The Witch of Belladonna Bay

by Suzanne Palmieri

  Susan got sick right around the same time that Naomi fell into her deepest bout with opium. It was so deep that she couldn’t get over her own, self-imposed illness to help Susan out with her cancer. To be her friend again. The first few years I was gone, that was the memory that made me the most angry. How selfish my mother had been.

  Nothing could stop the friendship between us kids, though. And Susan still wanted us around, so we simply went over to the Masters’ house instead. Naomi hadn’t thought through her rules very well. Her intention, as always, was to keep us close to her. Her actions pushed us away.

  I was thinking so much I passed their street and kept walking straight down Main. When I realized where I was, I had to backtrack two blocks. The Masters lived on Oak Street, second house on the left. A pretty, old Southern cottage. Whitewashed with a proper porch and a picket fence. The outside looked just the same as it did the day I left.

  * * *

  I stood in front of it, snapping photos. Click, click.

  “It isn’t only trouble that comes up behind you, Mama, it’s sorrow, too,” I said as I walked under the yellow tape that half dipped between two oaks in the front yard.

  The tape was old and frayed. I couldn’t figure out if Stick was really still investigating a closed case, or if he was a lazy sheriff.

  When I opened the front door, I put my camera up to my eyes. A shield between me and the reality of Lottie’s death.

  Click, click. That house. Small … tiny even. One floor, with a peaked attic roof where a circular window let the heat out in the summertime. Two bedrooms only. A kitchen and a living room. That was it. But it held a lot of memories. Too many. And now it was the place that stole the life of two of the people I loved with all my heart.

  I’d never get to tell Lottie how much I missed her. How sorry I was that I wasn’t around when Jamie was born. I felt dizzy for a second, so I sat down on a chair next to the small entry table.

  I looked around. If those walls could talk. There was tape around the kitchen. So that’s where Charlotte and Jamie’d been killed,

  I wasn’t ready for that yet. Violence in places you don’t associate with yourself is one thing. Violence in a house that embodies your own childhood is another. I got up and walked across the living room instead, to the side hall where the bedrooms branched off. Click, click. I walked into Lottie’s old room first, but it obviously belonged to Jamie now because it was all blue. There were no toys, and the bed was made. It was a plain room with very little personality; Charlotte had been a messy girl, but she’d obviously stepped up and become more like Susan when she became a mama herself.

  I went into Susan’s room next. The room that held a thousand stories and a thousand more hairpins, bows, and curling rods. Click, click, click, click.

  It belonged to Charlotte now. There was less … I don’t know … just less. Less clutter. Less character. Susan always had fresh-cut flowers, even in the green season, but there weren’t any vases moldering away in Charlotte’s room. And Susan always had a dressing table, messy with pots and potions of all kinds of beauty remedies. Charlotte had the same dressing table, but all it held was a thick layer of dust. She never liked all that fancy stuff.

  Sitting on Charlotte’s unmade bed, I thought about what a bad detective I made. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, and I couldn’t even bring myself to poke my head into the kitchen.

  So I went back into the living room (click, click) where I noticed, next to the telephone on a small table by the worn-out, green velvet sofa, there was a light blinking on the answering machine.

  They would have checked it, right?

  I know I should have called Stick before I hit Play … or at least put on gloves or something. But I couldn’t help it.

  I pressed Play.

  “Lottie?” a voice I knew well, now choked with grief. “Lottie, I know you ain’t there.… I was callin’ to hear your voice and Jamie’s too, how he yells in the background? And I wasn’t gonna leave a message, ’cause it’s silly, right? To leave a message on the phone for someone who’s dead and buried. But, Lottie? I miss you. And I’m sorry about that thing with Jamie. And most of all? I’m so damn sorry for that fight we had. I mean, shit. What kind of a brother was I to you? What kind of a man was I? I’m just … sorry. I never meant to … it was an accident. Oh, God … I’m sorry—” The voice went silent abruptly.

  Grant.

