Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  “We may be over, but you know I built that building just for you.” J.T. wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m so sorry about the fire.”

  “As am I, Abby,” Jacques added. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Shivering, she shook her head. For first time since leaving her car, Abby realized her little black dress was no competition for the crisp night air.

  J.T. shrugged out of his black leather jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You can stay at my place.”

  “Or mine,” Jacques offered.

  Abby shook her head again.

  “You always were as independent as a hog on ice,” J.T. said. “But you realize this won’t be a quick fix. Looks like the shop’s gone, but your apartment may just be smoke damage.”

  “Right now, I don’t know what I want to do.” Abby prided herself on being self-sufficient, and she already knew dealing with this particular setback would be no different. She thought about the phone call she’d received from the lawyer’s office earlier today. Suddenly and without warning, she made her decision. “I’m planning a trip out east as soon as I can make arrangements. I’ll take some time to think about all this while I’m gone.”

  “Miss?”

  Abby turned to face a man with a badge in his hand. No uniform. Plain clothes. Solemn face. “Yes.”

  “Detective Stevens.” He flipped the badge shut and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  Abby nodded.

  “A neighbor pointed you out. Said this was your shop.”

  “Yes, it’s mine.” She fought back the tears. “Well, it was mine.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Abby said nothing as she watched him take out a small pad and pencil.

  “Just routine,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “Your name?”

  “Abby Corey.”

  “Phone?”

  The night wind gusted and Abby felt the heat from the fire on her face as she recited her cell number.

  “Have you had problems with anyone lately?”

  “No.” Abby considered his question as she fanned away the smoke. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Upset customer? Competitor?”

  “No one.” She watched him eye Jacques and J.T.

  “Old boyfriend? New boyfriend?”

  “No.” Feeling two pairs of eyes zero in on her, she clarified to Stevens, “They’re harmless. Just ex-fiancés.” He didn’t blink.

  Stevens pointed first to Jacques and then to J.T. and logged their information.

  Turning to Abby, he told her, “I’ll also need the name of your landlord.”

  “I don’t rent, I own.”

  “Just the store? Or the building?”

  “The building.” As she answered, he jotted down her response.

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “Me?” Abby met his gaze. “I was … wait a minute. This was just an accident, right?”

  He didn’t blink. “Just answer the question.”

  “I attended a PETA fund raiser at the Hilton.”

  “Can you give me a couple of names of people who were there? Just to verify.”

  “I sat next to the mayor and his wife. Ask them.” Abby’s gaze narrowed. “Are you kidding me? You think I had something to do with this? Are you crazy? I worked day and night for eight long years to establish my shop.” She paused to take a breath.

  “The firemen called me in because they suspect arson.”

  There it was. The look. She saw it in his eyes. This man was the bearer of bad news. And not just bad news, but really bad news. Suddenly she didn’t want to hear more. Instead, she saw more. She watched a dark van pull up next to the ambulance.

  Not just any van, the van. Black. White letters. Coroner.

  Abby’s chest tightened. Slowly, she directed her eyes toward Stevens. Desperate to look away, to run away, she did neither. Instead, she focused on his mouth. Words were about to come out. Mean, horrible words. Words she did not want to hear. As his lips parted, she noticed how straight and white his teeth were. Too bad they couldn’t fence in what he was about to tell her.

  Abby struggled to listen.

  Something about an eyewitness seeing a bald man.

  The front window shattering.

  A dark sedan screeching away from the scene.

  Abby’s attention strayed to the ambulance’s warning lights. As they continued flashing their S.O.S., one of the paramedics leaned against the side of the vehicle. Relaxed. Arms crossed over his burly chest. The other P-med smoked a cigarette. The fact that they had nothing to do must be a good sign, right? Besides, emergency vehicles always showed up at fires, didn’t they? Didn’t necessarily mean anyone had been hurt.

  But what about the van?

  Through the smoke and flames, Abby saw a third paramedic unload the gurney.

  Okay. Minor injuries were not uncommon at a fire scene. Still not so bad — maybe.

  But what about the van?

  All three men entered the building. Two led the way, and the one pushing the gurney followed. But why? She hadn’t been home. But, the firemen … Time, like suspended smoke, hung in the air above the blackened hole that, just a few hours ago, had been the store’s entrance. Abby held her breath. Waited. Watched. Willed away the inevitable.

  When the three emerged, Abby did not see an injured party. There was no poor fireman wearing an oxygen mask and suffering from smoke inhalation or minor burns. No stranger who lay neatly tucked in with a pristine sheet and a dangling IV. Instead, there was only a black body bag. Zipped up. All the way.

  The now-hideous, spider-legged mattress for one wasn’t being loaded into the ambulance, no siree. It was being loaded into the wicked, wicked van.

  And that was what the van was all about. Why it was here. Why it made her want to scream.

  The fireman, the stranger, the fatality was being carted off to the morgue. No quick trip to the hospital for this guy. No taxi ride home after a visit to the ER. No tomorrow. Ever.

  “Ms. Corey?”

