“Well, I can hardly blame her for that.” I sucked in a breath. “Yeah, still creepy from where I’m standing, though.” I inched away in case it decided to go full poltergeist. “When did you learn you could do this?”
“Pretty early on. My grandparents had a portrait of my great-grandmother in their house. It was one of those paintings where the eyes follow you and everyone else in my family was afraid of it.”
“Then why keep it out to watch everyone?”
Patrick pulled a face. “Because they were too afraid of her ghost to put it in storage. Apparently, she was a formidable woman.”
“Those are always the ones to stick around, aren’t they? You never hear about some meek and feeble ghost haunting anywhere. They’re either sticking their tongue in your ear when you’re in the bathroom or throwing your breakables around the house.”
Scarlet’s upper lip curled. “What ghost sticks its tongue in your ear?”
Patrick clasped his hands in prayer form. “Yes, do tell so I can put it on my bucket list.”
“Some haunted restaurant in Savannah, I think. The ghost of a perverted gentleman that accosts women in the restroom,” I said. That being said, I’d gotten pretty drunk on Southern cocktails in that restaurant so it could’ve been an actual pervert that followed me into the bathroom.
“Sadly, there are no pervert ghosts in this house,” Patrick said. He pointed at his collection. “The rocking chair is Frieda. The painting of the dog is Gerald.”
“Should I be taking notes?” I asked. One would think I was good at remembering names given my career as a salesperson. One would be wrong.
Patrick ignored me. “Everyone, this is my new friend, Mia Thorne. I expect you all to be nice to her.” He waited for a beat. “She’s the great-niece of Hazel. You remember her?”
I tapped my cheek. “Is it great-niece or grand-niece? I can never remember.”
Scarlet shrugged.
“Now we have to gather what I need for the ritual and we can head outside,” Patrick said.
“I’ll get the bottle of wine and the glasses,” Scarlet said.
“None for me, thanks,” I said.
“The prosecco is in the fridge,” he called after her.
I locked eyes with the doll and shivered. “Are the items you need in this room?”
“Yes, but it will only take a minute. I try to keep everything organized. Don’t want to accidentally cleanse the wrong object.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“Once or twice. That’s why I stick to light alcohol now before a ritual.”
He pulled an empty crate from underneath a console table and started to place items inside. A clock. An urn. A small statute of a head with its eyes closed.
“Would you mind grabbing that bag?” he asked, pointing to a tote bag.
I went to lift it and realized it was already full of stuff. “What’s in here?”
“Candles, rocks, and a few other things I use.” Once the crate was filled, he started toward the doorway. “You can follow me. I’ll show you where we’re setting up camp.”
We exited the house via the back door and walked along a stone path toward the river. Patrick stopped about halfway and set the crate on the lawn.
“Scarlet will bring the blanket and booze,” he said.
I watched the sun dip below the tree line, creating a deep pink backdrop.
“Looks like the world is burning,” I remarked.
“Sometimes it feels that way, too,” Patrick said.
“I know that feeling,” I murmured.
He cocked his head. “Anything you want to talk about?”
I waved him off. “No thanks. Some things are best left alone, like that portrait with the formidable lady.”
“Why do I get the distinct impression that somebody did you wrong?”
My jaw tightened. “Who hasn’t been done wrong at least once in their lifetime? I’m not special.”
“I think you’re more special than you realize,” Patrick said.
I heard a hooting sound from outside. “Is that an actual owl?”
“No, it’s the nature app on my phone. Of course it’s an actual owl.” Patrick shook his head. “City people.”
I listened for the hooting sound again. It was much cooler than the sound of the cross-street bus with the added bonus of no eye-level commuters peeking in my bathroom window, which was the situation I found myself in when I lived on the second floor of an apartment building.
Scarlet approached us, carrying a large wicker basket. The bottle of prosecco and two flute glasses were nestled on top of a folded blanket. She set the basket on the ground next to the crate and Patrick unfurled the softest-looking blanket I’d ever seen.
