by Madelyn Alt
My grandma would have scared the crap out of Genghis Khan.
I knew for a fact Grandma wouldn't like this new direction my life was taking. Grandma thought good Catholic women found good Catholic husbands and stayed home to raise their scores of children into, you guessed it, good Catholics. According to Grandma, good Catholic women did something with their lives that truly mattered. Apparently working hard to keep one's head above water doesn't count. As it turned out, Grandma Cora and my mom had a lot in common. Thanks to some character defect I no doubt inherited from my dad's side, I've spent most of my life trying to prove them both wrong.
I wandered through the storefront, wondering what I should do first. It felt strange being alone in the shop when I'd only worked there for a total of, oh, ten minutes. Not uncomfortable, just odd. I decided now was the perfect time to familiarize myself with all of the merchandise without Felicity's all-knowing gaze on me.
First things first: music.
Beneath the counter I found a small stereo and a supply of CDs with names like Ocean Waves and Earth Mother. Most of the time I preferred my music with words, but these would do for now. I popped in Green Rain, smiling as the healing sounds of a gentle shower filled the room, and began a leisurely drift through the stacks of goodies.
I still couldn't believe my good luck. In addition to the lovely gifts and antiques, there was a bar for gourmet teas imported from England, specialty coffees, and fine chocolates. In one corner a monstrous Gothic cabinet held court. The bulk spices and herbs filling its pull-down bins made the entire area smell as exotic as a Marrakesh street market. Later I would take the time to go through each drawer one by one for a delightful olfactory experience, but for now I wanted to complete my storewide inventory. Lost in the moment, I opened decorating books and trailed my fingers across fabric swatches, delighted in pictorial compositions of the English countryside, sighed for a china tea set that cost about as much as my car, and daydreamed over a book about ancient Stonehenge.
Such lovely, lovely things.
But taking inventory of my surroundings turned out to be even more of an adventure than I had at first anticipated. Behind an unmarked four-panel door that I'd expected to reveal the bathroom, I found a stairway leading to an upper level. The stairs opened loft-style to a large well-lit space, easily half the size of the lower section of the store. Shelves dominated one whole end of the room, library-style, the windows above them displaying nothing but sky. The air in the room seemed unusually still to me, hushed in the way St. Catherine's is during the day when there are only a few scattered church members crouched on kneelers throughout the dimly lit chapel. I moved forward slowly toward the shelves, quieting my steps upon the wide oak floorboards.
Something about this place…
The hairs on my arms stood up as I approached an enormous round braided rug, devoid of furnishings in the center of the room. Unnerved by the sensation, I stopped in my tracks and ended up taking a circuitous path around it to the shelves, never quite ridding myself of the feeling that I was intruding.
If I had any doubts as to the eccentricities of Felicity's religious habits, those doubts were entirely erased by the items on the shelves in that quiet, quiet space. This was no ordinary book collection. This was a glimpse into the hidden and mysterious world of occult practice. There were books on witchcraft by the hundreds, whose titles made mention of things such as wicca, wita, pecti-wita, and strega, whose authors possessed names from the mundane, Raymond Buckland, to the exotic, such as Zsuzsanna Budapest, to the strangely poetic Starhawk. Other books referred to goddesses, from the Celtic to Greek, Egyptian, even Sumerian. There were books on Buddhism, Hinduism, and Shintoism. Qabala and Kabbalah. Shamanic magick, ceremonial magick, sympathetic magick, practical magick, crystal and herbal correspondences, and your basic candle spells. Elements, elementals, spirits, hauntings, stone circles, and yes, even crop circles. Enough woo-woo topics to make your head spin, Exorcist-style. And then there were catalogs for places with names like Lady Arwen's Cauldron, Avalon Cometh, Nightshade Alley, and Magickal Nights; places where you could get anything and everything for the practicing pagan.
At first I felt… unsettled… by the realization that my boss, who was practically my savior, was in truth and in fact someone who did not worship God, who uttered spells in the dark of night, and who would upon her death burn in the fiery pits of Hell. At least, according to what I'd been taught.
Jerry Springer, come on down.
To follow my grandma's edicts, I should make it my life's mission to save Felicity's eternal soul, to somehow find a way to turn her away from the dark side and return her to The Light. But I had long ago begun to question the teachings of my upbringing. How could I possibly think to convince Felicity of the error of her ways when I couldn't convince myself that any of it meant… anything? Besides, the whole concept of foisting one's version of reality on every unsuspecting passerby seemed to me rather presumptuous and, well, rude.
Caught up in my musings, I wandered around the perimeter of the room, marveling over a jewel case of crystals of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Another held all manner of jewelry—all silver, all distinctive. One piece, a brooch in the shape of a serpentine Celtic knot with a large pearlescent stone set in the center, was a duplicate of the pin Felicity had worn on the morning we first met. A large Pharmaceuticals chest contained drawers labeled with the old-fashioned names of plants and herbs like mugwort, vervain, mandrake, and yarrow. Spell components, I gathered.
Despite the strange and unfamiliar contents of the loft, I felt comfortable here. But one question remained in my mind.
