The house was large, old, and expensive. Most of the homes on the Battery hailed from before the Civil War. Many of the houses are painted in the muted pastels most people associate with places like Bermuda and Nassau. Some of the families who owned these homes had been here since the mansions were built. The houses are beautiful, and tourists flock to see them. But as much as I admire their beauty, I try not to spend a lot of time down at the Battery for the simple reason that it creeps me out.
The Battery is a seawall built in the 1700s to keep back the waters of the Charleston Harbor, where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers merge. Nowadays, the beautiful park on the peninsula is called Whitepoint Gardens and it’s where children play and couples stroll. But back in the day, it was the place where the gallows stood and pirates were hanged. Sorren’s told me stories about those days, and my magic can still feel the unsettled vibrations of the long-ago deaths. That didn’t help my mood. I was jittery as hell.
“Since Anthony got us the referral, we at least need to go in and look around,” Teag prodded. Anthony was Teag’s romantic partner. They had been together for almost a year, and I hoped they’d make it permanent. They were a cute couple. Anthony came from an old Charleston family, and he looked the part. Blond hair, a wardrobe straight off the pages of GQ, and a partnership in the family law firm. Teag, on the other hand, was tall and lanky, with a mop of dark skater boy hair. He had been close to completing his Ph.D. in History when Sorren and I snagged him for a role with the store, given his magic and his love for the past.
“I know, I know.” I pushed a lock of strawberry blonde hair back behind my ear. It wasn’t even noon yet, but the summer heat was already in the high nineties, and with my pale Scots-Irish coloring, I was red in the face.
I got out of the car and Teag followed me up the walkway. A dark-haired woman who looked to be in her early forties came to the door. She had a no-fuss chin-length bob haircut, a single strand of pearls around her neck and she was wearing a pale blue twin-set over white slacks with bare feet.
“Marjorie Stedman?” I asked.
She nodded. “You must be Cassidy and Teag, from Trifles and Folly. Please, come in.”
Marjorie ushered us into a graceful old house that certainly deserved being called a mansion. The foyer had an original plank floor and a curved stairway with an elaborately carved balustrade. A large yet tasteful crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and it looked like it fit right in. I glimpsed a living room big enough to hold a grand piano and not appear cramped, and oil paintings hung on all the walls. I was willing to bet that all of them were Stedman ancestors.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Marjorie said. Now that I had a chance to study her features, she looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. Not surprising, considering that both her parents had died unexpectedly within a day of each other. The deaths had been the talk of the town when they happened a few weeks earlier, but despite the odd timing, police ruled both to be of natural causes. Still, I was certain Marjorie had her hands full settling the estate. Which was why we were there.
“When Mama and Daddy passed on so unexpectedly, they left everything to me.” Marjorie’s accent was thick as honey, an old-money Charleston accent that was patrician and gracious. Not as stiff-jawed as a Richmond accent, nor as much of a drawl as folks from Georgia, it was a verbal class distinction that was rapidly fading as more people moved in and out of the city.
“I’m an only child, the sole heir and the executor,” she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. I understood why she looked so harried. Wealth on a Stedman scale would be complicated, and even though I was sure she had a team of expensive advisors, there were a lot of decisions to make and deadlines to meet at an emotionally vulnerable time. My heart went out to her.
“I’m finally getting around to having the antiques appraised,” Marjorie said. “I’ve had someone through already to appraise the run-of-the mill things, so you don’t have to worry about those. But there were some items of daddy’s, and some of mama’s jewelry, that the first appraiser said needed an expert opinion, so here you are.”
“We appreciate being asked to help,” I said. Marjorie gave us a quick tour of the rooms as she led us to where the items were she wanted us to appraise. As she talked, I tried to ‘listen’ with my magic, hoping to get a feel for what was making me so jittery. The ominous feeling hadn’t gotten any better, and it was strong enough that I was unwilling to chalk it up to my imagination.
