Fatal Charm

by Linda Joy Singleton

  I suspected you’d soon turn in my direction for council.

  “Can you help?” I asked doubtfully. Opal acted like she knew it all but seldom gave me real advice.

  It is my chosen role and obligation, written down before your journey, to align with you. I profess to an enjoyment of challenges and am never disappointed in that regard. I find constant amazement in your penchant for trouble.

  I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I guessed “penchant for trouble” was her way of saying I attracted trouble. I couldn’t disagree, although I bristled at her scolding. I never planned to get in trouble—it just happened. I swallowed my pride and asked her for help.

  You must be more precise in your query. Help is a vague term which can mean simply an encouraging word or more drastic involvement. I have always offered thankless assistance. Who do you think reminded you to bring the jacket and gloves?

  “You never said anything.”

  I put the thought in your head. If you were paying attention, you would have sensed my presence. I knew the weather would prove challenging and you’d require substantial warmth. Despite the lack of gratitude I deserve, my considerable actions are woefully unnoticed.

  “I’m grateful … honestly. Thank you, Opal! You’re the best, and I do appreciate everything you do.”

  As you rightly should.

  “Do you know how long Niles will be out fishing?”

  That enters into the prohibited area of human choice, which is specific information out of the range of my knowledge.

  “So you don’t know?”

  In a manner of speaking.

  “Just tell me what to do. We have all four charms and they led us to this museum. Only we can’t get inside. Do we wait for permission or break in?”

  Breaking rules comes with consequences that you would not enjoy. Patience is a dependable ally. Rushing to quick solutions can lead to disappointing answers.

  “What answers?”

  “Are you asking me or her?” Dominic whispered.

  “Her.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “That we’ll be disappointed if we rush to quick solutions—whatever that means. Opal always says confusing stuff—it’s like receiving garbled text messages.”

  I am still here and do not appreciate your derogatory comments.

  I sighed. “Just tell us how to find the remedy book.”

  To see clearly, you need only to utilize your eyes.

  “We have been using our eyes! But we need to get inside the museum, and we can’t until Niles returns. The door is locked and the windows are too high.”

  Really child, can you be any more dense? Your God-given free will binds me as your guide and not your servant. Search within your own resources. Anyone with moderate intelligence could look beyond solid structures to the place where grave answers reside. When you go behind the obvious, you’ll find yourself ahead of the game.

  I just wanted the “game” to be over. But we had a long way to go, so I repeated these words to Dominic. I found some satisfaction when he scrunched his forehead, looking confused. Moderate intelligence indeed! Opal was impossible.

  She must have heard these thoughts because I felt a heated wave of indignation and then a cold emptiness.

  “She’s ditched us,” I told Dominic.

  “Can she do that? I thought guides were supposed to help.”

  “She helps with massive amounts of sarcasm.” I scowled as a huge snowflake plopped on my forehead. Had Opal caused that?

  “So why do you put up with her?”

  I paused to consider this. “I guess because I love her—even though she makes me want to scream.”

  “So scream.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Screaming is one of the emotion-cleansing techniques Nona taught me. Primal screams relieve stress.”

  “I’m not stressed.”

  “No one’s around to hear if you need to scream.”

  Except you, I thought. And if I’m stressed, it’s not only because of Opal.

  “I’d rather figure out what to do,” I said with a frown at the closed door. “Opal gave us some clues. Any idea what she meant by saying ‘See beyond solid structures’?”

  Dominic pointed. “This building is a solid structure.”

  “Beyond might mean behind.”

  “So let’s look around back.”

  We had to walk through high weeds and around prickly cactus, and all along I felt skeptical, not expecting anything more than weeds. So I was surprised when we reached an old iron gate that stretched out to an old graveyard.

  “‘Grave answers,’” Dominic repeated.

  I brushed snow from my nose, hugging my coat tighter as I looked around at dark skeleton trees hanging over crumbling gray headstones and broken angel statues. My skin tingled, not from the cold, but from the thought that jumped in my head.

