He shook his head, used the house credit card, and booked the suite for the dates around the appointment.
He sat back and considered what Barbara Griffin—Madam Dionysia—might do when Shackleford walked into the room.
* * *
Featherstone met them at the hotel for dinner before the big day. Shackleford weathered the trip without difficulty. The Mercedes practically drove itself down the long, boring stretch of interstate. Once they’d been seated and the server took their orders, Featherstone leaned over the table. “The ex might be a problem.”
“How so?” Shackleford said, settling his napkin on his lap after a quick shake.
“A bit of a boozer and a regular at the local marijuana dispensary. Employed as an account rep for a local boiler room. They’re not high-paying positions, usually. They get a minimum plus bonuses for closing sales.”
“Robo-calls?” Roger asked.
“Probably robo-dialed but yeah. Spam callers.”
“They still use people for those?”
“Some do.”
Shackleford looked back and forth between them. “Robo-calls?”
“Automated sales calls, generally sketchy,” Featherstone said. “Fund raisers, credit card scams. During the political season, they’re heavily used as supposed surveys but they’re really usually hit pieces against the campaign’s opponents, intended to put out unflattering messaging with a veneer of ‘does that change your mind?’ questions layered on top.”
Shackleford pursed his lips. “So, he’s a problem?”
“Potentially. The decree doesn’t list any support payments in either direction. When they broke up, neither of them had a pot to piss in so there wasn’t much to fight over. Even so, it wasn’t exactly amicable.”
“How not amicable was it?” Shackleford asked.
“He cheated. She found out and kicked him to the curb. He wasn’t happy with it. She was his meal ticket in a dead-end job in retail at the time.”
Shackleford nodded and they paused the conversation while the server brought salads and drinks. When he’d moved on, Shackleford asked, “Parents?”
“Downsized nest in the burbs. She’s a paralegal, twenty-plus years in the same small partnership. He’s a couple years from retirement. High-school administrator.”
“Anything to be concerned about?” Shackleford asked. “Does the mother have any talents?”
Featherstone shrugged. “Nothing that stands out to me. You might have a different perspective.” He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“I’d have to see her,” Shackleford said. “Where is this small partnership?”
“Strip-mall office halfway between here and there. Two old gals who’ll probably retire when the mother’s ready to hang it up. Wills, some small contract work, a minor amount of ambulance chasing. They handled Barbara’s divorce for her. Basic retail lawyering, from what I’ve been able to put together.”
“They close as a family? The Griffins?” Shackleford asked.
“Not sure,” Featherstone said. “I don’t have phone records on any of them and didn’t have eyes on them during Thanksgiving.” He shrugged. “I have no idea if they know she’s a spiritualist.”
Shackleford nodded. “Well, let’s take it one step at a time. We’ll go visit Barbara tomorrow morning. See where that gets us.”
“You want me along?” Featherstone asked.
“If you don’t mind waiting in the car, it might be useful to have you handy,” Shackleford said. “Maybe we could swing by that law office and take a look at her mother.”
Featherstone nodded. “We could do that.”
The server returned with their meals, so they put business aside to enjoy the food.
* * *
Roger found a place to park the Mercedes a couple of doors down from Madam Dionysia’s place, on a side street just off the main retail district. He went around to let Shackleford out of the vehicle; Featherstone stayed in the car.
“We’ll be back shortly,” Shackleford said.
“Take your time, Joe. You’re paying me by the hour.” He grinned and toasted them with his cup of carry-out coffee.
“Don’t spill that on the upholstery.” Shackleford grinned back.
They walked the short distance to her door, the aroma of bread and pastry wafting on the breeze from the bakery on the first floor. Roger pressed the button and waited. The lock clicked and buzzed, so he pulled it open and held it for Shackleford. “Do you want me to come up, sir?”
Shackleford shook his head, but stopped. “Actually, yes, please, Mulligan. It might be best.”
“Very good, sir.” He followed Shackleford’s slow progress up the narrow stairs, at the ready in case the old man stumbled. It wasn’t that Shackleford was frail so much as that Roger didn’t want to take a chance with an eighty-something-year-old man on narrow steps.
At the top of the stairs on a simple landing was a plain wooden door. It clicked and swung open before Roger could knock. “Come in, gentlemen.” A woman’s alto voice came from the room beyond. Roger held the door open for his employer.
The morning sunlight through lacy sheers illuminated the room with a warm yellow glow. Barbara Griffin—or rather, Madam Dionysia—sat on a peacock chair of rattan, the flowing skirt of her sand-colored caftan draped around her legs. Her black hair crowned her in an artful coif corralled by a tiara of green stones that set off her eyes. She wore dangling earrings and a necklace of the same green stones. “This is unexpected,” she said, tilting her head to look at Shackleford.
Shackleford gave her a small nod. “Good morning, Barbara.”
She waved a hand at a pair of comfy looking chairs. “Have a seat, gentlemen. I’ll forego the incense and theatrics.” She looked at Roger. “You must be Roger Mulligan.”
