The Prophet tgqs-3

by Amanda Stevens

  “Do you know what I think?” she said crisply as she dusted her hands on her gray pants. “I think you and Angus should come around to the back garden and have some breakfast with me.”

  “We couldn’t possibly impose,” I protested.

  “It’s not at all an imposition. In fact, you would be doing me a huge favor. I don’t know anyone in the neighborhood yet, and I would love having a friend nearby. My family lives here in the city, but they tend to smother, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t, actually. My parents had always maintained a distance. Mama, because of the circumstances of my birth; Papa, because of his secrets. We were not a close family, though I had never once doubted their affection for me.

  Clementine Perilloux opened the gate with a hopeful smile. “Please,” she coaxed. “I’ve made scones. And there’s a fresh batch of muscadine jelly from my grandmother.”

  Her smile was infectious, and I had no ready excuse, so I merely nodded and followed Devlin’s brunette into the backyard with only a passing thought to the broken statue.

  Chapter Six

  A little while later, I sat on the patio and waited for Clementeen Perilloux to return. She’d come out once to bring freshly squeezed juice and a pot of steaming coffee, and now I could smell something delectable wafting from the kitchen doorway.

  “Are you sure I can’t be of some help?” I called yet again.

  “Everything’s almost ready. Just relax and enjoy the garden.”

  Angus certainly was. He had explored and sniffed and pawed to his heart’s content, and now he’d treed something behind the same azalea bushes that had hidden me the night before.

  Like Clementine herself, the garden appeared very different from my first impression. By dusk, it had seemed a place of enchantment—dangerous and ethereal—but now I could see that she had her work cut out for her in restoring forgotten flower beds and taming overgrown bushes. The house was a charming two-story with a peaked roof and dormer windows, but a closer scrutiny revealed peeling paint and missing window screens. The whole place wore an air of gentle neglect.

  The shards of the broken cherub still lay strewn across the stone pavers. I wondered if Clementine had even noticed. And I wondered why I hadn’t yet said anything. The delay was just going to make my confession and apology that much more awkward.

  Of course, deep down, I knew the real reason for my procrastination, and it wasn’t one of my prouder moments.

  She came out of the house just then carrying a basket of fresh scones and a jar of jelly the color of an antique garnet.

  “My grandmother makes it every year,” she said as she took a seat across from me. “It’s a family tradition. When I was little, come fall, we would drive out to the country to pick the grapes. That trip with Grandmother was always the highlight of my autumn.”

  “You say your family lives in Charleston?” I asked, accepting a scone.

  “Yes.” She held up a piece of bacon. “Okay for Angus?”

  I nodded.

  She called to him and he came at once, gobbling the crispy strip right out of her hand. I might have felt a little betrayed by his gusto, but truth be told, I was quite taken with Clementine myself. I had to wonder, though, if she might not be a little too good to be true. Inviting strangers to breakfast, working in an animal shelter. A part of me wanted to believe that she wasn’t quite as wholesome as she appeared. A part of me still wanted to hate her, but her childlike exuberance had charmed me.

  My gaze strayed again to the back porch. Now that I’d met her face-to-face, it was hard for me to imagine her in Devlin’s arms. Hard for me not to imagine it, too.

  She offered the last of the bacon to Angus, then straightened. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling me about your family.”

  “Oh, yes. My grandmother has this wonderful old house on Legare just north of Broad near the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist,” she said. “It’s been in the family for generations. A big, old, rambling place with gorgeous piazzas and gardens. I grew up in that house. My father died when I was ten and pretty much left us destitute. Grandmother, bless her, took us in.”

  She offered me the jelly. “Thank you.” I spread some on my scone and took a bite. The quick bread was warm, flaky and delicious. So she could also bake.

  “She tried to get me to move back in after…that is, when I decided to settle in Charleston.” A frown played between her brows. “I suppose it would have been the practical thing to do, but I need to prove that I can stand on my own two feet. I had some savings and I’ve always wanted to renovate one of these old places, so…”

  “Here you are.”

  She drew a breath and released it. “Yes.”

  I couldn’t help noticing a slight tremor in her hand as she lifted the cup to her lips and I glimpsed something in her eyes that made me wonder if there was more to the woman than the charming facade she presented to the world. “It’s a lovely house,” I said, feeling a momentary disquiet.

  She glanced around proudly. “I can’t wait to get started. My sister has offered to help, but I want to do as much of the work as I can by myself. Not that I’m completely self-sufficient, mind you. I did accept a job from Grandmother.”

  “What do you do?” I asked curiously.

  “I work in her bookstore and tea shop. It’s a little place on King Street called The Secret Garden. Do you know it?”

  “I was in there not too long ago,” I said in surprise. “It’s a beautiful shop. The selection of teas is mind-boggling.”

  “I wonder if that’s why you look so familiar to me,” she murmured, her gaze searching my face. “I can’t shake the notion that we’ve met before.”

  A sudden breeze gave me a slight chill as I glanced down at my plate. “I don’t think so. Although I suppose it’s possible you saw me in the shop. Or maybe we’ve passed on the street.” Or you spied me hiding in your bushes last evening.

  “That’s probably it.”