  It sounded like it took him two or three times to hang up the receiver. His hands were shaking. And the police hadn’t checked it because the call was new. It was dated right there in the answering machine message. He’d called weeks after her death.

  “Grant Masters, what have you done?” I asked the haunted walls. Curious and terrible ideas swirled through my mind.

  It was time. I stepped into the kitchen. There were still marks and little tags here and there on the floor and counters. It was a small kitchen but one that always simmered with love and good things to eat. Now it was stuffy and all closed up in the heat and lingering violence. I put my camera up to my face again so I could look toward the spot on the floor I’d been avoiding.

  A shadow, quick and deliberate, moved in front of the lens. Click. I pulled the camera away.

  “Stick?” No one was there. I stood very still and thought of Byrd and her ghosts.

  “Lottie?” I whispered.

  I saw a shadow on the stairs …

  Nothing.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said, and focused my camera at the floor. There wasn’t any blood. Just a stain. A very large stain on the linoleum.

  I felt a tickle at the back of my throat and began to cough, but the words “Find him” came out instead. “Find him? Where the hell did that come from? Okay, I’m done,” I said to the house as I left, quickly locking the front door behind me.

  I thought about going back to the sheriff’s office to leave the keys and tell Stick about the message, but hell, everyone had already screwed everything up. I’d figure it out on my own.

  I didn’t want to implicate Grant if I didn’t have to. Could those hands that once brought me closer to heaven than I’d ever been be the hands of a murderer?

  * * *

  I didn’t go back to the Big House but straight to my little oasis of comfort Byrd had created.

  She was waiting for me. Playing music on my record player. On her bare tiptoes and, if it was possible, dirtier than she was when I left.

  “Jolene” was playing and Byrd had her eyes closed, her head bobbing back and forth. She sang quietly along with the words she knew and hummed the rest.

  “I love that song,” I said.

  She opened her eyes and slowly, like a fox, walked toward me.

  “I know, that’s why it’s sittin’ there in your collection.”

  “You still mad at me?” I asked.

  “You can’t get mad at people you lo—care about. Don’t you know that? We can have a spat every now and again, but then? It’s over. That’s what family does, right?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was probably right, only that wasn’t the way it worked in my own mind when I was younger. No one held a grudge like BitsyWyn Whalen.

  Like Jackson used to say, “Right don’t mean shit, not if everyone around you is bent on bein’ wrong.”

  “How about this?” I put on some Frank Sinatra and “Fly Me to the Moon” came crooning out all around us. It made me feel lighter than I had all day. Not to mention, I was floating a bit on her unsaid word. She loves me, I thought as I walked back out onto the porch with Byrd at my heels. Dolores still wouldn’t come inside but was sitting at the edge of the creek bed staring over at Belladonna Bay.

  “I went to Jamie’s house today,” I said. “This music reminds me of Susan, Jamie’s grandma he never met.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You’ll have to stop playing around in my mind sooner or later, young lady,” I said.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,�
� she said. “Soon enough I won’t be able to see nothin’ in you at all.”

  The heat was getting so oppressive; there was nowhere to escape it. But outside was better because there was the slightest breeze from off the creek. The mist, for all its troublesome ways, held a coolness about it that helped out on these desperate hot days.

  The music coming out through the windows was muted and scratchy, like in an old black-and-white movie. I sat down on one of the many wicker chairs Byrd had acquired for my little house. Guess we were supposed to have a lot of company. But she stood right in front of me with her arms crossed, murmuring that damn Declaration of Independence through her teeth. It would have been haunting, if it wasn’t so funny.

  “Are you nervous, honey?” I asked.

  “Plenty,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t answer me. Just paced a little “We hold these truths…”

  “I’d still like to know why you said I was obtuse,” I said, hoping to get at what was bothering her the most, at the same time as I knew she was living in a world of stress. It would be moment by moment with Byrd, as it would be with me. It was gathering, like a storm.

  She stopped her murmuring and looked at me with softer, pleading eyes.

  “What is it, Byrd?” I asked.

  And I could feel her about to tell me, but that’s when those guests Byrd was expecting showed up.