  Was Agnes buried here?

  But the gate was locked, and the only way to get inside was with a key or to climb over. I could tell when I glanced at Dominic that he was already searching the gate for an easy spot to climb. The iron spikes were pointed and dangerous for climbing. But that didn’t slow Dominic.

  “Take my hand,” Dominic told me. He pushed through weeds near the fence and started to climb. “This area over the gate isn’t spiked. Follow me.”

  Anywhere, I thought.

  Weeds scratched at my jacket. I looked for a foothold at the base of the gate, stuck in my foot, then reached to pull myself up. I hesitated, not from fear of a difficult climb but of touching Dominic’s hand.

  “Come on,” he urged.

  My fingers met his and our hands fit like they’d been molded together; his were large and callused, mine were smaller but strong, too. Purple-gold energy sizzled from our joined hands.

  Then I was being lifted up and half-carried over the points of the gate, landing feet first, safely in the graveyard. Among the dead, alongside Dominic, I’d never felt so wonderfully alive.

  “Do you think Agnes is here?” I asked him.

  “Not anymore.”

  “But she was.” I spoke in a whisper like I’d walked into a library. A library and graveyard were similar—places of peace and memories, filled with stories. While libraries nurture true and imagined stories, a graveyard was the caretaker for stories at their end. Some people fear graveyards, spooking easily at ghost stories, but there was nothing frightening here, only footsteps of memory.

  “Do you see any ghosts?” Dominic asked, smiling.

  “No ghosts or spirits.” I pointed to a gravestone which read Myrtle Mae Fredericks, Beloved Daughter and Sister, 1895–1899. “She died too young.”

  “Even if she’d lived a long life, she’d be dead now.”

  “It’s still sad.”

  “Look for Agnes’s grave. She could be buried here.”

  “Along with her remedy,” I added, hope rising.

  The cemetery wasn’t huge, but it took nearly an hour to read every tombstone, especially the crumbling headstones with names too faint to decipher. A few times a name would trigger my sixth sense. I’d get a mental image of a face: a laughing girl with blond ringlets, a baby crawling on a braided rug, or a wrinkled man hunched over a cane. So many lives lived and gone. But none of them related to me.

  “The only Agnes I can find has the wrong last name—Hoggleworth. Have you noticed how strange the names used to be? Euphelia Tredeway, Docile Wagonwheel, Hibram Bridgeman.”

  Dominic chuckled. “And this one here, Katherine Trout.”

  “Trout?” I walked over to the grave. There were no angel statues or fancy inscriptions, and the faded, square tombstone had deteriorated so I couldn’t make out the date, although the first two numbers looked like a one and an eight.

  “Are you getting a vision?” he asked.

  “No. An idea.”

  “What?”

  “Fish is Trout. And what’s a nickname for Katherine?”

  He shrugged.
“Kate? Kathy?”

  “Or Kat.” I pulled out the cat charm and dangled it in front of his face.

  “Cat!” His blue eyes lit up. “Cat plus fish equals Katherine Trout.”

  “Exactly,” I said with rising excitement.

  “That means all four charms—”

  “—lead to this grave,” I finished.

  “The horseshoe, house, cat, and fish. You found it.”

  “We both did.”

  “Yeah, partner.” His grin went to my heart.

  Suddenly hot all over, I glanced away and pointed to Katherine Trout’s rock–and weed–splotched grave. “The remedy book has to be buried here.”

  “So we start digging,” Dominic said.

  Easier said than done, we both discovered. We searched for a shovel, but the closest we found was a metal rake. Dominic improvised with a metal bowl he found in his truck and the rake. Using leverage, we worked together to pry off the headstone. Then Dominic did the dirty work and I paced impatiently, brushing off light falling snow from my face.

  “See anything yet?” I must have asked a dozen times, and his answer was always no. He’d dug about two feet now without even finding a casket (which was actually a relief). I mean, talking to the dead was okay when they looked almost alive, but I didn’t want to see their yellowed bones.

