Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  MISSOURI MAGIC

  Charlotte Hubbard

  For my Aunt Sandra, who loves—and sometimes lives—a mystery.

  ***

  Many thanks to Henry Sweets, historian and curator of the Mark Twain Boyhood Home, for his invaluable help as I researched turn-of-the-century Hannibal, Missouri.

  Chapter 1

  “... ashes to ashes and dust to dust. We commend the spirit of our sister Rachel to your care, dear Lord. Amen.”

  As the preacher’s words drifted away on the hot summer breeze, Celesta gazed at her mother’s plain coffin, poised above its grim, rectangular grave. She was aware of Aunt Katherine on her right, dabbing her eyes and whimpering, and of Aunt Justine’s stoic silence. On her left stood Patrick Perkins, unnaturally somber in his dark suit, his hand resting at the base of her sweaty spine. Eula, his mother, blew her nose with a pathetic little sob. Just the five of them, plus Reverend Case, to mourn Rachel Montgomery’s passing.

  And we shouldn’t be here, a voice cried out in Celesta’s mind. It was just one of her headaches. She wasn’t that sick, until—

  “May the Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you His peace,” the clergyman murmured as he clutched her hands between his.

  She nodded absently, and as he repeated the blessing to her two aunts, Celesta’s mind continued its angry search for the sense in all this. Her mother had been perfectly healthy, prone only to occasional headaches that passed after a few hours’ rest in her darkened room. She’d asked for her usual tea and toast, and then—

  The clatter of clods on the casket brought her thoughts back to the present. Patrick, bless him, had tossed the ceremonial spadeful of dirt into the grave. His red-gold hair shone like the sun, and his anxious blue eyes met hers. “I’m not trying to rush you, but you ladies will be fainting away from this heat,” he said quietly. “Perhaps we should move into the shade.”

  Celesta nodded gratefully. Her black suit, the only appropriate outfit in her wardrobe, was of winter-weight wool, and she was ready to collapse beneath its stifling, itchy weight.

  “That’s a fine idea, dear,” Eula Perkins replied with a quavery sigh. “We can pay the rest of our respects from beneath those trees. No sense in falling ill ourselves, like poor Rachel did.”

  Reverend Case excused himself to other duties, and the mourners started toward the cluster of maple trees on the next rise, where the breeze was riffling the leaves. Seeing that Aunt Katherine was lost in thought, Celesta took her elbow.

  “We’d better get you out of this sun,” she murmured. “What with the strain of these past two days, you’ll be all weak-kneed and—”

  Her middle-aged aunt’s veiled expression silenced her. “Death comes in threes,” Katherine intoned. “First my Ambrose and now your mother. Who’s next, Celesta? Who’s next?”

  The poor little woman was quaking, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. Celesta hugged her close, wondering how to quell Katherine’s notions before they became full-blown hysteria, and then Eula Perkins was beside them, patting their arms as she enfolded them in her sympathetic gaze.

  “There, there, now, don’t you fret over it,” she clucked. Her hair and eyes were the same color as her son’s, only mellowed by age and muted by her dark veil. “Why, I was thinking precisely the same thing, but that the cycle began with my Tom, and then Ambrose. And now with Rachel it’s ended, don’t you see?”

  “Superstitious poppycock!” Aunt Justine let out an exasperated sigh, her hands planted on her slim hips. Because she wore no veil, her disgust was evident as her piercing brown-eyed glare flitted among them. “Tom Perkins passed on nearly two years ago, and Ambrose disappeared last summer! How many deaths has Hannibal seen in the interim? Which proves your theory on threes as just another of your ridiculous whims! Honestly, Katherine, you do embarrass me at times.”

  Justine stalked off toward the shade, grasping her black skirt as though it were her last shred of sanity. Celesta glanced helplessly at Patrick. She hated to admit her spinster aunt had a valid point, cruelly as she’d made it, yet she was too upset to handle any more of Katherine’s outbursts herself.