“Is that sheepskin?” I asked.
He rubbed the material against his cheek. “No. It’s faux fur, not that you’d know by the price tag. But I splurged because it’s a business expense.”
“It’s not a business expense,” Scarlet murmured.
“The internet told me,” Patrick shot back.
“The internet also told you that you could eliminate ass pimples by using rubbing alcohol on them,” she said. “And how did that work out for you?”
Patrick straightened the corners of the blanket with extra zeal. “We swore we’d never speak of that again.”
Scarlet seemed to know what to do next without being told. She gathered materials from the crate and began to create a circle on the ground, alternating between candles and rocks.
“What’s up with the clock?” she asked.
“Bad juju,” Patrick replied. “The owners said unpleasant things started to happen after they brought it home from Switzerland.”
“Ooh, it’s like the monkey’s paw,” I said.
“No, you don’t make wishes on the clock,” Patrick corrected me.
“So you cleanse it and give the clock back?” I asked.
“That’s what they pay me for.” He set the clock in the circle.
I scrutinized the clock. It was nondescript as far as clocks went. “What kind of bad things?”
“The husband lost his job. The wife was diagnosed with cancer. A few other unfortunate events.”
I backed away from the circle. “And they think it’s the clock?”
“Everything was going really well for them until this thing showed up.” Patrick shrugged. “They think the clock is the culprit.”
“Why not get rid of it instead of cleansing it?” Who needs an old-fashioned clock when you have a phone anyway?
“They bought it together on a trip for their twentieth wedding anniversary,” he said. “It has sentimental value.”
I couldn’t imagine caring about an object that much. Then again, I wasn’t very sentimental. Even the photos of my dad were stored in a box. I didn’t like the idea of having his image in view on a daily basis. I felt like I was constantly disappointing him as it was—to be subjected to his face would be a bridge too far.
“How much do you get paid for this?” I asked.
“Depends on the item,” he said. “Some items are too big to travel, so I have to make a house call. That costs more because I have to do the ritual in the home.”
“And you make a living from this?” It seemed hard to believe.
“I won’t be buying a Porsche anytime soon, but I do well enough.”
“I won’t be buying a car anytime soon,” I said. “Forget about a Porsche.”
“I love that you’re driving around on Hazel’s scooter,” Scarlet said. “I think your aunt would get a kick out of it.”
“It’s better than the subway, I’ll say that much.” It was nice to be traveling around in fresh air without the stench of body odor or the wandering gaze of a lecherous commuter.
Scarlet lit the candles and Patrick took his place in the center of the circle, sitting cross-legged.
“We stay out here?” I asked.
Scarlet nodded. “You don’t want to interfere with the circl
e or you’ll disrupt the ritual.”
I held up my hands. “Definitely not.” I wouldn’t want to do that and risk letting loose an evil spirit. I’d seen Ghostbusters half a dozen times.
The clock and other items were now bathed in moonlight.
“We’re charging these with lunar energy,” Patrick explained.
More like looney energy, but I kept that to myself.
“The water and the moon provide an effective cleanse,” he continued.
“Do we have to chant or something?” I asked.
“Not for this,” he said. “We let nature take its course.” He smoothed back his hair and raised the clock toward the sky, closing his eyes in the process.
I leaned over to Scarlet and whispered, “How much of this is real and how much is performance art?”
“It’s about fifty-fifty,” she whispered back. “Patrick leans into drama like nobody else.”
Patrick repeated the exercise with each item on the blanket until they’d all been bathed in moonlight.
“You do this every full moon?” I asked.
“Like clockwork,” he said. He patted the top of the clock. “No pun intended.”
“If there’s a special moon like a blood moon or a blue moon, he’ll take advantage of that, too,” Scarlet added.
“How do you know you were successful?” I asked, glancing at the items.
Patrick touched the top of the clock. “I can sense it.”
