The Fifth Petal

by Brunonia Barry

  The discovery caused a sensation. The Goddesses had been found. And so had the partial skeleton of Leah Kormos, her bones miraculously preserved, the result, according to forensic speculation, of high levels of calcium carbonate in the seawater. The cliffs around Pride’s Heart evidently contained large deposits of limestone that had leached into the sea well as the cliffs eroded every year.

  Rafferty speculated that Finn and Marta had relocated the bodies from the graves to the sea well sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. The dinner conversation about DNA and how easily it could be transmitted must have scared Finn, who had been intimate with at least one if not more of the victims the night of the murders. Callie subsequently had a vision that Marta had talked Finn into having the bodies moved to avoid being implicated in the murders he didn’t commit. In all likelihood, Finn never suspected Marta was the murderer. He had likely paid off Patch Willis, the caretaker of Greenlawn Cemetery. Willis had recently retired from his position and left town, leaving no forwarding address.

  Leah’s remains had been in the sea well for much longer.

  It was Callie’s vision in the sea well that filled in the details of Marta’s terrible history, but it had been Ann and Mickey’s call the night of the reception that had made Rafferty realize she was the Goddess murderer. On Ann’s vision alone he would have gone to Pride’s Heart, just to assure himself that everyone was all right. But it was what Mickey said that had chilled him to his core. After the celebration, Mickey had been working on his belated wedding present for Finn and Marta, a merging of their family trees. When he traced Marta’s back, he discovered her connection to Sarah Good.

  Still, many questions remained unanswered. “The truth is we’ll never know it all,” Rafferty told Callie.

  “For me, it’s enough to know that Marta killed the Goddesses,” Callie said. “And to know that my mother and the others are truly laid to rest. And I’m happy to see that not only was Rose vindicated but she was right all along.”

  “How so?”

  “She was right about the oak. She was right that remains were hidden on the Whitings’ property, though they belonged to the Goddesses, not to the original accused.”

  Callie told Rafferty about Rose’s vision of the hanging tree, cut and floating down the North River to the Whitings’ property. She didn’t mention her own visions, ones that had become clearer since that night in the well: the Whitings’ oak, the one Rose claimed talked to her, had spread its roots so wide it had become entangled with the far older oak body. And as the tidal water rose and fell in one it was mirrored by the other, creating a waterway that had moved back and forth for generations.

  All this was only speculation, something she’d never share for fear of being perceived as every bit as crazy as Rose. But, in Callie’s mind, Rose was right. The trees had communicated their centuries-old message. They had done their job.

  They gathered around the oak tree that Eva Whitney had willed to Rose. Archbishop McCauley was performing a blessing to consecrate the ground. It was just as Rose would have wanted, Rafferty thought.

  September 27, 2015. Ann had told Rafferty that tonight marked the end of the tetrad lunar eclipses. It was a supermoon as well as the blood moon, and people around here were expecting weird energy and odd behavior; both the ER and the police force had put on extra staff. But, according to Ann, tonight marked the end of the weird energy that had begun last year with the first of the eclipses. He hoped she was right. Still, Halloween was right around the corner, and weird energy was a given. He’d have to reserve judgment until he saw what October brought this year.

  Callie looked different to him; she had aged in the last few months. Maybe not aged, exactly. More likely he could see that something had shifted. While Paul was recuperating in the hospital, she’d taken charge, arranging Finn’s and Marta’s burials, dealing with Paul’s doctors, and meeting with the Whiting Foundation to make sure their work continued.

  Towner had confided in him that Callie and Paul were planning their wedding for next summer, after Paul had fully recovered. Rafferty said a prayer that this would indeed happen, and that they would have happiness in their life together. They both deserved it.

  As if in answer, the oak moved in the sea breeze, and through its leaves he heard the words:

  Sometimes the only healing is death.

