Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  Chelsea rubbed her eyes, but Great-Granny remained, just the same as when she used to rock Chelsea’s bad dreams away. But Chelsea knew Great-Granny wasn’t there, not really. This was just a dream.

  “Child, come mere to your old granny, let me hold you.” She opened her pale arms wide and wrapped them around Chelsea. Great-Granny’s flesh was soft as down; peace came from her touch.

  Chelsea was ten years old last time she’d seen Great-Granny alive. The old woman had lived to a ripe one hundred and five years before deciding to make her peace.

  And now she was here. Chelsea wanted to pinch herself. It felt so real … and, at the same time, unreal. How could Great-Granny be here, in her bedroom? The rocking chair screaked back and forth as Chelsea slipped to her knees and rested her tired head on Great-Granny’s worn knee. It was cold against her cheek, but welcome just the same. If only it could be real.

  “What’s the matter, little one?” Great-Granny smiled her knowing smile. “What’s scarin’ you? Come on now.” She put a chilled hand under Chelsea’s chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. “Cat got your tongue?” Together they smiled, and Chelsea lowered her head back to Great-Granny’s knee.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Chelsea whispered, knowing this was all a dream, a wishful hallucination, probably to be forgotten by the morning.

  “Why, child, there’s nothin’ the matter with you. You’re just got the change comin’ on is all.” Great-Granny’s gnarled fingers brushed through Chelsea’s auburn curls. “Been happenin’ to our family since time started. Kind of late for you, child, but you’ll see, it’s all gonna be fine.” Great-Granny pursed her lips and gave her knowing laugh, her bright blue eyes twinkling with knowledge, belying her years and those that had passed since her death. “It’s all about who you are, darlin’.”

  “I don’t understand. What kind of change? Maybe I don’t want change.” Chelsea felt childish — and maybe she was.

  “Now, child, we’re not always given the choice to make.” Great-Granny gently admonished, then she smiled again. “It’s all gonna be okay, child, you watch. You hush now, it’s time for you to get some sleep.” Great-Granny nodded, gently rocking the chair and humming a tuneless lullaby. Chelsea’s eyelids grew heavy and when the dream became sleep again, it was with Great-Granny’s fingers combing through Chelsea’s hair as she covered her shivering body with the afghan that always rested across Great-Granny’s knees.

  • • •

  Chelsea awoke with a start the next morning, wrapped in her great-grandmother’s old afghan, sitting in the rocking chair, tired and kinked. She rubbed her cricked neck, then her bleary eyes, before they widened. She glanced around — when had she gotten out of bed? Why the rocking chair? No wonder her neck felt like it’d leaned the wrong way all night. She unfolded herself from the chair. Then she remembered the dream, Great-Granny’s touch … it had all seemed so real.

  She could still hear the old lullaby Great-Granny used to hum after she’d had a bad dream, and when she lifted the aged afghan and pressed it to her face, it carried the faint scent of the black licorice Great-Granny had always kept in her apron pocket. Chelsea hadn’t tasted black licorice in years. It was their secret treat, shared between Chelsea and her great-grandmother.

  She shook her head. It hadn’t really happened.

  It couldn’t, could it?

  Chapter Three

  If Chelsea hoped clarity would arrive with the early morning light, she was sorrily mistaken. Her ears still buzzed, louder than before. Strong coffee only made her jumpy, her eyes were fuzzy and gummy with the lack of sleep. The buzzing had grown to a quiet roar, making her as crazy as she felt.

  She bent over the table, her chin rested in her palm as she watched Grendel devour her breakfast, and she wondered, not for the first time, what was happening to her life.

  The paper on the table was three days old, but she folded back the edge and headed for the want ads. Great-Granny’s inheritance wouldn’t last forever. Chelsea’s eyes searched, scanned, always on the lookout for that perfect job. The one where she could put all of her great people skills to work. Ha! Like that was going to happen. Her last job had been as a social worker, but with the cuts to the State’s budget, the job had vanished, along with her income. Now, she was left with a degree in Sociology and little else.

