Gypsies, Traps & Missing Thieves

by Rachael Stapleton

  Penny put her hands on her hips and hid her smile, “Oh, come on, Michèle. Give your sister some credit. Five minutes with her and he’d spill the beans just to make her go away.”

  Michèle nodded. “True. There’s the risk he’d lock himself up in solitary though.”

  Cody shook his head and waited for them to finish with their razzing. “Thanks for the offer, Eve, but we’re going to propose a deal as long as he helps us locate the other two along with the missing coin. I have a feeling that will loosen his tongue.”

  Eve nodded. “Alright. Well, let me know if you change your mind. I’ll keep my weapon lit and on standby. It will blow his mind.”

  “Excuse me?” Cody questioned.

  Penny slapped her hand to her forehead. “Don’t bait her.”

  Eve smirked. “My blowtorch, it’s great for interrogation.”

  “Yep, I should have guessed,” Cody mumbled, as he pulled his boots back on.

  38

  M allory felt relaxed and warmed from the home-cooked meal, but her bare feet were chilled. She pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa and draped it over her legs. Bakalo raised his head a notch. The blanket lured him over to her lap, where he curled into a ball.

  “Well, it wasn’t what we had planned for your birthday, Dan, but it sure wasn’t boring,” Mallory said.

  “Hear, hear,” Danior said, getting to her feet, “I say cheers to that,” She pulled three wineglasses from the cupboard and poured a healthy three inches of wine into Nana’s and Mallory’s glasses, while grabbing the sparkling water for herself.

  “I think the cookies are cool enough now,” Nana said. “I’ll get out the mixer and we can start throwing together some Easter icing. Ah, there’s nothing like decorating cookies to fire up the synapses.”

  “Dibs on the bunny-shaped ones,” Mallory said.

  The stand mixer whirred, a sound that always gave her a warm, cozy feeling. Making cookies together every Easter was a Vianu tradition. The sharp sweetness of the orange extract, the sheen of pastel colored icing, even the flour and confectioners’ sugar that dusted the table around the mixer—all of it brought back those safe, protected years of childhood, before her mother and father had gone missing.

  “I’m having lunch with Penny tomorrow,” Mallory said. “I was planning to ask if Cody’s made any progress on the case.”

  Danior was racing to divide the icing into lidded bowls so it wouldn’t dry out. “Bring over the food color gels, would you? You can start coloring, if you want.”

  Mallory brought over some small bottles and arranged them in a spectrum of color next to the covered containers of icing. “I have so many questions, the main one being how Geneviève knew where Mom hid the coin,” Mallory said.

  Danior collected a pile of pastry bags and a box of metal tips. “Maybe she found it by accident while snooping?”

  Mallory added a drop of green and stirred. “It occurred to me that could be the case but it just seems so far-fetched.”

  “You still secretly think Joelle is connected.” Danior was already coloring her second container of icing a bright pink, a dramatic contrast to the color she chose first, a rich blue.

  Nana shook her head. “Eve is adamant that’s not the case, and the police cleared her.”

  Mallory tightened the lid on her mint green icing. “Money is a strong motivator, and she is in financial trouble.” She opened another icing container and added a drop of purple.

  “You can start piping if you want,” Danior said. “I’ll make the flood icing.”

  The whirring of the mixer discouraged conversation for a time. When it stopped, Danior said, “You know, what if your mom told Geneviève?”

  “She’s too young,” Nana said. “Remember, we already considered this angle.”

  Mallory finished piping the outline of the bunny shaped cookie. She put the bowl of yellow icing back with the others and pulled up a chair to rest her back. “It had to be Joelle.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance that your mom is still alive?” Danior asked. “Maybe she’s in hiding or being held against her will.”

  Nana dropped her wooden spoon into the sink with a clank. Her aura was flashing a kaleidoscope of colors, the hues most visible alternating between hope and surreptitiousness.

  “Nana, are you okay?” Mallory asked.

