Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  “I didn’t know anyone still called root beer floats that.” He removed his straw and drank without it.

  “See. That’s how long it’s been.” Her laugh echoed the thunder that rumbled in the distance.

  Jack polished off his first chili dog and without taking a breath reached for the second. “You know, I guess we never got around to it yesterday, but I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

  Abby found it hard to believe, but thinking back she realized he was right. “Until a few weeks ago, I owned a shop called Aromatiques.”

  He blotted his mouth before asking, “Don’t tell me you retired?”

  “Not exactly. My building burned,” she explained.

  “I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand. “I hope no one was hurt.”

  “One employee.” Abby inhaled deeply because that’s the only way the words would come out. “Kat, my friend, died in the fire.”

  Jack placed his hand over hers. “Please accept my deepest sympathy, Abby.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I gather you two were close.”

  “We were friends.” Abby struggled for control. “I always felt Kat was everything I wasn’t. Resilient. Easy going. So much fun to be with … ”

  “She probably felt the same way about you.”

  “I hope so.” With another big breath, she closed subject, because she had to — but she could never close the ache of her loss. That would be with her forever. “I lived above Aromatiques, so now I’m not only unemployed, but I’m homeless, too.”

  “That’s terrible. What are your plans?”

  Abby exhaled. “I haven’t decided exactly what I want to do about either one. I hoped maybe some time away would help clear my head.”

  “Perspective is always good.”

  She reached for a napkin. “God, I hope so.”

  “So, Ms. Abby Corey is an entrepreneur.”

  “Well, I was. Technically, I guess I still am.” She considered the concept, then added, “Mostly, I always wanted to be my own boss.”

  “What kind of shop did you have?”

  She glanced around. “My place was similar to some of the boutiques here in Salem. I specialized in aromatherapy, candles, flowers, colognes, potpourri. You know, girly potions and lotions.”

  “Nothing for men?”

  “In a manner of speaking we did sell something for that special man.” She paused for effect … “We had some amazing sensual massage oils … ” and saw his eyes narrow.

  “I’ve been told they sell something like that around here.”

  She sipped her drink. “Just told about them, huh?”

  Jack held up his right hand. “I plead the fifth.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” she agreed between bites. “They may have similar products here, but they’re certainly not like mine.”

  “And what, may I ask, is so special about yours?”

  “I make them myself.” As Abby started to explain, a strong gust of wind fluttered their tablecloth, and she barely snagged her napkin before it blew away.

  “Where did you learn something like that?” Jack wadded up all the paper wrappers and tossed them into the waste can next to their table. “Potions 101?”

  “Nope. Just an old family tradition, I guess.” As if from nowhere, dark clouds settled overhead. The wind kicked up and rustled through the maples, raining crimson leaves down around them. “The recipes I use have been passed down for generations.”

  “So, your mom made them, too?”

  “I don’t really know for sure.”

  “I see.”

  Certain the question was coming, Abby said nothing.

  “Okay, I don’t see.”

  And there it was. “I just hate discussing this aspect of my life, because it sounds like a soap opera.”

  Jack swiped his napkin across his mouth. “Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  “It’s just that I was left in a basket on the doorstep of an orphanage.” She held up one hand. “Swear to God that’s the truth.”

  “Okay.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Considering the bizarre circumstances surrounding the amulet inheritance, I guess I should ask who named you.”

  “A note with my name and birth date written on it was pinned to my blanket.”

  “And you were how old?”

  “Two days.”

  “Then how did you find out about the recipes? You said they’d been handed down from your family.”

  “There was a book in the basket with me that was filled with recipes and what I’ve always called words of wisdom.” She brushed a crumb from her lap. “Someone had written the word Aromatiques on the cover, but even then, the pages were fragile and had yellowed.”

  Jack thought a moment before asking, “Did the book burn in the fire that destroyed your place?”

  “No, thank God.” She tucked a windswept curl behind one ear. “Ironically enough I had it in my car that day.”

  “Lucky, huh?”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” She saw the question in his eyes. The same one she had asked herself each and every day since. “Look, I have no idea what on earth possessed me to pick up the book that morning. I just don’t know.”

  “If you had a reason, the trauma probably just blocked it.”

  “Maybe.” That was as good as any explanation she’d come up with, and she had thought about it a lot.

  He brushed an errant maple leaf from her shoulder and picked a smaller one from her hair. “So you really can’t trace your heritage, can you?”

  “Nope. I have no clue.”

  “Or, maybe you do. Considering your book of potions, maybe your ancestors were from Salem. Can’t you imagine them bent over a big black cauldron, stirring up an old family recipe?”

  “Caldron, huh?” Intrigued by his question, she thought a minute. “Did you know that in witchcraft, a caldron is an all-embracing symbol of Nature, the Great Mother?”

  Jack shook his head and grinned. “I can honestly say I did not know that.”

