I moved closer to George.
The stream of language stopped abruptly, and Beverly collapsed to the ground. Her husband ran to her. When George stepped forward to help, Charles waved him back.
“She is not in need of assistance,” he said. “This is normal. It is part of the process. I should take her home now.”
He helped his wife stand, which she did carefully. She was still pale, but small spots of color started to bloom in her cheeks. Her eyes were open, focused on her husband. Like a marathoner who just finished a race, she looked exhausted but exhilarated.
“We will see ourselves out,” said Charles.
“Wait,” said Chris, “what about...I mean, can you help me?”
“Yes,” said Beverly softly.
Charles guided her from the room past us into the entryway. “We’ll be in touch,” he said before closing the front door behind them.
The three of us stood staring at the closed door for a long moment.
“All right, then,” said Chris. “I could use another beer. How about you guys?”
We agreed, and the three of us went into the kitchen. “How much are they charging you?” I asked Chris, accepting the bottle of Heineken he handed me.
He shrugged. He was still smoking while opening beer bottles. He didn’t even use his hands to smoke, just inhaled, then opened a corner of his mouth to exhale, the cigarette bobbing up and down as he spoke. “Nothing. I’ve asked them more than once. Said they don’t accept money from the afflicted.”
“No,” said George, “they wouldn’t charge for their services.”
“So how do they make a living, then?” I asked. “I got the impression they were well-off.”
“The books,” said George. “Charles has been a bestseller ever since Specter Lake back in 1977.”
“Right, the Bradfords and their lake house,” said Chris. “I read that one.” He had removed his cigarette long enough to take a long swallow of beer. “I don’t care. I don’t care if he writes about us. As long as whatever the hell this is stops, I don’t care if they make a million dollars off the story.”
Beverly lifts her arms from her sides, tilts her head back to address the sky. “I have found the way.”
Charles remains in the background as his wife takes this center stage. The wind dies. Every tree is a monument, every person a statue. We are all enraptured by her.
Who do I believe? Do I believe Beverly is talking to George?
Or do I believe George?
I hear the woman beside me squeal again. Beverly is walking toward her.
No. Toward me.
Beverly Donneville has seen me. The entire crowd turns toward me as one entity.
I freeze.
Beverly motions to the man standing beside the camera. He says something to the cameraman and the camera turns to me.
“This,” Beverly announces, “is Thea Drake.”
Around me the crowd rustles and murmurs.
“Wife of George Drake, the latest soul to perish at the reach of evil present here, and the very spirit with which I am connected at this moment.”
“Bullshit!”
Jeremy Fisher steps forward. His arm brushes mine, and I can feel him shaking with anger.
A low murmur ripples through the crowd, reminding me of an animal growling. Beverly manages somehow, though she is a head shorter, to look down her nose at Jeremy.
“Security,” she says in gentle, quiet voice. Two muscular men in at either side of the crowd start making their way toward us.
I scooch closer to Jeremy, link my elbow with his. “He’s with me,” I say, then louder, so the crowd can hear, “and he’s right! My husband was not killed by a curse. He fell, and he hit his head.”
I choke on the last words, but I face Beverly. I am aware of the cameras in my peripheral vision. “You can’t prove George’s death was caused by this curse.”
“And you can’t prove that it wasn’t.”
Here is the challenge of George Drake’s vocation, the inability to prove a negative, to prove that curses don’t exist.
Except...in this case, I realize there is a way to prove that there is no curse.
The only way.
I unlink from Jeremy, push past Beverly, and march across the muddy ground to the Witch’s Throne. The crowd gasps. A headset guy moves toward me. I fake left, dodge right, and in one-two-three, hiking leaps I’m at the top.
I turn, survey the crowd from this height, and then with a defiant and firm action, I sit on Witch’s Throne.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I expect hostility, but when I descend from the Throne, Beverly is smiling. Charles signals the man standing between the cameras, who then says, “Cut!”
