“I guess crime does pay.”
“For a while. Finn’s father lost the rest of the fortune in a bad business deal. He died young and penniless. But not before he found a wife for his son. One who had the fortune to replenish the Whitings’ coffers and the pedigree to take the family legitimate.”
“Emily?”
“Emily Sprague of Hingham. Mayflower and founding father descended. Not only did her ancestors throw tea into Boston Harbor but the family later made a fortune importing it from China. She’s as rich as they come.”
“I thought rich girls don’t marry poor boys.” Callie quoted the movie version of Fitzgerald’s classic.
“They do when they look like Finn Whiting,” Towner said. “And when there’s a shotgun involved.”
Callie raised an eyebrow. “Paul?”
“Surprising, huh? Just proves you can never tell about people.”
Callie liked the woman more now. It made Emily seem almost human.
Callie pulled her dress off the hanger. “This isn’t as formal as what everyone is wearing downstairs,” she said. It was the knee-length black sheath she had purchased for the fund-raiser.
“Don’t worry about it,” Towner said. “You can dress it up with the pearl necklace I brought.”
“I couldn’t take your necklace—”
“I inherited it from Eva,” Towner said, as she headed into her own room. “It’s really not my style, but it will look great on you.”
Callie put on the dress and played with her hair, pulling it back into a knot and then letting it go again. It was a mess: too curly and just plain wild. And she still wasn’t used to being blond. When Towner came back with the pearls a few minutes later, she had already changed into her own dress, a long black cap-sleeved wraparound gown. “God, you look gorgeous,” Callie said. Towner’s reddish blond hair hung perfectly straight and shoulder length.
Towner smiled, holding out the pearls.
“You sure?”
“They’ll look perfect with your dress.”
They stood in front of the mirror while Towner fastened the clasp. Then she pulled Callie’s hair back off her face and neck, winding it into a loose chignon. “Like this, I think.” She held it back. “You’ll look great.” Towner motioned for Callie to sit at the mirrored dressing table so she could pin her hair for real. “Very sophisticated.”
Callie’s phone pinged.
Towner noticed the worried look on Callie’s face.
A text had come in from Zee: Rose fine. Awake and eating turkey dinner in her room. Callie put the phone away, relieved.
“Everything okay?”
“Better now. Rose was having a bad day. But Zee says she’s okay. Eating Thanksgiving dinner and giving thanks.”
“I’m guessing the thing Rose is most grateful about today is your return.”
Callie tried to shrug off the compliment.
“I mean it,” Towner said. “She always worried about you.”
The remark touched Callie in a way she hadn’t expected. Her eyes filled up with tears, and she turned away.
Sensing her awkwardness, Towner changed the subject. “So,” she said, “are you going to tell me what you were up to with Paul? Where did he take you on your ‘little ride’?”
“What do you know about Ann Chase?”
“Ah,” Towner said. “You met Ann.”
“She and Paul are involved, I’d say.”
“Ann’s involved with a lot of people.”
“How old is that woman?”
Towner laughed. “She’s in her fifties, but you wouldn’t know it.”
“That’s some strong magic.”
“You’re interested in Paul,” Towner teased.
“Not really,” Callie lied. “He’s probably too young for me.”
“He’s twenty-five.”
“Five years too young.”
“Almost twenty-six.”
“And I don’t like that he’s involved with the witch.”
“Paul’s been sleeping with Ann on and off for years. Ever since he turned eighteen. Nothing serious, but Emily hates it.”
“I can understand why. Is he even out of college? He could be her son.”
Towner laughed. “Well, he obviously likes older women…”
Callie rolled her eyes.
“Ann’s actually nice,” Towner said, and Callie could tell she meant it. “She’s just got enlightened attitudes about sex. Free love and all that. Comes from her neohippie days. I have to say the men in this town seem to enjoy her.”
“Apparently.”
Towner laughed. “She’s really okay. She’s helped Rafferty with a number of criminal cases.”
“How?”
“She’s very intuitive. Psychic. She reads lace, which is why I gave her most of Eva’s pieces. She even reads for me at the tearoom sometimes.”
“What do you mean, she ‘reads lace’?”
“It’s kind of like reading a crystal ball, but she uses lace. She gazes into the patterns, and she can see visions. My grandmother Eva used to do it. Ann reads the lace, then tells Rafferty what she sees. Sometimes it helps him figure things out, sometimes not.”
“Do you read lace, too? At the tearoom?”
“No,” Towner said. “Not anymore. Though I do sometimes have visions.”
“Visions. Really?”
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Callie stared at her.
“Salem is full of people who have ‘gifts.’ Who seem to know things they shouldn’t or things that haven’t happened yet. You’re obviously one of us.”
“Us?” Callie wasn’t sure how she felt about being outed. “You sound like Rose.”
“Takes one to know one. I fought my visions for years.” Towner pushed a hairpin into place. “So much so that I almost made them disappear. Now they’re more like glimpses. Ann has taken the opposite approach, honing her skills. She’s what they call a seer.”
“And a witch.”
“That, too.”
And a drug dealer.
“Medicinal use only,” Towner said. “Until the dispensaries finally open up.”
