by Lisa Shea
She eagerly took up a slice and began eating it. She said, around bites, “Maybe she just went back to her room.”
Marc and I both turned to look at her. Marc said, “Her room?”
“Yesh,” she said, more pizza finding its way into her mouth. “You know, wherever she was coming from.”
“I don’t know what –” Marc suddenly paused. “Wait. I see what you mean. When I was down here that night, Anna came into the kitchen from somewhere. I saw her walk into this room. But I don’t know where she was coming from.”
“Exactly,” said Alex, finishing off her first slice and taking down a drink of soda. “And besides, what kind of ghost hangs out in a kitchen all day? You said Sarah relaxes in a library. That makes more sense. So where did Anna spend most of her time?”
Marc pointed at the far doorway. “Well, I saw her come in through there. That leads to the hallway and the stairs up to the second floor.”
Alex suddenly looked less than thrilled. “I’m sleeping in the master bedroom. Mom’s room. You don’t think that spirit was spending her time in there with me? Watching me undress and stuff?”
Somehow I had a feeling that that would have been very low on Anna’s list of fun things to do.
Marc said, “Leave the pizza downstairs. Amber and I are going to go upstairs and see what we can find out.”
Anna already had a second slice half-way eaten. She made a noise which could either have been a yes or a no. Or a statement on the philosophy of I Ching.
Marc stepped out through the doorway.
I followed him.
The hallway had artwork of four trees of life hanging in a square, representing spring, summer, fall, and winter. They’d been created with stunning crystal beads on thin silver wire. I’d have appreciated them a bit more if I hadn’t known they were Bryane specials, only $399 each. Buy all four for the low, low price of only $1,299.
Marc slowly headed up the stairs.
The further we got from the garlic, the better I could pick up the trail again. She’d definitely been here. The sorrow was like a river, wending and drifting. It’d been deep within her. I could understand why people felt that ghosts moaned. It was almost as if I could hear her misery.
At the top of the stairs, the door was open. It seemed to be a guest room. There was a single bed, a plain dresser, and an open suitcase lay to one side. There were jeans and Henley shirts. I realized that Marc hadn’t even unpacked. He was simply living out of his suitcase.
He could leave at any time.
For some reason the idea sent a melancholy shiver through me. I shook it off. We had more important things to concentrate on.
We continued down the hall.
The door on the right was also open. This was clearly the master bedroom, and it was clear that all traces of Josephine’s décor were long, long gone. For the room was almost a showcase for every item that Bryane Browninge recommended for a fully realized witch. The star-speckled cover. The moon and sun pillowcases. The meteor-streaked curtains. The matching pine bedroom set, carved with countless owls. The birthdate-customized altar, only $499 complete, embedded with birthstones and astrological symbols.
But the trail didn’t lead there.
It led to the closed door across the hallway.
Alex sighed in relief as she followed us. “Good. So she was hanging out in Mom’s study? That’s all right, then.”
I reached forward to turn the knob.
It was locked.
I looked between Marc and Alex. “All right, which of you has the key?”
At the same time, they pointed at each other. Their voices overlapped.
Alex said, “He does.”
Marc said, “She does.”
They blinked and stared at each other in surprise.
Marc said, “I thought you locked it because you wanted to keep her witchy stuff for yourself. I didn’t care. It was fine by me.”
She shook her head. “I thought you locked it because it was where she kept her witch things. With your father kicking her out of the house and all, I thought maybe it bothered you to see them. I was all right with that – I figured I’d clean out the room once you headed back to Wyoming.”
I stared at the door.
Who had locked it?
And what was in there?
Chapter Seventeen
Alex frowned and tried the door again. “I don’t get it. If you don’t have the key, Marc, who does? I know I don’t.”
Marc knelt down in front of the door and carefully examined the lock. He asked, “Does someone have a credit card?”
Alex’s gaze lit up. “Of course I do!” She scurried downstairs.
Roger grinned. “I’m surprised there’s any plastic left on her card, the way she uses it. I’d think it’d be worn down to a tiny nub by now.”
In a moment Alex was back by our side. “Here you go.”
Marc took the card and carefully maneuvered it along the doorframe. I’m not quite sure what he was doing, but after a moment there was a click. The door eased open.
He nodded and stood. He gave the card back to Alex and then pressed open the door.
We all stared inside.
It was a shock, after the carefully curated, color-coordinated state of the entire rest of the house. It was like being in a modern museum and then finding a door back to the ancient past. For the difference between the other rooms and this one was like the clean lines of Mondrian compared with the dense cacophony of Bosch.
It was controlled chaos.
Every surface of the study was layered with items. The walls around us were nearly all wooden shelves, mostly holding leather-bound books, with a portion supporting half-filled glass jars, cast-iron pots, a kaleidoscope of crystals, and curled parchments. Beneath the window looking out over the back yard was a long, heavy desk. It was stacked with quill pens, notebooks, a few small statues, some bundles of dried herbs, and a box of matches.
