A Familiar Tail

by Delia James

  “Books of Shadow?” I repeated.

  “Yes. They’re sort of . . . magical journals. Most serious students of the craft keep them. They’re notes of ceremonies and workings, as well as thoughts and experiences about the craft in general.”

  “Sort of spell sketchbooks,” I said.

  “If you like.” Her eyes found mine and I saw a softening that hadn’t been there before. “I’m sorry you’ve been thrown into this so suddenly, Anna. It is not the return I would have wished for anyone in Annabelle’s family. Do you . . . do you have the wand with you?”

  “Yes. I packed it this morning. I thought . . . I don’t know, that I might need it.”

  “You have good instincts. The wand is not magical as the term is usually understood. But such tools, the words and the symbols all serve to sharpen the witch’s focus and bridge the gap between the internal wish and the external world. The wand will help you focus and increase your natural attunement to the world around you.”

  “And summon my familiar?”

  “Certainly it will make it easier.” She smiled.

  “Julia,” I said suddenly. “Do you have a picture of Dorothy around here?” Maybe it was all the talk about focus that reminded me. I was in the middle of this very strange journey full of very strange discoveries, and I still didn’t know what the woman who started it all actually looked like.

  She looked startled, but only for a moment. “I do.” She and the dachshunds all went into the back of the shop. When they came out, she had a silver-framed picture in her hand.

  The photo had been taken on a beautiful fall day. A solid fireplug of a woman stood under a brilliant scarlet maple. She had the classic black witch’s hat on her head and looked at the world through a pair of huge rhinestone-decorated glasses that should have been consigned to the seventies. Alistair, looking smug and tolerant, curled up in the crook of one arm. She raised a wineglass high with the other, toasting the camera and the photographer. She wore jeans and a purple T-shirt with a yin-yang symbol on it, only the yin and the yang were a pair of curled-up cats.

  But it was her face that really touched me. Dorothy had been caught in the act of laughing, wide mouth open. This woman who made no apologies for her full years. Her face was tanned and spotted and an absolute road map of wrinkles, and her dark eyes were all but lost in a lifetime’s worth of laugh lines. She was someone who spent her days in the sun and her nights sitting up late with friends. She didn’t care what people thought of her looks, or her attitude. She was going to live and laugh and love and the rest of the world could like it or lump it.

  I liked it. I liked her.

  “Thank you,” I said and started to hand it back.

  “You can keep this,” Julia told me. “I’ve got others.” Then she took a deep breath and laid a hand on my arm. “I’m glad you’re taking Dorothy’s house,” she said. “If for no other reason than it should be lived in and loved. Will you let me know when you’ve signed the lease? With your permission, I’d like to bring over some of the coven members. We could help you move in.”

  “Thanks. I think I’d like that.”

  All at once, a herd of children exploded into the store, followed closely by a group of women in shorts and sun hats. Julia smiled wanly at me and turned away, shifting from worried witch to happy bookstore owner without batting an eye. The dogs scampered up to the squealing kids to be hugged and petted.

  I nodded to them all, understanding. We would finish this later. It was probably just as well. I already had more than enough to think about.

  Like what those “certain disagreements” between Julia and Mrs. Maitland were, and if they had anything to do with Dorothy’s murder.

  Julia had accused Frank of trying to control what kind of information I got about Dorothy and her death. But as little as I liked the idea, I could say the same thing about her.

  23

  THE CHURCH TOWER was chiming noon. I thought about going somewhere for lunch. I thought about going back to McDermott’s and curling up with the books Julia had given me. I dismissed this. I wasn’t ready to start in on my homework yet.

  I stopped at Popovers on the Square for coffee and a sandwich (and a popover, of course). Then I traced the winding way down to the riverbank until I came to a lovely little park. I made way for joggers and dog walkers as I strolled under the trees, past green lawns and flower beds and onto a wooden pier.

