The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles (Curiosity Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Constance Barker

  "You frighten him."

  Edgar touched his own cheek. "That's entirely possible. In fact, I probably do, but then, I think I frighten myself at times. Think how that feels."

  I had to admit it was a… spooky thought.

  Chapter Five

  Edgar watched me gingerly put the box containing the pen down on a shelf. He gave me an odd look. "We should see how the tea is coming," I said.

  "That won't do anything, you know."

  I looked at him. "What do you mean? I'm leaving the cursed pen where it belongs."

  "I'm beginning to get a sense of this situation, this curse."

  "And."

  "That pen is yours now, and me with it."

  "What if I don't want it?"

  Edgar took a moment to consider that. "Tough. You are stuck."

  "No, that's fine, Edgar. I'll pass on the pen. I think my collection of cursed objects is complete. I don't have room for even one more."

  "Nice try. The problem is that it isn't really yours in that way."

  "Then how?"

  "It's more like you are attached. It's yours and even if you leave it here, the curse is still yours."

  "How do I get rid of it?"

  "You can't, not by yourself. It's yours until someone else accepts it from you."

  I looked at the box trying to imagine Edgar inside it and wondered how you'd give the damn thing away. "What if I hand it to a stranger and ran away?"

  He shook his head. "Won't do. They'll instinctively recoil from it. It is cursed, after all."

  "So why didn't I recoil from it?"

  The question seemed to confound Edgar. "I don't know. I suppose you must have an affinity for it. Or maybe you are just getting yours for being so nosy."

  "Oh great. So I have an affinity for cursed objects?"

  "That one, anyway."

  "I'll just leave it here," I said. We started heading back into the shop, but before I got to the door, something held me, kept me from moving. "I'm stuck."

  "Me too. You forgot your pen," Edgar said.

  I turned and found I could move fine in the direction of the pen. "I don't want to carry this box around all the time."

  "Try just taking the pen," Edgar suggested. "I think the box is an optional extra."

  It was worth a try, so I opened the box again and put the pen in my pocket. Then I took a breath and started for the door. This time nothing bothered me and we came out into the shop. The kettle was boiling and Clarence had done some rudimentary cleaning up. "It's odd that they didn't bother taking the money from the register."

  "They got what they wanted," Edgar said. He sounded sad.

  "We still have that pen," Clarence pointed out. "Any idea what it does?"

  "Does?"

  "What the curse might be."

  I chuckled. "Well, we just worked out that the pen is haunted."

  Clarence laughed. "So there are other spooks around?"

  Edgar looked offended. "Just me. Why, don't you think I'm adequate for the task?"

  "You are the curse?" Clarence asked.

  "He is," I said. “Apparently it's your standard model haunted pen."

  "And I'm the hauntee.. is that the right word?" Edgar said.

  "Close enough."

  Clarence snorted. "Edgar, Chief spook on the scene."

  That pleased our ghost. "Anyway you call it, you are stuck with me. Of course, I'm stuck with you too."

  I looked at his dated clothing. "Where and when are you from? Edgar isn't a common name these days."

  "It wasn't during my time," he said stiffly. "Names go in and out of fashion, like clothing and the better ones consistently appeal to a select minority."

  "Don't be so thin-skinned," I said.

  "Were you a writer?" Clarence asked.

  Edgar spun and faced him. "Was I? Possibly. That sounds nice. Why do you ask?"

  Clarence shrugged. "A lot of magic is symbolic. So I thought… if you were haunting a cursed pen that might mean you were or are a writer."

  Edgar nodded. "I see your logic. There is merit to that idea and a great deal to be said for what I might contribute to the world through stories."

  Then I made the connection that I imagined Clarence was thinking of. We were in New England with a Victorian ghost named Edgar. "Okay the clothes, you as a writer… are you the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe?"

  Edgar looked stunned. "Who?"

  "The famous writer of horror stories."

  "Oh… this Edgar is famous?" I could see the idea intrigued him. "Well, perhaps… I recall some things about a poem I struggled with for some time."

