Samhain Secrets

by Jennifer David Hesse

  I glanced at the dark clouds overhead and knew I should get back. Yet, still I lingered. It was almost as if a magnetic pull kept me rooted to the place. I felt a strange sense of expectation, as if I was waiting for something to happen. What it was, I didn’t know.

  Reluctantly, I finally began walking back toward the trail. Peering ahead, I didn’t see Farrah and Levi where I’d left them. I figured they must have started back. As I picked my way through the brambles, the wind shifted and the air became cold. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I detected a swift motion. When I looked, there was nothing. I took another step, then froze. I had a strong feeling that something was behind me, but when I looked over my shoulder, I saw nothing but trees and rocks. I turned my head again, and this time I did see something, a few feet away. Then, just like that, it was gone. It had been fleeting, like a shadow or a trick of the light. It was probably just my imagination. Whatever it was, it looked an awful lot like a petite, gray-haired woman. Like Aunt Josephine.

  I ran the rest of the way back to the trail and found Farrah and Levi sitting on a boulder a short distance from the path. Farrah hopped up to meet me halfway and gripped my arm, as if she thought I might keel over. “Keli? You okay? You look like you’ve seen a—”

  “Don’t say it.” I held up my palm. “Please. Don’t say it.”

  * * *

  Farrah plied me with questions, but I refused to answer until we were safely ensconced in my car and driving away from Briar Creek Cabins. If Levi wasn’t already on to us, I figured he soon would be. As we emerged from the forest and approached his cabin, he glanced around as if wondering where I’d parked. Before he could say a word, I tossed off a quick good-bye and practically dragged Farrah away. I didn’t want to be present when Levi noticed his cabin was unlocked.

  “Girl, what happened back there?” she demanded. “First, you come running up into the woods like a jackrabbit on fire, then you can’t wait to get out again.”

  “I was afraid you were in danger. I can’t believe I let you go off by yourself with a murder suspect.”

  “Wait. He’s a murder suspect? Since when?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” I admitted. I told her about all the documents I’d seen in Levi’s cabin.

  She took a moment to process the information. “So, he could still be writing a book. Is that what you’re saying? The articles, all those artifacts, that sounds like research material to me.”

  I sighed. “I guess it could be. But what about this?” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the postcard Josephine had sent to Gil. I handed it to Farrah.

  “Jeez, Kel! You stole this from his cabin?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I was in such a hurry to get out of there, I slipped it in my pocket without thinking.”

  “I suppose,” Farrah said doubtfully.

  “It doesn’t belong to him anyway,” I argued.

  “Unless Gil gave it to him.”

  I considered the possibility. Josephine had written that she was “coming clean,” and that she hoped for Gil’s cooperation. Evidently, he didn’t support her decision. Would he have tried to talk her out of it? Could he have employed Levi to talk her out of it? Or worse?

  “Let’s swing by Gil’s canoe shop. Do you mind?”

  Farrah consulted her watch. “I’ve got time. Go for it.”

  As soon as we turned onto the gravel road leading to Gil’s place, fat raindrops splattered on the windshield. I switched on the wipers, and pulled up to the dark, shuttered cottage. All the vehicles and canoes we’d seen the last time we were here were now gone, presumably stored away for the season.

  “What does that say?” asked Farrah. She squinted at a handwritten sign hanging in the window.

  “‘See you in the spring,’” I read.

  “That was fast. We were here, like, two days ago. That kid made it sound like they’d be open for a while yet.”

  “Yep.” Unlike Levi, Gil apparently wasn’t going to keep hanging around.

  We watched the rain pour down, dripping from the gutters of the shack and filling the potholes in the small parking lot. After a minute, I put the car in reverse and headed home.

  “What are you going to do next?” Farrah asked.

  “I guess I’ll find out who owns that property Fern wants to buy. Apparently, that’s the only way she’ll talk to me.”

  “I’ll conduct the title search for you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been through enough today. You look like you could use a nice, long nap.”