  Nana walked back over to the couch where they’d been playing Scrabble earlier and sat down without saying a word. Danior and Mallory made eye contact and followed her. They both sat down on the sofa flanking her. Abby jumped up and cuddled between Nana and Danior.

  “Nana, what aren’t you telling us?”

  “It’s nothing,” she replied.

  The room suddenly grew cold, and a book thudded from the shelf.

  Mallory turned to see a glowing light standing in front of the bookcase. She moved Bakalo onto Nana’s lap and stood, walking to the ghost and the bookshelf. The ghost faded away and Mallory picked up the book, it was the diary she’d found in the attic.

  “Somebody wants you to read that diary,” Danior joked.

  Nana’s face grew serious. “Mallory, what is it? You see something.”

  “I did, but she’s gone.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, but I can hear music,” She replied.

  “You do! Mal! Is it the violins?”

  Mallory turned back around and slowly shook her head. “No, it’s mom. I hear mom singing.”

  Thanks for reading Gypsies, Traps & Missing Thieves. Keep reading Make-Believes & Lost Memories to find out what becomes of the Vianu ladies and their ghost of the manor.

  In the mood for more Bohemian Lake stories? Check out one of my Bohemian Crossover Series: Penning Trouble or Haunted House Flippers.

  1

  T HE living room’s thick, velvet curtains were drawn, but it wasn’t enough of a barrier, Mallory thought as she listened to the rain lashing against the windows; the wind shook the manor’s cupolas as if it were about to tear them loose. Nights like this always kept Mallory on edge. The storm was like a lightning rod for paranormal activity. She’d already woken to several spirits, but that wasn’t what was bugging her. No, it was the feeling inside that was tormenting her. She’d been struck with déjà vu a time or two before in her life but nothing like when she’d looked inside that dusty old journal from the attic. The feeling had clawed its way inside her head and bled into her dreams, haunting her then and now.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mallory was ripped from her thoughts and she looked up through a blur of tears at the cranky old woman barreling across the living room toward her.

  “Nothing,” Mallory said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “Give me the knife, Malhala.” Nana only used her Roma name when she meant business—such as now. “You’re bawling like a scolded toddler in a toy store. And you’re bleeding.” Nana came to stand opposite Mallory on the other side of the kitchen island.

  “I’m not bawling, thank you very much,” Mallory exclaimed. “My eyes are just watering.”

  “Mm-hmm, and you can hardly see.”

  Nana reached forward and grabbed hold of the Santoku knife handle, nicking herself as she wrenched it back from her eldest granddaughter.

  “Since when do you have a problem with someone preparing you breakfast?”

  “I have a problem because it’s three in the morning and it sounds like you’re murdering my countertop.” She looked down at the cut on Mallory’s finger, “Lucky for the counter, you’re only after appendages.”

  “It’s just a scratch. I had a nightmare, and I couldn’t get back to sleep,” Mallory said, holding a wet paper towel first to her eyes, and then to her wounded finger. “I thought I’d chop some onion and mushrooms and make us omelets. Who knew chopping onions would render me blind and useless?”

  Nana cleared her throat, “I knew, that’s who.” She walked behind Mallory and switched on the kettle. “Now, how about a healin
g salve for us both?” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “you can practice your skills and get me my recipe book.”

  Recipe book was code for spell book. Roma people were not supposed to write things down. It went against their beliefs, but Nana said that was tomfoolery, she was liable to burn the house down mixing tonics without her book.

  “Nana, can we skip your little teaching games right now? I don’t really feel up to the task,” Mallory protested.

  “Don’t disrespect your elders, Malhala, dear,” Nana chided as she took Mallory’s hand and led her to the living room. There were books everywhere. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, the gilt lettering on their worn spines glinting in the soft light. “Hurry up now,” Nana murmured as Mallory mounted the rolling book ladder and looked back over her shoulder.

  “I wish you wouldn’t make me do this when I’m not in the mood.”

  On the best of days Nana was bossy. The past two months, though, she’d been on Mallory’s case daily to hone her intuitive skills. And, boy, was she crotchety when ignored.

