by Nancy Warren
Chapter and Curse
Vampire Book Club Book 2
Nancy Warren
Ambleside Publishing
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
A Note from Nancy
A Spelling Mistake
Also by Nancy Warren
About the Author
Introduction
A quiet Irish village? Not so much!
An ancient curse seems to be causing bad luck in the charming village of Ballydehag, Ireland—witch Quinn Callahan’s new home. When someone is murdered is it the curse? Or is there a very human murderer on the loose? Moving to a small Irish village was supposed to keep the middle-aged witch out of trouble. Yeah, that didn't happen. Quinn and her bookish vampires must find the real killer and end the curse before someone else dies.
If you like quirky characters, mystery, humor and a touch of romance, don't miss this second instalment in the Vampire Book Club series from the best-selling author of The Vampire Knitting Club. Each book is a complete story that can be read on its own.
You can get Rafe’s origin story for free when you join Nancy’s no-spam newsletter at nancywarren.net.
Come join Nancy in her private Facebook group where we talk about books, knitting, pets and life.
www.facebook.com/groups/NancyWarrenKnitwits
Chapter 1
“Are you not ready?” Kathleen McGinnis asked me as she came into my bookshop.
I glanced up from unpacking a new order of books in The Blarney Tome in Ballydehag, Ireland. “Ready for what?”
Kathleen McGinnis, the local grocer and my sister witch, was more dressed up than usual, wearing a flowered dress with a pale blue cardigan. She’d also curled her hair and sported fresh lipstick. She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Billy O’Donnell’s wake, of course.”
“Why would I go to Billy O’Donnell’s wake? I barely knew the man.”
“He was a customer here for years.”
“But I’ve been here for less than a month.” I thought Billy O’Donnell had bought some books on Roman history and was a train-spotter, but that could have been Billy O’Connell. In fact, I wasn’t completely sure which one of them was dead.
She came toward me. “It’s a mark of respect. Everyone in Ballydehag will be there. Besides, it’s a chance for you to mingle with the locals. Get them to know and trust you.”
After I’d exposed a murderer and a few dark secrets of this small town along the way, I felt the townspeople looking at me askance, like they were pleased to have a murderer caught but not sure about the collateral damage. Kathleen was right. The more time I spent socializing with my new neighbors, the sooner they’d lower their guard around me. At least I hoped so. “But who will look after my shop?”
She shook her head at me. “There won’t be any business. Everybody in town will be at Billy O’Donnell’s.”
I looked down at my jeans and blue silk shirt. “Can I go home and change?”
“No, no. There’s no time. Here, this’ll do.”
She dashed to where I had a sweater hanging on a hook. It was black and hip-length and had been hanging there for a couple of weeks. I didn’t want to wear it though, as it was a warm June day. I’d be sweltering. Still, I did as I was told and put the sweater on. She stood back and nodded. “It’s a shame about the jeans. Never mind. Everyone knows you’re an American.”
Then, I am not kidding, she pulled a pink plastic comb from out of her capacious handbag and tidied up my hair. As though she were my grandmother. I waited for her to spit on her hankie and wipe my face, but luckily she didn’t go that far. Then she stood back, looking quite pleased with herself. “There. That’ll do. Now come along. We don’t want to be late.”
I really doubted Billy O’Donnell would notice if we were late or not.
We left the bookshop, and I locked the door behind me. Kathleen had parked her grocery van out front, and so I climbed in the passenger seat, and we set off. Every shop on the high street was shut, and it looked as though every soul who called Ballydehag home was heading for the wake. I didn’t really mind being hustled off to pay my respects to a man I’d barely known. In fact, I was quite excited to go. I’d never been to a wake before.
I soon noticed a wonderful scent coming from the back of the van. “What smells so good?”
“I’ve a tray of ham sandwiches and champ and brack.”
“Champ and Brack? What are they? A pair of wrestlers?”
She made a sound, half amusement and half irritation. Cerridwen made the same noise when I rescued a mouse she had her eye on.
“Champ is a cooked potato dish, potatoes baked with butter and cream and leeks. And brack is an Irish fruit bread.”
“Sounds like a whole van of comfort food.” And I couldn’t wait to tuck in.
“Well, when do you more need comfort than when you’ve lost someone dear to you?”
“What happened to Billy O’Connell?”
“O’Donnell!”
“Right. That one.” Roman history. Trains.
“He suffered a heart attack and died at home.” She shook her head. “He said he was eighty years old and if it was his time, he’d thank the good lord to take him from his own bed. Absolutely refused to go to hospital. Dr. Milsom was ever so good. He managed to keep him alive until Brenda could arrive. Brenda’s his daughter. Drove all the way from Dublin, she did. It was touch and go, though. She barely made it in time. Father O’Flanagan had already administered last rites. But at least she was there to say goodbye before her father passed. I hear he roused enough to speak a few words to her.”