  “How long has your grandmother owned the store?”

  “Oh, forever. She came here from Romania as a young woman. Back then, she had a special room in the rear of the shop where she read tea leaves. She also had quite the reputation as a palmist. Some of her clients came from the wealthiest and most powerful families in Charleston. That’s actually how she met my grandfather.”

  “She told his fortune?”

  Clementine grinned. “To her advantage, no doubt. Grandmother is no one’s fool.”

  “Does she still do readings?”

  “Occasionally, but never for money these days. She gave it up after she married my grandfather. The practice was deemed unsuitable, borderline satanic in his circle, though many of his friends were her clients. She insisted on keeping her shop, though. She always said it was a foolish woman who relied solely on the discretion and generosity of a man, even one as wealthy and as smitten as my grandfather. She was quite the progressive in her day.”

  “She sounds like a very interesting woman.”

  “She certainly is. Drop by the shop sometime and I’ll introduce you.” She offered me another scone even though I’d yet to finish the first. “Oh, please eat up,” she encouraged. “The leftovers will go straight to my hips.”

  I took another and I placed it on my plate.

  “Well, I’ve certainly been the chatterbox, haven’t I?” she said cheerfully. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” A pause. “You’re very easy to talk to.”

  “I am?” I would never have thought so. I’d spent too much of my life in my own company.

  “You have a kind face and a soothing manner.” She held out her hand. It was perfectly steady now. “May I?”

  I felt myself immediately withdraw. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not much for fortunes. I’ve never wanted to see my future.”

  “Don’t worry. I know little beyond the basics. Both hands, please. The future is shown in the left, the past in the right.”

  I placed my hands palm up on
the table. She scrutinized both without touching either. “What do you do for a living, Amelia?”

  “I’m a cemetery restorer.”

  She glanced up. “Really. How interesting. What does that entail, exactly?” She bent back to my palms.

  “In a nutshell, I reclaim old graveyards that have been abandoned or fallen into a state of neglect.”

  “You mean like family burial sites?”

  “And old public cemeteries, as well. Graves are forgotten and rarely visited after a generation or two. Neglect takes a rapid toll. The ground sinks. Headstones crack. Whole cemeteries get swallowed up by forests… .” I trailed off. “Now I’m talking too much.”

  “Not at all. I love old graveyards. I’ve just never given much thought to the care of them. I imagine vandalism is a big problem.”

  “Vandalism, acid rain, moss and lichen. The problems vary. Every cemetery is unique. The time and attention required will vary from place to place, stone to stone. My motto is to do no harm.”

  “Like the Hippocratic oath,” she said. “I suppose that’s a good life’s motto for any of us.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “When I was little, my grandmother and I spent many a Sunday afternoon exploring churchyards all over Charleston. The Unitarian was always my favorite. I loved all the wildflowers and the story about Annabel Lee. She was supposedly the inspiration for Poe’s poem, you know. I would beg my grandmother to tell her story every time we visited, even though I was terrified of running into her ghost. Luckily, I never did.” She gave a little shudder as she fixed her gaze on my palms. “Hmm…that’s interesting.”

  “Interesting good or interesting bad?” I asked with more than a shade of trepidation.

  “You have water hands,” she said. “I would have guessed earth.”

  “Because of my profession?”

  “Among other things.”

  I curled my fingers and withdrew my hands to my lap. She didn’t object.

  “You have some unusual lines,” she mused as she sipped her coffee. “But I don’t know enough to give you a proper interpretation. You should let my grandmother do a reading for you sometime. Or my sister. She’s very talented. Maybe the most gifted of us all.”

  “Thank you, but as I said, I’d rather not know what the future holds.”

  She leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Chiromancy has very little to do with psychic ability. It’s both an art and a science. A good palmist is more of a psychologist than a prophet. She bases her predictions on a particular set of factors she gleans from the client and then suggests a likely outcome. But my sister says that no one is interested in the actual methodology. People who visit palmists do so because they’re drawn to the mystique. They want the show, in other words, and Isabel obliges in her own irreverent manner. She calls herself Madam Know-it-all.”

  “She’s a professional palmist?” Madam Know-it-all. Why did that name ring a bell?

  “She has a place right on the edge of the historic district, near Calhoun.”

  Something was starting to niggle. “Is it across the street from the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies, by chance?”

  Clementine’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’ve been there. Now that is a coincidence.”

  Not coincidence, I thought uneasily. Synchronicity.

  “A friend of mine is the director of the Institute,” I said. “I notice your sister’s place every time I visit. There’s a neon hand in the front.”

  “Yes, that’s it. But don’t let the name fool you. Isabel takes her work very seriously.”

  The last time I’d been to the Institute, I’d spotted Devlin on the front porch with a shapely brunette who I had assumed was the palmist. Now I was sure of it, and I was equally certain that the woman I’d seen him with last evening hadn’t been Clementine Perilloux, after all, but her sister, Isabel.

  We both fell silent as we finished our coffee, and, given this new development, I wondered if I should just make a graceful exit and forget about the broken statue. I’d waited too long. Now a confession would be terribly uncomfortable. Still, Clementine had been nothing but gracious, and I felt I owed her the truth and some manner of compensation.