  Mallory gripped the sides of the ladder and stared at the books in front of her, sitting perfectly in place like long-lost friends on the polished shelves.

  “Now, close your eyes and see if you can sense which book is needed.”

  Mallory twitched at the suggestion. The women of her family possessed great abilities, but, unlike her mother and her Nana before her, she didn’t have much to offer. Of course, that would never stop Nana from trying. She was convinced that Mallory’s gift of intuition would solve the mystery of her father’s death and her mother’s disappearance—as if finding a lost watch or catching someone in a lie would lead them to the killer. Of all the possible gifts to have … Mallory felt cheated. It’s not like her nana could walk through walls or shoot electricity from her fingertips–at least she didn’t think so—but her talents were cool. Not so much the one that included bossing Mallory around, but the tarot cards and tea leaves were neat, and they were good for business.

  “Go on, Malhala,” Nana encouraged. She pushed her on the ladder, “tell me when to stop.”

  Mallory did as she was asked and reached out a hand. Not like she had a choice.

  “Hold up,” Mallory said.

  “Are you sure that’s the one? What do you hear?” Nana asked.

  Mallory hesitated, moving her hands over a few other spines.

  “You have to lose all sense of where you are. The right book will warm and call you to it—listen for the cue.”

  Mallory felt for the spines once more, but there was no sensation aside from annoyance.

  “Open your eyes.” Nana smiled at Mallory. “You’re getting closer; you should be proud. Your finder skills are strengthening by the day.”

  She plucked a book from the shelf.

  Mallory snorted. The last three days in a row she’d chosen the wrong book, and the only book that ever sang to her was the same wrong book: The Secret Garden. Somehow, she didn’t see that as an improvement.

  Nana swung on her with a speed that belied her age. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s unbecoming. You found the missing diary, didn’t you?”

  The journal had been found in the attic during a murder mystery game only months before. Simza’s fictional diary had been at the center of the game’s fake plot and, while the game had turned out to be a disaster, they hoped there might be something worthwhile in the real journal that had accidentally been uncovered. There was only one problem: They couldn’t read it.

  “Fat lot of good that did—it’s gibberish.”

  “It’s not gibberish. It’s written in another language. Our ancestors were travelers who spoke many languages. Your paternal great-grandmother came from Europe like me.”

  “Well, why don’t you read it, then?”

  “Because it’s not French. Did you call the historical society about translating it?” Nana tugged on the volume that was to Mallory’s left and lifted it down.

  Mallory had called twice about translating the fifty-five-year-old journal and had only finally received a response yesterday.

  “Yes, I’m meeting her tomorrow. She wants to see it before agreeing.”

  “Good. Now, one day, my dear, you will hone your gift and it will all click.”

  Nana’s tone could change on a dime. Mallory shrugged her shoulders and resumed her seat at the kitchen bar.

  “I think if my gift were going to strengthen, it would have done it by now. Besides, I’m not sure it matters to me.” Mallory shook her head. “I’m pretty happy without the responsibility.”

  Nana looked scandalized.

  “You are a Vianu—a gifted bohemian woman—and you have a talent for instinct.” Nana put her hands on her hips stubbornly. “Ignoring your gift doesn’t absolve you of responsibility, and if you ever say that again, I shall be forced to serve you up a lesson.”

  Nana’s lessons involved concoctions and tonics meant to torture. When Mallory was little and refused to wash her hands, Nana would rub a salve on them that made her hands green and itchy. Needless to say, the effect didn’t go away until she applied soap.

  “And my responsibility is to solve my parents’ murders, is that it?” Mallory asked, her tone bleak.

  “Possibly. We all have a greater purpose.”

  Mallory walked to the window. Her shadowy reflection stared back at her. Despite all the practice, nothing had changed when it came to her gift notwithstanding Nana’s continual optimism. Heck, even Nana’s adopted daughter, feisty Danior, who was eight years Mallory’s junior, showed more promise than her, and she wasn’t even a Vianu. Although they suspected she was of Roma heritage, since she bore a strange resemblance to them.