  "Does the name Lenore ring a bell?" Clarence asked. "And a raven?"

  "Should they?" I could tell he was trying to decide if he wanted to be Poe or not. Clearly he didn't know much about the man, but then there was so much Edgar was fuzzy about that you couldn't rule it him being Poe on that account. In fact, it was hard to judge the credibility of anything he said.

  Clarence looked at him. "We need your help, Edgar."

  "You do?" The idea flattered him.

  "We need you to tell us everything you know about the cursed objects, the people who put them in the room, and the ones who took them."

  "Didn't I do that?"

  "Surely you must know something more. After all, you were right here, locked in the cursed pen until Cecelia released you. And why didn't they take your box and the pen?"

  "I'll do my best, but the first part was murky. And tedious. I seem to have slept through a great deal. The people came and went sporadically, never spending time here. They simply brought things in, put them on the shelf and said some words, then left."

  "What about the break in?"

  "That was exciting. We were all in there, snuggled together under some kind of warm blanket."

  "A blanket?"

  "Probably a protective spell, or one to keep us all quiet. Then suddenly came that absolute chaos. The thugs came bursting in through the door making a hellish noise. It startled me. As they began hauling the other objects away, well I barely had time to wiggle my box off the shelf and into hiding before they got to where I was."

  "Do you remember anything about when you were first put in the room?"

  "It all seemed rather tranquil. There was a gentleman who found me… somewhere. He realized I was in that pen. Yes, that's right. He put the pen in the box. I wanted to get out and was struggling, but that blanket descended and everything got so… calm and peaceful. Until you opened it."

  I was beginning to understand. "A curse tied you to the pen, and someone else put it in the box and placed a spell on it. Then, when I opened the box, I won you."

  Edgar seemed delighted. "You won me… what a lovely, if wildly inaccurate, way of putting it."

  "And this other gentleman, the one who put you in the box… was that Mason Parish?" I asked.

  "Mason? I'm afraid it was a long time ago, but that name does sound familiar. I can't say I'm sure. I don't have a very good memory, or perhaps there is so much to remember that its all cluttered, facts and events fallen hither and yon." Suddenly he smiled. "I do remember Rowena. I remember her very well. A beautiful woman with bright red hair. You should see how it shimmers in the sunlight. And she has dazzling green eyes that see into a man's soul…"

  "Or a ghost's," Clarence said. "Does a ghost have a soul or is a ghost a soul?"

  "And a long, pale neck. Such an elegant turn to that neck, leading to an aristocratic line of her jaw…"

  "Was Rowena your wife?" I asked.

  He stopped. "You know, I can remember the woman perfectly, but I have no idea who she was. Not a clue."

  "No offense intended, Edgar, but I think you are less from the world of the supernatural than of the slightly deranged."

  "But he was invisible," Clarence said.

  "And I can accept one rather odd thing, but no more than that—not in a single day. Just because he can perform a trick that we attribute to ghosts doesn't make him one. And this b
reak-in nonsense… If that back room was filled with cursed objects, who in their right mind would steal them? After all, they are cursed. There would be a huge risk in releasing them. I mean, assuming this is all true, and I'm not sure it is, I opened one rather innocuous one and I'm haunted. Who wants that?"

  "Innocuous?" Edgar said. "That's rather offensive."

  "I meant it as a compliment, under the circumstances. It's just that I'm convinced that there had to be something else in there—something of real value."

  Edgar looked chastened. "Even if you are right, and I'm crazy, that doesn't mean I'm not a ghost. And clearly you miss the point of cursed objects."

  "Enlighten me then." I plopped down in a chair awaiting his explanation.

  "Cursed objects are just booby traps. They have powers. I'm not sure how I know this, but I have a rather clear and distinct, for me, memory of working with cursed objects. In fact, I have a lot of memories of them, now that I look for them. I just need to sort them out so that I can tell who goes with which memories."

  "How are they powerful?" Clarence asked.