Roger left the nearer chair for Shackleford and sat beside him. “Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded and turned her gaze to Shackleford. “And you must be the Joseph Shackleford he made the reservation for.”
“I am,” Shackleford said.
She pursed her lips and nodded, sitting back against the rattan—one elbow on the armrest, her hand raised in a languid pose, fingers flexing in an almost hypnotic rhythm. “What is it you want, Mr. Shackleford?”
“I want to know more about you,” he said. “And your talent.”
“I bet you do.” Her gaze flicked to Roger and back to Shackleford.
Shackleford said, “You can speak freely.” He settled himself in his chair and laced his fingers together on his chest.
“You already know more about me than I’m comfortable with, Mr. Shackleford. Who are you and why do you want to know?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the psychic?” Shackleford asked, his amusement evident on his lips and raised eyebrows.
“I am, yes,” she said. “I can’t read you. At all.” Her forehead wrinkled in a frown. She looked at Roger and gave a short nod. “Mr. Mulligan, I can read.” She gave him a tiny shrug, almost an apology along with a small smile, a quick flicker at the corners of her lips. “Thank you for your service.”
Roger hated that phrase but smiled and nodded.
She looked back at Shackleford. “He thinks you’re here to make me rich, Mr. Shackleford.”
“I’m here because of your family tree.” He glanced at Roger. “Check with him.”
She looked at Roger again. “May I?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stared at him a moment before the languid finger motions froze. “We’re related?”
“We are,” Shackleford said.
She frowned and shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have turned in that swab.”
“Why did you?” Shackleford asked.
“Gift from my mother. She’s into the whole genealogy thing. Gave me a kit for my birthday and made me swipe it right there at the table.” She shook her head and flicked her fingers as if waving at a pesky fly. “So? What do you want?”
“I want y
ou to save my house,” Shackleford said, his smile adding depths to the wrinkles on his face.
“From what?” she asked.
“A money-grubbing niece who wants to get me declared incompetent, challenge my will, and take control of Shackleford House so she can raze it and fill the lot with condos.”
Her eyes widened, lifting her perfectly arched eyebrows halfway to her hairline. She glanced at Roger. “Again?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said, only slightly nervous about what she might find while rummaging around in his head.
She gave him a nod and a smile. “I’ll be gentle.” She stared through him, her gaze in his direction but focused somewhere else, as her hand resumed its languid flexing. Eventually she looked away, but Roger wasn’t sure how long that time had been. A second? A minute? Half an hour? He blinked several times, feeling as if he’d just woken up. Barbara blew out a deep breath. “Holy shit,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Mulligan.”
Roger shrugged, not exactly sure what the correct protocol was for volunteering to have his brain rifled.
She looked at Shackleford. “Okay, I know what he thinks. You don’t need me to save the house. You’ve got your foundation lined up to take over the place. What’s your pitch?”
“First, while the foundation would take over the estate on my passing, I’m concerned that my niece would successfully challenge the will in probate and have it overturned in her favor as my only living relative.”
“So, now you’re looking to this cadet branch of the Shackleford clan to fill out your own family tree? You had to go back to the old country to find relatives?”
“Living ones, yes,” Shackleford said. “More specifically, living ones with talent. How long have you known?”
Griffin shrugged. “Since I was eighteen. It made for an interesting college experience.”
“Your parents?”
She shook her head. “Mother has some hint, just judging from the look of her. I don’t think she knows. I can’t read her, but my father’s an open book.” She grimaced. “Some things a daughter just shouldn’t know.”
“Do you know anybody else with talent?” Shackleford asked.
She shook her head again. “Every once in a while I’ll see a face in a crowd that I think might have talent, but no. Nobody I know.”
“I’ve never met anybody with your skill,” Shackleford said. “Mine tends more toward physical manifestation.”
“I have some of that, too,” she said. “That trick with the door. Very useful for locking my dorm room when I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Shackleford lifted a hand. “Can you do fire?” He snapped his fingers and a candle’s worth of flame appeared over his thumb.
Roger swallowed, discovering the difference between believing Shackleford was a mage and seeing his magic on display.
Griffin glanced at him and winked, before snapping her own fingers to show a green-tinged flame over her own thumb. “Handy for lighting joints,” she said.
They both folded their thumbs down, extinguishing their fires.
“But you can’t read other talents,” Shackleford said.
“Well, my pool is pretty limited. The only other one I know is my mother.” She shrugged. “Now you.”
“So how invested are you in this?” Shackleford asked, waving a hand at the room. “I suspect you do a good business.”
“It’s seasonal,” she said. “I have a few regulars who cover my bills, but the tail end of winter is my best season.”
“Really?” Shackleford said, tilting his head as if trying to roll an idea into place. “Any idea why?”
“I think it’s seasonal affect, to be honest,” she said. “Most of them are looking for something to alleviate their inner darkness, although that’s not how they see themselves. Some variation on cabin fever.”
“Fascinating. So you probably haven’t come across many instructional works.”