“And what if their luck doesn’t change?” I asked. “Will they ask for a refund?”
“It’s happened on occasion, but generally people are happy with my services.” He stretched onto the blanket and gazed at the darkened sky.
Scarlet sighed contentedly. “I love nights like this. Seeing the full moon and the stars…It reminds me of how connected I am to the universe. That I’m a part of something bigger than myself.”
Patrick tucked his hands behind his head. “I like the way my skin glows in starlight.” He turned his head to look at me and touched his cheek. “It looks nice, right? Very Ingrid Bergman.”
“Beautiful,” I agreed.
Patrick shifted to rest on his elbow and observe me. “If we’re going to be friends, there are a few basic questions we need to get out of the way.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Favorite Chris?”
“Hemsworth,” I said without hesitation.
“Chris Pine for me,” Scarlet said.
“Come on, you two. It’s clearly Evans,” Patrick said. “Have you seen that GIF where he rips a piece of wood into two pieces?”
I snorted. “I guess I’ve failed the test then?”
“You didn’t say Pratt, so you’re okay.” Patrick patted my arm reassuringly.
“I miss spending lazy time outside,” I said. “When I was a kid, I used to play Winnie-The-Pooh with my dad. He’d be Tigger and I’d be Pooh and we’d walk through the yard and pretend it was the Hundred Acre Wood.” I smiled at the memory of my energetic father bouncing on his toes. He was great at playing pretend.
“No Piglet?” Scarlet asked.
“My mom didn’t like to play and she certainly wouldn’t have been Piglet.” My mother had an aversion to anything that involved imagination. She used to chastise me for reading too much and filling my head with nonsense. My babysitter used to call me Matilda, after the girl in the Roald Dahl book.
“What is Winnie-the-Pooh, anyway?” Patrick asked.
I stared at him. “Are you high? He’s a bear.”
“Then why not call him Winnie-the-Bear? His name makes him sound like some kind of emo poop.”
“You’re the only one who’s emo around here,” Scarlet said.
“Did you ever play imaginative games when you were younger?” I asked.
“I played dress-up,” Patrick said.
Scarlet snorted. “Shocker.”
“Did it freak out your parents?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “My dad was the one who used to paint my nails and my mom bought me whatever style clothes I wanted. They weren’t into setting limits.”
Wow. What was it like to have a supportive parent?
Movement in the shadows caught my eye and I jumped. “There’s an animal stalking us,” I said quickly. “What if it’s rabid?”
Scarlet peered into the darkness. “It’s Ophelia.”
“Ophelia?” I squinted for a better look at the potential threat. Sure enough, I recognized the very oval silhouette of the oversized cat. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s nosy,” Patrick said. He urged the cat closer so he could pet her.
“Does she spend a lot of time over here?” I asked.
“She’s drawn to rituals,” he replied. “I think she senses when something interesting is happening.”
“Or she’s stalking me.”
Scarlet observed the cat. “She’s the one who let us know that Hazel had died.”
I raised my eyebrows at the cat. “Really?”
Scarlet nodded. “She came scratching at Patrick’s door and meowing uncontrollably.”
I felt a pang of sadness as I pictured the anxious cat delivering the bad news.
“At least she went peacefully,” I said, which was more than I could say for Gladys.
“It was her time,” Scarlet said. “She was ready.”
“I wish I was,” I said. Although the opportunity to come here arose when I needed it most, I still felt unprepared for a life in Newberry, no matter how temporary.
“You’ve made a few handsome gentlemen friends since your arrival,” Patrick said. “That must help.”
I blushed. “I don’t know about that.”
“Dane Fairfax seems to want to make your acquaintance,” Scarlet said.
I waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure I messed that up already.”
Patrick idly plucked a blade of grass from the ground. “Too bad. He’s got pecs that would make Chris Evans weep with envy.”
I sat up straighter. “Really?”
Scarlet smiled. “Only because Patrick has seen him kayaking in the summer.”