What would make a woman as worldly and intelligent as Felicity believe in the superstitious world of magic?
I had no answer.
I found myself wandering back to the books, running my fingertips over the spines. An insatiable curiosity burned in me; I couldn't seem to help myself. Biting my lip, I screwed up my courage and hooked an index finger over the binding of one, tipping it outward. It fell into my hand, its worn binding allowing it to fall open to a passage by Dorothy Valiente.
I began to read:
I am the gracious Goddess who gives the gift of joy unto the heart of man, upon Earth I give knowledge of the Spirit eternal, and beyond death I give peace and freedom and reunion with those who have gone before; nor do I demand sacrifice, for behold I am the Mother all living, and my love is poured out upon the Earth.
That wasn't as bad as I would have thought. In fact… I stared at the page, mesmerized by the words that were strangely sensible. But that… that was crazy. An illusion. It was the author's voice, her lyrical turn-of-phrase. That's what had drawn my attention. That's all.
Normal people just didn't believe in magic.
From below, the front bell tinkled. The sound startled me from my reverie. Eyes wide, I snapped the book shut and held very still, hoping against hope whoever was down below would go away.
Typical hand-in-the-cookie-jar behavior. Inexcusably spineless.
I set my jaw. Margaret Mary-Catherine O'Neill, this is your life. Isn't it about time you got it together?
I responded to the mental admonishment in the way I'd always responded to Grandma's insights: quickly, and with the knowledge that the alternative would somehow be much worse. Getting to my feet, I straightened my sensible imitation-mohair sweater (Did I tell you how much I love Wal-Mart?) before descending the stairs as quickly as possible. It wasn't until I hit the landing that I realized I still had the witch book in my hand.
Damn.
As a last resort, I tucked it under my arm and headed toward my post at the register. I could ditch it beneath the counter when no one was looking. There was no way I was going to set it down in plain sight.
An elderly woman had entered the store. She glanced up when I stepped through the door, but only barely. It wasn't until I took a seat on a tall stool behind the counter that she acknowledged me.
"New here, aren't you?"
I smiled politely, ready to test my erstwhile submerged people skills. "Yes, ma'am. Today is my first day."
Her smallish eyes lowered, taking in my appearance. "Thought so. Didn't know Felicity was looking to hire someone. She might have said. I might have put in an application myself if I'd've known that to be the case." Having completed her assessment of my person, she sniffed and went back to pawing through a tall stack of crisp white linens.
My cheeks felt as hot as flame. The woman's sniff was an obvious dismissal. Obviously she found me lacking. Probably in some way pertaining to Enchantment's employee discount policy. Despite that insight, I nudged the book beneath the counter before I gave her something else with which to take exception.
After an eternity of mauling Felicity's careful antique textile display, the woman brought a single handkerchief to the counter. It was white, plain, its only adornment a chain-stitch of white floss following within an inch of its hemmed border.
I rang up the purchase, doing my best to appear efficient. "Will there be anything else?" I asked politely.
Her puckered mouth pinched even tighter. "What is it about big business these days? Always pushing extras on hardworking folks like me. If there was anything else I had in mind, I would have said so, now, wouldn't I?"
My smile held. It was a struggle, but it did. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend."
"Hunh."
"That will be three-fifteen."
Digging into a bag the size of Montana, she managed to come up with three ones after only five minutes. The fifteen pennies—yes, that's right, pennies—took slightly longer.
"Don't forget to initial my receipt," she commanded as I wrapped the scrap of fabric in tissue paper and placed it in a tiny paper sack. "I don't want any hassles if I decide to return this. It's overpriced as it is, and if I find something better across the street, I'll be wanting my money back."
My blood pressure edged a notch higher. I gritted my teeth. "Of course."
Tucking everything into her mammoth purse, she gave me a stern look. "And don't think I won't advise Ms. Dow that you were neglecting your post in her absence. Frittering about in the back room. I think she has a right to know the truth about her employees. My duty as a steady customer."
With that and a high-minded sniff, she slung the bag over her arm and turned up her nose before heading for the door.
I stared glumly toward the display windows, certain I'd just signed my own pink slip. That couldn't have gone any worse.
Maybe Mel was right. Maybe I wasn't cut out for a job with the public.
Thankfully my trip down Self-Pity Lane
proved short and sweet. The rest of the morning flew by with a steady stream of customers with cash at the ready, and none so sour as the purse-mouthed biddy who'd been my first. Thank God. She'd nearly succeeded in ending my career in retail, but later customers cured my momentary lapse of faith, and I persevered. By the time the noon siren blared, I was knee-deep in customers and merchandise deliveries. An hour later, the lunch crowd thinned a bit and I finally had a moment to myself. I sat down on the stool behind the counter and gazed, exhausted but happy, at the deliveries piling up, waiting to be opened. What wonders would I find in their corrugated cardboard depths? Oh, but Felicity had said only to ring up purchases and never mind the rest for now. Sighing wistfully, I stowed them in the storage room, then went in search of something to assuage the growling beast of my stomach.