Charles turns to the director and begins a deep discussion, both hunched over a touchscreen tablet, Charles swiping the screen and pointing, the director nodding and talking quickly.
The crowd begins to move and murmur. Eyes follow me as I join the others.
Mitch raises an eyebrow. “Um, Thea?”
“I improvised.”
“Right.”
A hand rests on my shoulder. I jump and turn to see Beverly smiling serenely at me. “We should speak.”
“Yes, we should,” says Rita. I notice Mitch has both hands on her shoulders.
Beverly bows her head and blinks slowly, as if gathering her patience. She lifts her gaze to me. “You did not come here to sit on the Throne.”
“It was a last-minute impulse.”
“You came to discredit me.”
“Wow, Bevs,” says Rita, “you are truly intuitive. No mortal could have guessed as such.”
Beverly ignores her. “But you can’t. You want to believe.”
“I want to know what happened to George that night.”
Rita breaks away from Mitch and pushes forward. “Do you know something you’re not telling us?”
Beverly raises her chin toward Rita, contemplating her. She smiles and turns to me.
“Have dinner with us.” She holds an uplifted palm at Jeremy, Mitch, then Rita, an absurd movement, something a queen might bestow upon the commoners. “You and your friends.”
“We’d be delighted,” I say, mocking her formality. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Eight o’clock. 725 Ames Street. We are guests at the private home of David and Ethel Burns.”
“I hate to intrude on Mr. and Mrs. Burns.”
“Nonsense, you will be most welcome. They know of George, of course. And after today, you’re the new celebrity.”
Jeremy and I follow Mitch and Rita to the car.
“Thanks for that,” I tell him, “back there, standing up to her.”
“She’s a liar.”
The vitriol with which he spits this statement stops me in my tracks, and he stops with me.
He’s watching me with eyes I would describe as searching, as if he’s asking me for help. His excitement and energy from this morning has lifted, leaving the thick residue of—what? Worry? Fear?
“What is it?”
He glances at Mitch and Rita ahead. “I need to tell you something,” he says.
But Rita notices that we’ve stopped. “Let’s go,” she shouts. When we hesitate, she starts back toward us, apparently to deliver the threat of carrying us physically back to the car, one of us under each arm.
“Later,” I say and he nods.
The Burns’s home turns out to be the largest home in Portico, a three-story craftsman adjacent to the Catholic church.
“The nuns lived here,” explains Mrs. Burns, after greeting us at the door with her husband. The Burnses are the kind of smiling, gray-haired couple who have been together so long they move and speak in synchronicity. They are even dressed in coordinating colors, Mrs. Burns in a floral dress accented with the same burgundy as Mrs. Burns’s sweater vest.
“Excellent condition when we bought it,” says Mr. Burns. “Moved right in.”
His wife swats his arm playfully. “Oh, it
needed plenty of updating! Nothing had been done since before the war.”
Together, they lead us through the open foyer and down a dark, narrow hallway that splits the house in two. Through a narrow doorway, we come to the back part of the house, a room the length of the entire house with one wall of windows looking out to a walled-in garden. It is filled with large, overstuffed sofas, chairs, and ottomans. The walls not covered in windows are filled with books. I imagine in the daytime, the room is sunny and cozy, the perfect reading room. At the far end, a fire crackles in the oversized stone hearth.
“What happened to the nuns?” asks Mitch.
“Church membership declined so much after the mill closed, they moved and sold the property. A priest travels from Medford for masses. Sad for the few Catholics remaining here, but lucky for us.”
“And we like to think we’ve saved a beautiful house from ruin.”
“It’s amazing,” says Mitch. “May I take photos?”
“Of course, my dear! And thank you. Mr. Burns and I have put so much love and effort into its restoration.”
“I can tell.”
“Thank you, thank you. Now sit. Wine?”
We all accept her offer, and while she begins to fill glasses, Mr. Burns excuses himself. “I’ll tell Mr. and Mrs. Donneville you’ve arrived.”