“Instructional works?” she asked. “What? For talent? Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Talent. Magic. Affinity.” Shackleford shrugged. “Talent seems to be a common term.”
Her eyes widened just a fraction. “You know others?”
“Oh, yes. Several dozen. There’s an annual gala around the spring equinox.”
She blinked, her eyes closing and staying closed for a moment before opening again. “A gala?”
“Well, it’s low key. Not something one can advertise.”
She laughed. “I suspect not.”
“So, you didn’t answer my question,” Shackleford said. “How invested are you here?”
“Why?” she asked.
“I would like to have you come stay with us at Shackleford House.”
Her eyes hardened around the corners. “And do what? Exactly.”
“Well, you might help with my research, but mostly I’d like to have you in situ, as it were, so that you’re not a lost relation coming out of the woodwork when I die.”
She frowned. “Your research?”
He nodded. “I’m trying to find a way to get rid of a cursed object. So far no luck.”
“Cursed object?” she asked, her face taking on an ‘are you kidding me?’ frown.
“For lack of a better term. Yes.”
She stared at him hard for a few moments. “You’re serious.”
“Oh, yes. Very.” Shackleford shrugged. “Youthful exuberance and false sense of immortality. It’s been useful but now the bill has come due.”
“And you want to try to beat it?”
“That’s my thinking, yes. I don’t know if it’s possible,” he said. “And honestly, if you’re not interested, that’s fine. I’m mostly interested in finding somebody who can care for Shackleford House and carry on the tradition.”
“Tradition?”
“Pixies,” Roger said.
They both looked at him.
He shrugged and looked back at Shackleford. “Somebody with talent needs to take over the house to look out for the pixies and fairies, don’t they? Otherwise it’s just going to be the foundation and they’re not going to know what to do.”
“Wait,” Griffin said. “Honest-to-God pixies?”
Roger shrugged. “That’s what he calls them. They deal with the house and the fairies do the yard work.”
She stared at Shackleford. “Pixies?”
Shackleford shrugged. “Sprites. There are two tribes. I call them pixies and fairies. They don’t object.”
“How do you know this?” she asked, looking at Roger. “You don’t appear to have any talent.” She closed her eyes and put a hand up. “That didn’t come out right.”
“I understand,” he said, a chuckle bubbling up from his chest. “I’m as mundane as they come. I have no idea. Mr. Shackleford suggested that the pixies didn’t like my cleaning and how to get them back on my side. I did it. I may not be able to see them, but I know when there’s dust. As long as they’re happy, there’s no dust, the floors stay polished, and the windows clean.” He shrugged. “I still have to polish the silver and do the laundry. Seems a fair trade to me.”
She lowered her hands and folded them together in her lap. She pulled a deep breath in through her nose, letting it out the same way. She frowned at Roger for a moment and then looked at Shackleford.
“So? What are you proposing? You going to adopt me?”
Shackleford laughed. “You’re a little old for that and I suspect your parents might have something to say about it.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“It’s just what I said. I’d like you to come to Shackleford House and live. I want you to be a known presence when my niece visits. I’d like to recognize you as a relative and offer you the house and a position in the Shackleford Historical Preservation Foundation.”
“You’re going to just keep me in the manner to which I’d like to become accustomed?” she asked, with a wry smile. “Simply out of the goodness of your heart?”
He smiled. “Oh, I h
ave very selfish motivations. First, it’s not going to be easy for you to stand up to Naomi Patching. Once she learns of your presence in the house as the heir apparent, she’ll do everything she can to dislodge you. We should probably have a conversation with your parents about your genealogy.”
“No worries on that score. Mum has already tracked us back to the 1300s in Europe. No mean feat given the state of record-keeping. I’m sure she’d know who you are just by the name.”
“Do they know about your talent?” Shackleford asked.
“I never really hide it, but I don’t wear it on my sleeve. Seemed too risky.”
He nodded. “It is. These days you probably don’t have to worry about being a witch as much but being crazy? Yes. People will think you’re crazy. Dementia, in my case.”
“Are you?”
He shrugged. “I have good days and bad days. This is a good day. So far.”
“It’s the cursed artifact, isn’t it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“At least in part. My doctor says I’m not suffering from any of the normal dementia symptoms. Apparently mine are unique .”
She nodded.
“You don’t have to make a decision right now,” Shackleford said. “Think about it. If you’d like to come to visit, we can put you up in a hotel so you can check out the place on your own terms.”
“You realize this is nightmare territory, right?” she asked. “Single woman moving into a house with two strange men?”
Shackleford’s eyes widened but Roger spoke. “I understand it,” he said. “Read me.”
She looked back and forth between the two and lifted her hand again, staring into Roger’s eyes.
He swallowed hard and brought back the scenes he tried most to forget, letting them play for her, showing her his disgust.
After a moment she closed her eyes and clenched her raised hand into a fist. After a moment she lowered her hand to her lap again and opened her eyes. “It’s a lot to think about.”
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