by Delia James
Frank nodded first, and I nodded back.
Enoch laughed loudly and tossed his pen onto his desk. “Come off it, you two. You are not getting married. At least, if you are, there’s nothing about it in the lease. Frank, are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Frank took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”
“Fine. Miss Britton, shall we say three months?” I nodded and Frank nodded, and the lawyer nodded. “Now, the rent is, as I understand it, being waived in return for you, Miss Britton, living in the house and keeping the property clean and up to a saleable standard.”
He glanced at Frank, and I wondered what the lawyer was thinking about him, and about me.
“That’s right,” said Frank calmly.
“All right. Given the nature of the agreement, and the property, and since Frank does not rent out any other buildings, the law gives us some flexibility here, so we can take advantage of that and keep the process at least somewhat informal.” He said this in a way that indicated informality was not his first choice. “You will, however, need to put down a security deposit.” He wrote down a figure on a piece of paper and pushed it toward me. I read it and I winced.
“That’s his idea,” said Frank.
“And it will of course be returned at the end of the lease.” Enoch folded his hands on his desk and gave me a look of unruffled calm that rivaled one of Alistair’s.
“No, that’s okay. I mean, I could be anybody, right?”
“Just so,” said the lawyer.
I reminded myself that I had a plan. I’d come up with it last night before I’d fallen asleep over Julia’s books, my head full of the cycle of nature, the feminine principle in the divine, the sacredness of the earth and all creation. I’d read about meditations and ceremonies for cleansing the mind and spirit; the symbolic importance of circles, spirals and directions; the four elements of earth, air, fire and water; not to mention several chapters on the threefold law.
Including the fact that I might not want to believe it, but I could be sitting next to the murderer right now.
“There is one more thing,” I said slowly.
“Yes, Miss Britton?”
“I’d like to know if the house is . . . encumbered at all.”
“Encumbered?”
“Are there any outstanding liens or delinquent payments on a second or third mortgage, or anything else that might cause it to be sold or foreclosed, or repossessed, before the lease is up.”
Both men were staring at me. I stared right back. Books about witchcraft, ancient and modern, weren’t the only things I’d been reading last night. I’d also spent a large chunk of the evening poring over my notes and surfing the Internet trying to work out what kind of “copies” Brad could have been talking about.
My best guesses included:
1) Something to do with that second mortgage that people kept bringing up, or
2) The house being used as collateral for some kind of deeply subprime loan on the equipment needed to open a newspaper.
Frank was frowning, but Enoch remained cool.
“There’s nothing that I know of, and I was Dorothy’s lawyer for the last twenty years. Frank?” Enoch swiveled his chair and steepled his fingers. “Has anything changed?”
“Since probate wrapped up? No.”
“Just checking,” I told them.
“It’s good to be thorough.” Enoch made another note. “Is there anything else?”
“Not as long as the house is in good repair.” I paused. “And I’m assuming it’s okay if I keep a cat?”
Frank chuckled. “If Alistair wants to stay with you, he’s more than welcome.”
“We are in agreement, then.” Enoch made a few more notes. “Good for you both, less good for my billing sheet, but we can’t have everything. Now . . .” He rifled a stack of papers and extracted one page to hand to me. “This is the results of the inventory and the walk-through that Frank did up for me. It has the details on the condition of the house and so on. You can either do your own walk-through before you rent, Miss Britton, or accept the list and submit any corrections afterward.”
“I’m sure it’s all fine.” I skimmed the list. On the inventory, there was a lot of furniture and dishes in the kitchen. As for the condition of the house, there was a loose shutter and some dampness in the basement. Frankly, I would have been shocked if there wasn’t some dampness in the basement.
Enoch favored us both with another appraising look. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I am going to have to assume you two know what you’re doing here. But, Frank . . .”
Frank held up his hand. “I know, Enoch. You don’t approve, but I’m doing it anyway.”