  Her finger drifted down the list. “Dishwasher?” She glanced at her hands with her burned thumb, imagined them red and chapped. “Nope.” She continued down the page. “Truck driver?” She couldn’t even drive a stick, let alone shift through eighteen gears. “Nu-uh. Pre-School Teacher … ” At least it put her degree to work, but she was having trouble taking care of herself. She tossed the paper in the recycle bin. The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Chelsea Karmikel?” a strong male voice asked, but she’d been fooled by a man yesterday. Today she wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Who’d like to know?”

  “This is Brad Rearden of Rearden, Rearden, and Lyle.”

  Oh. Alarm bells went off — an attorney with a name she did recognize. “What can I do for a group of lawyers, Mr. Rearden?”

  “I’m not an attorney, Ms. Karmikel. I’m a private investigator working on a holding for my family.”

  “Then what can I do for a private investigator, Mr. Rearden?” She sighed into the phone; this wasn’t on her to do list for today.

  “This has to do with a property held by one of our clients. She named you specifically in her will. It’s taken me six months to track you down.” He too sighed. “Can you come into our offices in downtown Springfield sometime today?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but why not?” She threw her hand in the air, her day was getting better and better. The need for moral support ripped through her, and Grams was back from Florida. “I’m visiting my grandmother later today. What time did you have in mind?”

  “Let’s say around two this afternoon? It shouldn’t take too long, I just need to verify some information.”

  “What kind of information?” she asked, wondering.

  “We’ll talk at two.” And the line rudely disconnected in her ear.

  Chelsea turned to Grendel, who was twisted, preening the fur on her hind legs. “Well, looks like I get to go downtown today. Think Grams will want to tag along?”

  Grendel stopped licking long enough to share her uninterested stare, then returned to the task of washing.

  “A lot of help you are,” Chelsea grumped, and thought, I really am nuts, even the cat thinks so.

  If she started hearing answers, she was committing herself.

  • • •

  After her shower in the guest bath (she was avoiding her own), Chelsea drove into Springfield. Grams lived in a small house near Washington Park, but she always called the farm her home. This was their in-town house, hers and Chelsea’s granddad’s. Grams had lived alone since his death.

  “Well, will you look what the cat dragged in?” Grams looked over Chelsea’s appearance and ran her fingers over the top of Chelsea’s curls, which were rough and scraggly, fried on the ends. “Don’t tell me this was an experiment with the straighter that went really badly.” Grams’s sharp eyes locked with Chelsea’s. Chelsea knew her grandmother could smell a lie a mile away — she needed to tread carefully.

  “Morning to you too, Grams.” Chelsea bent slightly to hug the older woman’s shoulders. “I need to go shopping and I have an appointment today at some attorney’s office. Wanna come?” Looking into Grams’s face was like gazing into a mirror, if not for the years, the same as it had been with Great-Granny. Three peas in a pod, Great-Granny had always said.

  “Why, I guess so … Seriously, what did you do? Why’s an attorney need to see you?” Grams propelled Chelsea into the kitche
n, tapping her small foot on the tiles. Brewing tea filled the house with the pungent scent of orange peel, Grams’s favorite flavor.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Chelsea shrugged her shoulders, inhaling the comforting scent. Memories of childhood and family gatherings skipped across her memory. “Do you know anyone who can trim my hair? I’ve burnt the ends.”

  “No kidding.” Grams watched her edge away. “Let me call Hildie, her daughter’s usually in her shop about now. She’ll trim it up. What the heck did you do?” Grams asked again.

  Chelsea cringed and tried to explain the last few days of her strange life.

  “And you didn’t call me?”