  It wasn’t Rose’s voice he heard. Nor had he heard the statement before. It was a sound that seemed to come from the rustling leaves and the ocean breeze. Still, it made him shiver. Or was it simply the wind that had chilled him? Rafferty told himself he was being ridiculous. Rose was the only person who heard trees speak.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the words of the archbishop until he saw Callie look upward, as if she, too, were listening to the tree. Then she nodded, stepped forward, and began lowering the urn containing Rose’s ashes into the hole he had dug himself earlier this morning.

  One by one, they all stepped forward, each grabbing a handful of earth and filling in the hole, as, together, they recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  There was no gathering after the ceremony. Callie needed to get to the hospital to see Paul, and the archbishop had to get back to Boston.

  Rafferty tried to shake off the words the tree had whispered. As everyone said their hasty good-byes, he got a call from the Beverly Police. Marta’s autopsy report had come back.

  “The cause of death?” he asked, by rote. Everyone speculated that she had drowned; the autopsy was only a formality.

  The voice on the line spoke two words Rafferty had prayed he wouldn’t hear but feared he might: “Cerebral hemorrhage.”

  The task of the banshee is twofold: to sing souls across the divide between the living and the dead, and to ease the hearts of those they leave behind.

  —ROSE’S Book of Trees

  Callie sat at the partners desk in the library while her husband napped on the huge leather couch. Paul was still recuperating. Every day she treated him with the singing bowls—not in the spa but in the orangerie. Once it had been Emily’s favorite room, now it was hers. They never talked anymore about returning to Matera. The lure of Pride’s Heart was far too strong. Since they’d moved in, she’d discovered many places in the house she adored, but she hadn’t set foot in the cellars again. She doubted she ever would.

  She felt the changes in herself, the heightened connection to everything around her: the oak, newly planted where Rose’s oak had once stood, and the owl who had taken up residence in its young branches. She could hear their whispers to each other carried on the breeze from the harbor. She felt the turning of tides in the pulsing of her own blood.

  And she could see death on people she met now; she knew how and when they would die, and how gently their passings would go. Unlike Rose, she didn’t tell the truth she knew they had no capacity to understand. Today, as she was talking with Rafferty, she’d seen how he would meet his final end. He would live a long and happy life and die in his nineties, his grown daughter, grandchildren, and Towner at his bedside.

  She wondered about Rose’s goddess, real or imagined; about the diminishment and the turning. Just as she knew it was possible for healthy cells to vibrate an unhealthy cell back into balance, she now wondered if it would be possible to return the goddess, who had turned killer, to one who was both powerful and compassionate—and if it was possible to hold her in stillness long enough to try.

  In the meantime, she had set up practice in Salem, and returned to working with the elderly and the ailing. She’d begun to treat the dying as well, spending part of each day in music therapy with hospice patients, comforting their pain and easing their passage.

  Today, she sat at the computer, finishing a thank-you e-mail to the mayor of Salem and another to the group of scholars who had confirmed, once and for all, that, as Rose had always insisted, it was Proctor’s Ledge and not Gallows Hill that was the real hanging site of 1692. The same group had planned the plaque to commemorate that spot. Downtown, there
was already a larger, serene memorial where the tourists could linger, but honoring this true place was long overdue.

  The first thing Callie had done when she’d taken over the Whiting Foundation was to offer funds to help make the memorial happen. She hoped it would lift the curse that seemed to plague that neighborhood and lessen the collective guilt that Salem still suffered. Whether the tourists ever visited it or not, the city needed this for itself and for all the descendants of those who had been lost.

  Callie finished her last e-mail, hit send, then checked in on Paul, who was sleeping soundly.

  She made herself a cup of tea and sat looking out at the water. Then she opened Rose’s Book of Trees. Gazing into the space between the branches, she finally saw what Rose had been depicting since the night of the murders. She took out her pen, turned to an empty page, and began to translate into prose the mysterious puzzle she was just beginning to understand.

  I am a cipher…

  First, I have to thank my husband, Gary Ward, for his continued support and “keeping me alive” during this writing process, which was by far the most challenging story I’ve “discovered” so far. Thank you for everything you did to keep me writing for the last five years.