  Abby didn’t remember shutting her eyes, but she must have, because at the sound of Stevens’ voice they flew open. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, Detective, I’m not,” she shot back. “What else do you need to know?”

  “The firemen said there was an apartment upstairs,” Stevens said. “Who lived there?”

  Abby coughed and turned her back to so much more than just the smoke-filled breeze. “I do — did.”

  “Anyone live with you?”

  “No.” Abby pulled J.T.’s jacket tighter. “Dammit. That reminds me that I need to call Kat. Excuse me just a minute.” She turned to Jacques and J.T. “Can I use one of your cell phones?”

  Both men nodded, but J.T. pointed, “Jacket pocket.”

  “Who’s Kat?” Stevens asked.

  “Kat Richards,” Abby continued, pulling out the phone and punching in the familiar number. She’s a friend of mine who has worked in the shop for — ” When a nearby phone echoed the ringing in her ear, Abby froze. Listening, she turned and followed the sound. Expecting to see Kat approach with her long auburn hair swinging in the cool night breeze, what Abby saw instead made her legs buckle.

  She did not see Kat’s infectious smile and her enthusiastic phone-in-hand wave. She did not even see some stranger who, by some freakish coincidence, was simultaneously receiving a call. What Abby saw was Kat’s purse. The classic black Dooney and Burke bag her friend had lusted over for weeks. Knowing Kat would never break down and buy herself an expensive purse like that, Abby had purchased it for her last week.

  But tonight Kat’s handbag was not draped
over her slender shoulder or clutched in her hand. Instead, the purse hung from a metal hook at the foot of the gurney. As the paramedics loaded the body bag into the van, that eerie ghost of Christmas past dangled and jerked from the horrible, hateful hook as if suspended from a hangman’s noose.

  If Jacques and J.T. hadn’t grabbed Abby under each arm, she would have puddled to the ground.

  “Head between her knees,” Stevens ordered.

  Jacques helped J.T. bend her over.

  “Breathe, Babe.” J.T.’s voice was firm but calm. “Atta girl, take nice deep breaths.”

  Abby instinctively followed the instructions. Unsteady at first, she regained her sea legs and stood up. With shaky fingers, she was finally able to slap shut J.T.’s cell phone and silence the unbearable ring of her best friend’s phone — forever.

  “Kat.” The name escaped Abby’s lips like a prayer. “Her apartment was painted today. I had a voice message earlier.” Tears scalded both cheeks. She shook her head so hard J.T.’s leather jacket dropped to the ground. Trembling, she pointed to the Coroner’s van and sank to her knees on the wet concrete. “She was going to spend the night.”

  • • •

  Maxine peeked into Jack’s office and announced matter-of-factly, “Miss Corey has been located and notified.”

  “Nice job.” Jack shelved his disbelief; certain only Max could zero in on someone three hundred years after the request was made. “Has the package been” the haunting laughter of the beautiful woman played in his head like an impossible memory, stopping him mid-sentence.

  He tapped his pencil to refocus then asked, “Have you mailed the necklace yet?”

  “I was on my way now.”

  “Well don’t,” Jack heard himself say. “I’ve changed my mind. I would like her to pick this up in person.”

  He saw Maxine’s eyebrows shoot up in perfect unison, but she said nothing. No interrogation? No argument? No Way. Maxine never accepted anything at face value. Not even from him. “Under the circumstances, I don’t feel comfortable mailing it,” he explained, certain she must have forgotten to ask.

  “I’ll call her back.”

  When she left to use the phone at her desk, Jack sat speechless — for so many reasons. Nothing about this inheritance added up. The time line was insane. Hell, the city was nonexistent at the time of the bequest. Not to mention that the benefactor named would not be born for more than three hundred years. And if that weren’t crazy enough, the damned amulet itself was like nothing he’d ever seen. It twirled counter clockwise. Changed temperature. Made him hallucinate? Made him hear voices? Made Maxine sooo not herself. Made Bridget sooo much herself.

  All Jack could do was stare at the door and wait. Somehow he knew this Abigail Corey would come. The necklace was important. She might even be important. Why, he wasn’t sure. Not yet anyway. A knock interrupted his thoughts.

  Maxine popped her head in. “Ms. Corey will be picking up the necklace in person.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Not my doing. She was the one who called. Said she was coming.”

  “She called you first — just now?” Curious, he tapped his pencil. “And she suggested coming half way across the country?”

  “It seems she needs some time away and asked to come pick it up.”

  “I’ll be damned.” His pencil stopped mid-tap. “Okay then. Thanks.” Before Jack could ask Maxine about her, she ducked out. But then, with a prissy name like Miss Abigail Corey and given the facts in this case, the mystery woman would probably be a three hundred-year-old librarian. Unfortunately, for just one more unexplainable reason, Jack sure as hell knew better.

  Chapter Seven

  Salem, Massachusetts

  31 October

  In the year of our Lord, 1687

  The blindfold forced her eyes shut, but Abigail Corey didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t breathe. Waiting, she planted both feet on the floor and held tight to the carved pine bedpost. She heard the night wind moan as it gusted, stirring dried, fallen leaves and slapping them against the windowpane. Nimbly knotting the clean handkerchief at the back of Abigail’s head, Sarah Corey was careful not to tangle her daughter’s waist-length, auburn curls. “We have been chosen,” her mother began.

