s maybe 1970’s,” Marshall told me.

  “It’s very Brady Bunch.” I grunted as I pulled a section loose.

  “Yeah, baby.” Marshall pulled an entire panel down. “This sort of paneling was considered to be pretty groovy back in its day.”

  We hauled all the paneling out to the truck, and Marshall gave us a wave and headed off to go dispose of the paneling, and also to take the old appliances away to be recycled or sold for scrap metal.

  I stopped in the kitchen to wash my hands and went back to the basement to sweep up the concrete floor one last time. Between the clean-up crew and removing the ugly and damaged paneling, the smell of smoke was almost completely gone. Now, I was left with one entire side of the basement that had exposed framing and visible concrete walls. I sighed and checked under the wooden stairs, making sure that I hadn’t missed any stray nails. I saw a few stragglers and I stepped under the stairs with the broom to get them, promptly smacking my head on the risers. “Damn it!”

  Duncan came down the stairs. “Autumn? What happened?”

  I came out with my hand clapped to the top of my head. “I’m fine,” I said. “Bumped my head on the stairs, is all.”

  “Give me the broom.” Duncan took it from me and I went to get the dustpan. “Huh, that’s interesting.” Duncan’s voice sounded from under the stairs.

  “What is?” I asked walking over to him.

  “The top step, it’s built out and enclosed with paneling, but the others are not.”

  “Why would they do that?” I asked.

  “Let’s find out.” Duncan pulled a hammer out of a loop on his jeans and using the claw he pulled a section of paneling away from the back of the step. “There’s something in here.”

  “Really?” I ducked under the basement steps and stood beside him. As I watched, Duncan reached up and pulled out a metal storage box from inside the small compartment. He handed it to me silently, and we stepped out into the main part of the basement to look at it.

  “What in the world was this doing stashed away under the basement stairs?” I wanted to know.

  Duncan frowned. “At a guess, I’d say that little niche had been built around the same time the paneling was added to the basement.”

  “Marshall had said he thought the paneling was added in the late 1960’s, or 1970’s,” I remembered.

  “We tear out old paneling all the time.” Duncan scratched his chin. “And I’d have to agree with that estimate.”

  “That means it was done when Irene lived in the bungalow.” I considered the metal box a little more carefully. It wasn’t overly large, maybe eight by ten inches and four inches deep. I used the bottom of my t-shirt and wiped some of the dust off the lid, and discovered that it had been decorated.

  “Is that a painted symbol on the lid?’ Duncan asked.

  I rotated the box so the image would be right side up. The simple design was of a red dragon sitting on the edge of a white crescent moon. “Duncan,” I said cautiously. “This is a combination of both the Bishop family crest, and the Drake family crest.”

  “I’ve never seen or heard of the family crests being combined before, have you?”

  “No.” I met his eyes. “I haven’t.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We stared at each other silently, for a long moment.

  “Let’s take this upstairs,” Duncan suggested.

  I nodded, and Duncan scooped up the last of the nails from the floor, dumping them in a trash bag. I started up to the kitchen and he followed me. I set the box down on the table and while Duncan went outside to dump the garbage from the basement clean-up, I dampened a paper towel at the sink and wiped down the outside of the metal box.

  “I have to admit,” I said after wiping off my hands. “This makes me a little nervous.” I sat at the table and waited for Duncan.

  “Maybe it’s a time capsule.” Duncan finished washing up at the sink and sat beside me. “It’s not even locked.”

  “Well, here goes.” I flipped up the clasp and lifted the lid.

  Inside the metal box were papers, documents and old photos. The top photo showed two women standing arm in arm. They wore summer dresses, sunglasses and huge smiles. I recognized one of the women in the photo immediately. It was Irene Bishop.

  In seconds, that photo changed everything. “Oh my goddess.” I flipped the photo over and saw the words, ‘Taylor and Irene 1968’ had been written in pencil on the back. I turned it
back over and took in the details of the snapshot.

  “What?” Duncan asked.

  I held the photo up for Duncan to see. “The woman on the right? That is Irene Bishop in 1968.”

  “Wow, she was a stunner.”

  “That’s not what is shocking to me,” I said.

  Duncan frowned over the photo. “She’s on a beach, Florida maybe.”