  I nodded toward the garden. “I see your statue’s been broken.” She followed my gaze. “Oh! Isabel said she and John heard someone in the garden last evening.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “John?”

  “He’s a police detective. He and Isabel…”

  I leaned in.

  “…are very close friends.”

  Friends? I was both hoping for and dreading an elaboration, but when none was forthcoming, I let out a breath. “You’re not upset about the statue?”

  Her eyes flickered. “There was one very like it in the garden at…where I lived before. I didn’t care for that place so I’m happy to be rid of the reminder.”

  I felt a tiny prick of unease, that prescient tingle along my spine and scalp that made me say quickly, “This has been lovely, but Angus and I really should be going.”

  “I’ll walk you around,” she said. “Promise you’ll come again. Next time I’ll invite Isabel. I’d love for you to meet her. I know I’m biased, but she’s…well, you’ll just have to see her for yourself. I think the two of you would really hit it off. You have a lot in common.”

  Chapter Seven

  That night I fixed a light dinner for myself, and after the dishes were washed and put away, I made a cup of tea and settled down to work. My office at the back of the house was a converted sunporch, surrounded on three sides by windows. By day, the sunlight shining in from the garden was warm and relaxing, but by night, the darkened panes spurred the imagination, especially on evenings like this when I sensed the nearby presence of restless spirits.

  But I refused to give in to the sensation at my nape. I wouldn’t look around. I wouldn’t scour the garden for the telltale illumination of a manifestation. Instead, I powered up my laptop and opened a new document file.

  For weeks, I’d been ignoring my blog, but now that I found myself in between restorations, the ad money generated by Digging Graves was an important source of revenue. I’d already come up with a new topic—“The Crypt Peeper: Communing with the Dead”—a piece about the popularity of graveyards during the Victorian era. Tonight, however, that subject seemed prophetic because I’d spent a little too much time lately conversing with ghosts.

  I continued to work until I’d eked out a rough draft, and then I saved the file and logged onto the internet to do some research. If I was going to help Robert Fremont find his killer, I would need to study every scrap of information I could lay my hands on. I was still uneasy about my role as detective, but I’d always loved a good mystery and research was the backbone of cemetery restoration. I knew how to dig for the most obscure details, but unfortunately, I found precious little information about the murder. Fremont had worked undercover so I imagined that even after his death, cases and informants needed to be protected. I did run across the occasional mention of him on a site that archived old articles involving the Charleston Police Department and even managed to turn up a brief piece about the shooting and a sparse obituary.

  Fremont had been thirty when he died. I’d already known he was close to Devlin’s age because the two had gone through the police academy together. I’d seen a picture of them at graduation, along with a third man named Tom Gerrity, who was now a private detective in Charleston. He and Devlin made no bones about the contempt they held for one another. The bad blood had something to do with Fremont’s death, but I knew none of the details, and the online article mentioned neither of them.

  No witnesses to the shooting had ever come forward, and no information regarding motive or suspects had been released to the press. The case had apparently been kept under close wraps by both the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office and the Charleston Police Department.

  Two items from the article and the obituary leaped out at me. One, Fremont had g
rown up near Hammond, a small town in the coastal plain of South Carolina where Mariama had been raised. And two, the shooting had occurred the day after her accident. Fremont’s time of death had been placed somewhere between two and four in the morning, several hours after Mariama’s car had gone over a guardrail at dusk, trapping her and Shani inside the sinking vehicle.

  I’d seen Robert Fremont’s headstone last spring during the restoration of Coffeeville Cemetery, but I hadn’t known who he was at the time so his date of death hadn’t registered. Now, given what I’d learned of his connection to Devlin and possibly to Mariama, the proximity of their deaths intrigued me.

  Grabbing a notepad and pen, I made a little diagram of names with arrows:

  Devlin > Shani > Mariama > Fremont.

  Then I added

  Clementine > Isabel > Devlin.

  As I stared down at the linked names, I became more and more convinced that nothing about the recent events was coincidental. Not Mariama’s assault, not Shani’s request and certainly not Fremont’s haunting. All three ghosts had come back into my life for a reason, and the timing was important. Everything was connected, and the pieces of the puzzle were already starting to fall into place.

  The stars have finally aligned, Fremont had said. The players have all taken their places.

  I continued to search until the words on the screen blurred and a sharp pain stabbed between my shoulder blades. I got up and stretched, telling myself I should turn in early and try to get some rest. I was exhausted, drained, and who knew what the days ahead held for me, let alone the nights. I hardly dared contemplate them.

  But after everything that had happened, I knew I would never be able to sleep. I was too wired, too certain that something dark was headed my way. And Devlin was somehow involved. I could feel it. That was why he’d been reaching out to me, why even now I could sense his irresistible pull.

  The walls of my sanctuary started to close in on me, and not for the first time, I found myself resenting the legacy that kept me pinned to hallowed places. All my life, I’d followed Papa’s rules, kept myself sequestered in loneliness, but now I felt an unaccustomed rebellion welling up inside me. The bloom of an unwise impulse that had very little to do with a noble purpose or a greater calling.