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

by Constance Barker

  "Let me take you home first."

  He shook his head, looking numb. "No. I have some things I want to check out."

  "What?"

  He shot me a hard look. "Things that you don't want to be involved in. And, that being the case, there is no point in discussing them with you."

  He was shutting me out. "You can't save the world by yourself."

  He stared at me. "Well then, that's a shame because I don't seem to have anyone else. I'll just have to do what I can. Now go."

  He was angry with me and hurt by my attitude. Nothing I could do or say was going to change his mind. I was going to have to let him be foolish. I got in the car and turned the engine on, still hoping he would relent and ask me for a ride. But I knew he wouldn't. There was a very personal element to what was going on. I hadn't just refused to join in the hunt; Clarence took it as a personal rejection. I looked at him through the open window. He wasn't looking at me. "Clarence, please at least let me…"

  "Go. Go back to the city. Get back to your promising career."

  He was trying to upset me now, and he did. His words stung. I put the car in gear and left the empty parking lot, leaving him there—a solitary figure hobbling to the curb. I felt like a creep, I felt guilty and that made me angry. I didn't owe Clarence anything. I didn't owe Enid or Mason anything either. If they'd made a mess of things, who made it my responsibility to risk life and limb fixing them?

  No one, I told myself, but the words rang hollow as I drove toward the shop.

  An ache in my heart tried to convince me that I was betraying something big, but I ignored it. Harder to ignore was the fact that I already missed Clarence and I hadn't even left town yet.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  I've never understood if there is a design and purpose to the way businesses make waiting rooms as uniformly uncomfortable as possible, or if it was just that their design was totally neglected. It usually seemed that there was a conscious malevolence behind them. The one I was in now seemed to have been designed by the people who specialize in chairs that no one can ever get comfortable in, regardless of their size and shape. These are the kind that keep you fidgeting around in them, squirming, even if you've been three days without sleep. I mean, of course, the chairs in the public areas of airports.

  Despite the ache in my back the chair was providing at no extra charge, I waited determinedly, trying not to show pain. After all, I was waiting my turn to be interviewed for a job as a reporter for an online news site. It was a part-time job that I was sure I could use to prove myself.

  My brain's unrest matched my physical discomfort. I'd been job hunting nonstop for two days—ever since I returned from Destiny's Point and this job, which was entry level, which translates into "pays almost enough to starve on," was the only thing I'd uncovered, the only real job opening that wasn't selling on commission.

  It turned out that while I'd been off chasing cursed objects my colleagues from the magazine, both those severed with severance, and the ones smart enough to desert a sinking ship before it went totally under, had spent their time networking, interviewing and doing all the things it took to get another job.

  With my vast experience in the mail room and a reference as an excellent cleaning lady, I couldn't have used the time for networking anyway, but any open jobs that might have existed were filled.

  The thought that by coming back to the city I found myself chasing yet another object that had disappeared wasn't in the least amusing. Despite throwing myself into the job hunting task, the world I'd left lingered… a strong presence. Sitting there, I could feel the pen, Edgar's pen, warm in my pocket. He still hadn't reappeared and for the time being, I was just as glad. I was trying to get on with this life and having him around would be a reminder that things weren't the way I was pretending they were. Not entirely, anyway. I even tried leaving the pen at home, but with it on my nightstand, I couldn't get out the front door. So Edgar, or at least his pen, was my constant companion.

  As I waited I picked up a newspaper and skimmed it. As a future reporter, I figured they might expect me to know something about current events, and to be honest, that had never been my strong suit. I had a curiosity and an active imagination, but an interest in current events? Not so much.

  I flipped through to the crime pages, just to avoid accidentally learning anything political. Some people are democrats, some are republicans, some are independents, and a few of us are rabid agnostics. I not only don't agree with anything politicians ever say (assuming they could be expected to believe what they said—an assumption I think it would be rash and unwise to start with) but prefer not knowing what they say in the first place. It's a way of never being disappointed.