One PB&J and a snack bag of chips later, and I was still alone and needing to find something to amuse myself. I changed the music to yet another New Age selection—Celtic pipes this time. I dusted the merchandise. I cleaned the telephone keypad. I refolded the whites the Cantankerous One had left in a jumble. Finally there were no chores remaining. Left to its own idle resources, my mind began to wander.
Specifically, I began to wonder why Felicity had not yet returned. Or at the very least, called.
I frowned as I tried to recall Felicity's part in the phone conversation this morning. What had she said? Had she mentioned anything about whom she would be seeing? Where she was going? She'd been gone for hours without a word. While I appreciated her trust in me, I couldn't believe that I had done anything to warrant that level of confidence.
Should I call her cell?
All my life I've been a worrier, even when unprovoked or unmerited. But just then, at that precise moment, I felt a soul-deep certainty unlike anything I'd ever felt before.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The bell above the door jangled again, sending my heart into apoplexy. I looked up and nearly choked on my PB&J. Standing on the threshold in the neatly pressed uniform of our local police force was a prime example of the boys in blue. I made some hurried mental calculations.
Age? Mid-thirties or I'd eat my featherduster.
Eye color? Undetermined.
Arms of steel? Oh yeah.
My stomach did some loop-de-loops of nervous appreciation. If I hadn't been so anxious about Felicity's extended absence, I might just have batted my eyelashes. As it was, all I could do was stare.
He came forward, his movements deliberate and slow. "Miss O'Neill?"
Could it be any more perfect? He knew my name.
Wait a sec. How could he know my name?
"Can I help you, Officer… ?"
"Fielding, ma'am. Deputy Fielding." He didn't move a muscle. I couldn't see his eyes, but from behind his mirrored aviators (a throwback to the eighties?) I sensed that he was watching me closely. "Your employer, Felicity Dow, asked me to bring these to you."
He held out his hand. A strong, capable hand, with calluses at the base of each finger. I couldn't help noticing.
I also couldn't miss the heavy gold band. Married. Damn and double damn.
With a wistful sigh, I shifted my gaze one inch south of the wedding band. In his palm he held a ring of keys. On the ring was a silver charm in the shape of a coiled Celtic knot.
Felicity's keys.
I frowned, trying to make sense of the offering. "I don't understand. Why would Felicity send me her keys? Is she all right? Has there been an accident or something?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead he turned slightly, making a slow sweep of the store from behind his sunglasses. "Miss O'Neill, how well do you know Ms. Dow?"
The question took me by surprise. "Not very, I suppose. I've only started working for her this morning."
"You may want to rethink that decision."
"Why would I want to do that?"
He reached up and slowly, purposely removed his sunglasses. "Isabella Harding was found dead this morning."
My eyebrows stretched to new heights. Isabella Harding was the wife of one of the richest men in town. "I don't know what to say. How does that affect—"
"The late Mrs. Harding is Ms. Dow's estranged sister. Ms. Dow is at the station right now for questioning in the matter."
Simple words. Straightforward. They might as well have been Greek. I stared into his unsmiling gray green eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that you believe Felicity was somehow involved?"
"I'm telling you she's being questioned," he replied without a trace of emotion as he slipped his glasses back on. As if that alone were explanation enough. "Let me give you a piece of friendly advice, Miss O'Neill. Find yourself another job. Get yourself far, far away from here, before Ms. Dow's secret world swallows you whole."
He nodded crisply and turned to leave. My head was spinning. This wasn't the first murder Stony Mill had seen, nor would it be the last. But it was the first I'd been involved in, however remote that involvement. There was something sobering about that, a gravity that took me by the throat and made me feel hot and cold all at once.
Could Felicity somehow have been involved in the death of her own sister? And what about Marcus? Where was. he now, and what did he know about all of this?
Questions begged answers, and the only way I was going to get some anytime soon was to go straight to
the source.
Before I knew what I was doing, I held up my hand. "Wait!"
Even as he turned to look at me, I had grabbed the keys off the counter and was shoving things into my purse. "Do you mind telling me why?" he asked.
"Because I'm coming with you."
Chapter Three
I waited, shivering, in the unheated lobby of the local cop shop for five solid hours for Felicity to be released. For the most part I was ignored, a nondescript lump of ice taking up space on one of the metal folding chairs that had been left stacked in a corner. Every once in a while, the Tic Tac-popping dispatcher took pity on me and brought me a cup of incredibly bad, watered-down coffee. It was better than nothing, but only just. The time wasn't a total waste, however. An hour into the wait, I discovered I had inadvertently shoved the witch book into my bag, so I spent the rest of the time going back and forth between eavesdropping on the banter and jargon peculiar to those in law enforcement and sneaking peeks into the strange and compelling world of magick, spelled with a k, I learned, to differentiate it from the optical illusions performed by sideshow magicians.
And what an eye-opener it was. Too bad it was all just make-believe. I had to admit, it would be nice to be able to believe in wishes and fairies and making things happen purely by strength of will. And it made me wonder, too, when and why our childish faith in all things magical suddenly abandons us. When had I stopped believing? What darkness had crept into my life that made me realize I was on my own?