“Wow,” Callie said. “That was impressive.”
Towner smiled. “A bit of proof for the skeptic.”
Callie thought about it. “So you read minds?” She’d seen Ann do the same thing this afternoon. It was disconcerting.
“It comes and goes. Some people are easier to read than others. Ann’s great at it. She’s also renowned as an herbalist. She’s developed treatments for mercury and lead poisoning, chelation agents that work with fewer side effects. She’s a powerful force in these parts.”
“I’d say so,” Callie said, thinking about Paul.
“Towner? You up here?” they heard Rafferty call from the next room. Towner walked over and opened the door that connected them. “Wait for us here if you like,” she said to Callie. “John only takes a few minutes to get ready, and I know you don’t want to go back down there by yourself.”
“The wine cellar was once a speakeasy,” Finn was telling a group of guests who were waiting to go down in the elevator. He was about to start his third tour of the day, leading guests behind the paneled bar and down the elevator into the cellar. Callie had gotten separated from Towner and Rafferty moments after returning to the library; now she was on her third Old-Fashioned. She should have said no to this last one, but Finn kept handing them to her, not asking if she wanted another. She’d have to stop letting him catch her eye. The way he kept staring at her, she was wondering if he was flirting. She glanced over at Paul, who was engrossed in conversation with a group of wealthy-looking older women.
The truth was, Callie was having trouble with all this ostentation. The Whiting Foundation might fund everything from schools to soup kitchens, but the way the Whitings lived didn’t seem right. Conspicuous consumption was a phrase the nuns used when they disapproved of people who hadn’t taken the same
vows of poverty they had. Conspicuous consumption certainly seemed the name of the game in the Whiting mansion. Callie realized she was scowling.
“A bit much?” Rafferty asked, joining her. She noticed he wasn’t drinking. Just a club soda with lime.
She should have followed his lead. “A tad.”
“Wait until you see their artwork in the dining room. A collection of Dutch Old Masters. I’m told it’s about to make the rounds of European museums.”
“It all seems slightly obscene,” she murmured, staring directly at the woman who’d come in wearing the full-length mink.
“Would you like to see the speakeasy, Callie?” Finn asked, his fingers searching for the hidden elevator call button.
Rafferty had been observing Finn earlier, the way he kept gazing at his own reflection in the wall mirror. Classic narcissist, Rafferty thought, though he had to admit that most people found Finn Whiting charming. What wasn’t charming was the way he also seemed to be gazing at Callie in that same mirror. “I’d like to see it,” Rafferty answered, breaking the long silence that followed Finn’s invitation.
Paul swooped in, taking Callie’s arm. “Come take a walk with me,” he said, directing her toward the door. “I haven’t had a chance to show you the grounds.”
They left the library together and headed across the hall, cutting through the kitchen and into the butler’s pantry. “First rule,” Paul said, taking her half-empty drink. “Never try to keep up with my father. The man’s got an iron liver, and he’s just getting started.”
She blushed. “Thanks for the warning.”
He emptied her drink down the copper sink. Then he poured two mugs of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is good,” she said.
He gave her a mug and then led her outside through the pantry door, holding it open for her. It was a warm day for November, but it was still chilly outside. He took off his jacket and held it out to her. “Unless you want me to go back for the mink? We could find some red paint to splash on it in the barn.”
So he had overheard her. “I shouldn’t drink.”
“Everyone should drink,” he said. “Though probably not the way my father does. If it weren’t for alcohol, none of this would exist.” He looked around. “Which I’m sure would devastate you.”
“You make me sound like a horribly judgmental person,” she said.
“Do I?” His words feigned innocence, but his look was playful.
They walked up the gravel driveway. She could smell the woodsmoke from the chimneys. As they approached the stables, some dogs ran out to greet them. Hunting dogs that looked as if they’d just emerged from the Currier & Ives print she’d seen in the library.
“Be careful of Jasper there, he’ll steal that right out of your hand. He has quite a coffee habit.”
Callie held her cup high and laughed as the dog jumped for it.
“Leave it, Jasper,” Paul said, and the dog reluctantly stopped and fell into step behind them, with a look that was at once disappointed and ashamed.
Callie noted the dog’s expression and spoke for him in a sad and goofy drawl, propelling her voice until it seemed as if Jasper were saying, “I don’t have a problem. I can quit anytime I want.”
“Ventriloquism?” Paul looked amused.
“One of my many talents.”
“Is that part of sound healing?”
“It could be. If it saves your dog from his addiction.”
“It sounds as if my dog is in heavy denial. How’d you learn to throw your voice?”
She sighed. Towner’s assertions about her “gifts” were still fresh in her mind. “I’ve always just been able to play with sound.”
They passed the stables, which were empty.
“Do you still keep horses?” Callie asked, happy he hadn’t probed further.
“Mum isn’t riding much these days. She boards her horse at Myopia Hunt Club now. The last bastion of snobbery for the horsey set,” he said in a voice meant to mimic hers.
“I didn’t say it.”
“I beat you to it.” He laughed.
