by Nic Saint
“Yeah, Father Reilly is an amazing man,” Ernestine agreed. “Those Mozambicans were very lucky to have him. Poor Petrona. She must have felt terrible.”
“Maybe she struck down Leann Peach,” I said. “Maybe she reached from beyond the grave and murdered her nemesis, the woman who destroyed her life.”
“I like that,” said Estrella. “Though I doubt Sam will agree with you.”
No, I didn’t think he’d agree with me either. Cops are not big believers in ghosts striking out at the living and murdering them. Then again, I kinda found it hard to believe, too. Somehow Petrona struck me as the same kind of person as Father Reilly: kind and loving. Not the kind that would murder another human being.
Chapter 20
We hurried back to our part of town, for Estrella had a show. Haymill may be one of the older sections of Brooklyn, but it’s quite homely. Most of the families on our block have lived there all their lives, and they all know each other. It’s a neighborhood where people still sit outside at night, to chat with their neighbors. A great place to raise a family. Crime is relatively low as well, with the eighty-second precinct located right in the heart of Haymill. Sam, who used to work out of Manhattan, had recently asked for his transfer to the eighty-second. I liked to think I had something to do with that, but actually it was more the fact he’d grown up here, and his folks still lived nearby. It didn’t hurt that I got to see him more often.
The Luinness isn’t a fancy place. In fact it’s a small Irish pub just around the corner from Floret & Bloom. They offer some entertainment to their patrons in the form of a pianist who seems like he’s part of the furniture, and the occasional songstress.
I strolled into the pub with my sisters, and Strel immediately walked right on through to her dressing room in the back.
“Didn’t you say Gran would be here?” Ernestine asked.
“Yeah, she said she would come.”
We headed for a table near the small stage, so we had a good view. There weren’t that many people in the pub at this early hour. It was only five o’clock, after all, not exactly Happy Hour. Yes, we had closed Floret & Bloom early again, but I was sure Gran wouldn’t mind this time. Having a chat with Orlando McClafferty had seemed like an important thing, and we didn’t want to miss Strel’s show either, lest she didn’t talk to us for a week, which is kinda hard when you’re running a business together.
“So what do you think about this whole Leann Peach business?” I asked.
“I think a woman like that was bound to be murdered at some point. You don’t make so many enemies over the years without one of them turning homicidal.”
“Yeah, I guess so, though most people are like Father Reilly. They try to move on and forget what happened. Precious few are actually capable of murder.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes, I do. I think the great majority of people are simply incapable of murder. I know I’m not, and neither are you guys.”
“That’s because we have Gran looking after us. If anyone so much as dares touch a hair on our heads there will be hell to pay.”
“What do you think she’d do?”
“Probably make their faces melt like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark and turn their bones to ashes. Gran may seem like a sweet soul but don’t lay a finger on her family. She’ll turn all Queen Boudica on them.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Boudica was a Celtic queen who led an uprising against the Romans. She was fierce.”
“Right. So who do you think got fierce on Leann Peach?”
Ernestine shrugged. “I don’t know, honey. I have no idea.”
“You have to have some idea. You’re the smart one.”
“That’s all just bookish knowledge,” she said with a self-effacing wave of her hand. “Which doesn’t mean a thing in the grand scheme of things. You’re the one with the infallible intuition. What do you think?”
Now it was my turn to shrug. “I think Johnny Depp did it.”
She laughed. “Of course he did.”
The door of the pub opened and Gran walked in, followed by the three stooges in the form of Busby, Bancroft and Barnum. Right behind them was Sam. They spotted us and came over, taking a seat. Gran sat down to my right, and Ernestine scooted over to allow Sam to sit on my left. My three cousins quarreled over the menu card, with Busby finally winning out and poring over the choices.
“Where is Estrella?” Gran asked.
“In her dressing room,” I said.
She smiled. “You mean the kitchen. I hope she does well. It means a lot to her to sing here.”
“I hope there won’t be too many people,” I said.
She looked at me sharply. “She’ll be fine. Your sister can sing when she applies herself. It’s just that she usually doesn’t want to apply herself.”
“So where is Father Reilly? I thought he was coming with you?”
“He didn’t feel well. Said he was going to lie down and take a nap.”
Sam nudged me. “So is this the part where a talent agent suddenly shows up, sits in the back, and offers your sister a record deal?”
“No, this is the part where my sister manages to embarrass herself.”
“Edie,” Gran snapped. “Show some support.”
“I’m trying, Gran,” I said. “I’m trying hard.”
“Well, try harder.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard Strel sing before,” said Bancroft. “How is she?”
I clamped my mouth closed, and Ernestine conspicuously studied her fingernails.
“She’s a wonderful singer,” Gran assured him. “She’s got the voice of an angel.”
“That’s great,” said Bancroft. “Cause I’m recording the whole thing and putting it on my YouTube channel.” He indicated his phone, which was one of those expensive ones with a camera Steven Spielberg would love. Bancroft had probably smashed the director in the head with it when he wanted to take a look.
“Um, Gran?” I asked softly.
“Mh?”