“That’s nice.” What else could I say? I tried to recall what he’d looked like, and my memories were vague. I thought he’d been a tall, gaunt, bald man. He’d come into my shop looking for a book on Roman history and left with one about trains. It was hard to get too emotionally invested in the death of a man I wasn’t sure I remembered.
Since she knew Ballydehag better than I did, I assumed she was correct in the proper etiquette in a situation like this. I felt I was pushing myself into a grief that I had no part in, but she said it was simply a mark of respect to go to the man’s home and pay my respects to his daughter.
“He didn’t have a wife?”
“No. He’s been widowed some years now. They just had the one child, Brenda. But she lives in Dublin now. She’s a solicitor. Very clever woman.”
We drove past the church where a large orange banner hung across the main entrance, one I hadn’t seen before. It was very eye-catching against the gray stone. “Save our Steeple” it said, in big white letters, and then in slightly smaller ones underneath, “Donate Generously to our Building Fund.”
“Is the church falling down?” I asked as we headed down a leafy road with some of the nicest houses I’d seen in Ballydehag.
“Not falling down, no. But the new priest, Father O’Flanagan, says the steeple’s unsound and he wants to smarten up the old graveyard. It’s an expensive project.”
I could imagine. “I didn’t know Father O’Flanagan was new here. Like me.”
“He’s been here going on five years, now.”
“Five years and he’s still the new priest? When will
I be considered settled then?”
She glanced at me with a twinkle in her eyes, and I suspected the answer to that was never.
Kathleen pulled the van over to the gravel shoulder. “Here we are,” she said.
Billy O’Donnell’s house had once been a grand old place. It had the lovely bones of a substantial residence, but the home had seen better days. I was no expert, but I thought it was Georgian, with six evenly spaced windows on the upper level and a matching set of windows below. The front garden was overgrown with weeds, and the front door needed painting. There were cars lined up along the street, and ahead of us an older couple were walking into the house.
“He lived here alone?” This was a house for a big family, with room for servants. One old man would have rattled around the empty rooms.
“He did.” She opened the back of the van and picked up a box containing a large casserole dish. She gestured to me to take a second box. As we headed up the cracked path, we stepped over weeds. “Shame he let the place go. Rosaleen, his wife, would have a fit if she saw her home looking so shabby.”
Kathleen didn’t knock, just opened the door and walked in, and I followed. I was hit by an instant image of elegance in decay. The house appeared shabby from the outside, and the interior was no better. The red and black patterned rug must have been the height of elegance once. Long before I was born. It covered the floor. The hallway was high-ceilinged and dominated (when you got over that carpet) by a chandelier dull with dust. The walls were painted dark gold, and against the far wall, a grandfather clock loomed, grim-faced, ticking so loud I felt I must be late for something.
The old carpet showed signs of a fresh vacuuming, and an antique sideboard looked hastily cleared and wiped. I could see a thick pile of dust that had been overlooked in one corner.
Fresh flowers sat on the sideboard, heavy-scented lilies and roses and spears of greenery.
“We’ll take the food through to the kitchen first,” Kathleen instructed. I followed her down the corridor and into the kitchen. I could hear a murmur of voices and, oddly, a burst of laughter coming from the front room.
The kitchen was huge, with old-fashioned appliances and wood cabinets that had been new about 1970. There was patterned orange and yellow lino on the floor. An old wooden table with mismatched chairs sat against the wall. At the back of the kitchen, hooks still held outdoor coats, and there was a pair of man’s boots waiting at the back door.
A group of women, wearing their Sunday best, worked with various degrees of efficiency in the kitchen. “Pass me that basket, will ye, Rosie?” a large, commanding-looking woman said, standing at the old stove as though she owned it.
Rosie Higgins, the butcher’s wife, complied, and the woman opened the old oven and popped scones into the basket. “Right, those can go through to the dining room.”
Rosie Higgins passed by us, carrying the basket of scones, with a quick greeting for Kathleen and a curt nod to me.
“Do ye need the oven, Kathleen?” the large woman asked, seeing us put the boxes on the countertop.
“I do not. I’ve brought my warmers along.” And she unpacked her box, and I discovered it was a chafing dish, kept warm by a spirit lamp beneath it. The potatoes looked and smelled delicious. Like scalloped potatoes, only richer.
My box held the brack fruitbread, and it was already sliced on a pretty plate and buttered. All I had to do was take off the wrapping. Same with the ham sandwiches. I followed Kathleen into the dining room, where a buffet had been set out. There was a lot of bustling and chitchat as women leaned over each other, placing bowls and plates of goodies on a tablecloth so white and freshly ironed that it clearly hadn’t come out of this house. Someone had brought it along with them, and I suspected the local ladies were also responsible for the clean plates and glasses. Either that or there’d been a lot of hasty washing up.