We sit on the facing sofas in front of the fire. Mrs. Burns passes around the glasses.
I introduce Jeremy.
“Oh yes, Martin Fisher’s nephew. Such a dear to take care of your uncle.”
The wine is red, robust and chocolatey.
“Fantastic,” says Mitch. Between sips, he snaps photos of the room.
I see a family portrait on the mantle. Mr. and Mrs. Burns standing by a young blonde woman with deep dimples in both cheeks. Two more framed photographs show the same young woman, one in which she is leaning against a red convertible wearing a miniskirt and white boots, and the other a studio headshot, perhaps a high school graduation portrait. Her hair is a blonde bouffant flip, and she gazes into the distance with the serene and determined countenance found on those people who have been reared by loving parents and shielded from most hardships.
A similar photo of myself from my senior year of high school is still displayed in the entryway of my parents’ home. Minus the bouffant. Instead, my curls are gelled into crisp spirals and my bangs hairsprayed to stand six inches tall above my forehead.
“Our daughter Emily,” says Mrs. Burns, following my gaze. “You have daughters, don’t you Mrs. Drake?”
“Yes, two. Lydia is fifteen and Juliet is nine.”
“Oh, my. A teenager. Those years are such a challenge for both parent and child. We bought this house the year Emily turned thirteen. She was so angry at us. She hated this place. Our old house had a game room, you see.”
“What led you to buy this house?”
“The price!” she says, laughing. “But also…well, I suppose you’ll find out eventually. It’s no secret. You know all about the history of the town, I suppose?” She addresses this question to me. “Your husband’s research with the Witch’s Throne and all?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this house was the residence of Adeline Tenatree’s maiden aunt.” She hands Jeremy a glass of wine which he throws back and holds out for a refill. “Her mother’s sister. Elizabeth Porter was her name.”
Mrs. Burns refills Jeremy’s glass without blinking an eye, and though he takes an immediate gulp, he doesn’t drain the entire glass this time.
“She was one of the nuns. See, the Porters had two daughters, Mary and Elizabeth. When William Tenatree asked for the hand of their younger daughter Mary, her parents agreed with the provision that William also provide for the elder sister Elizabeth who had recently entered her novitiate. He managed to bring her here, built the Catholic church and convent at the center of the Portico.”
“He built the church?” asks Mitch.
“He built the whole town,” I say.
“Indeed,” agrees Mrs. Burns. “William chose the town’s name to honor his wife and sister-in-law’s surname. The Porters invested substantially in the town’s establishment when William married their daughter.”
Mrs. Burns doesn’t sit much. She likes to wander the room, refilling wine glasses, opening a new bottle. She pours another glass and offers the wine to Rita, who declines, shaking her head and turning back to the fire, arms crossed.
Mrs. Burns sips from the glass herself. “Elizabeth—or Sister Agnes, as she was known—lived here in the convent until her death only eight years later. Some kind of blood disease…not much detail can be found about her cause of death. She made her transition upstairs in the sleeping quarters. Our master bedroom now,” she adds, looking up at the ceiling through which, I assume, is the mentioned bedroom on the other side.
Mitch swallows the last of his wine and holds his glass out as Mrs. Burns hurries over with the new bottle. “Made her transition?”
“To the spiritual plane,” explains Mrs. Burns.
“And Beverly Donneville has spoken to her, I assume?” I ask.
“Oh yes. That’s how we came to meet Mr. and Mrs. Donneville. They contacted us.”
“About your house?”
“And Sister Agnes. When they first began research back in May, when that poor Garretty boy had his accident, Beverly called me directly and was so kind and dear on the phone. We became fast friends. She conducted a reading here at the house to contact the spirit of Elizabeth Porter, and I invited them to stay with us. Since then, they’ve spent a lot of time in this house as our guests.”