  The wind off the river was pleasantly cool. I sat on the sun-warmed bench, ate my lunch and sipped my coffee while a red tugboat full of tourists chugged past, trailing a flock of hopeful (and loud) seagulls. I watched the traffic on the Memorial Bridge and the slow-moving cranes over in the shipyard.

  I pulled out my notebook and started on what I meant to be a sketch of the river in front of me. But the river wouldn’t come. Instead, I found myself incessantly doodling faces—Julia, Kenisha and Valerie. Frank Hawthorne was there too, and Brad Thompson. And down around the edges, one fat cat with slanting eyes.

  I wasn’t really surprised. It was tough to concentrate on anything except what I’d been through since I got here. In the clear light of a summer day, so much still felt impossible. But I had to accept it. All of it.

  I pulled out the silver-framed photo again and looked at the woman in the pointy hat.

  “Okay, Dorothy, where do I start?” I asked. Dorothy just laughed and saluted me with that glass of red wine. I put the photo away and stared at my sketch pad.

  Did I search the house? I slashed my pencil across the paper, making an outline of the cozy cottage exterior with its roses and its crescent-moon weathervane. I definitely had my way in now, but what would I even be looking for? Did I talk to the people around Dorothy? Gather all the suspects in the dining room à la Hercule Poirot and interrogate them? No, probably I was supposed to question them one by one before then.

  But whom did I actually suspect? And why?

  I sighed and doodled a question mark. I definitely needed to find out what Dorothy was up to before she died. Frank said he didn’t know. Julia said she didn’t know. They were the two people who were supposed to be closest to her.

  The truth was, despite having the photo from Julia, I really didn’t know much of anything about Dorothy Hawthorne. I knew she was a witch, and proud of it. I knew she’d withdrawn from her friends and family before she died. I knew someone had been angry enough with her to let her die, if not actually kill her. I gave my question mark a frowny face, eyelashes, horn-rimmed glasses and Cheshire cat stripes. When it came to all the details that make up a person’s life, that wasn’t actually a whole lot.

  Maybe that was why I couldn’t understand what was going on. I’d been seeing myself as being in the middle of this mystery, but I wasn’t. The person who was really at the center of this puzzle was Dorothy Hawthorne herself. If I wanted to untangle the riddle, I didn’t just need to search the house; I needed to untangle Dorothy.

  Frank had mentioned a HeyLook! page and a Web site. I dug my laptop out of my bag and flipped up the lid. I opened the search window and typed: northeastwitch.com.

  “Okay, Miss Hawthorne,” I murmured as I hit Enter. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  • • •

  THE NORTH CHURCH clock had chimed noon when I left Midnight Reads. It was chiming six when I crossed Market Square for what I really hoped would be the last time today. I’d spent the entire afternoon crisscrossing downtown Portsmouth, looking for people who had known Dorothy Hawthorne. This turned out to be half the town.

  Modern technology is a wonderful thing. I might not be a highly trained professional, like Frank, but I could run a decent online search. It did feel kind of strange accessing the Web and HeyLook! pages for someone who was dead. Recently dead, I mean. I looked up dead artists all the time.

  Not only were Dorothy’s pages still up and running; they had collected long strings of
comments from people who mourned her passing and wished one another hope and comfort. Some of those comments came from Portsmouth residents who used their real names and left a lot of personal profile information open to public view. Those names, in turn, led to Web and HeyLook! pages for the businesses, restaurants or cafés they kept, and listed the addresses in the brick-and-mortar world.

  Which was how I ended up hiking along the steep, curving streets between places like Gabrielle’s Nail & Beauty Salon, the Left Bank Gallery and Annabelle’s Ice Cream. At this last, there may have been some slight indulgence in salted caramel ice cream with chocolate sprinkles, but hey, I needed to keep my strength up. Discovering my inner Nancy Drew was giving me a new and immediate appreciation of the term “legwork.”

