“Oh, I’m just your average little witch, from your average little town. Let’s try this another way.” Ann took Callie’s right hand and held it while looking into her eyes.
Luckily, it wasn’t the hand with the scar. Callie felt the warmth from Ann’s hand travel up her arm.
“You’re a healer,” Ann said. “There’s a strong connection with music. And a stronger one with Salem, I see.”
“Callie’s living in Salem,” Paul volunteered.
“Only for the past few weeks,” Callie said. She fought the urge to reveal that she’d lived here before, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that Ann knew who she was. If she did, she said nothing.
“You have a prodigious gift. It scares the hell out of you…as well it should.” Ann started to drop Callie’s hand, then held it for a moment longer, a strange look passing over her face. “You’ve suffered a great deal of loss. And, oh my dear, much worse.”
She looked at Callie as if to say, I know exactly who you are. You’re not fooling anyone.
Callie pulled her hand back, but it dropped limply to her side. It seemed to take a moment for Ann to shake something off, but, when she regained her composure, she took Callie’s hand back and held it in both of her own until, slowly, from the fingers up, Callie’s sleeping arm began to awaken.
“What the hell?” Callie demanded. Her whole arm was tingling.
“Parlor tricks,” Ann said. “As well as being rude and invasive, I did a little binding spell on you. Please accept my apologies.”
A binding spell. She’d heard the phrase before, just as she had heard the curse Rose had uttered earlier. Once again, she had no idea what it meant.
“We’ll talk later,” Ann said. “When there aren’t so many people around.” Other guests arrived, and Ann moved off to greet them.
“Not if I can help it,” Callie muttered.
“Don’t worry, we’re not staying much longer,” Paul said with a laugh.
They finished their drinks and Ann returned, carrying a package she handed to Paul. “Herbs for Mummy,” she said. Then, so quickly Paul didn’t notice, she slipped a small packet to Callie. “Use it,” Ann whispered in her ear. “It works.”
Ann turned and walked away, her purple robe floating behind her.
Paul checked his watch. “We should head back now,” he said.
Callie was still shaken and didn’t question him as he guided her back to the car. She looked at the packet in her hand. On the side was a scrawled note: Put these herbs under your pillow each night to stop the evil spirits from invading your dreams.
Callie stared at it, then at the package Paul had placed on the console between them. She picked it up and smelled it. “Weed? The witch is a weed dealer?”
“She’s the intermediary. She gets it from the pirate. For medicinal purposes only.”
“Oh sure.” Callie laughed. “That’s what they all say.”
“It helps my mom with the nausea from the chemo.”
Callie was silent then, suddenly touched by the errand.
With his unquestioning acceptance of spectral evidence, Cotton Mather was largely responsible for both the scope and the duration of the witch hysteria of 1692.
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
“Working on Thanksgiving Day?” Rafferty said, recognizing the assistant district attorney’s number as he picked up the phone. “Should I be worried?”
“Right back at you, Rafferty. I was planning to just leave you a message.”
“What message?” Rafferty’s tone was suspicious.
“I’m hearing a lot of noise about this thing with Rose Whelan,” the ADA said. “I have a petition here in front of me, signed by almost a hundred people who want to reopen the Goddess Murder case. Helen Barnes and some of her friends have reportedly been calling the governor.”
“Great,” Rafferty replied. He’d told only a handful of people he’d been quietly investigating the case. The last thing he wanted was to make it official.
“And there’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“They told him that you’re biased and slowing things down because Rose lives with you. Is that true?”
“No! Not exactly,” Rafferty clarified. “Eva Whitney left Rose a tree in my wife’s—our—courtyard when she died. Rose sometimes slept under it. Before she was hospitalized this last time.” He took a breath. “And Towner gave Rose a room over the tearoom. She almost never used it, though.”
There was a long silence.
“What about Rose’s niece?”
Rafferty said nothing.
“She’s been visiting Rose at the hospital. Isn’t she living with you now?”
“Technically, she isn’t related to Rose.”
“But she is staying at your house?”
Rafferty didn’t answer.
“This doesn’t look good,” the ADA said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Rafferty admitted. He was more upset that people were beginning to question who Callie was than by the implied accusation of bias.
“Let me talk to a couple of people and see what they think. I’ll get back to you. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Rafferty hung up the phone. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought. He shouldn’t have dropped by the station; he should have gone straight to Yellow Dog Island with Towner. It was Thanksgiving, for God’s sake. What had he been thinking?
There was nothing he could do about his history with Rose. And nothing new was going to be resolved over this holiday weekend. At the moment, that was about all he felt thankful for.
Out on Yellow Dog, Rafferty had to wait for one of the women to lower the ramp so he could get to the island. It was May Whitney’s policy to pull up the ramp for security, since boaters were often eager to explore these border islands. The last thing they needed out here was unwanted visitors. To say the women at Yellow Dog Shelter were paranoid was an understatement, but they had reason to be. Though the place was considered a safe house, every so often an abuser was successful in locating his escaped partner, and the resultant rage had consequences the women here knew only too well.