I picked up one bundle and gave it a sniff. It was white sage, and judging by the crispy black edges, it had been used in a smudging ceremony.
Alex wrinkled her nose. “Gods, what a complete mess. I’ll need to rent a dumpster to clear this out. I forgot how bad it was.”
Unhappiness roiled within me, but I tamped it down. This was Alex’s mother. Alex was the heir. She had the right to handle the family possessions any way she wished.
Roger’s stomach growled. Loudly.
I realized that Marc was still standing stock-still in the doorway. His gaze was moving around the room methodically, step by step, taking in everything.
It came back to me, suddenly, that he was a police detective. I’d thought of him simply as a man. Maybe as a bereaved man who had lost an absent mother and who was coming to terms with his ability to sense the paranormal.
But it was clear what he was doing right now.
He was evaluating the scene.
I looked over to Alex. “I think Marc might appreciate a few minutes of quiet in here. This is probably the closest he’ll get to his mother, now that she’s gone. His last real chance to get a sense of her.”
Alex’s mouth turned down as she looked around the room. “He wants to dwell in her piles of junk? Have at it. ’Cause it certainly isn’t gonna look like this for much longer.”
She grabbed at Roger’s arm. “C’mon. I’m starving. Let’s get back to that pizza.”
Roger eagerly nodded, and the two of them trundled down the stairs.
I stood to the side. “I can go, too, if you want.”
He was clearly fully absorbed in the room itself, but he shook his head. With slow, careful steps, he moved into the room’s center.
I closed the door to the room and stood with my back against it.
The room settled into silence.
The fragrances came up first. The tickling vegetal sense of the white sage, an aroma I’d always adored. Maybe I equated it with fresh energy in my mind. The wood itself had its own scent, and mingled with the
historic books it sang with joy within me. There was a hint of cinnamon, a dash of rosemary, and an underlying medley of a hundred other herbs which created a soul-lifting harmony.
But there … beneath it all …
I drew in on my pineal gland again. That rice-grain-sized calcium-filled powerhouse located right where the two halves of the brain met. What was it doing in there? Why did the body supply it so directly with a steady supply with nutrients? Why was it located in the safest space in the entire body, at the very center of our skull?
I felt it awaken. I felt as its sensors opened, opened, and received.
Pain.
It was faint, at first, almost hidden beneath those layers of white sage and soot edges and lavender and basil. But it was as if I were walking through a series of wispy, diaphanous curtains and as I swept each one aside I grew closer to a source.
The emotions grew stronger.
It was not just pain. There was surprise in there, and anger, and baffled confusion. There was regret, deep regret, and then pain, soul-searing pain, agonizing pain, and it rose, it rose –
Strong arms wrapped around me, and I realized tears were streaming down my face. Marc held me tight against his sturdy chest, and I drew my breath in long, shuddering gasps, overwhelmed by the emotions.
Marc murmured in my ear, “The emotions are not yours. Separate yourself from them. Observe them. They’re not you.”
I knew he was right, logically, but they were just so powerful, just so immersive, that it took many deep breaths before their deep-clawed grip began to release. Before I could separate the I that was me from this tangible sea around me.
At last I nodded my head, still wrapped within him. My breath was coming easier now. “I’m sorry about that. It just all hit me at once.”
His voice was low against me, rumbling through me. “Don’t ever be sorry. You are sensing things beyond the realm that most people are aware of. You have a gift.” His hand ran down my hair. “I’m immensely grateful that you do.”
I forced myself to draw back, so I could look up into his eyes. “So you can feel it, too?”
He nodded his head. “Something traumatic happened in this room. It left its mark so strongly that the ripples are still here, after all this time.”
My brow creased. “But we talked with her just last night. So whatever happened to her must have happened in the last few hours.”
He blinked. Then somber awareness eased into his gaze. He nudged his head toward the door. “Anna was attacked – or whatever happened to her – down in the kitchen. I think we both felt that.”
I was confused. “But if Anna had a traumatic event in the kitchen, then what are we sensing here in your Mom’s –”
My breath stopped.
Time hung.
I suddenly realized where we were.
We were standing in Marc’s mother’s study.
This was where her body had been found. The M.E. had ruled that Josephine had passed away peacefully in her sleep. That her body had simply reached the end of its path and released her calmly into the next world.
But I could feel it. I could feel it viscerally with every cell in my body.
This had not been a death from natural causes. This had not been a peaceful passing.
Someone had killed her.
Someone had murdered Marc’s mother.
Chapter Eighteen
A tumult of emotions rose up within me, cascading over each other, threatening to overwhelm me. “Something happened to your mother! We have to tell Alex! Roger! We have to go to the police!”
He gently put a hand on my arm. His voice was steady. “And tell the police what?”
I opened my mouth –
I closed it again.
Just what could we tell the police? That their investigations and forensic analysis and scientific tests were wrong? That we had sensed the aftermath of a spiritual conflict and therefore a hallowed member of the Salem community must have been murdered? We just didn’t know how, or by whom, or why?