She saluted him with her coffee mug. He really did have a devastating smile.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, their steps crunching on the gravel driveway, Jasper peeling off, tracking a scent that enchanted him. “Come on, I’ll show you where I live when I’m home,” Paul said, cutting to their right.
Callie recognized the spot as the one from which she’d seen Towner and Rafferty emerge earlier. Tall pines stood in rows as if they’d once been planted for harvesting as Christmas trees and then abandoned to grow. She saw the long path winding through the trees disappearing into the fairy-tale darkness of the woods.
She took the first step into the woods, and a twig broke under her feet. The sound paralyzed her. A squirrel scurried up a nearby pine. She willed herself not to panic but couldn’t move.
“Come on.” Paul faced her, smiling, holding out his hand. He took her mug and put it down on a nearby tree stump.
She managed to step onto the path, not taking his hand. Her heart was beating too fast.
He turned and walked ahead.
She wanted to turn back, but she knew she was being ridiculous. Instead, she stayed a few feet behind him on the narrowed path, forcing herself forward while dodging tree roots, stepping on soft moss and pine needles. She’d been in this kind of place before, among far more twisted trees in the most terrifying moment of her life. Where the hell was he taking her, and why had she followed? Suddenly, the path steepened and arched downward. He turned back and took her arm instead of offering his. “Careful,” he said. “Watch your step here.”
She hesitated.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” A hand on her arm, the other on her hip, he lowered her slowly to the ground. “There,” he said as her feet touched earth. He paused ever so slightly before he released her, bringing them close enough to feel his warm breath on her face. He smelled like salt air and sage. He stepped aside, and the view opened up to a hidden cove. The sloping lawn and deep unmowed grass that swept toward the ocean looked like a receding wave. Callie immediately thought of the Andrew Wyeth painting Christina’s World, the girl sprawled on the grass, the houses on the hill behind her.
The first building Callie saw had the look of a small lighthouse with a narrow observation tower. It was built into the side of a red granite ledge; a main level sat on the grassy land, and a lower story was on the beach underneath, just feet from the water’s edge. The lighthouse towered another four stories from the main floor, becoming glass as it ascended, more church spire than warning light. The second building had all but disappeared into the landscape, the roof on the same angle as the hill’s slope, its color a camouflage of rock and sea grass.
“Come this way,” Paul said, leading Callie over a pebbly path, across more red granite, and around the back of the house to a half-hidden door on the ocean side of the building.
At their approach, a huge seagull raised itself and hung on the wind, dropping a quahog on the rocks below in an effort to break open its shell.
They entered the house in the side of the hill. Callie could see that it was designed with all of its windows on the ocean side. Paul opened the shutters to the sunset. Even in the half-light of impending dusk, the place seemed made of silvery water and golden sun.
The first things she noticed were the brass compasses and an old-fashioned diving helmet. They looked like they belonged in a steampunk exhibit. Then, in the center of the large open room, she was surprised to see what looked like another house: it was only one room, with a large walk-in fireplace similar to the one she’d seen at Ann’s, and it had leaded-glass windows that were opened.
“This was the original house,” Paul said. “Built in 1640. My great-great-grandfather wanted a larger house but didn’t want to disturb the historic value of this one, so he simply surrounded it. It’s the kitchen now.”
Callie had to duck a little as she passed under th
e low beam. “Sixteen forty, huh?”
“It was home to one of Salem’s accused witches.”
“One of your family members, I assume?”
“I’m afraid so.” He smiled.
Paul led her through the small room and out the other side, ducking so as not to bump his head on the ceiling beam. The far door led back into the main room, revealing more steampunk gadgetry.
“My grandfather was a bit of a collector. He spent a fortune on this stuff, among other things. Come on, let’s catch the sunset,” Paul said, walking her through the living room and up a spiral staircase to the glass tower.
At the top of ninety steps was a tiny octagonal room with 360-degree views. All of Salem Sound was visible, as was much of the North Shore from Beverly to Manchester and south to Marblehead Light. Straight ahead were the border islands: the Miseries, Baker’s, Children’s, and Yellow Dog.
“That’s Norman’s Woe,” he said, pointing to a tiny speck of rock in the far distance, three towns away.
“ ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus.’ Longfellow.”
“You know the poem?”
“I do.”
It was one of her favorites.
It was a breathtaking view, with the sun setting over the land west of Beverly Harbor, its reds and oranges flaming as it dropped. Paul and Callie watched as the eastern sky deepened and melted into water, the spreading darkness building above and below the horizon until, as it slowly erased its dividing line, the sky blackened, and the stars became visible.
She could feel Paul close behind her in the darkening room, breaching the personal space she usually protected.
There was usually one thing men wanted from her, and, generally, it was the same thing she wanted from them. She didn’t have relationships per se but a series of short-term boyfriends. She liked the dance, the approach/avoidance of attraction. But relationships were far too complicated. Her therapists called it a fear of intimacy. Maybe it was. Callie thought of it as something more positive. Quick hits, no entanglements, that was her philosophy. Was that what Paul Whiting wanted, too? She was pretty sure it was. Just turn around and find out, she thought. It would be easy enough to turn.
The Fifth Petal Page 16