I Buried a Witch

by Josh Lanyon

  At last I found my key, opened the door, and beckoned Bridget inside.

  “As you can see, we haven’t made any real progress since you interviewed.”

  That was an understatement. In fact, we’d received a ton more boxes and furniture since Bridget had interviewed, and most of it was still sitting in the front room.

  She said placidly, “That’s why I’m here, sir. Where would you like me to start?”

  “If you could tackle the kitchen, that would be a huge help. I still can’t find the blender.” I lifted Pye out of his carrier.

  “Consider it done,” Bridget said.

  I heard out Pyewacket’s complaints. “Ssst-ssst-ssst.” I absently stroked his fur, listening to Bridget opening and closing cupboards. I hoped Maman had sent her. Otherwise…

  Perhaps Pye had the same idea. He leaped from my arms and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I turned on the stereo, put on Stevie Nicks’ Bella Donna, and proceeded to distribute throughout the house the wedding gifts John and I had opened the night before.

  It’s the thought that counts when it comes to gifts, but I couldn’t help wondering if all of John’s friends were deranged. The giant painting of a wine cork went straight to John’s wet bar. Ditto the unicorn wine-bottle holder. The emergency survival kit (this too a gift from John’s military buddies) went into the downstairs guest bathroom.

  I carried bundles of assorted linens and towels into the laundry room—checking momentarily when I passed the kitchen doorway and heard Bridget crooning softly to “Edge of Seventeen.”

  I lugged upstairs a surprisingly heavy green brocade bedspread from Great-aunt Coralie, and put it in the second guest bedroom. My Great-great-great-uncle Arnold, imprisoned in the Louis XVI rococo mirror hanging in the hallway, jabbed his finger at me as he attempted to cast a spell.

  I scowled. “You know, if you’re not happy here, there’s always the Salvation Army.”

  Uncle Arnold continued to communicate his displeasure, resorting to sign language.

  The mirror should be safely out of the way in this part of the house. I just hoped none of our guests were of a snooping disposition. Or if they were, I hoped they confined their nosiness to our medicine cabinets.

  “Will you be needing me on Sunday?” Bridget asked when I carried the second compact air fryer into the kitchen.

  I tried not to notice that not only were most of the cardboard boxes empty, the containers themselves had been flattened and stacked as neatly as if a giant iron had pressed them into shape. The wide marble counters gleamed, comfortably crowded with our new appliances. Neatly stacked china glowed lustrously in the white glass-fronted cupboards. From the white distressed brick of the backsplash to the vintage verdigris dragonfly drawer pulls, everything was magazine-perfect. Nothing out of place and not a smudge nor speck anywhere to be seen.

  “Hm? I thought you didn’t work on the Sabbath?”

  Her smile was as prim and tight as a nun’s coif. “I suppose I could be making an exception if you and the commissioner needed me.”

  My gaze traveled back to the stainless—literally stainless—steel appliances. Bridget had to know that even I, legendary for my nonexistent housekeeping skills, was aware no mortal could manage this in the space of a few hours. Or even a few days.

  “It would be helpful, of course, but we wouldn’t want to pressure you into doing anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

  She ignored that. “Were you planning to do the cooking yourself?”

  “I think so. It’s a cocktail party, so we’re not serving dinner. Just a few hors d’oeuvres. Nothing too fancy.”

  “What were you thinking of?”

  “Caviar and crème-fraîche tartlets? Shrimp toasts, and mushroom-parmesan palmiers. Easy and quick but elegant.”

  She looked approving. “I make a very fine lobster toast with avocado.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “Do you? Well, I could certainly use a hand in the kitchen.”

  Bridget smiled. Over her shoulder, I saw a sponge in the sink jump up like a happy fish.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve always considered the whole Monster-in-Law thing such a tiresome cliché, so imagine my chagrin when my own mother-in-law turned out to be…Nola.