  * * *

  After a hot shower and a change of clothes, I decided a soothing cup of tea was in order. It was what Mila would prescribe anyway. I’d add in a bit of kitchen witchery for good measure.

  While the water heated on the stove, I gathered an assortment of dried herbs and tea leaves. Standing at the counter, I whipped up a concoction that seemed to suit my current state of being. Starting with a base of loose black tea leaves, I made up a little rhyme as I went along:

  A cup of black tea . . . for courage and pluck,

  Petals of rose, for protection and luck,

  A sprig of rosemary to sharpen my mind,

  For psychic skills . . . some dandelion,

  A pinch of lavender to ease my stress,

  A couple of bay leaves to ensure success.

  I ground my ingredients with a mortar and pestle, dumped them in a mug, and topped them with boiling water. While the tea steeped, I took up a broom and engaged in some moving meditation. I swept the floor with slow, purposeful brushstrokes, imagining the energy swirling beneath the broom. Clear house, clear mind. As without, so within.

  By the time the tea was cool enough to drink, my floor was clean and my nerves were at least slightly calmer. I lifted my mug in a toast to the Goddess, took a sip—and promptly spewed a mouthful into the sink.

  Blech!

  It was awful. Good intentions aside, some herbs just weren’t meant to be mixed. With a disgusted sigh, I dumped the tea down the drain and had a glass of water instead.

  Now what?

  I wandered into the living room, where the cat was curled up on the back of the couch. For a creature who used to have the run of her neighborhood, she seemed perfectly content to stay inside.

  “What do you think, Miss Kitty? Willow? Mittens?”

  She blinked at me slowly, and I blinked back. I felt like we were communicating, but I had no idea what either of us was saying.

  What I needed was answers, but not the kind that came from within. I needed to go out again, this time to a place where answers were plentiful. I needed to pay a visit to the public library.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Every time I entered the Edindale Public Library, I felt like I was stepping back in time. Built in the early 1900s with funds from a Carnegie grant, the old library still inspired a sense of civic pride and lofty ideals. It was a quiet bastion of knowledge, a haven of culture and learning. Or maybe that was just me.

  At the gleaming, oak circulation desk, I asked if Zeke Marshal was available. The librarian directed me upstairs to the staff office behind the stacks. Zeke was waiting for me.

  “What a fantastic surprise! I’m supposed to be here for another hour or so, but it’s not a big deal if I take off early. Want to go grab a drink?”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble, Zeke. I was just hoping to borrow a minute of your time.”

  “Come on in.” He ushered me into the staff room, which was plastered with posters of baby animals and motivational quotes. “This is a shared space,” he explained. “They wouldn’t let me redecorate.”

  I smiled and sat at an empty desk next to Zeke’s workstation. He hopped on his wheeled office chair and rolled over, until our knees were inches apart.

  “My office mates are gone for the day,” he said. “So, we’re all alone.”

  So, it’s Zeke the flirt today, I thought. Out loud, I said, “My boyfriend worked here for a
while, a couple years ago. He really liked it.”

  Zeke raised his eyebrows. “The bartender? I didn’t think books were his thing.”

  “Part-time bartender,” I corrected. “He’s actually a photographer, but he also likes to read.”

  Zeke shrugged. “I take it you’re not looking for books today.”

  “No. I was hoping you could tell me more about Fern Lopez.”

  He groaned. “Again? I already told you her terms. Look, she’s a tough nut to crack. But if you can help her out with that property, you’ll be first-rate in her eyes. Trust me.”

  “I’m working on it. In fact, I’d like to tell her I’m working on it. She’s going to have to talk to me if she wants my representation. I can’t make a purchase offer without a few details from her.”

  For a moment, Zeke remained as tight-lipped as a clam. I waited. With a sweet smile and a hopeful gaze, I tried to use some very subtle, innocent magic on the boy—otherwise known as my feminine wiles. It didn’t take long for him to cave.

  “I can’t make Fern talk to you, but I do know where you can find her this afternoon. There’s a fall festival out at the Valley Farm Pumpkin Patch. She said something about selling her jewelry at a booth there.”