“Which is your prerogative.” Enoch ran one thick finger down his legal pad. “Miss Britton, you’ll want to be sure to note or photograph anything that needs repair so that you are not charged with the damage. That is everything I have here. Is there anything more for either of you? No? Good, better, best. If you two will excuse me, I will type up the remainder of this and we will be finished shortly.”
Enoch rose. He also—I swear I am not making this up—gave me a small bow and disappeared through a side door. A moment later the heavy metallic clatter of actual typewriter keys sounded from the next room.
“Wow,” I said.
Frank chuckled. “I know. But don’t let the theatrics fool you. Enoch’s the best lawyer in town, especially when it comes to contracts.”
“Sounds like I should read this lease pretty carefully.”
“Do you want to back out?”
“No. But . . . you haven’t told him anything about why you’re doing this, have you?”
“No more than necessary. Enoch pretty much thinks I’m just trying to get Ellis Maitland off my back.” Frank paused and looked down at his hands. “I was thinking, maybe, would you like to get some lunch?” He glanced toward the side door. The rattle and clatter of typing had stopped. “To talk about . . . things.”
It was a good idea. We did need to talk, and it was probably not smart to be bringing up any amateur investigator stuff in a lawyer’s office, even if he was Frank’s lawyer.
“Thanks,” I said, and I did mean it. “But I think I need to spend today getting settled, and you never know—I might find . . . something else we need to talk about.”
Our gazes met and locked, and Frank nodded. “Well, how about dinner tomorrow? Assuming everything goes okay?”
“Sounds great,” I said, just as the door opened.
“And here we are.” Enoch reappeared holding a sheaf of legal-sized pages. “Now, if you will write the check, Miss Britton, and you two will sign here.” He passed the lease across that acre of desk.
I admit, I hesitated. If I signed this, I was finally, truly, legally committed, and not just to the house, but to Portsmouth and all that implied.
It implied a whole heck of a lot right now.
I took a deep breath. I read, and I signed. Frank read and Frank signed. I wrote the check for the deposit with a minimum amount of wincing and handed it to Frank. Frank squinted at the name of the bank. Then he pulled a ring out with three keys on it and handed them over to me.
“Congratulations, Frank.” Enoch held out his hand. “You’re a landlord.”
“Ugh. Not sure I like the sound of it.”
Enoch gave him a smile of fatherly tolerance. “You’d like handing over those keys to Ellis Maitland and his mother a lot less, and you can trust me because I’m saying this as your lawyer.” My ears pricked up at the mention of the Maitlands, but Enoch had already moved on. “Now, I must ask you both to excuse me . . .” He pulled out a pocket watch. He actually pulled out a pocket watch. It was big and silver with a complicated pattern etched on the back. I felt the urge to check the calendar to make sure I hadn’t accidentally slipped into the wrong ce
ntury. “I have another client. I wish you both good morning.”
Enoch stood and gave another of those little bows, and we stood, and everybody shook hands, and the lawyer ushered me and Frank out his door.
“So, we’re good, then?” said Frank as we walked down the path to the sidewalk.
“I guess so, yeah.” Except for this whole situation being more than a little strange, and awkward. “Do you want to come with me and . . . walk through the house or anything?”
I could tell he wanted to say yes, but his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and hit the mute button. “Duty calls,” he said. “But I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I agreed that he would, and Frank headed up the street toward the square. He did glance back a couple of times. I thought I read a little regret on his face. Was that because he still didn’t want to give up his aunt’s house, or because he was he afraid of what I’d find in there?
I found myself thinking about the missing computer again. Frank could have taken it, easily.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I said out loud. “Frank was Dorothy’s heir. He wouldn’t have to steal anything. That computer belonged to him.” After she died, anyway. Now, there was a pleasant thought. I thought about the photo and the clue she’d left me, hidden in the room she’d locked with her magic. That was an awful lot of trouble to take. In fact, it might look like she was hiding it from someone who could easily search the house.