  In fairness, Nola had not had it easy. Her first husband, John’s father, had died suddenly when John was still very small. It had been up to Nola to support herself and her child. Her second husband, Jinx’s father, had died while in bed with Nola’s next-door neighbor.

  So I was sympathetic to Nola—or at least I wanted to be. Her barely disguised antipathy made it difficult. John assured me it was not personal, but I kind of thought it was.

  And even if it wasn’t, it wasn’t pleasant being on the receiving end of all that pained distaste.

  “Are we supposed to have dinner with her every Friday?” I asked casually on the drive over that evening.

  John’s mouth twitched. “Having second thoughts?”

  “No, no!” I said with false heartiness. “Not at all! I can think of no better way to spend our every Friday night!” I was pretending I was kidding, of course, pretending I wasn’t really as horrified as I actually was.

  John grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s only once a month, and you don’t have to come every time. I can go on my own.”

  “I don’t know about every month, but I’ll come most of the time.”

  “You’re a very sweet guy, Cos.” He sounded almost surprised.

  “I am,” I agreed. “I hope you remember that when we have our first argument.”

  He reached for my hand, folding it lightly, warmly, in his own. “Didn’t we already do that?”

  “If we did, it can’t have been too important. I don’t remember it.”

  He smiled and gave my hand a squeeze.

  * * * * *

  I’d only been to Nola’s home once before—the afternoon John and I went there to tell her we were engaged.

  I didn’t remember much about the house, but I knew that after he got out of the service, John had purchased the two-bedroom modern farmhouse in the suburb of Larkspur for her. It was a nice little place, and it had been completely ungraded with new carpet and fresh paint and granite counters. It had a sun porch and a deck, and was located in a 55+ park, complete with club house and salt-water pool, which Nola made a point of telling John she never used.

  Everything was as neat as a pin—and the protective plastic over the lampshades and living-room cushions ensured it would remain so through the afterlife. The shaped soaps in the guest bathroom were also wrapped in plastic. The extra roll of toilet paper was disguised by a yellow knit hat adorned with plastic roses. Pictures of Jesus looking pained but patient hung in every room of the house except the bathroom.

  There were pictures of John in every room too—outnumbering those of Jinx by about three to one.

  He had been an angelic-looking altar boy, complete with cowlick and missing front tooth, and frame by frame he had grown into that dashing guy in a tux, posing with his mother on his wedding day. In between, there was a long and, probably for Nola, nerve-racking stretch of pictures of John in military garb.

  I didn’t think it was my imagination that John’s face grew harder and grimmer in the succession of photos. War did that to people, and he seemed to have been through a lot of wars.

  I was studying the family gallery when John came up behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders. I craned my neck, smiling. “I recognize Trace,” I said.

  John glanced at the image of himself and Trace sitting on a tank, holding beer cans and machine guns.

  “Yeah, I’ve known Trace since high school.”

  I couldn’t help noticing that though they both grew more wearied and weathered-looking, Trace’s eyes never quite took on the bleakness in John’s.

  “John and Trace enlisted together,” Nola said from the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Like me and Andi.”

  John snorted, gi
ving me a little shake, then bent his head and kissed me.

  I happened to glance at Nola, and seeing her pained expression, wished I hadn’t.

  She chirped, “Would either of you boys like sherry?”

  “God no,” John said. “Why do you think I brought a bottle of wine?”

  She made a tsk-tsking sound. “That’s for dinner. We don’t want to waste it.”

  “It’s not a waste to have what you enjoy, Mamie.”

  She ignored that, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Oh! Oh, I have to show you! I’ve had wonderful news from the National Genealogical Society.”

  She bustled away, and we followed her into the living room, where she unrolled what appeared to be a large decorative descent chart.

  “What do you think of that?” She beamed at John. “Of course, this is only your father’s side of the family.”

  “I see that.”

  “This is the interesting part. See?” She pointed.

  “What am I looking at?” John asked.

  “Sir William Galbraith.”