“Mama’s jewelry is in a case on her dressing table, in that room,” Marjorie said, pointing to the double doors to the master bedroom. “Daddy’s smoking room is at the far end of the hall, so he could sit on the balcony and not ‘stink up the house’ as Mama said,” she added with a wistful chuckle. “She always did hate his cigars.”
“There’s a desk in his smoking room that’s old, and some antique cigar tools that are silver,” Marjorie added. “And a humidor that Mama gave him right before his death. It’s old, and very unusual, and she got it for him for his last birthday.” I remembered from the newscast that Payton Stedman III had died on his sixty-fifth birthday from sudden heart failure.
“Do you know where your mother purchased it?” I asked.
Marjorie shook her head. “No. But I want to get rid of it.” She gave me a nervous, embarrassed half-smile, more of a grimace. “I know it’s superstitious, but I can’t help feeling like that damned thing had something to do with Daddy’s death. The sooner it’s gone, the better.”
I noticed that she wasn’t walking us into the rooms. That seemed odd to me, especially given the fact that Marjorie didn’t look like she was hysterical with grief. She didn’t appear to be the hysterical type. Movie stereotypes aside, Southern women really do have steel beneath the moonlight-and-magnolias exterior, and Marjorie Stedman looked like a very competent woman. But from the way she didn’t quite meet my gaze, I wondered what was going on. She acted like she was afraid of something.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Teag assured her. I knew he was covering for me to give me a chance to see if I could sense magic nearby. I was beginning to think that Marjorie was a savvy woman. I wasn’t quite sure what my gift was picking up from inside the smoking room, but it was as if a heavy, dull cloud of something a lot fouler than cigar smoke hung over the area. To my senses, it reeked more of ill-intent and evil than of Cohibas or purloined Cuban smokes.
“You’re welcome to stay with us as we work if you like,” I offered. Somehow, I knew she would decline.
“That’s all right,” Marjorie said a little too quickly. “I have things to take care of. Please look over the items on this list, and let me know when you’ll be able to give me the official report.” She handed me a hand-written list of ten items, and then padded down the hallway and out of sight.
I glanced at the list. “There are six pieces of jewelry, and four items in the smoking room,” I said. “Let’s start with the jewelry.” I didn’t want to admit to Teag that the vibes I was getting from the room at the end of the hall made me jumpy.
I pushed open the double doors and walked into a sumptuous master suite. The house itself might date from the eighteenth century, but inside, its owners had spared no modern luxury. The room was appointed with exquisite—and expensive—good taste. The antique four-poster bed was covered with luxury linens and a beautiful duvet. The Aubusson carpet on top of the polished wooden floors probably cost more than my car. Oil paintings and a large, gold-framed antique mirror hung on the walls. I noticed that the mirror had been draped with black cloth, an old custom long-forgotten, designed to keep spirits from becoming trapped in the reflection. It made me wonder whether Marjorie’s dreams had been dark.
“Very nice,” Teag said, an understatement if I ever heard one.
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed. Yet even before I touched anything, there was an aura of sadness that struck me, and an undercurrent of bitterness. It made me wonder if the domestic tranquility wasn’t all it was portrayed
to be.
“There’s the jewelry,” Teag prompted, clearing his throat to let me know I’d been woolgathering again.
I approached the dressing table where six pieces of beautiful jewelry were laid out atop the mirrored vanity top. Before I touched anything, I stood for a moment, eying the pieces and trying to get a sense of which ones might have bad mojo. I’d learned to be cautious the hard way, after nasty items knocked me flat on my butt, more than once.
“Picking up anything?” Teag asked.
I hadn’t lost my sense that something about the house was very wrong, but it didn’t seem to be coming from these pieces. I shook my head. “I don’t think they’re dangerous. But there’s still something off about them.”
Teag pulled out the fancy dressing table chair for me with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Your table is ready,” he said, sounding like a maître d’.
I chuckled, and sat down, studying the pieces again. There was a sapphire ring rimmed with diamonds that appeared to be from the 1920s, and a diamond necklace. I bet both were Harry Winston. The other pieces were from Tiffany & Co., Van Cleef and Arpels, Chopard and Bulgari. Very nice.