  Speaking of that resemblance, Nana’s reflection joined Mallory’s in the window and she noted the similarities between them. They were both petite and defiant with dark skin and contrasting light eyes—the same eyes that all the Vianu women had, even Danior, although Danior had partial heterochromia so her left eye was a little more blue than green.

  Nana gave them a slight squeeze before dropping her hands to her side. “I know you’re afraid, and that’s all right. Just remind yourself every now and then that you’re not alone. Our ancestors came from the Far East, a motherland of ancient mysticism steeped in Vedic magic, and they will help if called upon—perhaps that’s why the diary turned up.”

  Mallory watched her reflection in the window as she answered her. One of her spirited friends glowed in the background. It was the same ghost who’d led her to the diary during the Carnival Murder Mystery Game. Mallory had the feeling she was tied to the Manor. Sometimes she wondered if it was her mother, but she couldn’t be sure. If it were her mother, why the heck wouldn’t she speak. But unlike the cold chill most spirits gave off, there was just something so nurturing and protective about her, like a warm wool blanket that wrapped tight around Mallory when she was scared.

  Puffing out her cheeks, Mallory exhaled, “How can they help?”

  “Just pay attention, Malhala. They’re the little voices in your ears, the thoughts that pop into your mind, your sudden inspirations. They won’t spell things out for you. There are lessons you must learn on your own, but they will be there to guide you.”

  Mallory looked right at the ghost, “Perhaps the ones assisting me are mute or give poor advice?”

  The ghost disappeared.

  “Now, you’re teasing.”

  Mallory and Nana walked back to the kitchen island and Nana snorted and opened the book. Of course, the book opened to the exact spell Nana intended. Nana glanced down at the ingredients listed in the book, grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer, and headed to the herb wall. Picking her way through the pots of herbs, she collected what she needed: basil, echinacea, and chamomile.

  Nana had a much larger garden outside. She was a master herbalist and loved growing her own organic plants to use in the remedies she sold at Peace and Light, the new age shop in town.

  She switched t
he kettle off and poured the hot water into two white tea cups. “You said you had a nightmare. You dreamt of your parents again?” Nana asked, softening her tone.

  Mallory knew what she was up to. Tea readings were Nana’s specialty.

  “No. This dream was different. I think it might have been a vision.”

  Nana shot her a nervous look and motioned for her to drink her tea.

  Mallory picked up the fine white cup and walked to the window to face the darkness of the lake. She had lost her parents eighteen years ago. Every now and then she dreamt of her time with them—at least she thought they were real memories. The one memory she couldn’t seem to forget was how her mother had abandoned her at Nana’s in the middle of the night—never to be seen or heard from again.

  It was getting lighter now, and the details of the dream were fading. Nana walked up behind her, waiting for her response.

  Mallory’s throat tightened even as she said it. “Someone was killed here at the Manor. I couldn’t see who, but the man who did it—the man holding the diary—he was the one who hurt my mother. I just know it.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “That’s the frustrating part. I can’t remember. You know how dreams are. They’re so abstract and odd.”

  “Maybe it was just a dream.”

  Mallory looked down into her empty cup and tried to read leaves, but it felt more like a game of guess the shape than anything factual.

  “There was one other thing. My mother kept saying something over and over. It seems silly now and yet it seemed so important in the dream.”

  “What was it?”

  “She said to find the mirror.”

  2

  I T WAS early in the morning but the resort was already humming thanks to the Bloggers Conference they were hosting.

  Mallory waved to one of their more disgruntled guests, an attractive yet surly middle-aged man named Raymond Weasel, from the Mates of Mayhem mystery writers group. You could always trust him to be in a twist about something: cold coffee, rubbery eggs, pilling bedsheets. He’d booked the corner suite and treated the Manor as his own personal domain for the last four days straight. He was at the other end of a long corridor on the second floor and Mallory hoped he would keep going down the main staircase. Mallory paused and pretended to organize some books on the rotunda’s shelf as she greeted several more guests exiting their rooms.