  Patrick gave her a grim smile and placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “Perhaps Celesta and her aunt would like some time alone,” he suggested gently. “They’ve suffered a terrible shock, and we shouldn’t impose—”

  “Impose?” Eula rasped. The mention of her husband’s passing had inspired fresh tears, and she was now approaching the same agitated state Katherine was in. “Why, Rachel and Celesta have lived with us for twenty years. They’re like family! We’ve watched Celesta grow up, and we can’t ignore the gap in our lives now that her mother’s gone. I haven’t the faintest notion how I’ll replace her.”

  That was the crux of it. Eula Perkins, wealthy widow of one of Hannibal’s lumber barons, had relied upon Rachel Montgomery to keep her rambling mansion in order ever since Celesta’s father, Ian Montgomery, hightailed it out of town on the eve of her birth. Celesta shifted in her aunt’s embrace, hearing Eula’s implied question: was Celesta going to repay the privilege of being raised with the heir to Perkins Lumber by taking her mother’s place?

  Patrick cleared his throat. “What Mother means to say,” he stammered, “is that you have a home with us for as long as you wish, Celesta. We’d be lost without you, rattling around in that house, just the two of us.”

  Things had gone from bad to worse in a matter of seconds, and Celesta suddenly wished they were still hushing her aunt’s hysterics. Indeed, Katherine had calmed herself and was gazing intently from beneath her veil while Eula and Patrick Perkins also awaited her reply.

  “I...I haven’t had a chance to consider—”

  “Why, she’s coming home to Ransom Manor, of course,” Katherine interrupted. Her voice was still shaky, but her tone was quite firm. “My sister-in-law hired on with you because she was too proud to come back home after Ian abandoned her. Insisted on supporting her child, and I admired her independence. But I see no reason for my niece to continue as your domestic when she could assume her place with two aunts who are getting on—who love her—and who are ‘rattling around’ in the house that will someday be hers.”

  Katherine turned her attention from Eula Perkins to Celesta then, her tone softening. “And how can I endure much more of Justine’s crankiness alone? As she gets older she gets worse, and with Rachel gone...”

  It was a compelling question. Justine was now the only full-blooded Ransom alive, and because her brother Ambrose had left no will, his widow, Katherine, was in the precarious position of being an unwanted in-law with nowhere else to go. It was a situation Celesta had known all her life, but she was only twenty, with other opportunities for her future. Poor Katherine looked frailer by the day. . . had been her only connection to the family Celesta had been denied by her mother’s refusal to rely upon their charity.

  Leaving Katherine to fend for herself seemed the highest form of betrayal, after all the birthday gifts and kindnesses she’d shown through the years, but who did want to dodge Justine’s barbs all the time? As though her ramrod aunt had read her thoughts and knew what Katherine was pleading for, she sent them a disdainful look from the shaded knoll several yards away.

  Celesta sighed, wishing for the hundredth time her mother hadn’t died. She didn’t want to be at Eula’s beck and call for the rest of her life, either, but where else could she go? She bowed her head wearily. Mrs. Perkins was watching her, expecting gratitude, while Aunt Katherine’s soulful eyes begged her to come to a house that had never welcomed her.

  Again Patrick’s practicality came to the rescue. “You look absolutely done in, Celesta. When you’re ready to leave, why don’t we all go for a lemonade? I’m sure Katherine wou
ld be greatly comforted if you’d spend a few days with her, and you can make your decision in the meantime.”

  “That would be lovely,” Katherine breathed.

  “An excellent solution,” Eula Perkins chimed in, beaming at him. “You’re a thoughtful, considerate son.”

  Patrick’s grin came out to play, dispelling the gloom for a moment. He was unabashedly handsome—and he knew it—yet Celesta had taken his golden hair and glorious blue eyes for granted while growing up with him. And where had this kindness come from? Celesta looked up at him gratefully and nodded, aware of something different in his expression as he studied her ... something deeper than the devil-may-care attitude she was accustomed to.

  When his gaze lingered on her lips and then dropped to her breast, she looked away, thankful her veil hid her blush. “Lemonade would taste wonderful. I—I’ll think things over and let you know by week’s end.”

  He nodded and took her elbow again. “Shall we inform Justine of our plans? Perhaps a cool drink will cheer her.... What the hell’s he doing here?”