I placed the sandwiches and fruit bread where Kathleen told me to and looked around.
Apart from a dining table that would seat eight, there were two overcrowded glass-fronted cabinets. Dusty china, including a pretty tea set, a couple of old toy war tanks and a naval ship that looked to be made of tin, a china doll with a cracked face, and a collection of what I thought might be snuff boxes were crammed together in one. The other was filled with dull-looking crystal. Waterford, I thought. There was everything from sherry glasses to candlesticks and candy dishes. A spider made a slow tour of a brandy snifter. A heavy buffet took up a side wall, and on it were glasses that were too clean to have come from that cabinet as well as open bottles of wine.
I poured myself a glass of white wine and wandered across the hall into the living room.
I felt a buzz of discomfort, almost like an electric shock as I crossed the threshold. And immediately discovered the cause. A coffin sat in the middle of the room, on top of a table, so it was nice and high.
Inside it was Billy O’Donnnell, the center of attention. I supposed that was only fair as it was his party, but the man was dead and resting in his casket. His open casket.
Kathleen walked right up to the casket and spoke softly to its inhabitant.
I wasn’t ready for that yet, so I took a look around. The place needed a good clear-out. It would be going too far to say Billy O’Donnell had been a hoarder, but there was a lot of junk in the room. Every surface was covered with dusty ornaments and bits of what looked like machinery and mechanical parts. I could see there’d been some attempt to tidy things up, and again there were marks of a quick vacuum job on the faded red carpet and a flighty duster had flirted with the dusty wood tables, but it would take a crew about a week to clean and organize the house. It was a shame, because beneath the junk and clutter, it was a lovely old home.
The original woodwork was faded and pocked but beautiful all the same. The flaking paint didn’t disguise the high ceilings. The big fireplace was marble and flanked by glass-fronted bookcases crammed with books. The windows desperately needed washing, but they were lovely. At the edges where the stained and faded rug ended were beautiful hardwood floors.
Standing beside the casket was a woman about my age with a semi-frozen smile on her face as people offered her condolences. She had red-gold hair and that skin that seems particularly Irish, fine and the color of cream. I couldn’t tell from here, but I suspected there was a dusting of freckles across the top of her cheeks and probably the bridge of her nose. She wore a simple black dress and pearls. She held her back carefully upright.
I let my gaze wander around the room, looking at these people who were now my neighbors, many of whom I was beginning to know. Certainly the bookish ones I knew.
Taking a steadying breath, I made my way to the casket and peeked in. I was right. Billy O’Donnell had been the one who liked Roman history and trains. He looked much better groomed now than he had in life. He wore a black suit that had probably fit him a couple of decades ago when he’d weighed more. His thin hair was neatly combed, the gaunt face shaved and his hands folded neatly over his chest.
I didn’t know what to say. We hadn’t been chatting acquaintances, so I settled on, “May your road be easy.” That sounded vaguely like an Irish blessing as given by an American witch. Then I waited to pay my respects to the brand-new orphan. Did you call someone an orphan when they were in middle age?
People were talking in a polite, stilted way to Brenda O’Donnell, the way one does to a virtual stranger. I got the feeling that she might have grown up here, but she’d been gone for a long time, and it didn’t look as though she’d kept in touch very well.
When a couple drifted away and she was standing there alone, I thought I’d whip in and pay my respects so I could get out of here. I said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Yes, the words were trite and clichéd, but I couldn’t offer her anything more personal since I didn’t know her and I hadn’t known her father.
“Thank you. You’re very kind,” she said, almost by rote, as though she’d said the same words a hundred times already. Which I was
certain she had. Her eyes looked tired, but I didn’t see any sign of recent tears. She looked at me, and then her gaze sharpened slightly. “Should I know you?”
I immediately felt terrible, like she was accusing me of crashing her father’s wake, which, essentially, I was doing. I rushed into speech. “I’m fairly new in town. My name is Quinn Callahan. I run the bookshop. I wouldn’t have come—I barely knew your father—but I understood it’s considered good manners here.”
Her face softened. “It is at that. And from your voice, it sounds like you’re American?”
“I am. From Seattle.”
“Oh, my. I think we have some people in Seattle, but we’ve lost touch.”
I felt that that would be the end of our conversation, and I was preparing to move away when she stopped me. “The bookshop, did you say?” She waved a hand toward the overcrowded bookcases, and an expression of bewilderment came over her face. “There is so much stuff in this house to get rid of, I don’t even know where to begin. Does your bookshop accept secondhand volumes?”
She sounded so desperate, I didn’t want to tell her I had to be judicious in taking secondhand books. Otherwise I’d be buried under them. I wanted to refuse, but her eyes looked heavy and sad, and my compassion kicked in. I told her I’d be happy to take her father’s books. I could always donate the ones I had no use for. It must be awful to try and deal with all this junk while grieving.