  The sky had darkened and chilly wind whipped like icy ropes across my skin. I kept my spirits up by thinking how happy Nona would be when we found the remedy. We were so close now …

  I heard a sound behind me. Before I could turn, something pointed jabbed my back. “Don’t move,” a gravely voice ordered.

  With a choked cry, I froze. The sharp object jabbed deeper, painfully, between my shoulder blades, and I knew what it was.

  A gun.

  My attacker ordered Dominic to stop digging.

  “Okay. Don’t do anything dumb.” Dominic froze in his kneeled position; his back was to me so he couldn’t see much. He tensed, seemed to think it over, then slowly lifted his arms in surrender. His makeshift shovel rolled away from his snow-crusted boots.

  “We did what you said.” I tried to sound calm.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Dominic added.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Put the gun down.”

  “Gun? Where’d you get that fool notion?”

  The pressure on my back vanished.

  I risked a look over my shoulder and saw a stout elderly man with a fuzzy black beard, and he wore a thick black jacket that made him resemble a bear. But the wrinkles around his eyes and smile took away the edge of danger. I looked for a gun … and saw a fishing pole.

  “I didn’t catch any fish today, but caught a pair of vandals. Aren’t you too old for childish pranks?” the man demanded.

  “We’re not vandals.” Dominic wiped dirt from his palms on his jeans.

  “And this isn’t a prank,” I added.

  “What do you call digging up a grave?”

  “A rescue mission,” I told him. “We’re trying to save my grandmother.”

  The old guy peered into the open grave, scratching his beard. “Katherine Trout was your grandmother? I hate to break it to you, but not even CPR can save her now.”

  “Not Katherine Trout,” I explained, turning away from the gaping hole with a shudder. “We’re here to save my grandmother Nona. She’s ill, and my great-great-great grandmother hid the only remedy a long time ago. It’s a long story.”

  “Long stories are the best kind.” The man’s voice spit out like gravel, and I guessed he was around eighty. “But only fools and penguins stand out in this weather. Come on inside for a hot cup of tea.”

  A hot drink sounded great—and much better than being stabbed with a fishing pole or arrested for trespassing. This grizzly man had a right to be suspicious, yet his golden and blue aura showed no malice.

  The old man led us out of the graveyard, up rickety stairs, and through a back door, where we went down a narrow hall, past several closed doors with engraved labels reading “Library,” “Artifacts,” and “Records.” We entered a living room with a comfy brown leather couch, coffee table, TV, and wood-burning stove. While we sipped tea, the man started a fire in the stove, which gave the room a cozy glow.

  “The name’s Niles Farthingtower,” the old man said as he settled into the recliner and reached for his steaming teacup.

  After Dominic and I introduced ourselves, we explained about my grandmother’s failing health and how our only hope was to find my ancestor’s remedy book. “All we had for clues were four charms.” I pulled them from my pocket and showed Niles.

  “Beautiful antiques,” Niles said. “May I examine them?”

  There was an appreciation in his tone that impressed me. I handed the charms over and he held them as if they were precious diamonds. “Exquisite! Look at the artistry and color. I have some silver pieces, but not of this quality. What do you want for them?”

  “They aren’t for sale,” I said quickly. “They’re clues from my great-great-great-grandmother.”

  “The horseshoe led us here,” Dominic added. “The building is your museum, and cat and fish means Katherine Trout. We’re sure the remedy book is buried here.”

  “A book could never survive that long.”

  “I think it’s in a metal box of some kind,” I explained, remembering my vision of Agnes. “So can we finish digging?”

  Niles rubbed his beard. A soft patter of snow slapped against the windows and warm flames crackled from the fireplace. “I can’t allow digging in the cemetery.”

  “But we have to!” I was ready to get down on my knees and beg; anything to save Nona. “Please let us dig.”

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “There’s nothing under that grave—not after the flood.”