  Celesta’s head snapped up, not only because of the radical change in Patrick’s voice, but because his grip was threatening to cut her arm in two. A few rows of headstones beyond where Justine was standing, a well-dressed man was kneeling to place a rose on a grave. He had a singularly sad air about him, and as he brushed his chestnut hair back from his face he seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Why, that’s Damon Frye,” Eula whispered. Her hand went to the diamond brooch at her throat as she stared openly at him. “My stars, what’s it been? Seven or eight years since—”

  “Ten,” Patrick stated, his jaw clenching. “How nice of him to visit Lucy’s grave after all this time, since it’s his fault she’s in it. Shall we go? No doubt Mr. Frye has some soul-searching to do, and I’d hate to distract him.”

  As though Patrick’s words had bitten him, Damon Frye turned suddenly to look at them. Celesta remembered him now: he and Patrick had been school chums, and he’d spent several afternoons at the Perkins house when they were boys. She had been only ten, which would have made Patrick eighteen, when the rumors about Damon and the Bates girl got ugly and he left town rather suddenly, chased away by wagging tongues, she guessed. Too young to be privy to the secretive talk her mother and Mrs. Perkins had shared, at the time she could only wonder what horrible sin he’d committed.

  Now, of course, she knew he and Lucy had been engaged, and that he’d abandoned her when he learned she was pregnant. Lucy had died after taking a potion some old crone who lived near the railyards had given her to rid her of the baby. Damon and Lucy were still the topic of conversation now and again, whenever similarly shocking events occurred.

  “Do you mind if we leave now?” Patrick demanded. “It would be a slight to Lucy’s memory to even speak to—”

  “He’s coming this way,” Celesta murmured. “We can’t just walk off and pretend we didn’t see him.”

  As Frye approached she noted the strong grace of his walk when he ascended the hill, and the impeccable cut of his double-breasted blazer and trousers, all of a natty white. His clean-shaven face was dark with a masculine shadow. His coffee-colored eyes were assessing them all, and then he looked at her with a bold sultriness that was highly improper yet ... electrifying. Patrick’s arm snaked around her waist.

  “I’m sorry we meet again under such regrettable circumstances,” he said in a smooth baritone. Damon stopped a few paces away and looked at each of them before glancing toward the open grave. “Is this Rachel Montgomery you’ve laid to rest? I’m terribly sorry. She was a wonderful lady—made the best cherry tarts I ever tasted.”

  Celesta felt her eyes go hot, and she looked away. Just three days ago her mother’s tarts had brought a record-breaking sum at a charity auction, and now—

  “And this must be Celesta.”

  It was a statement common decency forced her to acknowledge, but when she looked up to reply, she held her breath. Damon’s eyes delved shamelessly into hers, speaking with smoldering eloquence about how she’d grown and what he’d like to do about it. Dear Lord, there was a cleft in his dusky chin....

  “Miss Montgomery has had a most upsetting day,” Patrick cut in, “so if you’ll excuse—”

  “Miss Montgomery was always one to speak for herself, as I recall,” Frye said smoothly. He stepped closer, his smile rueful. “I’m truly sorry about your mother, Celesta.”

  “Thank you,” she whimpered.

  “We’ll meet again, on a happier day.”

  There was no question in his remark, and Celesta doubted if she could’ve answered coherently anyway. Damon Frye was studying her with leisurely arrogance, as though recalling her ten-year-old face and being extremely pleased with how each feature had evolved. He was ignoring the others, which made the sun beat hotter and her wool suit feel even heavier on this muggy June day. To her dismay, she opened her mouth to breathe and it came out as a pant.

  Frye chuckled and slowly lifted her veil. He cupped her jaw, his palm pleasantly cool and his gaze so mesmerizing Celesta was too dazed to be embarrassed by his outrageous behavior.

  “My God, you’re lovely,” he murmured.

  It was the last thing Celesta really heard all day.

  Chapter 2

  “Katherine and I have chosen to do our own housekeeping because the work gives us a sense of accomplishment,” Justine stated over breakfast the next morning. “I think you should find and perform certain helpful tasks during your stay, Celesta. Establishing a meaningful routine gives order to one’s days and purpose to one’s life.”