  “There really wasn’t any point. I’m fine. The docs say there’s nothing to worry about.” Chelsea smiled but Grams’s temper was at a slow simmer, and Chelsea knew she had to try a different tactic. “You were visiting Mom and Dad in Florida, and if I would have called you, it would have been the same as calling them. There was no need to scare everyone. It was just another one of my freakish accidents. Sorry, Grams, really.” Chelsea looked contrite, and Grams calmed slightly.

  “You’re trying to give me more gray hairs.” Grams patted her steely hair — it couldn’t get much grayer, and they both laughed, breaking the tension.

  “Um … Grams? How would you feel about moving back out to the farm?”

  Chapter Four

  The Rearden family law firm was one of the most prominent and well respected in central Illinois. Chelsea gazed up at the billboard, proclaiming the firm’s 100th birthday. A portrait of Abraham Rearden filled the rest of the space, the founding father of the prestigious firm. He had a handlebar mustache — Chelsea wondered what his descendant would look like with the same curling whiskers, and she started to giggle. Brad Rearden appeared stern in the photo supplied on the firm’s website.

  “What?” Grams asked, missing the billboard.

  Chelsea pointed up at the skyline. “I was wondering if the handlebar mustache was a family characteristic?”

  Grams rolled her eyes as Chelsea giggled once again.

  She’d Googled the Rearden family firm; no sense going into the lion’s den unprepared. The firm specialized in criminal justice, accidents, medical malpractice, and on occasion, estate management for the rich and powerful. Their massive office building was rivaled by none — it ate up an entire block of real estate in downtown Springfield. Not that the family wasn’t philanthropic — it donated space to various charities.

  Chelsea and Grams continued down the sidewalk to the double glass doors with the monstrous R&R symbol emblazoned upon them. Lyle must not be an important part of the equation. They headed to the second floor. All the offices were glass cubicles, and Brad Rearden’s wasn’t any different. They peeked through the glass — his secretary was the only thing visible, slightly hidden by a short wall leading to the space housing her desk.

  Chelsea pushed open the door, and ushered Grams inside the glass cube. “Hi, I’m Chelsea Karmikel. I have a two o’clock appointment with Mr. Rearden?”

  The blonde secretary raised her sharp gaze, eyeing her up and down, judged and weighed, or at least it felt like it. “Mr. Rearden’s been expecting you. You’re late,” she replied coolly. Chelsea wondered if her lunch had spilled down her purple tee.

  “Only by a couple of minutes. Parking wasn’t easy to find.” She hitched a fist on her hip.

  “Fifteen minutes, and we validate with the structure across the street.”

  “Well, nobody bloody told me.” But the secretary gave her a condescending lifted eyebrow that said otherwise.

  “Please, no explanation is necessary. We make our living waiting for people like you to keep their appointments.”

  Chelsea’s face reddened. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to inconvenience anyone.” Why did she feel it necessary to explain herself? Her temper bubbled just below the surface; already she didn’t like Brad Rearden or his snooty secretary.

  The woman led her to a well concealed door and opened it. “Mr. Rearden, Chelsea Karmikel.”

  Chelsea clasped Grams’s hand, pulling her along into the office.

  “I’m Brad Rearden, Ms. Karmikel. It’s nice to meet you.” But his dry voice said otherwise, and when he looked at her, it was with a coldness she’d done nothing to earn. Even from behind his desk, he was a tall man. And handsome. Chelsea guessed that when he was happy, his stormy hazel eyes would light up, his happy laugh lines crinkling beneath his olive tan. Dark hair fell in waves to brush his shoulders and muscles rippled beneath his chambray shirt — this man was no stranger to hard work. He stood and stretched across his wide desk, offering his hand. His grip was warm, sure. But he dropped her hand almost as quickly as he embraced it. A look of bewilderment replaced the coldness for a brief moment.

  “Mr. Rearden.” Chelsea pulled back her hand, an odd sensation tingling up her arm. She brushed it down her pant leg, wiggling her fingers. “This is my grandmother, Lara Karmikel.”