  “And she’s heavily pregnant!” When Duncan stared at me, I rushed to explain. “According to the family tree and history, Irene Bishop never married and never had any children!”

  I passed him the picture and gently began to go through the contents of the box. What I found next had me gasping again. “These are adoption papers.” I gently unfolded the documents and we studied them together.

  “So Irene gave up her child for adoption?” Duncan ran a finger down the page. “Says here that the adoptive parents are Vance and Taylor Sutton.”

  I grabbed the photo, flipped it over. “Taylor and Irene.” I read.

  “Which means that Irene knew the couple who adopted her child,” Duncan decided.

  I reached in and pulled out another official looking, smaller document. “This is a birth certificate.” I began to read. “The baby was a girl. Born August 21, 1968. Six pounds, eleven ounces, twenty inches long.” I scanned the parental information next. “Mother: Irene Catherine Bishop.”

  “Who was the father?” Duncan asked.

  I skimmed my finger down the certificate, and what I saw had my jaw dropping. “Father: Phillip Samuel Drake.”

  “That would have been my great-uncle.” Duncan blew out a long breath. “What else is in the box?”

  We meticulously went through the rest of the contents. We found a black and white photo of Irene and Phillip together that was dated 1966. I recognized Phillip from the picture Olivia had given me, and the newspaper photo I had found during my internet search.

  “Hang on a second. I have an idea!” I dashed upstairs and hauled the bulletin board down with me. “Check this out.” I quickly shared with him the other information I’d gathered on my great-aunt, and Silas and Phillip Drake.

  We went back to the exploration of the box, and the fragrance of lilacs drifted through the kitchen—which was comforting and sad all at the same time. There was a love letter from Phillip to Irene, and two dozen or so faded color photos of Irene with her little girl. Clearly she had known the child during her lifetime.

  We rearranged the pictures by the dates stamped or written on the back, and when all was said and done we had a little timeline of Irene and her child. The girl’s name was Patricia, and there were photos of Irene and her daughter up until Patricia was an adult. The most recent photo was dated 1989 and showed Patricia wearing a wedding ring, and a maternity dress.

  “When did Irene pass away?” Duncan asked.

  I referred to the bulletin board. “She died in 1990. It was after her death that the bungalow was sold to the Greenes.”

  “That night that Irene spoke through you,” Duncan said, studying the photos. “She asked me to help her. To bring back what was secreted away.”

  Overwhelmed, I sat back in my chair. “So she wants us to find Patricia?” The basement door began to slowly shut on its own.

  “And her child.” Duncan reminded me.

  The scent of lilacs intensified. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said to the room.

  “We may have uncovered the reason the bungalow is haunted,” Duncan said thoughtfully.

  “Good point. I suppose I should talk to Nathan about all this.”

  “The haunting?” Duncan rubbed his hand over his chin. “Yes, but maybe you could hold off for a few days about the lock box and its contents.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “There’s legalities to consider,” Duncan said. “What if Patricia doesn’t want to be found?”

  “Good point.” I picked up the last photo. “She appears close to her mother, and yet my own family never knew of her existence.”

  Duncan tapped on the adoption papers. “Irene had said she was secreted away. Maybe there was a reason for that.”

  “I suppose I could try an internet search.” I gazed down at the photo of Irene and her adult daughter. “We have her maiden name and her birth date. Although, that might take some time.”

  “I have an alternative suggestion,” Duncan said. “I know someone who would have the resources to hire someone to do the research and to track them down quickly.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  Duncan’s blue eyes were intense. “Thomas.”

  I nodded. “You’re right.”

  “I’m surprised you agree.”

  “This isn’t only a Bishop family matter,” I said. “Patricia and her child are descendants of both the Bishop and Drake family lines.”

  Duncan began to gather up all the photos. “I’ll call my uncle and make arrangements for us to see him. Tonight if possible.”

  I nestled the rest of the papers back in the box. “I think that’s wise. I’d like to have as much information as possible before I share this with my family.”

  ***

  I wasn’t sure if I was excited about or dreading the meeting with Thomas Drake inside of their family mansion. The last time I’d been in the building, I’d fought for my life. Then again, I thought glancing over at Duncan as we drove through town, on that horrible night, so had Duncan.