  The crime pages at least tell human stories, and when I suddenly found myself staring at a familiar name I realized the downside of that benefit. It took a minute of staring at the name, Carl Richards, before I placed it. A lifetime ago, when I was still working in the mail room and reading other people's newspapers, I'd seen a story about an antique dealer who'd gone missing. His name was Carl Richards. And now I read that he'd been found dead that morning, under suspicious circumstances.

  Just then my name was called. An elegantly dressed woman in her late thirties with a depressing frown that suggested she disliked everyone at first meeting, showed me to an interview room. The room was even more depressing than the woman's frown… it had blank, corporate blue-gray walls, a table with a fake blonde wood top that looked as if it had been stolen from a grade school, and a straight-backed chair (obviously from that same school). Opposite the chair sat a bland man in a bland suit. The man looked at me with no expression whatsoever. "Ms. Parish, please have a seat." Feeling somewhat icky, I sat as blandly as possible. I needed this job.

  Despite my best intentions, and my need to get a job, I found it hard to focus. The man chatted briefly about the job and the company in a monotonic (bored to tears) voice. Who wouldn't? He had to have been sitting there repeating his dull canned spiel at hourly intervals all day. Maybe for several days. I answered his questions as best I could without elaboration or showing any emotion. They seemed to cultivate this dull ambiance and I wasn't going to be the one who shattered it.

  "So where do you see yourself in five years?" he asked, remembering to flash what I suspect he thought was a smile as if he cared about my answer.

  Rio de Janeiro, I thought. On a beach. The idea wasn't my real dream, just something that popped up to keep at bay the probability that even if I got this job, in five years my life would be substantially the same as it was right at that moment—mundane, dull, and as boring as the guy in the suit in the dull room.

  The idea was terrifying. With that revelation came the knowledge that it had been five years ago that I stood up Walter and wrecked the plan he'd been brewing even then and of which I'd been blissfully unaware. That I knew about it now didn't seem to be a lot of consolation, but it was some, certainly. It also told me that I was totally capable of ignoring one reality and choosing to see another. But what was it about five years? Something nagged at me.

  And then, it dawned on me that I knew something else. I knew where Uncle Mason's key to the Grand Storehouse was! Walter had been right all along—Uncle Mason had given it to me, just as Walter, and Beatrice, and Albert, and who knew who else, suspected. It was in my apartment hanging on the plaque, where it had been since right after I moved to the city, right after I broke up with Walter. Sly Uncle Mason had sent it to me then as just a little decorative trinket.

  Something was happening. Things were falling into place. I remembered Walter mentioning someone else who had a key; now I was sure he'd been talking about Carl Richards. Walter said he hadn't cooperated. They'd been trying to get him to talk. Somehow they'd found his key, which meant they didn't need mine. And now he was dead. The connection was there and obvious. Being associated with his death made me numb.

  Another truth hit me too. I'd left Destiny's Point but I was still right dab in the m
iddle of all the craziness I'd run back here to get away from. I was still lugging a ghost around with me, for Pete's sake. I couldn't run away. If I went somewhere else that struggle would follow me, because as much as I wanted out of that fight, I couldn't let whatever the key gave him access to fall into Walter's hands.

  Somehow I made it through the job interview and got a pleasant smile for my trouble. "We will call you," he said in that way that tells you that in his mind he's already added, "when Hell freezes over," to the end of his sentence. But I didn't care. If the rest of the company was like I'd seen so far I knew that I wouldn't last two weeks. My brain would seize up or I'd go ballistic.

  I thanked him as if I meant it and headed back to my apartment.

  The moment I got in the room I ran to the key. I clutched it in my hand and knew I was right. I could feel it. This was the key Walter wanted and had been willing to kill for. I thought about the Grand Storehouse. At some level, I had to know what it was and why it was so important to Walter and his plan. I had to have some idea of what let him stop worrying about the key.