  A fire and a flood? Horseshoe had to be the unluckiest town in history. If anyone tried to put it on a map, a hurricane would whip through and blow it off again.

  “The flood came when I just started working here,” Niles explained with a faraway expression. “Heavy rains overfilled creeks and caused a flashflood. Water came up to the porch, took out some trees, and unearthed dozens of caskets. It was quite a sight—caskets floating around, some ripped apart with bones hanging out. A skull stuck on a log and we never did find the rest of the body. We salvaged what we could, but had to guess where to bury some of the bodies.”

  “Katherine Trout?” I almost whispered.

  “We found her casket about a mile away. No one could remember the exact location of the original grave, so we picked one at random. Nothing’s buried there—well, except for Katherine. When the water receded, we searched through piles of debris for personal items since some folks were buried with jewelry and other mementos. We matched what we could with the proper remains, but most went into storage in case relatives ever turned up. You’re welcome to take a look.”

  We’d found the right grave but in the wrong place. How messed up was that?

  Niles invited us up into the artifact room. Holding the door open, he gestured toward wall shelves and display cases. “Those three boxes are what you want. Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen preparing bass burgers. You’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

  Bass burgers? No, thank you.

  I politely declined, explaining we still had a long drive home.

  “You’d better hurry. The weather report says it’ll storm by night. They’ll close the roads, and no one will get over the pass.”

  “I know back roads,” Dominic said.

  Dominic didn’t sound worried, but I felt a chill of apprehension. A few hours ago everything seemed so hopeful, we had the clues and a destination, but now bad news kept getting worse. Even the weather seemed against us.

  Niles left the room, and Dominic and I tackled the boxes.

  My first box was crammed with odd objects: a spoon shaped like a boat, a black shoe with a broken heel, a hairbrush, a yellowy set of false teeth, and a toy rattle. The rattle must have
come from the grave of a baby. This grim reality sobered me and I realized the rusted bits of jewelry, water-stained photographs, and other mementos were all that was left of real people.

  “No metal containers or books,” I said with discouragement as I closed the box.

  “Not here either.”

  “Going through these things feels … I don’t know … wrong.”

  “Are any ghosts complaining?”

  “No, but there’s a heaviness in the air.”

  “This room is just stuffy.”

  Like a tomb, I thought uncomfortably. Not haunted by ghosts or spirits, but by imprints of long-ago people. Strong emotions left imprints on object or places. The empty room felt crowded, claustrophobic. I had to get away. So I left Dominic with the last box and excused myself to go to the restroom.

  I wandered out of the artifact room, wrinkling my nose at the strong fish odor coming from the kitchen. Not a savory fried fish aroma, but more like stinky socks and dead fish. If the smell was an example of Niles’s culinary skills, I’d choose take-out any day.

  On the way back from the restroom, I was surprised to see the library door open. I was sure it had been closed before. Curiously, I took a look and saw book heaven—the afterlife of books whose owners have died. At least that’s what it seemed like because there were so many antique books. Most were crammed onto wall shelves while others, I guessed the most valuable, were locked inside glass display cases.

  I wished Agnes’s book could have been protected under glass.

  My eyes blurred and I blinked back tears. We couldn’t find something that didn’t exist anymore. Why hadn’t Agnes simply mailed the remedy to her daughters instead of leaving cryptic clues? Her descendents would have passed on the remedy to each generation and lives would have been saved. At the first sign of Nona’s memory loss, she would have whipped up the remedy and felt great.

  Instead my grandmother was deteriorating fast. Agnes’s lifesaving remedies had died with her. If only the séance had worked. But it had been so disastrous no one would even consider trying again.

  I wandered around the room. The lighting was dim, only a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. I glanced down at a glassed case, not really interested in the old coins, jewelry, buttons, and books on display. The books were brittle and faded, so they appeared to have no color. I had to squint through the glass to read the titles: books on Western lore, hunting, fishing, Nevada history, silver mines, and cooking.