  “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, and he nodded a smile to the older woman. “Mrs. Karmikel.” When his gaze fell on Chelsea, it hardened once again.

  Chelsea gazed around the office, which was bigger than it appeared to be on the outside, then back at the man who stood waiting for her to sit. What had she done to provoke his dislike?

  “Do we know each other, Mr. Rearden?” Chelsea asked.

  “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” was his subdued reply as he gazed at the papers on his desk.

  “Then why do you look like I’ve already left bad taste in your mouth?” She stepped closer to his desk, hand on her hip, temper at a slow boil. “If you’ve never met me before, why do you and your secretary act like I’ve done something terribly wrong?”

  “Because, Ms. Karmikel, you’ve taken advantage of someone I loved.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Someone I’ve been very close to, and yet, I had no idea what she was going to do until after her death.” He screwed up his eyebrows. “Do you even know who I’m talking about? Do you even care?”

  First Chelsea’s face paled, then it warmed. “Look, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Why don’t you enlighten me?” Damn it! Who the hell did this guy think he was? Acting like she’d done something wrong. She gritted her teeth. With his holier than thou attitude, impossible demeanor, his unadulterated dislike, was he for real? She seethed, turning around the room before returning to stand in front of him.

  “Please.” He gestured toward the chairs.

  She leaned on his desk. “I’ll sit when I’m ready. Thank you very much.”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders and continued. “My Aunt Deloris met you while you were in the hospital, recovering from some accident.”

  “You’ll have to more precise, Mr. Rearden, I’ve spent more time recovering from accidents than I care to admit.”

  “You were a young girl, she thought you’d been abused, your face bruised, nose broken. She was a nurse, she helped revive you. She’s told the story so many times, I feel like I was there.” He sighed, rubbed his forehead like he was in pain.

  Chelsea’s face colored again, and she swallowed and waved her hand dismissively. “Just another of my freak accidents. Why would your aunt be worried about a girl she met ten years ago? I can assure you, I wasn’t abused. I stepped in front of a baseball bat on the down swing.” Her color deepened to a bright red. “I should have been watching where I was going.” She fidgeted, uncomfortable, his eyes boring into hers.

  “It wasn’t so much your condition, but your words that stopped my aunt cold. She’d seen children far worse than you appeared to be, I can also assure you.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Why call me to your office?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “No, I really don’t.” He was
wearing thin on Chelsea’s nerves.

  “You haven’t kept in contact, you don’t remember my aunt?” he asked again. Was he trying to rattle her?

  “How else can I say it? I’m sorry, I don’t remember your aunt, or too much of anything if you really must know. But, please, share what you think I should remember.”

  “You told her my uncle was going to die.”

  “Ridiculous!” Her face paled, then she scoffed. “I did no such thing!”

  He went on like she hadn’t spoken. “She managed to save Uncle Mick that day, but she always claimed it was you.”

  “This is all so silly. It must have happened some other way. I did not know your aunt. I did not say anything about your uncle, whom I don’t know either.” Her voice rose as she became adamant, peering at him with disbelieving eyes, but he still went on with his story, ignoring her words.

  “My uncle passed first, about two years later. His heart gave out on him. My aunt passed six months ago. They didn’t have any children — she always claimed that her patients gave her life enough joy, along with my brother and me.” His face reflected the sadness the loss brought.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rearden, I truly am.” Her voice lost some of its hostility and she sank down in the chair next to her grandmother. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I wish I could remember your aunt, I really do, but I don’t.” She gathered herself and nudged her grandmother. “I think we should probably leave. Regardless of what you think, I am sorry for your loss.” She picked up her bag, preparing to make her escape.

  “Are you sure you haven’t been in contact with my aunt since your time in the hospital?”

  “No, I haven’t spoken to anyone from that time. I didn’t know anyone cared. Why should I?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rearden, you’ve done nothing but confuse me.” She felt physically ill; what she really wanted was to get out of his confining office before she embarrassed herself. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”