  In the same spirit, a huge thank-you to Dorian Karchmar at WME, who always knew exactly what to do, from story suggestions to dealing with legal issues, to finding this novel the best home it could possibly have at Crown. Dorian, you are amazing! It must be said. Thank you for making all this happen.

  Thanks also to Jamie Carr and Laura Bonner at WME for all they’ve done to help. To Becka Oliver, who was there at the beginning. And also I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Allison McCabe, whose story sensibilities greatly enhanced my own and whose ongoing editorial advice kept me on track, helping me zero in on the real story I wanted to tell that was so deeply embedded within the maze of Salem’s history. Thanks for that, and for so much more. And yes, Allison, there really is a Bunghole Liquors in Salem. You have the T-shirt to prove it.

  My greatest thanks to Hilary Rubin Teeman, my editor at Crown, whom I now refer to as “the best editor in the world.” Her vast knowledge, her accessibility, and her attention to detail are what make her a star, and I will be forever grateful for her amazing and persistent work on this manuscript, which she came to know at least as well as I did, maybe even better. To any writers who lament the disappearance of old-time editors who once partnered with writers to craft the best narratives possible, I’m here to tell you that they’re still out there. Thank you so very much, Hilary.

  Thank you also to Rose Fox, at Crown, who read and reread and drew parallels I hadn’t seen in my story, and whose knowledge of history was a huge help in the editing process. Thanks to you and to all those at Crown who are helping to bring this book to life: Molly Stern, Maya Mavjee, David Drake, Annsley Rosner, Rachel Meier, Rebecca Welbourn, Rachel Rokicki, Shannon McCain, Kayleigh George, Kevin Callahan, Joyce Wong, Linnea Knollmueller, Elizabeth Rendfleisch, Tal Goretsky, Andrea Lau, and Sally Franklin, as well as Susan Brown and Meredith Hamilton.

  To all my readers around the world, without whom none of this would be possible. To those who have already read this manuscript, sometimes more than once, and offered invaluable comments. My husband, of course. Sarah Ditkoff. Susan Marchand, my devoted friend, who read and reread too many times to count and always offered words of encouragement. Therese Walsh, with whom I share a muse. Emily Bradford Nuell, who has read multiple drafts of all three novels. David and Cheryl Monahan. Mark Barry, whose legal expertise helped me fact-check Rafferty’s work. Manda Spittle, for her psychological expertise and many voluntary readings. Whitney Barry. Lela Clawson-Miller. Joanne Bailey. Jeannine Zwoboda. Christiana Bailey and Pamela LaFrance, for their knowledge of music therapy and sound healing. The Warren Street Writers: Jacqueline Franklin and Ginni Spencer. Katherine Howe, for her writerly friendship, and also for her Penguin Book of Witches, a must-read for anyone doing this kind of research. Alexandra Seros, a wonderful friend and writer, who always helps me with beginnings. And to Eve Bridburg and all my friends at Grub Street for their ongoing advice and support.

  And lastly, to the city of Salem, Massachusetts, my home, without which there would be no story. Generational guilt aside, this is a wonderful place to live, and it’s the people who make it so great. The fact is, the present-day story I’ve written would probably be less likely to happen here than elsewhere in the world, just because we remember our dark history and embrace our “otherness” as a result. A special thank-you to the members of the Gallows Hill Project who have finally proven, once and for all, the real location of the 1692 hangings. To Kate Fox and the folks at Destination Salem and to Mayor Kim Driscoll. To the Salem Athenaeum, the House of the Seven Gables, and PEM. To Teri Kalgren and the other modern-day Salem witches who so patiently answered my never-ending questions. And to Pride’s Crossing, where my grandmother once lived, a favorite place full of great memories.