Tension rose in me. “But we can’t just ignore it! We can’t just let whoever –”
He gave a small smile. His gaze had that look in it.
That look that said, no matter what we faced, he would see it through.
A feeling of rightness swelled in me, filling me, expanding out through every pore in my body.
His gaze shimmered, deepened, and his hand slid to my back.
Our lips met.
It wasn’t planned, or considered, or anything. It just was, and it was as if I had been missing my other half for my entire life and it had been found again. Our kiss was rich, full, and an expression of everything I held dear. Everything I was. Everything I saw in him. I accepted him wholly for who he was. I opened myself up fully to him.
We were found.
Time coalesced and intertwined.
At last we stepped apart and it were as if my entire body were glowing with golden light. As if I had moved through a portal and discovered a different plane of existence. One which had always been here, right alongside my old one.
But one which I had never imagined existed.
I asked him, “What do we do now?”
He seemed to consider that, as if evaluating the many different ways in which the question could be answered. Then, at last, his eyes moved to take in the shelves of books around us. The collections of glass jars, each neatly labeled in his mother’s hand. His gaze took on that steady shine which I was coming to know so well.
“We find out who killed my mother. We find out – and we bring them to justice.”
Chapter Nineteen
I was standing in a murder scene. One where Marc’s mother had been deliberately killed.
Anna was still missing. Had she known something about the murder? Had Anna been silenced – somehow – to prevent her from telling us what had really happened to Josephine?
I looked to Marc in confusion. “Do you think they’re related? Your mother’s death and now Anna has gone missing?”
He was moving along the shelves, taking in each item with that detective’s gaze of his. I had a sense that he was not missing any detail. “We have a saying in the cop world. There’s no such thing as a coincidence. Here we have a murderer who thinks they’ve gotten away scot free. They think they’ve pulled off the perfect crime. And then suddenly, out of the blue, a witness appears. Someone they couldn’t even have imagined. There’s a lot at stake. So the murderer has to do whatever it takes to preserve the secret.”
My brow scrunched in. “But that doesn’t make sense. The only people who knew about Anna were –”
I paled.
His nod was solemn. He didn’t stop his careful, item-by-item perusal of the room. “The list is pretty small, isn’t it. Anna. Roger. Gertie and Prudence. Cassandra and Serene. Bryane.”
Coldness seeped into me. “I can’t believe it. None of them seem capable of hurting Josephine. I mean, Alex didn’t seem to get along well with her mother, but to kill her? To go to these lengths to hide the evidence?”
Marc ran a finger down one of the leather book’s spines, letting his fingertip move along the ridges and embossed letters. “You work on enough murders, you realize that just about anybody could be pushed to that point, in the right combination of circumstances. Maybe it’s just the perfect storm of fury and frustration and lack of options and someone gives someone a push. Someone sweeps out a hand. And then the victim falls down a stair or tumbles into a sharp corner or trips and then nothing can be taken back. There’s no rewind button. No undo option. There’s just the new reality that has to be handled.”
His lips pressed together. “People panic. Their brains can’t cope. They figure something out – anything – and desperately wish that the world will magically reset. That they’ll wake up tomorrow and things will be the way they always were.”
I murmured, “But they don’t.”
My mind went to that day when I was told that my parents had been lost at
sea. I had taken it calmly, because I knew it was a mistake. The police were simply wrong. I knew how my world was supposed to go and this wasn’t it. All I had to do was make it through the day, go to sleep, and when I woke up my parents would be back. They’d have a laugh about whatever hiccup had happened and we’d all hug and life would continue on the way it should.
I had waited for that cosmic reset to happen.
I’d waited … and waited … and waited …
Marc was standing there before me. His gaze was gentle. “Amber.”
I blinked.
I realized, suddenly, that he was going through, now, what I had gone through then, only a thousand times worse.
Because someone had deliberately killed his mother.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed to say. “What can I do to help?”
He took my hands in his. That small smile lifted his mouth. “You already are, just by being here.”
Warmth infused me as if I were lying on warm sand, the ocean gently lapping along the beach, and the world were just right.
But it wasn’t. Nothing was right.
His fingers gently stroked my cheek. “I’ll walk you back to your apartment. Then you should stay there. I’ll let you know if I make any progress.”
I blinked in surprise at that. “Wait, what? You want me to hide out at home?”
His gaze drew down. “This is serious, Amber. We’re not just talking about spirits from the colonial past now. We’re talking about an active murder scene. Someone killed my mother. We don’t know who or why. We think Anna was attacked to keep the evidence hidden. I can’t risk having you hurt.”
I crossed my arms before my breast. “Are you going to make me close my bookstore, too? And never leave the four walls of my apartment? Make me a virtual prisoner?”
His gaze held mine. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“I don’t want to be hurt, either,” I agreed. “It seems the best way to stay safe is for me to stay with you, and for the two of us to figure this out as quickly as possible. After all, what if this murderer has a spirit helper? Someone who can move through walls? Where would I be safe, then?”