Rafferty understood the need for security. Still, it seemed odd today, since they were expecting him. Usually, when they knew he was coming, they would leave the ramp down. Something was going on. He’d have to remember to ask May about it.
The women were gathered in the red schoolhouse, a place usually reserved for the lace makers, who would sit in a silent circle as they worked, their pillows in their laps, passing bobbin over bobbin. On those days the only voice heard—aside from the occasional call of a seagull on the wind—was that of the reader, often May Whitney herself, who would stand in front of the room reciting what she called “random acts of literature.” The most damaged women, the newbies, wore lace veils. The veils hid their identities, but they also did something else, something better. Looking at life through the handmade lace provided a different perspective. It filtered reality by making the ordinary beautiful.
Today, the place was bustling. The circle of chairs had disappeared, and tables lined the room for the annual Thanksgiving brunch. Rafferty looked at the women and felt bad about his earlier lack of gratitude on this special day of thanks. By the time you landed on Yellow Dog Island, you’d left everything familiar behind except life itself. The abusive spouse, certainly, but everything else as well, including your extended family and your daily life. And yet, they were all celebrating, thankful to be here and safe. This year, he noticed that the children’s table was set with more places than ever.
“The ones who have children do the best,” May had told him once, after he’d been called to the island to fend off a husband who’d managed to locate his estranged wife. “It gives them reason to hope,” she’d said. She’d been carrying a loaded shotgun, just in case the police didn’t arrive in time. “Something worth fighting for.”
He wondered. That day, as he’d cast off with their father in handcuffs, the man’s
children had stood at the top of the ramp crying. The ones with the children do the best, he’d thought, as he piloted the vessel away. Maybe. They were safe from abuse. Which was the point. But the children still looked so sad, as they watched their father being taken away from them, maybe forever. The next night he’d seen May’s lights: two lanterns in her window, the signal she’d use when she needed to relocate people. Two if by sea. May and her network moved women and children to other safe houses when things looked dicey—part of what May called the New Underground Railroad, a network of safe houses up and down the coast. Seeing those lights, Rafferty had understood that the children and their mother would leave the island and become new people in a new place.
Now Rafferty watched as the women who were currently staying at the shelter walked in groups, back and forth between the schoolhouse and the big house, carrying platters of food. Towner had arrived on the island earlier this morning to help with the brunch preparations. Each year his wife closed the tearoom on Thanksgiving Day, and every year it saddened her, because it left the women who worked there at odds. Most had lost contact with their families, and the holiday reminded them of this wound. Almost every one of them had started out on Yellow Dog Island, then gone on to work at the tearoom when they were ready to rejoin the world. Each of them was welcome today—the women would have celebrated in their honor—but the island wasn’t someplace they wanted to return to. They just wanted to move on.
Which was exactly how Towner felt about the place. She loved May well enough. And she did everything she could to support the shelter. But coming out here was difficult for her. Too many bad memories. Towner had grown up here, the victim of an abusive father, who had blinded her mother, leaving her brain-damaged as a result of one of his rages. The trauma Towner had suffered was the reason May did the work she did, and why Towner helped her. Still, coming out here, even to visit May, was difficult.
But if Towner hated to come to Yellow Dog Island, May hated to leave it even more. Except for this yearly Thanksgiving brunch, the two women communicated only via e-mail and cell phone. As soon as it was over, Rafferty and Towner always went directly to the Whitings’ Thanksgiving dinner, and then Towner would spend the rest of the weekend at Pride’s Heart trying to recover.
Rafferty had no blood family on Yellow Dog Island, but he saw far more of the place than Towner did; there was always something going on that required police attention. He and May were uneasy relatives. Her rescue methods, though effective, were often illegal. She was not opposed to using firearms to protect the women and children she sheltered, and, though she’d deny it if questioned, more than once she’d fired a warning shot across the bow of the police boat as it approached her island. He understood that most of what she was doing was necessary; he secretly applauded her efforts. But as a cop, he wished he never had to deal with her.
He walked against the crowd to find his wife and see what he could do to help.
“And I told you I’m not comfortable doing that!”
He could hear Towner’s raised voice the moment he entered the old Victorian that had been May’s house for as long as anyone could remember. He found the women in the kitchen. Towner stood, red-faced, her hands on her hips, looking every bit the petulant child she had once been under May’s care.
May sighed and turned back to her dishes. “Have it your way.”
Towner pushed past him and out of the house.
“I don’t know why she still comes out here every year,” May said to him, shaking her head. May’s long curly hair was pinned on top of her head with chopsticks, but it still escaped its confines. Though her expression was calm, it was a practiced look. The pitch of her voice had risen by several notes.
“You know why she comes. You insist on it. You’re the only family she’s got left.” Rafferty gestured out the window toward a burned-out house at the far end of the island. “Why don’t you get rid of that place?” As if he hadn’t suggested this to her a hundred times already. That place, or what was left of it, was full of sadness and ghosts.