  “As a vessel, it represents the feminine principle, and its three legs symbolize the triple moon goddess, Cerridwen.” As certain of the specifics as she was uncertain where the information had come from, she continued, “The four elements of Life enter into it.” Counting on her fingers, she listed, “Fire to boil, water to fill, green herbs to cook and fragrant steam that rises into the air.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So, your ancestors are from around here.”

  “It’s possible, I guess.” Wouldn’t it be something if her family originated from Salem? “At least would explain how and why I inherited the amulet.”

  “True. But as caldrons go,” Jack pointed out, “you certainly seem to know your way around a seventeenth century stove.”

  “Not really.” Abby shrugged, still surprised by what she’d told him. “I must have picked that up from some travel brochure or something.”

  “Probably just as well if your family wasn’t from around here,” he said. “Conjuring up exotic brews back then could have gotten them into a whole lot of trouble in Salem.”

  Dark eyes met green.

  Thundered rolled in the distance.

  And the rain began to pour.

  Hand in hand, Jack and Abby raced down the street, rain soaking them to the skin.

  “I know what we can do,” he yelled.

  “What?” Hardly able to hear above the thunderous downpour, she scrambled to keep up with his long, athletic strides.

  “Ever have your fortune told?”

  Abby’s blood ran cold and not just from the storm. “No,” she shouted back, every bit as much in response to his suggestion as it was an answer to his question.

 
“Great. That’s what we’ll do.”

  Thunder had clapped as he spoke. “What?” Abby asked, struggling to hang onto his water-slicked fingers.

  “I said that’s what we’ll do.”

  Breathless at matching his sprint, she dodged umbrella-wielding tourists as he zigzagged down the crowded sidewalk. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m serious,” he called over one shoulder.

  Breathing heavily, Abby joined Jack as he turned a corner and ducked into the first available doorway. Her dark lashes blinked away unshed raindrops. Dripping, auburn hair deepened to match the cinnamon-colored sweater that had been plastered to her body.

  The rain framed the two of them, splatting on the sidewalk at their feet. Its steady rhythm nudged her psyche, disturbing tucked away childhood memories. Not that Abby had forgotten. She’d never been that lucky.

  Abby met his gaze and shook her head. “No fortune tellers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ever since I can remember, I’ve had these dreams,” Abby confided.

  “Well, that explains it.”

  She ignored his playful sarcasm and took a deep breath. “Most of the images I’ve seen have been very disturbing.” Just like my nightmare last night, she added silently.

  “That’s not uncommon,” he assured her. “Many people’s dreams are vivid, even explicit.”

  She shook her head again. “When I have one of these, they’re different. Nearly everyone I have that depicts some event that eventually comes to pass.” She’d spent the better part of her life denying them, refusing them, chalking them up to coincidence brought about by an overactive imagination. Not telling anyone … until Jack. “So you can see why precognition, if that’s actually what I experience, is not only unwanted but a little too close to having my fortune told.”

  “Are they bad things — the things you see in your dreams?”

  “No.” She offered a weak smile. “Not always.”

  “And you do realize these fortune tellers are not real, right?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Now she was feeling foolish. “Don’t tell me. I can just hear my destiny now.” Still holding Jack’s hand, Abby turned it over and pretended to study what she saw there. In reality all she saw was one large, manly hand complete with long, strong fingers. The unexplainable familiarity made her heart smile; however, she continued the charade with a straight face.

  Impressed by the strength she felt and the gentleness she sensed, Abby traced the lines then angled her glance as she slipped into a thick Gypsy accent. “I vill meet a tall dark stranger!”

  “Well, that cuts it. If you don’t know reading my palm won’t tell your future, then you’ve got to go ahead with this. Besides, I already made an appointment with Sasha.” Jack winked.

  “You what?” Abby released his hand.

  “Hey, I thought it would be fun. Besides, you don’t really believe all that mumbo-jumbo, do you?”

  “Let’s just say, I believe in the theory of psychic phenomenon,” she told him honestly. “I won’t discount it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s pure hocus-pocus, nothing more,” Jack swore.

  Somewhere close by a car horn blasted and Abby jumped.

  Jack grinned. “Hocus pocus got you a little spooked?”

  She ignored her pounding heart. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Look, if you’re really afraid, you don’t have to do this.”

  Abby bristled at the implication. “Lead the way.”

  “Lucky you. We don’t have far to walk.” With a wide sweep of his arm, Jack gestured across the rain-puddled street. “Salem’s premier fortune teller, Sasha, is set up right there in The Old Town Hall.”

  “Oh.” She fought the urge to pull back. “Fine, let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abby found the building’s dimly lit, cool interior only added to her uneasiness. Quick to blame the chill on her damp clothes, she gave herself a mental shake and turned her attention to Jack.

  “This building was built in the early eighteen hundreds.”

  “The site of the Elias Hasket Derby mansion,” Abby finished automatically.

  “Right,” Jack told her. “They did some renovation, and now the Salem Chamber of Commerce occupies part of the main floor.”

  “Makes sense,” Abby admitted. “But what does that have to do with fortune telling?”