  “For what?” Abigail asked, unable to stand still a moment longer.

  “Patience, Child,” Sarah coaxed. “That’s the first lesson you must learn. Be patient, and I will tell you.” Satisfied that Abigail could not see, Sarah straightened the square, white collar of her daughter’s dress, then turned her around. Flames from the fireplace cast ominous silhouettes on the log walls of their one room cabin. “Tonight is very special — ”

  “Because it is my thirteenth birthday?” Abigail splayed her fingers as she inched her way across the room.

  Sarah shook her head and smiled as she steered Abigail in the right direction. Her sweet daughter had much to learn indeed. “Well, yes, your birthday is very special, but there is something else I want to share with you. Something very important about today — ”

  “What? What is so important?”

  “You were born on the day we call Harvest Festival. It is an ancient sabbat called Mabon.”

  “What’s a sabbat?”

  “It’s like a holiday,” Sarah explained.

  “What do we celebrate?”

  “We give thanks for the harvest.”

  Abigail thought a moment. “Is that why we made the cornucopia this morning?”

  “Exactly. This day is also very special because it represents the date that night and day are of equal length. The earth is in perfect balance.” She guided Abigail to the table, seating her in front of the crackling hearth. Returning across the small room, she pulled a loaf-sized wooden chest from beneath the bed and placed it in front of her daughter.

  The promise in her mother’s voice excited Abigail. “So do I get something special for this holiday?” she asked, unable to wait for a response. “A gift?”

  “Of sorts,” her mother told her, lifting the lid.

  “But you and father already gave me my birthday present this morning.” Abigail’s new kitten rubbed against her ankles, making her smile. All she really wanted to do right now was play with him. To hurry this game along — for it was surely nothing more than blind man’s bluff — she picked at the white cuffs of her sleeves and declared impatiently, “Nothing could be as precious to me as Shadow.”

  “I would not be too sure.” Her mother could hear the black cat purr as he wove himself between the chair legs that were curtained by the hem of Abigail’s dress. “Besides, you’ll be happy to know that Shadow and your new gift go hand-in-hand,” she assured her.

  “Really?” Maybe it would be worth playing silly games after all, Abigail thought.

  “Yes, really,” her mother repeated, pulling a small candle from the pocket of her long, dark skirt. She plucked a piece from the broom that leaned against the hearth and ignited the willowy straw in the fireplace. Lighting the candle’s wick, she told her, “Listen now and don’t say a word.”

  Abigail reluctantly obeyed her mother’s serious tone. Smelling the beeswax warm, she wanted desperately to ask … something, anything, everything. Why must I listen? Why can’t I see? What does my present have to do with Shadow? But the moment her mother began speaking softly, Abigail did listen — carefully — and without question.

  “Eyes be blind. Touch be keen. Let Abigail choose this stone unseen. Hold its fate close to her heart. Let the two be one — never to part. So mote it be.”

  She took Abigail’s hand and stirred the box of stones with her fingers. “You must use your soul to pick one — not your sight, so don’t peek,” she cautioned. “Be slow, girl. Take your time. Search for the one that truly feels right.”

  “Right?”
Abigail repeated, sensing but not understanding the importance of what she was about to do.

  Sarah searched the pocket of her skirt, found her own stone and held it. Soothing and comforting, it warmed her fingers, the palm of her hand, and her heart. “You’ll know which one is yours when you find it, Child. Trust me.”

  • • •

  Abigail Corey eyed her exquisite amber stone in the light of the full moon. She felt silly standing atop Hangman’s Hill all alone on all Hallows’ Eve, but her mother had insisted that she go there by herself say and do exactly as they had practiced, then wait. For what, Abigail wasn’t entirely sure. Something wonderful, her mother had promised. Something special. And very, very secret.

  So tonight, in honor of Samhain, the Witches’ New Year, Abigail placed her stone in cupped hands and extended both arms toward the midnight sky. Her mother had told her that this special night had been set aside to honor the dead. And so she would. It was believed that the veils between the world of the living and those who had passed were at their thinnest.

  The cool October breeze nipped at the hem of her long, black cape, but she did not shiver. Dried leaves skittered across the ground, disappearing into the darkness without a trace. The circle of trees surrounding the clearing creaked and moaned like unsettled spirits of the dead. Yet Abigail could not be swayed from her purpose. She trusted her mother like no other. She believed in her. And she would do exactly as her mother had asked.

  “This stone I offer with purpose clear, to encircle the magick within its sphere. Let it survive and bind it long. Release the magick — make it strong. As I have spoken, so mote it be.”

  There. Her first spell was cast and carried by the crisp, autumn wind for the night to hear. Abigail struggled to harness the temperamental impatience that cursed all girls her age. She took a deep, slow breath, and consciously released it. Then and only then, the stone warmed slightly in the palms of her hands. As the sensations increased, she saw the cracks between her fingers glow as radiant as a sunset against the indigo sky.