“You think it’s that simple? What, I just call someone and presto? Or we put on hard hats and tear it down? This is an island, Rafferty. Things aren’t that easy out here.”
Rafferty didn’t dispute the fact. Nor did he remind her that they’d accomplished other, far more difficult tasks over the years. He’d offered to demolish the house himself, but May had refused his help. She was holding on to the wreckage of the burned-out old building. As what? A reminder of the worst time of Towner’s life? She’d lost someone she loved very much in that fire.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he said.
May glared at him.
“Seems like everyone’s a little tense out here,” he said, trying to lighten things up.
“It’s Thanksgiving, Rafferty. What do you expect?”
“What about the heightened security? You trying to move someone?”
“You know better than to ask me that,” May said, turning away from him.
He left May and found Towner where he knew she would be: standing on the hill overlooking what had been her childhood summer home.
“You want to go?” he asked, as she buried her head in his chest. “We can go right now and be at Pride’s Heart before she even notices we’re gone.”
“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m okay. I can stay. But only if we can sit at the kids’ table.”
“Done. You can even have crayons.”
It is Shown that on Account of the Sins of Witches, the Innocent are often Bewitched, yea, Sometimes even for their Own Sins.
—Malleus Maleficarum
Callie and Paul pulled into the driveway at Pride’s Heart just in time to see Rafferty and Towner emerge from the woods beside the big house.
“How was Yellow Dog Island?” Callie asked as she got out of the car, glad to see familiar faces. “Did you have a good visit with May?”
“It was fine,” Towner said too quickly. Rafferty rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“We just docked at the boathouse,” Rafferty said, eager to change the subject. “We’ve got my Whaler tied up behind the big boat. Is that all right?”
“Perfect.” Paul shook Rafferty’s hand and hugged Towner. “So glad you could join us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Towner said, turning to Callie. “You’re just arriving? I thought Marta was picking you up.”
They walked together toward the door, Rafferty and Paul in front, Callie and Towner lagging behind, just out of earshot.
“Paul took me for a little ride,” Callie said.
Towner lifted an eyebrow. “A ride, huh?”
Callie shook her head. “Tell you later.”
Paul beat Darren to the front door, opening it and holding it for them to enter, then directing them all to the library. Other guests had arrived during the time he and Callie were gone; servers were circulating, offering hors d’oeuvres and champagne, but, Callie noted, Finn was still playing bartender.
“Ah, Paul and Callie, you’re back!” Finn called, speaking much more loudly than when they’d left him. “With Towner and Rafferty! Come on in and join the usual suspects.”
After they greeted Emily, Paul said he had to go back to his car, he’d forgotten something. “Walk with me,” he whispered to his mother. “I have something for you.”
Callie realized that he’d left Ann’s package behind, probably to hide it from Rafferty. She looked around the room and recognized several of the better-known guests: a bestselling author, a middle-aged man who had once played second base for the Red Sox, and Archbishop McCauley from Boston. She felt completely underdressed.
“I’d never have come if you’d warned me it was this fancy,” Callie said quietly to Towner.
“Which is exactly why I didn’t,” Towner said. “It’s time for us to change into our prom gowns.” Her tone was light, but Callie could tell it was forced.
They quietly left the library and reentered the main hall just a
s a new guest arrived in a full-length mink coat, which she insisted on keeping rather than handing off to one of the maids. Callie and Towner watched the woman compel the maid to follow behind her as she headed into the party.
“I guess she’ll take it off after everyone sees it,” remarked Callie.
Towner smiled and started up the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room. Emily told me she’s giving you the one right next to ours.”
They made their way to adjoining rooms, stopping at Callie’s first. An antique canopy bed stood by a window that looked out on the water. Across the room was a sitting area with overstuffed chairs facing a deep fireplace, a single log burning and crackling. Callie’s bag had been unpacked, her dress steamed and hung.
“Was everything in this house designed to look like old money?” whispered Callie.
Towner looked at her with appreciation. “Astute observation.”
“Every piece of furniture I’ve seen so far is an expensive antique, but it’s all…too perfect. You can tell that a designer arranged everything just so,” Callie said. The furniture didn’t match; the designer hadn’t made that mistake, but the pieces were too similar. True inherited money tended to show a mismatch of pieces far more random than this.
“Do you have a design background, Callie?”
She shook her head. One of Callie’s foster mothers had been an antiques dealer. “One of my better foster homes,” she said.
Towner waited for her to continue. She didn’t. “You are full of surprises.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Callie said. “It just seemed curious, that’s all.”
“Finn Whiting comes from a family of farmers. The money you see here was made generations later, illegally. His grandfather was known for running rum and guns. He built Pride’s Heart just before he died. The original 1600s house was over there.” She pointed toward the woods. “Still is, though it’s part of Paul’s boathouse now. When the grandfather died, Finn’s parents inherited his money and furnished the place with the best antiques from the auction houses of Boston, New York, and London.”
The Fifth Petal Page 15