  “Thank you, Zeke!” I was so grateful for the information, I almost hated to press him for more. But I did it anyway. “Say, can you help me find a guy’s address? I know he lives in Edindale, but he’s unlisted.”

  “Can I find a guy’s address?” Zeke repeated the question in his cocky, know-it-all voice. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? Give me the name, and I’ll find the address in less than two minutes.”

  “You’re the best.” I figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt—especially since I had nothing else to offer him.

  * * *

  I was anxious to drive by Gil’s house, but I didn’t want to go alone. As I descended the steps of the library, I thought about calling Farrah. I really didn’t want to bother her again, even though she was always up for adventure. Perhaps I’d wait a bit.

  The late afternoon sun cast a golden tint over the glistening trees. After the earlier rainstorms, the air felt clean and refreshing. It felt good to be outside. It was perfect weather for a trip to the pumpkin patch.

  As I headed to my car, I heard someone call my name and turned to see Crenshaw approach with long strides. His slim gray suit with matching silk tie and neatly trimmed hair exuded lawyerly competence.

  “This is fortuitous,” he said. “I need to speak with you.”

  “Hi, there. On your way to court?”

  “I’m returning to the office now. I had a status hearing on the McCauley matter. I was nearly late for it, too, because of the disturbance this morning.”

  “What disturbance?”

  “That woman came looking for you again, the one who sought you out last Friday evening at the haunted barn.”

  “Fredeline Paul? What did she want?”

  “According to Julie, she wanted to make an appointment with you. When she learned you wouldn’t be available until next week, she began asking questions about your practice and your caseload.”

  “Polite conversation?” I asked, hopefully.

  “More like a fishing expedition.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was exceedingly nosy. Besides asking about you specifically, she wanted to know about the firm: our success rate, profit margin, pro bono caseload.”

  “Oh, my. How did Julie handle her?”

  “She called me for assistance. And that’s when things got really interesting.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “She began crying and wailing. She said she can’t go back to Haiti unless she raises some funds, and she doesn’t know how to do it. Then she said something about praying to the Loa and making sacrifices to someone called Papa Legba. It was quite a scene. Luckily, no clients were in the lobby at the time.”

  I frowned, but not because I related to Crenshaw’s apparent irritation. I felt sorry for Fredeline.

  “We can’t understand what it’s like for her back home,” I said. “It sounds to me like she feels frightened and alone. I wish I could help her.”

  Crenshaw scowled. “You don’t even know if you can trust her. In any event, surely there are agencies she can turn to. If she shows up again, I’ll refer her to the Red Cross.”

  I thought for a moment. There was one thing I could do. I could introduce Fredeline to Fern. Maybe Fern’s Sisterhood could help. First, I’d have to get Fern to talk to me.

  * * *

  For a weekday, the Valley Farm Pumpkin Patch was more crowded than I expected. When I arrived, a shrill-voiced chaperone was rounding up a troop of rowdy fourth graders, informing them that their field trip was over. Once they loaded their school bus and took off, the place was a little more peaceful. It felt odd to be out and about in the middle of the week, when I’d normally be inside at work. I kind of liked it.

  Following a well-worn footpath, I strolled past artful displays of wild-shaped cucurbits and jolly scarecrows. Along the way, cute signs pointed to a corn maze, a hayride, and a petting zoo. Up ahead, a snack shop sold popcorn and taffy apples—and, based on the luscious aroma permeating the air, cinnamon and sugarcoated apple cider donuts. I doubted if they were vegan, but I could still enjoy the smell. Before long, I was stopped by a laughing young couple.

  “Would you mind taking our picture?” asked the girl, looking sweet in a sundress and a jean jacket. They poked their faces through a plywood cutout painted like American Gothic and tried, without much success, to remain straight-faced for the photo.