But as soon as I touched the first piece, a sleek silver and diamond bracelet, any bling-envy disappeared. The piece was beautiful and the gemstones top quality, but an unmistakable sense of loneliness and betrayal clung to the bracelet like old perfume. I touched a pair of diamond pendant earrings with double-digit carats and got the same feeling, with a stab of disappointment and humiliation to go with it. The same was true with every lovely piece.
“Cassidy,” Teag said quietly. “You’re crying.”
So I was. I caught my breath, and wiped away the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “He cheated on her,” I said raggedly. “The pieces… they were all gifts to ingratiate himself after he’d gone off on another fling. I could feel how hurt she was, how betrayed. It happened time and time again.”
“Damn,” Teag replied. “Do you think Marjorie knows? Maybe she’s appraising them to sell them.”
I shrugged. “She’d have to do it for taxes anyhow. And if you didn’t know the history and couldn’t sense the emotions, they’re beautiful pieces.” Six pieces, six betrayals. Were there more? I wondered. Men who cheated often made a habit of it.
“They’re all from famous jewelry houses,” I said, feeling heartsick. “We shouldn’t have difficulty assigning value. I don’t have a doubt about the authenticity. He must have screwed up big time to need these to get out of the dog house.”
Funny thing, but as I touched the other pieces, the emotions changed. The disappointment and pain were as bright and clear as the diamonds on the first items. Somewhere along the way, the feelings shifted. Humiliation, self-doubt and anger crept in as I moved to what were likely newer gifts. The sixth piece was so sharp with bitterness that I recoiled. Caroline Stedman had not been a happy woman, despite her wealth and position.
Teag took pictures of the pieces and wrote down dimensions as I pulled myself together. “I think we’ve got what we need,” he said. “You’re right—they’ve got all the right markings. They’re genuine. I don’t think Marjorie will have trouble getting rid of them, if she wants to sell them.”
“Good idea, but I sure wouldn’t want to wear them,” I said. People don’t realize that objects have as much of an emotional provenance as they do a physical one. It would take a lot to wipe the slate clean with these pieces, so that they wouldn’t be a constant drag on the wearer’s happiness, with or without magic.
That was one of the reasons I was so picky with the jewelry we sold at Trifles and Folly, especially wedding rings. I’d seen my share of well-to-do young lovers who wanted a unique set of rings, and came looking for estate jewelry. Just in the time I’d managed the store, I’d turned down buying many sets because the emotional resonance wasn’t good. No one should start out with a psychic albatross like that in a piece of jewelry that gets worn every day, and on a finger that legend says has a vein that runs straight to the heart.
“Ready to go?” Teag asked.
I nodded and we headed back to the hallway, then walked toward the doors to Peyton Stedman’s smoking room. Cigars were having a resurgence, but among Charleston’s upper crust, they had never gone away. During Garden Week, the night air smelled of jasmine, gardenia, and Herreras.
Teag opened the door to the smoking room, and I cried out in alarm. Even before I touched anything, I felt evil and death roil out toward me like the mist off the ocean. I staggered backward, lost my balance, and fell backwards. Alarmed, Teag positioned himself between me and the room, but there was no visible threat, no tangible enemy. I was already climbing to my feet when he turned around to help me up, and I could feel my cheeks flaming.
“What was that?” Teag asked, still watching the room with a wary eye.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. But there’s some definite bad juju in there, and I’m guessing that’s why Marjorie didn’t want to show us around in person.”
I doubted Marjorie had a psychic ability. But some negative energy is so strong that even people without a clairvoyant bone in their bodies know to stay away. It’s where talk about curses comes from, and often, the rumors are more right than people realize. Something in that room was either cursed or just plain evil, and it was our job to figure out why.