  It turned out just about everybody I met had their own Dorothy story. They told me how she’d helped them, or annoyed them, or prodded or pushed them in some direction that was exactly the way they were supposed to go, although they might not have realized it until much later. Most of them could also point me toward somebody else who also had a Dorothy story.

  I had decided I should take a hint from Frank Hawthorne and keep notes about what I’d heard. I ended up scribbling across so many pages in my sketchbook, I had to make an extra stop at Mrs. Morgan’s Fine Papers & Stationery and buy another. There, I not only got a fresh sketchbook; I got a story about the time Dorothy turned up to order fifty engraved announcement cards for an engagement that everybody else was sure would never happen. “My present to the happy couple,” she’d said. “You wait and see.”

  “So did it happen?” I asked Mrs. Morgan, a plump, energetic woman who looked at the world from over the rims of old-fashioned half-moon glasses. “The wedding?”

  “Sure did,” Mrs. Morgan answered as she rang up my receipt. “Happy couple picked up their announcements less than a week later. I think Dorothy knew it was all a go before the pair themselves did. But that’s how she was—one step ahead, and one over the line.”

  That had been several hours ago, when I’d felt much more chipper and social. Now my throat and my feet were informing me they’d had more than enough healthy outdoor activity for one day, thank you very much. Plus, never mind the recent salted caramel ice cream with sprinkles in a waffle cone, I was starving. I needed to hole up in my room for a while and go over my notes. My plan was to organize my thoughts and lay the whole thing out in front of Martine. It would be good to have an impartial observer at this point. Assuming, of course, that impartial observer didn’t decide to read me the riot act for getting involved in something that was none of my business.

  Then it occurred to me that there was one important person I hadn’t talked to yet. One person, aside from Julia Parris, who had known Dorothy, not to mention Grandma B.B., back when their split happened, and who might have some idea what was driving Dorothy those last few weeks of her life.

  I stepped into the shade of the nearest storefront, pulled out my smartphone and brought up the search engine. After a few minutes, I had the number I needed. I dialed and waited while it rang.

  “Maitland residence,” said a woman’s lightly accented voice.

  “May I speak with Elizabeth Maitland, please?”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Annabelle Blessingsound Britton.”

  “One moment please.” I waited. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Maitland is not available. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “Could you ask her to call me?” I gave my number and listened while the woman read it back. I thanked her and hung up.

  Would she call? I wondered. If she did, what would I say? What were you and Julia Parris arguing about? How come nobody around here likes you? What do you know about your son’s business, oh, and Brad Thompson?

  I shook my head. When Mrs. Maitland called, if she called, I’d just have to play it by ear. Right now I had other things to worry about. Like dinner. I’d spotted a little Indian place about a block back. Some tikka masala and naan bread sounded like just the comfort-food ticket.

  Raja Rani proved to be small and kind of bare-bones, but it was filled with a warm, spicy aroma that made me certain this was a good decision. The hostess led me to a table by the window and handed me a menu. I ordered my masala medium hot because I am not a daredevil, and my naan without garlic because I had to live with myself. I got a cup of chai, too, which was strong and full of spice. I hate it when chai tastes like milky sugar water.

  I stared out at the street, sipping my lovely chai, losing my worries in quiet contemplation of the passing pedestrians and important questions of the day like whether I wanted to hop the bus back to McDermott’s. Then one of those pedestrians stopped dead in front of the window and stared right at me.

  It was Brad Thompson.

  • • •

  I SET MY cup down carefully. I also pressed my hand against my backpack, right where I could feel the shape of the wand in the outer pocket. I immediately felt silly. I knew I shouldn’t judge by appearances, but it was tough to imagine somebody who looked less dangerous than Brad Thompson. If I drew his portrait, I’d use charcoal, all soft and gray and fading at the edges. Plus, he was wearing a pale blue button-down shirt and khaki pants, which is not the fashion choice of somebody who wants to give off that danger-man vibe.

  Outside, Brad glanced over his shoulder, then back at me, then over his shoulder again. I didn’t know what he wanted to do. Come forward? Run away? I’m not sure he knew either, at least at first. At last, he steeled himself and started toward the restaurant’s door.