  “What about him?”

  Nola was preening over the tiny blip of Sir William Galbraith. “Well, he’s a nobleman. That’s the first thing. We’re related to royalty! But then I did some digging. In the late spring of 1569, Sir William Galbraith conducted a justice ayre—that seems to be some kind of traveling criminal court—in Stirlingshire, where he identified and brought to trial large numbers of witches.”

  A witch hunter.

  I stared at John.

  John muttered, “Jesus.”

  “Yes! That’s right. He was a God-fearing man. Ten of those witches were executed. Sir William continued his work until his assassination in January 1571.” Nola’s mouth turned down at Sir William’s sad fate.

  John took the chart from her, frowning as he studied it.

  “A real live historical witch hunter!” Nola’s eyes shined. “This is so much better than Bonnie Prince Charlie. Everyone claims to be related to Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  I repeated faintly, “A-a witch hunter?”

  Nola, still gloating over her genealogy chart like a pirate gazing at a treasure map, spared me a quick look. “Yes! It’s right there. The ten who confessed were strangled and then burned.”

  A witch hunter.

  John glanced at me, and his mouth curled. He said wryly, “It’s all right, sweetheart; there are actually no such things as witches.”

  “Right.”

  Maybe here was the explanation for John’s strange imperviousness to magic. Among the many terrifying stories regarding witch hunters was the legend that with each generation they had been less and less susceptible to spellcraft.

  Which, as evolution went, made sense.

  Nola, still scrutinizing the hanging tree that symbolized John’s bloodline, said grimly, “If there were, it’s nice to know we were on the right side of the law. Anyway, they all confessed.”

  I swallowed. “They would have been tortured first. That’s how those confessions were usually obtained.”

  And your point is? That was Nola’s expression.

  John’s gaze moved from her to me. He rolled up the chart and handed it to his mother. “Interesting. Are you planning to frame it?”

  “Yes! Of course!”

  He said to me, “Let’s have a glass of wine. Dinner must be about ready?”

  Nola’s eyes widened. “The roast!” She laid the chart on the dining-room table and hurried into the kitchen.

  I was silent as John opened the bottle of wine.

  After all, it was ancient history. Every family had a few skeletons in the closet. John was no more responsible for Sir Williams’s actions than I was responsible for the atrocities of Isabeau II, Countess of Abracadantès and Vosges. Granted, Isabeau had been retaliating against mortal assaults on her land and people. That was her story, anyway.

  John poured the wine and handed me a glass. I tried to smile, but the smell of the dinner Nola was clucking and exclaiming over made me feel slightly sick.

  John touched his glass to mine. He said very softly, “Abracadabra.” He was smiling—not with understanding because I don’t think he understood, but he knew I was bothered; he cared, and he was trying to let me know that he cared. That doesn’t sound like much, I realize, but coming from John, it did make me feel better.

  “Sit down, you two. Everything’s ready,” Nola called.

  We took our places at the table, and Nola wafted out of the kitchen, bearing a white oval platter. “Pot roast. Just the way John likes it.” She deposited the roast in the center of the table.

  Apparently, the way John “liked it” was burnt to a crisp and carried to its funeral pyre on a bed of candied carrots and yams. Talk about burnt offerings.

  John said, “You didn’t need to go to any special effort, Mamie,” clearly missing the point of all this.

  “Oh, it’s no effort!” She darted away again and returned with a salad bowl, which she placed next to the charred remains in the center of the linen-covered table.

  “It smells delicious,” I lied bravely as Nola took her place across from me.

  John, at the head of the table, gave me a sardonic look and picked up the carving knife and fork. He began to hack the blackened roast apart with experience if not ease.

  “Does your mother cook, Cosmo?” Nola answered her own question, “No, I suppose not, given her wealth and position. She must have a fleet of servants.” Her laugh had a brittle quality to it. “I must say, it’s very odd having a duchess in the family!”