  There have been some changes for the sake of my story, but not too many: a bit of the interior of the Salem Public Library, a few buildings on streets that don’t exist. The Salem Journal, which is fictional, is not to be confused with the Salem News, our very good local paper. Pride’s Heart is a compilation of favorite places in and around Pride’s Crossing. The names of certain characters come directly from my family. Helen Barnes was named after one of my great-grandmothers, as was Emily Sprague, representing a side of my family that came to Salem from England in 1628 aboard the Arabella. The Irish Catholic side of my family, who all came over much later, is represented elsewhere in many characters and in name by Mickey Doherty. All other names are fictional. And I have to say, I have nothing but respect for the police forces of both Salem and Beverly. Other than changes made to further the story, I’ve tried to keep things as real as possible when it comes to Salem and vicinity, though, please remember, this is all seen through my writer’s lens. Perspective is everything.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brunonia Barry is the New York Times and international bestselling author of The Lace Reader and The Map of True Places. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages. She was the first American author to win the International Women’s Fiction Festival’s Baccante Award and was a past recipient of Ragdale Artists Colony’s Strnad Invitational Fellowship, as well as the winner of New England Book Festival’s award for Best Fiction. Her reviews and articles on writing have appeared in the London Times, the Washington Post, and the Huffington Post. Barry cochairs the Salem Athenaeum Writers’ Committee and serves as executive director of the Salem Literary Festival. She lives in Salem with her husband, Gary Ward, and their dog, Angel.

  Chapter 1

  MY NAME IS TOWNER WHITNEY. No, that’s not exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time.

  I am a crazy woman….That last part is true.

  My little brother, Beezer, who is kinder than I, says the craziness is genetic. We’re from five generations of crazy, he says, as if it were a badge he’s proud to wear, though he admits that I may have taken it to a new level.

  Until I came along, the Whitney family was what the city of Salem fondly refers to as “quirky.” If you were old Salem money, even if that money was long gone, you were never referred to as “crazy.” You might be deemed “unusual,” or even “oddball,” but the hands-down-favorite word for such a condition was “quirky.”

  Throughout the generations the Whitney men have all become famous for their quirks: from the captains of sea and industry all the way down to my little brother, Beezer, who is well known within scientific circles for his articles on particle physics and string theory.

  —

  Our great-great-grandfather, for example, parlayed a crippling preoccupation with ladies’ feet into a brilliant career as a captain of industry in Lynn’s thriving shoe business, creating a company that was passed down through the generations all the way to my grandfather G. G. Whitney. Our great-great-great
-grandfather, who was a legitimate captain in his own right, had a penchant for sniffing cinnamon that many considered obsessive. Eventually he built a fleet of spice-trading ships that traveled the globe and made Salem one of the richest ports in the New World.

  Still, anyone would admit that it is the women of the Whitney family who have taken quirky to a new level of achievement. My mother, May, for example, is a walking contradiction in terms. A dedicated recluse who (with the exception of her arrests) hasn’t left her home on Yellow Dog Island for the better part of twenty years, May has nevertheless managed to revive a long-defunct lace-making industry and to make herself famous in the process. She has gained considerable notoriety for rescuing abused women and children and turning their lives around, giving the women a place in her lace-making business and home-educating their children. All this from a raging agoraphobic who gave one of her own children to her barren half sister, Emma, in a fit of generosity because, as she said at the time, there was a need, and besides, she had been blessed with a matching set.

  And my Great-Aunt Eva, who is more mother to me than May ever has been, is equally strange. Running her own business well into her eighties, Eva is renowned as both Boston Brahmin and Salem witch when, really, she is neither. Actually, Eva is an old-school Unitarian with Transcendentalist tendencies. She quotes Scripture in the same breath as she quotes Emerson and Thoreau. Yet in recent years Eva has spoken only in clichés, as if use of the tired metaphor can somehow remove her from the inevitable outcomes she is paid to predict.

  For thirty-five years of her life, Eva has run a ladies’ tearoom and franchised successful etiquette classes to the wealthy children of Boston’s North Shore. But what Eva will be remembered for is her uncanny ability to read lace. People come from all over the world to be read by Eva, and she can tell your past, present, and future pretty accurately just by holding the lace in front of you and squinting her eyes.