This entirely cheerful thought was followed fast by another. There was somebody else who knew Dorothy was keeping secrets and was interested in them. Angry about them, in fact. Someone who could also have easily searched the house.
Julia Parris.
26
WHEN I PULLED into the driveway of Dorothy’s house, Alistair was waiting on the porch. I kicked the Jeep’s door shut while I dug one hand in my purse to find the keys Frank had given me. In the other, I carried a couple of straining grocery bags. I’d stopped at the Market Basket for a few necessities—cheese, crackers, peanut butter, toilet paper and, of course, coffee.
“So, you’re okay with this?” I said to the cat, or maybe the house; it was tough to tell which. I admit to being a little nervous. Memories of the Vibe in the cellar, and the one on the second floor, and the one in the garden, had me rethinking my entire plan.
I told myself I had a lease. I’d put down a deposit, which left me with barely enough in my account for gas money out of town, never mind a hotel room. I was looking into mysteries and I’d made promises that I was not ready, or willing, to break.
And I still wasn’t going in. I stood on the porch, inhaling the rich scent of rambler roses, with the keys in one hand and the eco-friendly recycled paper bags in the other. Alistair meowed and rolled over on his back, waving his paws in the air, as cute as any Internet cat video.
“Okay, I get it. Nothing here’s going to hurt me. It’s just . . .”
I was interrupted by the sound of an engine and turned to see not one, but three cars pull up to the curb and park in a ragged row. Their doors all opened and out climbed a small crowd of women, led by Julia and Val.
“Good morning, Anna!” Val waved while balancing a large Tupperware tub on her hip. “I told Julia you were moving in today! We thought you could use some help getting the place clean.”
Kenisha was there too. She opened the trunk on a silver Toyota to pull out paper grocery bags, which she handed to a suntanned woman with auburn hair and heavy nerd-girl glasses. Julia carried a mismatched pair of handled tote bags with publisher logos on them. Max and Leo scampered ahead of her as she made her careful way up the path toward the porch. The dogs sniffed the fence, the tiny front lawn and the roses, all the while yipping urgently to each other about whatever it was their busy doggy noses found. Behind them a sturdy, dark-haired Caucasian woman who wore a plain apron over her loose green T-shirt and black jeans was pulling a truly impressive number of buckets and mops out of her car. She passed these to a Chinese woman with bobbed black hair who wore a pair of faded jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt.
I looked down at Alistair. He shrugged and yawned and washed a paw, clearly unconcerned about these new arrivals.
“Now, you haven’t had a chance to meet everyone,” said Val. “That’s Didi Paulson there.” She gestured toward the woman with the apron, who raised a bucket in salute.
“And Shannon Yu.” Julia pointed her cane at the Red Sox fan, who waved back. “And here’s Trisha Robinson,” she added as the auburn-haired woman arrived at the porch alongside Kenisha. Trisha wore jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to show a truly impressive pair of arms. Somebody in this group worked out way more than I did.
“The good witches of Portsmouth?” I guessed.
Val smiled and shifted the tub she had balanced against her hip. “And Pregnant Woman declares this stuff is getting heavy.”
What could I say to that? “Well, I guess you better come in.” I found the key labeled FRONT DOOR. It turned smoothly in the lock and the door opened easily. Alistair, tail in the air, sauntered across the threshold.
• • •
VALERIE, OF COURSE, had brought food to this work party, and she wasn’t the only one. The women piled the kitchen table with plastic tubs of cookies, deviled eggs, empanadas, and fresh fruit, not to mention two loaves of fresh bread and the butter to go with them. Julia brought bagels, cream cheese and orange juice. I plugged in the coffeemaker and measured out the fresh-ground beans I’d bought, before I joined the cleaning crew.