  John growled. Well, no, he cleared his throat, but it had the same effect. On me, anyway. Nola continued to blink at me with that too bright smile.

  I said, “Not often. Not these days. But Maman used to make a mean omelet.” That was true, but the main thing I remembered my mother making for me were delicious paper-thin crepes filled with chocolate cream. Whenever things had gone really bad at school, that had been her remedy.

  There are all different kinds of magic in this world, after all.

  John served the meat while Nola interrogated me for a few minutes about Maman. I think she was both impressed and offended by my mother’s title. How many servants did my mother employ? How many homes did she own? Did she know any kings or queens? What did she think of American department stores? Was I actually an American citizen?

  “I was born in Salem,” I reminded her.

  “That’s true. Your father teaches there, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. He teaches astronomy at Salem State University.”

  “But you went to college in France.”

  “I did, but I’ve lived almost my entire life in the States.”

  On it went. I figured this was a one-time interrogation. Nola had not really had much opportunity to grill me before John and I married.

  “How is Bridget settling in?” she asked finally.

  John directed a look of inquiry my way.

  “Fine.”

  Nola beamed. “I knew she would be perfect for you. A true godsend.”

  I smiled politely.

  The meal felt never-ending, but it did at last come to a close—whereupon we moved to the living room and Nola broke out the sherry. For another hour she regaled us with her many church activities, the witty things Father had said at mass the previous Sunday, and the silly-in-her-view exploits of her friends, who were ridiculous enough to try dating at their age.

  John listened, commenting just often enough to prove he really was paying attention, and honestly, I loved him for that. I mean, I loved him for many reasons, but I loved that though I knew he was bored to tears, he was too fond of her to ever let it show.

  Eventually Nola ran out of her usual conversation and turned to the thing most on her mind—besides the fond dream of reporting me to Homeland Security and having me shipped back to France. “Have you spoken to your sister since you got back?”

  “No,” John said. “Cosmo had lunch with her today.”

 
; “Did you?” Nola did not look particularly happy to hear this. “What did she have to say for herself?”

  “I’m not sure I understand?” I threw John a questioning look. “She’s working at Land of the Sun now. She seems to like it.”

  Nola said, “She’s ignoring my phone calls.”

  I devoted my full attention to my sherry.

  John said, “Do you think ‘ignoring’ might be putting it a little strongly? Maybe she’s busy.”

  “No, I don’t,” Nola snapped, and even John looked a little taken aback. “And busy or not, it’s disrespectful to ignore me. I’m her mother, and I’ve phoned her every single evening for the past week. She has yet to respond.”

  John said patiently, “I see. Did this barrage of phone calls follow an argument?”

  “Of course we argued! It’s impossible not to argue with her. She’s stubborn and willful and…and…” Her gaze lit on me. “Irreverent.”

  I cleared my throat. John’s amber gaze met mine. To my astonishment, his right eyelid lowered in the briefest of winks.

  Nola came at last to what was really on her mind. “John, you’re going to have to insist that Joan move back home.”

  I choked on my sherry.

  John looked at his mother and frowned.

  I cleared my throat, said—I couldn’t help it—“Wait a minute. It’s not fair to ask that of John. Besides, Joan isn’t a child. We can’t insist on any such thing. Trying to interfere in her life will only put her back up.”

  Which was maybe a little hypocritical, given that I didn’t mind interfering in Jinx’s life when I thought it was warranted. The difference was, Jinx’s happiness mattered to me. I’m not sure Nola gave a damn about Jinx’s happiness. In my opinion, Nola was the burn-you-at-the-stake-for-your-own-good breed.

  My kind have experience with her kind, as indicated by the National Genealogical Society.

  Nola pressed her thin lips together so that they almost disappeared. “Forgive me, Cosmo, but this is a family matter.”

  John’s frown deepened into a scowl. Seeing his displeasure, Nola added hastily, “I mean only that this concerns our family…what’s the word? Nucleus.”