  As I returned their camera, I found myself missing Wes. Pumpkin patches were meant to be enjoyed by friends and families, not solo visitors. Kind of like haunted barns. I recalled the first time I encountered Levi, when he was by himself at Fieldstone Park. Now that I knew he had my name written in a file on Aunt Josephine, I wondered if his appearance at the park was more than mere coincidence.

  Remembering my purpose, I cut over to the row of vendors manning tables beneath a striped canopy. Fern’s table was toward the front, between a guy selling hand-carved wooden toys and a woman offering soy candles and glycerin soaps. Fern was sitting in one of two lawn chairs situated next to a wide display of beaded ornaments and jewelry.

  “Hello, Fern,” I said brightly.

  She seemed surprised to see me. “Good afternoon.” Her demeanor was reserved but polite.

  I looked at her offerings and noticed a gorgeous beaded dreamcatcher in red, orange, yellow, and teal. I decided it would look great on the wall above my bed.

  As Fern rang me up, I said, “I spoke with Zeke Marshal. I’m happy to look into the availability of the property you’re interested in. If you decide you’d like to make an offer, I’ll need you to come by my office and fill out some paperwork.”

  She looked over my shoulder at a mother pushing a baby carriage. They strolled by without stopping. Finally, Fern said, “That land can’t be built on because of the wetlands. I figure I should get a good deal.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I promised. I glanced at the empty chair behind her table. “Mind if I sit with you for a minute? I really need to talk with you about Josephine. It’s important.”

  She shook her head. “This is my daughter’s chair. She’ll be back shortly.”

  “Okay.” I could stand. I moved closer to the table and lowered my voice. “Will you please tell me what was going on with Josephine? Was she in some sort of trouble?”

  Fern frowned and looked away. I wasn’t giving up. This time she couldn’t walk away from me. “Did Josephine have something to do with the Sorghum bombing? She and Gil Johnson?”

  Now Fern stood and put her hands on the table. “Shh! Not here.”

  A pair of older ladies walked up and gushed over Fern’s collection of beaded bracelets.

  “Then where?” I asked.

  Glancing at her potential customers, Fern heaved a resig
ned sigh. “Come back at six. We can talk while I pack up.”

  With time to kill, I moved down the line of vendors, buying gifts at almost every one: a curvy, wooden candlestick for Mila, scented soaps for Farrah and my sister, and hand-stitched tea towels for my mother and grandmother. At the end of the row, set apart from the other tables, was an open-sided tent. Stylized lettering on a purple banner read, “Gypsy Rose: Fortune-teller.”

  Curious, I waited for my turn, as a woman with a rose in her hair spoke intently with a couple of college-aged girls. Though she probably wasn’t much older than the young women, Gypsy Rose was dressed like a wise woman, complete with peasant skirt, pashmina shawl, and a Celtic amulet around her neck. I wondered if she was the real deal, like Mila, or only an entertainer.

  When the girls left, I went inside. The ground was covered with a fringed oriental rug, ringed by four square folding tables. Red and green apples hung from strings tied to the tent’s canopy, and sandalwood incense burned next to an oversized palmistry hand. A small sign fastened to a mason jar said, TIPS WELCOME.

  “Hi, there. Care for a glimpse into the future?”

  “What is all this?” I asked, gesturing to the tables.

  “Ancient forms of divination. In the old days, Halloween was known as an optimal time for fortune-telling. Divination games were especially big in Ireland, from hundreds of years ago all the way up through the early 1900s. That’s where a lot of our Halloween customs originated, like bobbing for apples and carving jack-o’-lanterns.”

  I took a quick look at each table. One contained nuts and pumpkin seeds on a velvet-lined tray; another had a number of saucers filled with various objects next to a blindfold. I stopped at the table with a basket of apples and a basin of water.

  “Is this for apple bobbing?”

  “Nothing that messy,” said Rose, good-naturedly. She brought out a sturdy-looking, rubber-handled vegetable peeler. “This is for learning the identity of your true love. Select an apple, and peel one, long strip. Then turn around and toss it over your left shoulder into the basin of water. The peel will form the initial of the person you’ll one day marry.”