“Bancroft is going to put Strel’s performance on YouTube.”
“She’ll be fine,” said Gran, though she sounded a little less convinced than before. “Do you really have to film that?” she asked my cousin.
“Of course. I’ve got a lot of A-listers amongst my five thousand subscribers. There just might be a talent scout deciding to give Strel a shot.”
Sure they would give her a shot. A shot to the head to make her stop.
Gran moved her lips wordlessly, and I saw her right hand making jerky movements. I was pretty sure she wished she’d brought her wand so she could make Bancroft’s phone disintegrate, along with its proprietor.
“So how was your day?” Sam asked.
“I talked to Paloma Peach.”
“And?”
“She wasn’t quite what I expected.”
“Yeah, she’s a lot like her sister.”
“You can say that again. And we talked to Orlando McClafferty.”
“Oh?”
“He told us the story of his wife and Kermit Reilly.”
Sam winced. “No parents should call their kid Kermit. That’s just wrong.”
“We all cried when Orlando was finished telling his story.”
“Yeah, I interviewed him yesterday. What a tale, huh?”
“It’s amazing how well he pulled through. He actually looks happy.”
“Human resilience is an amazing thing. Father Reilly seems to have survived his Mozambican adventure equally unscathed. In fact he told me that in hindsight he feels grateful. He met so many wonderful people over there and got to bring so much joy to their lives that now he feels this was all meant to be.”
“If I were him I’d have been full of resentment. Against Mrs. Peach and against the bishop that sent him to Africa. But he never lost his faith. Amazing.”
“Like I said. The power of human resilience.”
A waiter showed up to tak
e our orders and for the next five minutes we were busy checking the menu and ordering. So much so that we didn’t even notice when Estrella walked out on stage, took hold of the microphone, a vague smile on her face, and belted out the first note.
Instantly, all eyes in the room swiveled to my sister. She looked dazzling. For the occasion she’d donned a stylish pair of jeans with a black blouse, and sparkly mascara that really made her eyes pop. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for the song she’d chosen to open with. Cry Me a River might be a soft, jazzy tune, but the way she interpreted it, it was an attack on the eardrums.
“I thought she was doing Irish folk songs?” Stien hissed, leaning over Sam.
“She probably thinks this is an Irish folk song,” I hissed back, much to Sam’s amusement.
Estrella has a soft speaking voice, but a piercing singing voice, exacerbated by the fact that she can’t carry a tune. From the beginning she was way off, and that only got worse as she moved into the chorus. She increased the volume, and I winced as her voice caused me actual physical pain.
Bancroft’s jaw had dropped, and he was so busy being horrified that he hadn’t thought about pointing his phone to record the performance. When Strel took a breath, he seemed to snap out of his stupor, however, and quickly brought up his phone and tapped the red record button.
Gran was shuffling nervously next to me. “Do something, Gran!” I whispered.
“What?!” she whispered back.
“Do something witchy!”
“Not here. People will notice!”
I gestured at Bancroft. “Five thousand people are about to give Strel a shot! And I don’t think it’s the kind of shot she’s looking for!”
“Oh, all right,” Gran muttered, and made a quick gesture with her right hand, murmuring a one-letter word.
The effect was instantaneous. On stage, Strel paused for a beat, cleared her throat, and when she resumed, the difference was remarkable. Suddenly she sounded like Adele. Jaws dropped again, but this time in a good way, and I sat back with a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Gran,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome. But I’m only doing this once. Next time she’s on her own.”
“I’ll tell her to practice more.”
Not that that would help much. My sister had been practicing since the day she was born. Sometimes one’s passion simply doesn’t align with one’s talent. It’s sad but it’s true.
“What happened there?” asked Sam.
“What happened where?”
“First she sang like a horny cricket suffering through a root canal, then you and your Gran started whispering furiously, Cassie waved her hand and now suddenly she sings like a nightingale.”
“I guess she had to warm up. It’s a voice thing.”
He frowned at me. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I said, giving him my best innocent smile. “What do you think? That Gran did some magic trick and suddenly Strel can sing?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”
But for the rest of the performance, that frown remained in place. Dang. Next time Gran would have to be more careful. I didn’t want my cop boyfriend to think my family were a bunch of witches. He might just burn me at the stake. Or dump me, which was even worse. And more painful.
Chapter 21
That night I had a hard time finding sleep. The story of Leann Peach kept buzzing through my head. How was it possible for one woman to be so mean and vindictive? Had she always been like that? Had she been a bully in school who grew up to be a bully in life? Or had something happened to her along the way that had turned her into a malicious and spiteful shrew?
My sisters couldn’t sleep either, for suddenly there was a soft knock on my door and first Strel then Stien came in.
“We can’t sleep,” Estrella lamented. “It’s terrible. I’ll have bags under my eyes if this keeps up. I hate bags under my eyes.”
“And I can’t even read,” said Ernestine. “I tried reading the new Stephen King and I couldn’t get past the first chapter. And I can’t sleep either. It’s just horrible.”