“And what has her spirit told them?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t pry into their work. I do know she is a friendly presence. Emily likes her. She’s not frightened of her, and neither are David and me. She’s never caused any of us harm. Beverly has shared with me a few details of the house’s history, though. And Charles found this photo here as part of his research and gave it to us as a gift.”
She takes a framed sepia-toned photo from a bookshelf and passes it to Mitch. I’m sitting next to him, and I can see the three-story convent in its original form. It once had a large barn on the property. On the front porch, a woman in a nun’s habit stares into the camera with the serious expression of those who endured having their images photographed at that time.
Mitch hands the photo back and continues to chat with Mrs. Burns about the house and its history. I fall into silence. On the other side of me, Jeremy drains his third glass of wine.
I’m close enough to see how pale he is. The hair at his temples is damp with sweat.
“Hey,” I whisper, “you okay?”
He jumps a little, as if I’ve startled him, but nods. “Why did y—” He stops as Mrs. Burns refills his glass, still chatting with Mitch. He waits until she turns away and leans in close. “Why did you sit on the Throne?”
“It was all I could think to do. You know, to prove them wrong.”
“I thought you came here to find out what happened to George.”
“I did…I guess, I did it for George.”
He meets my eyes, then. He has such lovely, dark eyes. But sad.
I feel an ache in my throat, and tears fill my eyes. Maybe I should slow down on the wine. I’ve lost count of how many refills I’ve accepted from Mrs. Burns.
I set my wine glass on the table.
“Everyone who has sat on the Throne has died,” says Jeremy.
I put my hand on his arm. “It’s not real. Curses aren’t real. Witches aren’t real.”
Rita looks over at us, frowning.
“Still,” says Jeremy. “Every person has died.”
“I don’t get—”
He stiffens. Rita spins toward the door. Beverly Donneville glides into the room dressed in the same outfit she wore at the Throne, except with a deep purple shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Charles Donneville follows her, carrying a black zippered binder. I know from George’s research that the binder
contains whatever current project he is working on, and I think of my own notebook in my bag, my own place behind George every time he entered a room.
Charles Donneville and I seem to have a lot in common.
Mr. Burns appears in the doorway behind them. “Dinner is served. Shall we go through?”
The dining room is enormous. Here, too, is a hearth with a crackling fire. To my left is a built-in cabinet that looks original and in pristine condition. Plates are stacked behind the glass doors. Antiques maybe? I never took interest in such things. George could talk for hours with enthusiasts who restored historical homes and filled them with original furniture and housewares.
We take our seats around a large, oblong table already set with a white cloth, elegant floral-patterned dishes, and crystal glassware. A bowl of fresh hydrangea is placed neatly in the center.
Charles pulls a chair out for Beverly and expertly pushes it in as she sits. I remember George once pulling my chair out for me at La Lune on our seventh wedding anniversary. I sat down too soon and ended up three feet away from the table. I stood and this time felt the edge of the seat hit the back of my knees. They buckled, and I sat down hard, even further from the table. We started giggling, and this was before we drank the two bottles of wine and he tried to put my coat on and we ended up spinning in circles, clinging to each other, laughing so hard we were gasping for breath.
“Thea?” Mitch touches my arm, brings me back to the present where they are all staring at me in obvious anticipation of my speaking. Rita seems to scowl even deeper, if possible. Jeremy watches me with the same fearful expression he had after I sat on the Throne.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said I’ve heard from George,” says Beverly, “this morning.”
I expel a strange combination of a laugh and cough.
Charles Donneville clears his throat, and I see he’s annoyed.
“Oh, thank you,” says Beverly as Mrs. Burns passes the salad bowl.
I drove home from the Gambels’ home so George could read the book Chris had given him, Charles Donneville’s Ethereal: The Beverly Donneville Story, the biography of his wife’s early life when she first began to hear the bodiless voices. Her “guides,” she called them. George read passages to me out loud.
The Witch's Throne (Thea Drake Mystery Book 1) (Thea Drake Mysteries) Page 18