  Knowing that I had what Walter had wanted so badly, badly enough to kill for was terrifying. I didn't want to face that man again, not ever. But I had one small advantage. He'd believed me when I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. And now that I did know, now that I had identified the key, he didn't know I had it. There was a certain amount of safety in that.

  The trouble was that I was going back to Destiny's Point. There was no getting away from it. I had to stop Walter from… from whatever he was up to. To do that I needed to talk with Enid. I had to make her tell me the truth, tell everything she knew about the objects, about Uncle Mason, and the Grand Storehouse. I needed to act while I had the element of surprise.

  Even though I didn't think Walter would expect me to show up again, I was frightened. Once he knew… well, I had no idea what would happen. I packed my bags, taking more things with me this time, taking everything that was important, including everything Uncle Mason had given me. Then I went online and got a ticket on the train back to Destiny's Point.

  En route I called Steve and asked him to pick me up.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Fine. I need to take care of unfinished business."

  "You aren't going to shoot Clarence again are you?"

  "I didn't shoot him the last time."

  "But you are okay?"

  "I'm not happy, but I'm good." And the truth was that I was terrified but determined. My blood was pumping and like some stupid knight errant, I saw myself going once more into battle. But once I thought about it I saw that was an image from the wrong kind of myths altogether. A suit of armor wouldn't be much help on this quest unless it was curse proof.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  I held the key up and showed it to her. "Recognize this?"

  "Of course I know that key," Enid said, clapping her hands delightedly. "It goes to the Grand Storehouse."

  "Which is?" Clarence asked.

  I looked at Clarence. I was glad that he had agreed to come with me to see Enid and sad that he was still miffed at me. Even coming back with news hadn't made him forgive me for walking out on him, on this life. "How do I know you won't run away again?" he'd asked.

  I didn't think running away was a fair assessment of my reasonable and sane actions, but arguing wasn't going to fix things. And he'd agreed if only to learn about the key. He couldn't resist learning more about the mysteries swirling around him even if they got him shot, apparently.

  Enid sipped her chamomile tea. "That's where we put all of the others."

  "The other what?" I was pretty sure I could guess, but I hoped I was wrong.

  "Why, the other cursed objects. The really dangerous artifacts, of course, the ones that Mason thought were too risky to keep close at hand."

  "Riskier cursed objects than the first batch?" Clarence asked. I thought he sounded pleased; the idea of objects riskier than the spectacles made me shudder.

  "Much," she said. "They couldn't be contained easily, but the Grand Storehouse was perfect. And there were only two keys," Enid said, giving me a puzzled look. "Carl had one…"

  "And Uncle Mason had the other." I held mine up. "He sent this to me right after I moved to the city."

  "Of course he did," she said.

  "Walter might have Carl Richard's key now. I'm quite sure he does. They found Carl Richards dead the other day. He'd been missing for over a week."

  "Oh dear," Enid said. "Walter in possession of a key would be very bad. Of course, all isn't lost yet."

  "It isn't?" Clarence said eagerly.

  "Why not?" I asked pragmatically.

  "Well, to use the key he has to know where the Grand Storehouse is."

  "Won't he?"

  "He knows how to use the key itself to find the location using the natural attraction, but that will take time."

  "So he might not be too far ahead of us."

  "All right," Clarence said.

  "You need to understand that the key does more than just give you access to the Grand Storehouse, it also protects you from its curse."

  "It's curse?"

  "The Storehouse is the largest cursed object I know of," Enid said. "So you must keep the key with you at all times."

  "Or what?" I wanted to know.

  "Why you'll never get out. You won't know which way to turn and be lost forever."

  "It's a labyrinth?" Clarence suggested, but Enid laughed.

  "Nothing that simple, dear boy. And nothing so mundane. Without the key, it's impossible to see the logic of the place. It's hard enough with the key, but without it, impossible. You can't go more than a few feet n any direction without being so disoriented that you'll simply wander forever."

  "Well, we have the key." I gripped it tightly. "But where is it? Where is this storehouse?"