  “I agree completely.” Celesta smiled, determined not to let Justine’s autocratic manner spoil the delicious meal Katherine had prepared. She’d been delivering such lectures since they left the cemetery, little homilies that hinted her visit would be short and filled with the chores her spinster aunt found the least appealing. “It’s not as though I have a maid at the Perkinses’, you know.”

  Katherine chuckled quietly. “No, I can’t imagine Eula allows you to sit idle. Your dear mother rarely had a moment to herself, and even with your assistance she had her hands full keeping that family satisfied.”

  “And what are your responsibilities?” Justine asked, focusing her brown eyes intently on her niece. “Katherine and I firmly believe in dividing duties according to one’s particular talents.”

  “That’s why I cook,” her other aunt chimed in smugly.

  Every conversation left her feeling like a spectator at a tennis match, watching the ball bounce into one court and then get lobbed into the other. Katherine felt stronger today, judging from her pert remarks, but Justine was clearly the head of the Ransom household and demanded an accounting from everyone she supervised. If she was going to stay on here, it was Justine she would have to appease, for Katherine’s sake.

  Again Celesta smiled at her oldest aunt, whose silver-streaked hair was wound so tightly into a bun it was a wonder she could blink her eyes. “My first chore each day is the marketing,” she replied. “I go to—”

  “Eula trusts you to shop?” Justine stared, and then dabbed her mouth with her napkin to soften her expression. “I mean, I can’t imagine allowing staff the liberty of spending family money.”

  “Which is why your aunt Justine does all our marketing,” Katherine added wryly.

  “It’s because you dawdle,” Justine shot back. “By the time you’d get there the meat would be picked over, and on these hot days it’s fly-specked before eight. I won’t tolerate wilted produce, either. It’s like a blouse without starch—it just won’t do!”

  Celesta caught herself chuckling. Her two aunts obviously enjoyed rising to each other’s bait, and she suspected that this rivalry was what kept the women alive. “Actually,” she said during their silence, “Mrs. Perkins has me shop because she’s rarely out of bed before eleven.”

  “What?”

  “No!”

  Celesta shrugged and helped herself to another biscu
it. “Why does she need to be up?” she asked her wide-eyed aunts. “Mama saw to breakfast and to getting Patrick on his way while I ran the errands. Eula’s much nicer after she’s had her beauty rest followed by breakfast in bed, so we encourage her to do so. It’s her routine.”

  “The idle rich,” Justine muttered as she pushed her plate away.

  “I couldn’t live that way,” Aunt Katherine clucked.

  Two old ladies with the Ransom shipping fortune at their disposal could live any way they chose, Celesta mused, but she knew better than to say that. Instead she addressed Justine, hoping to build upon the point she’d just scored. “In fact, Eula often compliments my ability to dicker with the shopkeepers. So if you’d like me to take on—”

  “Absolutely not.” Justine stood up, looking imperiously down her nose. “I have seen to the marketing for the past forty years, rain or shine, and if I continue this chitchat your aunt Katherine will have to make do with inferior ingredients. Lord knows her cooking suffers enough with the best I can afford.”

  She went to the pegs alongside the pantry door and took down a plain straw bonnet, which she donned with military efficiency, and then she pulled on white gloves. Grasping the handle of her wicker market basket, Justine gazed at each of them in turn. “I trust you’ll decide what tasks Celesta is best suited to by the time I return,” she said crisply. With barely a ripple in her dun-colored skirt, she was out the door.

  Celesta watched after her, her mouth clamped shut against a retort. Even in the Perkins home, her suggestions were considered worthwhile, and if Justine thought she could belittle her just because—

  Katherine’s chuckling brought her thoughts back to the table, where Celesta’s shorter, younger aunt was brushing crumbs from the linen cloth into her open palm. The soft folds beneath her chin were quivering with mirth.

  “What’s so funny? First she asks what I’m capable of doing, as though I’m a four-year-old, and then she snaps like a bear trap when my answer doesn’t suit her,” Celesta complained. “You’re right. She’s even ruder than I remember, and getting worse with age.”