  “Hey there, ladies! So much pretty in one place it should be illegal!”

  Jackson, with Minerva and Carter in tow, came striding toward the cottage, one hand holding a pitcher of what looked to be his famous lemonade and the other holding a cigar. Carter followed with a picnic basket and Minerva with a tray.

  Byrd moved my feet from the small trunk I’d been using as a footrest and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a bowl of ice.

  “Well, my goodness, you don’t leave much to chance, do you, Miss Byrd?

  She rolled her eyes at me.

  “Let the games begin,” she said, then whispered, “Don’t tell Minny about our glow, okay? I want to keep it safe here in my heart for a little while. You can tell them tomorrow if you want.”

  “You got it, kiddo,” I said.

  “Hey, Minerva,” I called out, “I sure hope you have some dinner with you, I’m starving.”

  “Of course I do. What kind of homecoming would it be without some of your favorite things?” she said as she came up the steps, placed the tray on the table next to me, and gave me a hug.

  Layers and layers of deep-fried green tomatoes covered in fresh picked crawfish stared up at me. Minerva always tossed the crawfish with some lime juice and some salt. Southern man’s lobster. I’d missed the food down here. I never even ate “soul food” up north. It’s a fake mess of a thing. Maybe it has something to do with the cooking of it. Like, you have to have high humidity and a certain kind of sarcasm to make it come out just right.

  Carter began unpacking the picnic basket, setting out big, thick biscuits, flaky and buttery, a bowl of fresh watermelon sliced up and waiting for the sea salt we’d sprinkle over it before eating, and a container of ham, baked especially for me, because I loved Jackson’s bourbon-glazed ham when I was little. And a little taste of Fairview too, a nettle salad with mulberry vinaigrette. “Nettles are good for the skin and hair and any type of stomach issues,” Minerva used to tell us. The best thing of all was at the bottom of that basket: a tin of Italian cookies glazed with lemon icing and sprinkled with little tiny multicolored sprinkles.

  “Those are mine, Aunt Wyn. Don’t even touch ’em,” said Byrd.

  “Stella’s recipe. Minny here makes a lot of that food for Byrd. Reminds me of Susan,” said Jackson.

  “Made ya a fat old drunk, too,” said Byrd.

  I didn’t want to think about things like never meeting Stella, never cooking with her, not even sending a card when Byrd was born. Not being part of Paddy and Stella’s wedding, their life.

  “Now, sugar,” began Jackson, standing at the bottom of the porch steps looking like a preacher about to give a sermon. “Let’s get some awkward business out of the way so we can all have a pleasant evenin’. I’m sure you have a lot on your mind and a lot of questions to ask. But not tonight. Tonight oughta be about getting reacquainted, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  He nodded with appreciation, and then turned to Byrd. “Byrd! You did a fine job on this ol’ shack!”

  “You mean she did a fine job coaxing people to help her with it,” scoffed Minerva.

  “Don’t be bitter, Min … just because you never thought to paint the floors blue in your old abode,” said Jackson.

  Their bickering made me smile. They’d always fought. It’s something I learned from them. That you could fight and say horrible things and still stay friends. Not that I ever made any friends, not once I moved away. But it always helped with my relationship with Ben. And I always thought it was strange, because those are the things you’re supposed to learn from your mother and father. Not your father and your great-aunt/housekeeper/lady-in-waiting. But that’s life in an old Southern mansion. Everything’s topsy-turvy and right-side up, all at the same time.

  Jackson sauntered up the porch steps and settled down into a wide wicker chair across from me, as we all dug into the food Carter and Minerva had laid out.

  Sometimes home can live squarely in the taste buds. The salty ham and juicy watermelon. The bursting, perfectly crisp outside of the fried tomatoes. The sweet meat of the crawfish with the bitter lime. I made a sandwich, quickly putting ham and a fried tomato on it. Good food makes people quiet, so after a minute or so Jackson broke the silence. He never did like the quiet. “So,” he said, pouring himself a glass of bourbon, “how are you settlin’ in, sugar?”