  I unzipped my backpack pocket, yanked the wand out and slid it under the napkin I had spread on my lap. I wasn’t sure what I planned to do with it, but Julia said it could help me focus. Right now, focus sounded very useful.

  Brad waved away the hostess when she bustled up to him. He walked over to my table carefully, like he expected the floor to give way underneath him.

  “Is this where I get to say we have to stop meeting like this?” I asked.

  I’m pretty sure Brad meant to chuckle, but the sound came out more like a titter. “Or ask if I’m, uh, stalking you or something. Which I’m not,” he added quickly. “Please believe me—I’m really not. But . . . I . . . uh . . . yeah. I, um, might be able to help you. I think.”

  “Oh?” I frowned at him. He shrank back and I honestly didn’t know what to do. Part of me was impatient. Part of me was confused. Things must have gotten pretty bad in this man’s life if a five-foot-something artist with a cup of spiced tea looked scary.

  “I, um, yeah, do you mind? Could I sit down?” Brad gestured toward the empty chair.

  “Go ahead,” I told him, and Brad sat, or rather, he perched on the edge of the chair. The waitress brought a glass of water and a menu. He ignored both.

  “So.” I rested my hands on my lap and, incidentally, my magic wand. “You’re not stalking me, Mr. Thompson . . . ?”

  “Brad, please. I, uh, think we can be casual, right?” He laughed, that same nervous titter, and looked down at his fingertips. His wedding ring was a simple gold band, and now that we were face-to-face, I could see his left shirt cuff had frayed and his buttons didn’t quite match. That told me they’d popped off and had been sewn back on at least once. I was struck again by how tired Brad looked and remembered that same exhaustion in Laurie’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry about everything when we met at the house. I was just startled.” Brad spoke quickly, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve in the middle of a sentence. He also glanced out the window, yet again. I had the sudden feeling he would have been more comfortable in a dark alley than sitting here where all of Portsmouth could get a very good look at the company he was keeping. “I should have known you were one of Dorothy’s friends, but I couldn’t be sure until I saw you with Val and Kenisha.” He glanced back again, and then leaned toward me. “So,” he whispered, “did you get the copies?�
��

  24

  A WHOLE SERIES of potential responses to Brad’s question flashed through my mind. Most contained the words “What copies?” They also might have involved grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking.

  But before my hands could move, a voice inside me whispered, Let him talk. Find out what’s going on.

  Seems my inner Nancy Drew was a calculating little thing, or maybe it was the magic wand under my palm. Whichever it was, I listened.

  “No, I didn’t find the copies.” Which was the truth, as far as I knew, anyhow.

  Brad’s mustache twitched and he twisted his wedding ring. “But she told you where they are, right?”

  “Uh, no. She never got the chance.” Which was also, you’ll notice, the truth.

  The waiter brought my tikka masala and naan along with a dish of jasmine rice and set them all down. He looked expectantly at Brad, who entirely failed to notice him. He was too busy twisting his wedding ring. I waved the waiter away.

  “But at least Frank hasn’t found them, right?” The note of hope in Brad’s question was painfully sharp.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered slowly. “He didn’t say anything about them.”

  “Okay, well, that’s something, I guess.”

  “I thought you and Frank Hawthorne were friends.” I curled my fingers loosely around the hidden wand. I expected to feel that low prickling under my skin that I was beginning to associate with magic. But there was nothing. The man sitting opposite me just looked sadder. Deflated. Defeated.

  “Things change.”

  “Is that why you need those copies now? Because things changed?” I asked gently.

  He also didn’t answer me, not directly, anyway. “I really hoped you’d found something in the attic. I tried to get in before, but that is one tough lock.” He twisted his wedding ring back and forth some more. “I was coming back to try to get the hinges off the door when we . . . met. I guess Dorothy sent you the key or something?”