What followed was what is traditionally known as a flurry of activity. Didi Paulson’s mops, buckets and brushes were deployed with brisk efficiency. We threw open the windows and shutters to let the sunshine flood the dim rooms. We pulled dustcovers off the furniture, turning the spaces once populated by ghosts into comfortable areas for living. We plumped and turned the velvet cushions in the window seat and dusted the shelves on the built-in bookcases.
Dorothy, it turned out, had great taste. Most of the furniture was Shaker-style, all clean lines and polished wood. There were a few pieces of an older vintage, like the armchair in the front parlor and the mahogany dining table and chairs. If I had to guess, I’d’ve said they were Victorian. With their carved curlicues and deep red velvet, they were certainly a lot showier than the Shaker pieces, but not so much that the place felt uncomfortable. This was a house for living in, not for showing off.
The women were all old friends, and they talked and laughed and teased one another as they worked. Valerie got out her smartphone and started up a classic rock playlist. Julia’s dachshunds were inside and outside, barking at everything with great authority and satisfaction. At least, they were until Alistair decided he’d had enough and cuffed them upside the head with an even more authoritative paw.
I was so busy working and discovering and laughing, it took me a while to realize there was more going on than just cleaning. Shannon was hanging bundles of herbs in the windows: rosemary and lavender and a few things I couldn’t identify. Didi pulled a big bag of kosher salt out of her purse and dissolved a huge handful in one of the buckets before she used a fresh sponge to wipe down the thresholds, front door, back door and all the windowsills.
“What’s happening?” I asked Val.
“Cleaning,” she answered simply. “And warding, and protection and blessing. Making the house a safe place again.”
Magic. This was magic going on around me. I turned in place, watching. There was something else too.
“I don’t feel it,” I murmured.
“Don’t feel what?” asked Julia as she came up beside Valerie.
“The Vibes.” I turned again, as if I’d see them in one of the kitchen cabinets that Didi was wiping down. “When I first got here there were a bunch of Vibes. They were mostly good ones, but they were scary strong. I haven’t felt them at all since I walked in.” In fact, I wasn’t even feeling
weird about being in Dorothy’s house. Somewhere, somehow, it had become just a place. Well, not just a place; a beautiful, comfortable place, with my name on it.
“That’s good.” Julia nodded. “This”—she swept her hand out—“is supposed to renew and refresh the house’s spirit. If you’re not feeling your Vibes, that means it’s working. Did you read those books I gave you?”
“I started them.”
Julia laughed. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to be a lot for a long time.”
“I feel your pain,” said Val. “And that’s okay. You’re not alone.”
“No.” I listened to the sounds of music and clatter and cheerful voices. When was the last time I had a house full, or even an apartment full, of friends? I couldn’t remember, but that was okay too, because I had it now.
I reminded myself this was strictly temporary. I had this place for only three months. I could not get too attached.
Myself was, once again, not listening. Myself needed a little reminder.
“What about . . .” I gestured toward the basement door.
Julia followed my gesture, her eyes both steely and sad. “We’ll get to that,” she said quietly. “Very soon.” She shook herself and turned her back on the door. “But first things first. I wanted to ask if it would be all right for us to hold a ceremony in the garden tonight.”
“What kind of ceremony?”
“One to ask blessing and good fortune for the house and its occupants. Expressing gratitude for the blessings we already have. Maybe a little request for prosperity and protection thrown in.”
“Sounds great.” Considering what I’d been through since I got to town, a little extra protection wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I decided I didn’t need to bring that up right now. We still had work to do.
Despite Julia’s reassurances, I was still a little nervous when I climbed up to the second floor. But the atmosphere had changed as much up here as it had downstairs. Shannon moved from room to room, throwing open the casement windows and letting in the summer air. The cheerful sound of Joni Mitchell singing “Chelsea Morning” echoed out of the black-and-white-tile bathroom where Didi was scrubbing a claw-foot tub big enough to do laps in. I could say the last of my doubts about taking the house vanished right there, but it wouldn’t be true. They did, however, close their suitcases and check the bus schedule.