  “Well, how could I not love it here? Our Byrd put so much work into this place.”

  Jackson smiled and then tipped the bottle of bourbon into Byrd’s lemonade. I made a face at him.

  “What?” he asked, his eyes getting big with laughter.

  “Nothing. She’s a little young, isn’t she?” I couldn’t help but let my own smile escape.

  Jackson lit his cigar with a grace that comes from years of experience. He used to say, “It’s an art form, lightin’ a cigar. Separates the men from the boys.” And Byrd sipped her drink while Minerva fussed over her. Carter stayed off to the side. Not drinking. Not eating. Just staring off toward Belladonna Bay.

  Who is this man? Warm and then cold. Comforting and then distant.

  “You were younger than that when I introduced you to the amber heaven,” continued Jackson. “Besides, Minerva here told me about your upcoming nuptials. It deserves a toast, don’t you think?”

  Ben. I’d forgotten to tell him about Ben.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, pouring myself a drink.

  We all held up our glasses. And Carter walked over and picked up an empty glass to fill.

  “To my wayward daughter and her upcoming marriage to a man I’ve never met,” said Jackson.

  I sidestepped his sarcasm and took a sip. The bourbon went down with a slow burn as the smoke circled our heads, and all of a sudden—I was home.

  “Now tell me, what is the man’s name, this man you plan to marry?”

  “Ben. His name is Ben Mason,” I said.

  Minerva dropped her glass.

  “You all right, Min?” asked Carter who was quickly at her side.

  “Fine,” she said.

  She was looking at me and about to say something but stopped and poured herself another drink.

  Jackson gave his cigar to Byrd and she took a big puff.

  “My Lord,” I said. “Does this child know no boundaries?”

  “I ain’t never met a rule I didn’t wanna break, Aunt Wyn,” she said, a giggle pouring out of her.

  “You know, Byrd, drinking and smoking before you’re old enough isn’t a good thing. The smoking will stunt your growth. Seems to me that’s the last thing you’d w
ant to do,” I said.

  “Didn’t hurt you none, sugar,” said Jackson, full-on laughing now.

  I knew they were trying to startle me, to bring out the uptight Yankee they knew I’d become. But I wasn’t biting.

  “Suit yourselves,” I said, moving to a porch swing and sinking deep into the pillows. I watched the sun try to set through the stormy clouds that were brewing to the south over Belladonna Bay. Even the sick, sweet feeling that island swelled up in me was comforting.

  “You’ve been awful quiet, Minerva,” I said. “Kind of like your tight-lipped, silver-haired husband over there.” Carter had gone down the porch steps and was looking toward the sky again.

  “Well, I can’t control these two, and I don’t want to. And you leave my Carter out of this. He’s been nothing but good for this entire family,” she said, leaning against the porch railing, sipping on her lemonade. I could tell she was thinking, and that meant things were about to get serious. Minerva had always been so serious. “You spent a lot of time running, Bronwyn. It’s time you settle down, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “She’s BitsyWyn again. Not Bronwyn anymore,” said Byrd with her mouth full.

  “Hush, Byrd. And don’t talk with your mouth full. Jackson and Paddy never did teach you no manners,” said Carter.

  I took another sip of bourbon and felt the familiar warmth. Glowing hands, crime scenes, memories coming at me every which way. I’d need more than one drink, for sure.

  “Well, I don’t know if I’ve become BitsyWyn again,” I said, throwing a wink to Byrd, “but I have to admit, I’m more comfortable than I’ve been in a long time. At home in my skin. But no matter what I do next, I want to help Paddy. He didn’t kill anyone. I know it.”

  “Now, didn’t you just agree that we wouldn’t talk about nothin’ serious tonight?” asked Jackson.

  “We have to talk about it, Jackson. It’s important. It’s why I’m here.”

  Jackson pounded on the trunk with his fist, shaking the dishes.

  “No! You are not here for that. You are here for Byrd. And she don’t need to hear about this bullshit. She’s heard and lived through enough.”