“Who kayaks without a shirt?” I asked.
“A guy with pecs like Dane Fairfax, apparently,” Scarlet said. “If you’re got ‘em, flaunt ‘em.”
“I saw Chief Tuck kayaking,” I said. “Not quite the same experience.”
They laughed.
“Don’t be fooled,” Scarlet said. “He was a looker in his day. I’ve seen photos.”
“Oh, I believe it.” I glanced at the pile of cleansed objects. “I wish there was a way to cleanse all my mistakes.”
“I’m sure Kurt wishes the same thing about now,” Patrick said.
“He didn’t kill her,” I said. If anyone would be willing to take my unsubstantiated claim to heart, it was these two.
“I’d agree with you, but from what you told us, you have to admit the evidence is pretty damning,” Patrick said.
I scratched the back of my neck, remembering the tingling sensation I’d felt earlier. “I can’t explain why, but I know Kurt is innocent.”
“I believe you,” Patrick said softly.
Scarlet shuddered and hugged herself. “Which means the real killer is still out there.”
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning on my way through town, I spotted a bright blue car parked outside a house on the main street.
“Scrubs,” I said to myself. It was the cleaner Dr. Warren mentioned. I decided it was worth a conversation.
I pulled over and parked behind the Ford Focus. I cast a wary eye at the grocery bags in my basket. The temperature hovered around fifty degrees; it wasn’t July’s sweltering heat and humidity, so they should be okay.
Once at the front porch, I tried to take two steps at a time and quickly learned my lesson when I tripped and went sprawling across the wooden slats. Great. To add insult to injury, I probably had a splinter that would get infected and end up costing me another doctor visit.
I climbed to my feet and dusted off my hands, hopeful that no passersby got a view of my backside as I went flying through the air. What was I thinking by trying to put a spring in my step? I was no longer a nubile twenty-five-year-old.
The internal door was open so I rapped on the external door and waited. A portly woman clad in grey sweatpants and a flannel shirt wandered to the door with a dustpan and brush in her hand.
Her expression was quizzical as she opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, are you Casey Schultz?”
The woman’s quizzical expression morphed into a scowl. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Mia Thorne. Hazel Thorne was my father’s aunt.”
Her features softened. “Right. The great-niece. I’m sorry about Hazel. She was a nice lady. Quirky but nice.”
“I understand you worked for her.”
“Oh, were you hoping to continue the service? Because I’ve already filled her spot. I had a waiting list, you see. No point in delaying.”
“No, nothing like that.” Although now that she mentioned it, hiring a cleaner didn’t sound like such a bad idea. I wasn’t the neatest person in the world. Of course, I’d prefer to hire someone I was sure wasn’t a killer.
“Come in before you catch a cold.” Casey ushered me into the foyer. It was a beautiful house filled with gleaming mahogany furniture and oil paintings. A grown-up’s house.
I closed the door behind me and cut right to the chase. “Have you heard the sad news about Gladys?” I watched her closely for any sort of reaction, but I saw only sadness reflected in her brown eyes.
“Of course. Who hasn’t? A terrible tragedy. And so close to Hazel’s death, too.” She clucked her tongue. “I’m not sure what could’ve happened.”
“The police arrested her nephew,” I said.
“Can’t imagine why. Gladys was as sweet as they come and Kurt was just like her.”
“Did you clean her house, too?”
“No. Gladys was a spry thing for her age. Liked to keep her own house.”
“Did you ever notice anyone lurking around Red Clover that didn’t belong there?” I asked.
Casey shifted the dustpan and brush to her other hand. “Not that I can think of. Sometimes the odd package would be delivered. Hazel spent a lot of time in that garden of hers, even in the dead of winter, so if someone was prowling around the grounds, she’d have spotted them before they got too close.” She squinted at me. “You think someone killed Gladys because she found them lurking in the yard? I suppose it’s possible. Red Clover’s been sitting empty for months.”
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