The room had a decidedly masculine feel to it, with dark paneling, leather chairs and bookshelves filled with antique tomes. A large-screen TV was a nod toward modernity. I saw a mahogany liquor cabinet with Baccarat crystal glasses and Waterford decanters over to one side, and I was betting that nothing in the bar was less than 25 year-old single malt. Peyton Stedman was a man of good taste, but that hadn’t been enough to keep him alive.
“What’s on the list?” I asked, still scanning the room with my gaze. There was a large teak desk that looked like it had come from Colonial India, probably a hundred years old. On it sat a beautiful humidor made of wood with a rich, dark grain. Oil paintings hung on the walls: fox hunts, grouse hunts, and the obligatory Victorian nude reclining on a velvet couch. On the wall above the massive desk hung a portrait of Mr. Stedman himself. I guessed he was in his early fifties when he sat for the painting, over ten years ago. He looked confident, even arrogant, like a man who knows he has the world by the tail. Stedman was a good-looking man who had all the mannerisms and trappings of old money. I didn’t doubt he had any trouble attracting women, wedding ring or not.
“The humidor,” Teag replied, inclining his head toward a wooden box on the top of the desk. “A sterling silver cigar cutter, probably in one of the desk drawers,” he continued. “And the desk itself.”
I didn’t want to get any closer to the dark aura, but I had a job to do. Not only was Marjorie expecting us to do an appraisal; now that we knew there was a dangerous magical object involved, we had a responsibility to Sorren and the Alliance to figure out what was wrong.
“I don’t think the problem is with the desk itself,” I said finally, letting my hand hover above the hand-rubbed, teak surface. The piece was beautiful, and despite its age, well cared-for. Setting a value on it wouldn’t be difficult. “But I’m getting a second-hand disturbance, like something that’s in or on the desk is causing the problem. Until we know what it is, I don’t want to touch the desk myself.”
Teag opened the upper right-hand drawer and found the cigar cutter. He brought it over to me, and held it while I passed my hand an inch away, testing the vibes. I shook my head. “Sometimes a cigar cutter is just a cigar cutter,” I said. “No mojo.”
We both turned to look at the humidor. Good cigars are expensive, and I was betting that Peyton Stedman smoked the best money could buy. Aficionados didn’t want their smokes to dry out, so humidors were storage boxes that kept the humidity just-so to preserve those pricy stogies. They could run from a few hundred bucks to tens of thousands, and looking at the one on Stedman’s desk, I figured it had come in on the high end of the estimate.
“Strike one,” I replied. “That’s a protected wood species—not supposed to be able to cross international borders. She can’t legally resell it.”
Teag pulled out a pair of white curator linen gloves from a pocket. He put them on, and carefully opened the lid, standing off to the side just in case something unexpected popped out. We both exhaled when nothing happened.
“Strike two,” he said quietly. “Cuban cigars.” I peered over his shoulder. Nestled next to the Gurkha Black Dragons—the most expensive cigars on the market—were a tidy number of Montecristo grand coronas. Sure, the Montecristos made in the Dominican Republic were legal in the U.S. But I was pretty certain a connoisseur like Stedman would want the real Havanas, and they were still embargoed. Which made the humidor a double problem for Marjorie.
I inched closer, and willed myself to stretch out my hand. Teag stood behind me, intent on not letting me fall again. There was no way around this. I had to do it, but I didn’t want to.
The instant my fingers touched the rosewood, stone-cold evil curled up my skin. The vision hit me like a train wreck. I glimpsed a ritual circle, black candles, blood. A voice chanted words I didn’t understand, but their malice was clear. The accent was thick as gumbo. Power gathered like a thundercloud, dark and vicious. The chanting voice directed that deadly energy, focusing it with will and ritual, twisting it into a curse. I saw a small black box with broken bits of mirror and a bit of parchment with handwriting on it. And next to that black box was the humidor.
Coils of dark power undulated from the circle. Some of that power drove the curse into the wood of the humidor. Other darkness drifted and pooled around the black box, caressing it like a homicidal lover. I felt power go into that box, too, killing power. The vision went dark.
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