  "It's in Sarah's basement. She really set things up nicely for it too."

  "Sarah? Who is that? Do we know her?"

  "I seriously doubt it. Edgar might though. Sarah passed over in 1922. Some friends of hers are the ones who let us use the space."

  "Where is it though?" I asked.

  "Oh, it's in California. You might have heard of the Winchester Mansion?"

  I remembered that. "The crazy lady's tourist attraction? I was there once."

  Enid nodded. "Your Uncle Mason took you and your parents there when you were little. He said it would be good exposure for you."

  "She added rooms to it constantly. She didn't want to sleep in the same room twice, or something."

  "A man named Adam Coon, a psychic, told her that her family was cursed by the spirits of those killed with the repeating Winchester rifle. To keep them at bay, she had to keep adding on rooms. I don't know where she slept, but the work never stopped."

  "I read that it has a floating foundation."

  "After the quake of 1906 it got one. But that didn't mean the original basement was forgotten about. It was simply sealed and has no doors to this world. That made it a perfect place to store especially dangerous cursed objects that the Antique Dealers have found."

  "As opposed to regularly dangerous cursed objects," I muttered, earning myself a dark look from Clarence.

  "The two keys have rotated through Antique dealers ever since."

  "Okay," I said, "you and Walter have both done it now."

  "What's that dear?" she asked innocently.

  "You said the Antique Dealers and I can hear the capital letters in the way you say it. You aren't talking about your everyday Joe or Josephine who owns a junk store here, are you?"

  Enid laughed. "Of course not. How would those people know the right way to deal with cursed objects, even assuming they knew one when they saw one?"

  "Good point," Clarence said.

  "No, the Antique Dealers are a group of people who have made it their purpose to find and confine these objects as they surface or are created."

  "Where do they come from?" That was me wanting to
know.

  "The Antique Dealers come from all over."

  "I mean the cursed objects."

  She shrugged. "I'd like to know that myself. If we knew that it might clarify a lot of other things." Then she considered her own words. "Of course there is the possibility that knowing that would create a lot more confusion too. It's rather hard to know, a priori, so to speak."

  Clarence was on the scent now. "So no one knows where they come from or what causes them to come into being?"

  "I heard once that Mrs. Winchester knew their source, learned it somehow. But if that's true, and it might be, seeing as she created the Grand Storehouse, it seems the secret died with her." Then she smiled. "Of course, the irony is that the Grand Storehouse is, technically, the most complex cursed object in existence—an entire mansion underground."

  "Another mansion that's undetected?" That didn't sound reasonable.

  "It's the reverse or the mirror image of the mansion above ground. That's why, if you don't have a key with you while inside, you'll end up lost. It's said that all the evil spirits Sarah was afraid of found themselves trapped there."

  "So the place is full of evil spirits?"

  Enid folded her hands. "We prefer to think of them as misguided. But the point is, they rather enjoy the company of visitors who wander in. The key protects the holder from being led astray by them."

  I stood up. "Excuse me for a moment," I said. Then I looked at Enid. "I'll just be a minute, so please don't unveil any other earth-shaking facts until I get back."

  Enid's smile looked so innocent. "Of course not, dear. I wouldn't do that."

  I went down the hall to the bathroom where I splashed some cold water on my face. It helped. I felt a little more alert. I looked at myself in the mirror, and as usual mostly unimpressed by what I saw. The woman in the mirror was only striking by being unexceptional, not at all the sort of person to be tasked with chasing down a vague assortment of dangerously cursed objects.

  As I left the bathroom, I saw that the door was open to the spare bedroom where Enid had stored the spectacles after we recovered them from Timothy. I could hear Clarence and Enid talking. She was telling some story about when Mason first opened the shop. It was exactly the kind of trivial story I wanted to hear. Anything that helped me understand my uncle better, especially the part of him I hadn't known, was welcome. But right now, for what I had to do next, I needed to have some tricks up my sleeve.