“Me neither,” I said. “It’s this whole Mrs. Peach thing. There’s never been a murder on this block as far as I know. It’s just thrown me.”
“At least my performance didn’t suffer,” Estrella said, making herself comfortable on my bed. “I think it was my best show ever. Did you hear that applause? People loved it. And the manager asked me to do another show next week. You guys are coming, right? It just wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“Of course,” I assured her.
“I hope Gran is coming, too,” Ernestine said with a pointed look at me.
“She said this was the last time,” I said.
“She has to come,” Stien insisted, telegraphing her intention by desperately widening her eyes.
“She said she couldn’t,” I said, also signaling with my eyes.
“No, that’s fine,” said Strel. “I understand if she can’t make it. Gran is busy with the house and the guests.”
“At least Bancroft won’t be there with his phone,” I said.
“Wasn’t that the sweetest thing?” Strel gushed. “He said he’s going to make me famous! Imagine that.”
“Yeah, imagine that,” said Stien. “Imagine an actual talent scout showing up next week and Gran not being there to lend her… support.”
“So be it,” I said philosophically. One day Strel was going to discover she had no singing talent whatsoever. Gran had coddled her for too long, and she couldn’t coddle her forever. It would come as a big shock to her to discover she had no talent whatsoever, but she would overcome it. I hoped.
“So what did Sam think about the show?” Strel asked. She was fishing for compliments. Nor could I blame her. An artist’s ego is a very fragile thing.
“Yeah, he loved it,” I said. “He said he’s not a big jazz fan but you were pretty amazing.”
“Ha!” Strel said, practically jumping up and down on my comforter. “I knew it. I just felt it, you know. Like, I could project a lot better than usual.”
“And you even sang in tune,” I said.
“I always sing in tune. I’m a professional.”
“Of course you are,” I said, hoping to get off this Let’s-All-Praise-Estrella train soon.
“So can we stay here tonight?” Stien asked. “I don’t feel like going back to my room. This whole murder business…” She shivered. “It’s got me all discombobulated.”
“That’s not even a word,” said Estrella.
“Discombobulated is a word,” Ernestine assured her. “It means confused.”
“Well, now I’m confused,” Strel said. “I thought you made that up.”
“I never make up words,” Ernestine said stiffly.
“You do, too. You made up collywobbles this morning.”
“Collywobbles is a word. It means stomach pain. I ate too many pancakes this morning, hence the expression.”
“Huh. What do you know?”
“A lot,” I said with a grin.
“So did you return that love letter to Kermit?” asked Ernestine, polishing her glasses with the hem of her nightshirt.
“Yes, I did. It was awkward,” I said. “I apologized for Barnum’s behavior, and he said it was quite all right. But I could see that it wasn’t. He probably wanted to send that letter but never did, and now he feels sorry.”
“Yeah. Or maybe he’d just written the letter when Orlando’s letter came to tell him that Petrona had died,” said Estrella. “He must have been devastated, and clung to the letter until this day, reminding him of what could have been. It must have been the darkest moment of his life.”
“It’s just all so… Nicholas Sparks,” said Ernestine. “Only in a Nicholas Sparks novel could such a tragedy occur.”
“You know what I think?” asked Estrella, sitting up with shiny eyes.
Uh-oh. “No, what do you think?” I asked.
“Gran doesn’t bring people back from the dead, honey,” I said.
She gave me a pout. “But why? It’s the perfect solution.”
“Because when you revive a person they’re never the same. And it’s just not safe to mess with life and death. In fact it’s just plain dangerous.”
“Don’t you remember that Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman movie? Where they’re both witches and they bring Nicole’s psychopath boyfriend back from the dead?” asked Ernestine. “And he turns into a terrible monster and almost drags Nicole into the grave with him? That’s what happens when you mess with stuff you shouldn’t be messing with.”
“But that man was a violent criminal. Petrona was a perfectly nice person. I’m sure that if she returns from the dead she’ll be as sweet as she ever was. And very grateful that we gave her her happy end.”
“No way,” I said. “There’s just no way we’re doing it.”
“We don’t have to do it,” said Estrella. “But Gran could. I think Gran could do anything she put her mind to. She’s the greatest witch we know.”
“She’ll never do it,” said Ernestine. “No way in hell.”
“Ha ha,” said Estrella. “That’s a very appropriate choice of words, Stien.” Then her face contorted into an expression of something approaching shock. It was her way of showing she’d just gotten an idea. “You know what we should do? Find Fallon Safflower’s Book of Secrets and figure out the spell ourselves!”
“No,” I said immediately. “We’re not looking for that book.”
“It must be in Gran’s room,” said Estrella. “I mean, where else could it be?”
The Book of Secrets was Fallon Safflower’s big book of spells and witchy secrets. It had always had pride of place in the attic, but when Gran turned Safflower house into a B & B, she’d hidden the book somewhere so we couldn’t find it. We’d looked all over the place, but it was well hidden.
“She’s never going to let us find it,” said Ernestine. “She probably put so many spells on that book that only the most accomplished witch could track it down. For all we know, it might be in my room, right next to my copy of The Lord of the Rings.”