  "They contain dark energies. If you know how to use them, they are capable of generating a wide assortment of mischief and mayhem that a person could use to their advantage. That's why that other gentleman, the one who stuck me in the pen, collected them in the first place. He feared them and wanted them kept out of circulation."

  "Uncle Mason collected them?"

  "If that's who it was. I'm starting to remember a bit, and I recall that he was meticulous. Yes, there was a process. He was very thorough about tracking them down." Edgar snapped his fingers. "He had the particulars collected in a book. It was big ledger book, with a leather binding."

  Clarence offered us tea and I passed. Edgar took one and added milk. Okay, this was going to be interesting. How the heck was he going to drink it?

  "I recall Mason putting newspaper clippings in a book like that," Clarence said. "I never saw what was in it, and when I asked he said it was just a silly hobby. I noticed because it was quite a lovely old volume."

  Smelled like a lead to me. "Where is the book now?"

  Clarence raised his eyebrows and dropped two sugar cubes into his cup. "I haven't seen it in quite some time. In fact, he seemed unhappy that I'd noticed it at all. I imagine it's upstairs in his apartment." He looked around. "Maybe that's what they were looking for in here when they tore the place apart."

  "You drink your tea," I said. "I'm going upstairs to look for it."

  "I'll straighten things up and open the shop," Clarence said.

  "I'll race you upstairs," Edgar said. "I'd like to see where the old boy lived."

  Then he vanished.

  "Cheating ghost," I called after him. "If you want to call it a race then you have to use feet."

  Chapter Six

  If you were just visiting Mason Parish's home, if he invited you over for a game of chess and a glass of Irish whiskey, you'd get the impression that it was a comfortable place—quite homey and restful. The shelves were filled with interesting objects and the paintings on the wall, all originals, were obscure but fascinating. The furniture was overstuffed and in excellent condition. I'd slept on the couch and found it more comfortable than a lot of beds I've tried to pass a night on.

  If you were looking for something, however, something in particular, you quickly became certain that the place was nothing less than cluttered and chaotic.

  I mean, who keeps photographic film in the freezer? For that matter, who keeps film any more? Mason Parish is the right answer. You get five extra points if you spelled the name correctly. Uncle Mason had a plastic box of film sitting next to the coffee beans. I took it out and checked it, but none of the rolls had been exposed, so no leads there.

  Clarence had followed us up and with all three of us looking, and given that both Clarence and I knew my uncle and had been in the rooms many times, it still took an hour to find the book, and it wasn't a small book either.

  Clarence located it under a stack of VARIETY magazines (1930-1955) mixed in with some odd tabloid newspapers. "I didn't know Mason had these back issues," Clarence said. "I wish he'd told me. I had a customer in here about a month ago…"

  "Can we look at the book?" I asked, pointing to it—he was holding it one hand.

  "Oh, right."

  So we opened it and found that the book was in many ways just like the room we'd found it in… a cluttered and chaotic collection of newspaper and magazine clippings. Naturally, there was no index and no sections and the chronology must've been simply the order he'd discovered the clippings in. The time of the stories jumped all around.

  "They all seem to be about odd events," I said.

  "This one is about a man who could fly," Clarence said excitedly.

  I read the clipping he was staring at. "For five minutes at a time. That's more like a long jump."

  "A very long jump. Look, he managed to fly over a small town in Minnesota. I guess he ran out of steam at that point because he fell the equivalent of fifteen stories. It broke both of his legs and his pelvis."

  "That was in Minnesota," I said. "They do strange things there." I pointed to the next page. "This one is about a piano player who set a record for a continuous performance. Afterward, he was never able to play again. I get that."

  "You do?"

  "He played himself out. Here's the thing though… apparently, the music was transcendentally beautiful. The tragedy was that no one recorded it."

  Clarence read quickly. "The thing about it being transcendentally beautiful is unattributed That might have been nothing but his mother's opinion. After all, we didn't hear it and it wasn't recorded so we can't know."

  "True. How about this one—The Cassandra of East New Hampshire. This guy could see into the future."