  “During October this is where Salem conducts its famous Psychic Festival.” His voice resonated in the historic silence. “You name it, they do it. I thought you’d get a kick out of it, so I called this morning and made sure Sasha would be here.”

  “Great,” Abby muttered. She read the signs over the various doors: Fortune Telling, Palmistry, Astrology, I Ching, Tarot Cards, and Psychic Readings.

  “Loosen up. It’s just for fun.” He poked her in the ribs. “All the tourists do it.”

  “Right.” When her voice echoed, it dawned on Abby what was bugging her. They were the only people there. No picture-taking tourists, no shrieking children, nobody else. “If this is such a barrel of laughs, where is everybody?”

  “Beats me.” He leaned down and whispered, “It must be a trap.”

  “Very funny.” She shoved him back. At that moment, the instant her hand pressed against his chest, something about Jack overwhelmingly reminded Abby of the tall, dark phantom from her dream. Not his face, because she hadn’t seen the apparition’s features. And not something bad. More Jack’s presence than anything else.

  Obviously, Hawthorne was human — a lawyer, in fact. Oxymoron or not, he was certainly no ghost. He was just a man … who happened to be a virtual stranger … dressed in black … the morning after her nightmare. She shivered.

  “If you think fortune telling is such a crackerjack idea, have yours done, too,” Abby challenged.

  “I’ve already had mine done.”

  Hitching up her purse, Abby folded both arms across her chest. Finding no comfort in the still-soggy wool blend plastered to both arms, she eyed him. “Oh, all right.”

  After all, it couldn’t it be any weirder than a three hundred-year-old inheritance bequeathed to a nonexistent woman living in a yet-to-be-built city? Could it?

  • • •

  Bridget handed the squat, old woman a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “That’s for letting me know Mr. Hawthorne made an appointment. I just knew he’d show that bitch around.”

  Sasha tucked the Ben Franklin down the front of her shirt, between her hefty bosoms. “I did my part. Got anything for me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I have a recently widowed woman who would like to communicate with her dead husband, the poor dear.”

  “Has the poor dear got money?” Sasha mimicked.

  Bridget’s blood red lips curved. “Filthy rich.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened. “When?”

  Bridget thought a moment. “I’ll send her by tomorrow night. Say eight o’clock?”

  “Perfect.” Sasha smiled. “The usual deal?”

  “Sixty/forty split,” Bridget told her. “And don’t forget mine is the sixty.”

  The old woman cackled. “Works for me.”

  Extending one well-manicured nail, Bridget pointed to the restroom. “Now wait in there and stay out of sight until I come for you.”

  Taking Sasha’s place, Bridget positioned herself behind the table and caressed the crystal ball as if it were the upturned face of a smiling child. Tenderly. Lovingly. Joyfully. She pulled the black candle and a match from the pocket of her long, flowing skirt. Striking a flame with the flick of her thumbnail, she lit the wick, whispering, “As this candle burns, so shall you, Abigail Corey, be cursed.”

  • • •

  Abby assured herself that for
tunetellers’ visions were nothing more than money-driven hoaxes. Like magicians and illusionists, they were commercial con artists who had branched out from carnivals to those toll-free phone numbers on television. For entertainment purposes only. Wasn’t that always the disclaimer at the bottom of the TV screen? So, why in the hell did the sound of the door opening make her heart clench?

  After stepping into the dimly lit room, Abby took a seat in front of a striking woman with long, dark hair and pale, blue eyes. Dressed in black, except for a bright red bodice that matched her lips, and adorned with spangly gold jewelry, the seer’s appearance was effective, to say the least. The silence, however, was eerie.

  “My name is Sasha.” Bridget spoke in a low, seductive voice as she walked around the chair and placed her palms on Abby’s shoulders.

  Abby stiffened at the strength of her touch.

  “Please, relax.”

  Silently, she moved from behind Abby and sat down facing her. “Your aura is cool, a woman very smart in business.” She paused before flashing a smile that made Abby feel as though they shared some intimate secret.

  “There is another side to you. One you refuse to acknowledge. It is very strong, and very dangerous. You must fight it at all costs. You are of the Earth, the season. You do not belong here. Stay and you will destroy your past, your present, and your future. You will seal your destiny.”

  Placated by the generic hoodoo, Abby merely nodded.

  “You had success, but it went up in flames,” Bridget began.

  Abby gasped.

  Blue eyes locked with green.

  “Like the full moon, life is a circle, so take great care,” Bridget hissed.

  When the expression on the seer’s face dramatically changed, a tomb-like silence engulfed the room. “You have spent your life looking for something — yes? Someone?”

  Abby shuddered, knowing she had spent her entire life yearning for something she’d never been able to define. Until now, she’d convinced herself the emptiness she felt was because she’d been orphaned. “No,” she lied.

  “Silence.” Bridget’s breath hitched. Her gaze widened. She leaned forward. “Believe me when I tell you someone has been waiting for you for a very, very long time. But beware. There will be grave danger if three paths cross.”