  I was prepared for our meeting. Having used my printer/ copier, I’d made copies of everything. Taking care of that at home had allowed me enough time to get cleaned up, and I had tucked everything into a large tote bag. I chose my outfit with care, and was wearing my good black dress slacks and a bright purple top. I tossed a pleather jacket over the sleeveless top and zipped up my black, witchy boots.

  We’d gone to the Old World Pub and sat in a private booth in the corner and made an effort to simply enjoy ourselves. For an hour we put family drama and mystery aside and tried to act like a regular couple on a date.

  Now we were pulling into the Drake family estate, and I eased my car around the back and parked off to the side of the large multi-car garage. Taking a deep breath, I psyched myself up and took Duncan’s hand.

  We crossed the back gardens and the large brick courtyard with ivy growing over the walls. The old massive oak tree that had once stood dying in the center of the courtyard had been removed, and a young ornamental tree was planted in its place. Mounds of purple and white mums were planted at its base. Now, in addition to the flickering gaslight lanterns, decorative solar lighting was also dotted around the courtyard. What had once been foreboding and neglected had been ruthlessly cleaned out and re-designed.

  “This is lovely,” I said to Duncan.

  “We had it redone after the third floor was renovated.” Duncan said.

  I nodded and felt anxiety churn through my system as we approached the carved door at the rear of the mansion. It had been repainted to a bright cheerful teal. Spiral evergreens were planted in decorative ceramic urns, and they flanked either side of the door. Duncan opened the door for me, and I took a deep breath, tightened my grip on the large tote bag I carried, and stepped inside.

  The parquet floor was polished to a high sheen, and the thick heels of my boots made little noise against them. Suddenly glad I’d dressed up, I told myself not to feel intimidated by the sheer size of the home. Duncan reached for my hand again and I took his. I flashed him a smile, put my shoulders back and walked with him.

  “Nervous?” Duncan gave my hand a bolstering squeeze.

  “Pfft.” I rolled my eyes. “Not on your life, Quinn.” And If I was, I’d never admit to it anyway.

  We entered a stunning room with high shelves made from deep, rich wood. The library was impressive and its shelves were completely filled with books. I noted leather bound antiques, paperback novels, hardbacks, and college textbooks. There was even a rolling library ladder on a rail. “Gorgeous,” I said under my breath.

  A cheerful blaz
e burned across the room in a rustic stone fireplace, and a couple of leather sofas and chairs were arranged strategically to face it. Sitting in a club chair before the fire, sipping at a snifter of brandy, was Thomas Drake. The older man got to his feet as we entered the room. He was immaculately dressed in a suit that had to be custom made. It fit too well to be anything else.

  “Duncan, Autumn, come in.”

  Duncan walked straight to the older man and to my surprise enveloped him in an affectionate hug. “Thanks for seeing us.”

  I worked hard not to react to the exchange between the men. “Mr. Drake.” I nodded politely.

  “Please call me Thomas,” he said smoothly.

  “Thomas,” I managed. While Thomas went through the social niceties of offering us a drink, I checked him out and tried to get a read on him. He was nervous, I realized. Which was the last thing I had ever expected—but his nervousness helped abate my own.

  He gestured to Duncan and I to take a seat, and Duncan chose a leather couch next to his uncle’s chair. I sat beside Duncan and gently placed the tote bag on the coffee table that was in front of us.

  Thomas considered the tote bag and then studied our faces. “What have you brought to me?”

  Duncan looked to me, and I nodded. He reached inside the bag and took out the metal box. “We found this today, at Autumn’s house.”

  Duncan opened the box and I picked up the photo of Phillip and Irene. I handed it to him first. “Thomas,” I began, “today we discovered that my great-aunt Irene Bishop and your uncle Phillip had a child.”

  “What?” Thomas’ eyes grew large in his face, and he went pale. “That’s impossible.”

  “Uncle,” Duncan said. “There is a birth certificate, and photos.”

  Thomas Drake reacted like he’d been sucker punched. I might not have been an empath like my cousin Holly, but it was clear to see that this revelation was upsetting to the man.

  Going on instinct I scooted over to the opposite side of the sofa, and patted the now empty couch cushion between me and Duncan. “Come sit over here, and I’ll show you what we found. Maybe you can help us decide what we should do.”