  Clarence sneered his answer. "Seeing the future is a standard boondoggle. It all depends on what you are expecting. The future in the White Mountains is always 'more snow' I'd guess. that doesn't make me a Cassandra."

  "Fair enough, but it seems he saw slightly more specific futures than that."

  "If we believe the reporter."

  "Cynic."

  "Proudly," he said. Then he pointed to Edgar, who was reading a back issue of Variety. "I'm making an exception for your friend."

  "My friend?"

  Suddenly we came to some pictures. I pointed to a faded black and white photo of a group of young people. "Hey, isn't this a very young Mason Parish?"

  Clarence put his face close to it and wrinkled his nose. "You're right. It is. Mason with hair."

  I pointed to the woman in that photo. "This woman seems to be in several of the pictures. Here's one of just her and Uncle Mason." I looked at Edgar. "Any idea who she is? She's lovely."

  Edgar looked. "Of course. This is the guy...Mason. He is definitely the one who put me in the box. I recall he was engaged to be married at one time. The woman was helping him collect the objects and, as I recall, her name started with an E."

  "He was engaged? What happened? I don't remember anything about Uncle Mason marrying."

  Edgar shook his head. "It's fuzzy. The details."

  "Think, Edgar," Clarence said impatiently.

  "You try being cooped up in a box in a pen for who knows how many years and see how clear your memories are?" He snapped. "And don't forget that I'm a ghost, or something like one. There's no guarantee I should even be able to remember anything at all. Be thankful for what you get."

  "He has a point," I said.

  "The thing is that I remember the engagement." He peered at the photo. "I can't even remember what her dowry was supposed to be, but with teeth like that it had to be substantial."

  "Teeth?" Clarence asked.

  I ignored that for the moment and slipped the photo out of the four little corners that held it into the book. On the back of it someone had written: "Mason and Enid, November 1972. Cypress."

  "Ohhh," Clarence said.

  "Ohhh?" Edgar and I asked simult
aneously.

  "There is a woman named Enid Potter who comes into the shop from time to time. The two of them were always very friendly. Sometimes he'd invite her up to his room for tea and then when he walked her out later, he smelled of bourbon."

  "So maybe they never married but stayed friends?" It made some sense.

  "Why don't you ask her?" That was Edgar.

  "I guess…" I said.

  "We could…" Clarence said.

  "Did she have anything to do with this book or the back room?"

  "Not as far as I know, but then Mason didn't have much to do with it either, at least that I knew of before your spook mentioned it. And I don't see a list of cursed objects in this book."

  "Maybe he put it in code," Edgar said. "Something in the arrangement of the clippings perhaps?"

  "Or maybe you just need to make tea and read the leaves," I suggested. "That makes about as much sense. I think he just stuck information in here that gave him ideas. If he actually recorded anything about objects they found, he did it somewhere else."

  Clarence raised up and took a breath. "Well, if Enid Potter is this Enid in the picture, and if they were engaged, and if the objects stolen from the back room were actually cursed, and if Enid Potter, assuming she is the Enid in the pictures, knows anything at all, she might tell us—if we asked nicely." Clarence spit it all out.

  Edgar rapped on his skull. "Did you leave anything in there, or did the entire contents come pouring out in that long and winding thought?"

  Clarence scowled. "Screw you, spook. I don't have to put up with criticism from someone who isn't even alive any more."

  "Ouch," Edgar said. "That hurt. Just because I'm a ghost doesn't mean I don't have feelings."

  "Edgar, even if we can't parse his suggestion, Clarence is right. Tracking down Enid and seeing if she can tell us anything, makes sense. It's the next logical step." Clarence seemed pleased. "At least it makes as much sense as anything can make when you find yourself propelled into a world of cursed objects and befuddled ghosts. And it isn't like we have any other leads."

  "Befuddled?" Edgar sounded offended again.

  I sighed "You're the one who said everything was murky."

  "So I did. It's just that befuddled sounds so… negative."