Drawn and Buttered Read online

  “I wasn’t really sure which one he was,” Verity said. “He looked like all the other guys in those costumes, with the capes and the pilgrim hats.”

  “I don’t remember seeing him at the party.” A memory struggled to surface. When Isobel showed us Royal’s office, I’d seen someone with a cape in the hallway. Could that have been Max? He’d been very busy. The party had been in swing for no more than an hour and a half or two hours before his body had been found. He’d probably gone straight from the grant presentation, along the path through the trees behind Parish House, to the saltwater lap pool where he’d stashed Lobzilla. Then he put the lobster back in the box and dragged him to the cemetery. And met—I shivered—his killer?

  Verity had been following her own train of thought. “And didn’t you say Max worked with Professor Nickerson? Why would he hurt nice old Fred Nickerson by taking Lobzilla?”

  I remembered them in the shack together. There had been affection there. But what had Isobel said? There was Max and there was frat Max.

  When we got close to the Witch’s Table, Verity turned off her light.

  “What are you doing?

  “I don’t want the witches to see us.”

  The wind stirred tree branches; something rustled in the underbrush.

  “I can’t take it. Run!”

  We ran back to the Tank.

  Chapter 24

  Bronwyn texted me the next day. Meet you at lunchtime. I’m dying for a lobster roll.

  At the Mermaid, Aunt Gully greeted Bronwyn with a big hug. “We haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “My criminal justice classes have been pretty intense,” Bronwyn said. “Finally I’m getting into more of the hands-on stuff, less of the theoretical stuff. I’m thinking that I’ll apply for the police academy next year.”

  “How exciting!” Aunt Gully beamed.

  We heard a commotion outside the front door of the shack and—violin music?

  The door to the shack burst open.

  A broad-shouldered African-American man in a tuxedo, top hat, and cape made an entrance, holding a single red rose before him. He wore a half mask like the Phantom of the Opera.

  “I’m looking for Gina Fontana,” he sang as he set an iPod and speaker on the counter.

  Aunt Gully’s eyes widened. She spread her arms and stepped around the counter. “Here she is,” she sang back.

  Hector, Hilda, and Gully’s Gals gathered at the kitchen door. Customers rummaged in pockets and purses, then raised cell phones.

  Bronwyn and I exchanged glances. What on earth?

  Holding his cape to one side, the “Phantom” swooped up to Aunt Gully and presented the rose. Her cheeks pinked and she made a little curtsy as she took it. He pressed a button and the violin music segued into the introduction to a love song from one of Aunt Gully’s favorite weepy old movies, Love Story.

  Her eyes lit up. Unfortunately, Aunt Gully knew the song by heart. She and the “Phantom” sang along to the swooning, sappy accompaniment.

  I tried not to laugh, but his over-the-top rumbling bass and Aunt Gully’s squawking set off a torrent of giggles. Bronwyn’s face reddened. She bit her lip as she tried to hold back her laughter but it burst like a dam. Thank goodness Aunt Gully was in on the joke. She loved singing but also knew her nickname was “Gully” for a reason. She was a ham and was enjoying every moment of this spotlight serenade.

  “Sounds like a seasick gull caught in a thunderstorm,” a customer next to me muttered between torrents of laughter.

  I swear the singer’s deep bass voice made Aunt Gully’s collection of mermaid bric-a-brac rattle on the shelves. Customers raised their cell cameras and filmed. The Lazy Mermaid and its quirky owner would once again go viral.

  As the last notes mercifully faded, the crowd in the shack burst into applause. The singer presented Aunt Gully with a small box tied with a black bow and swooped out again.

  “Open it!” Bronwyn cried.

  Aunt Gully chuckled and high-fived customers. She wiped her eyes. “Oh, I haven’t laughed so much in ages. What fun!” She untied the bow and opened the box. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my! Four basketball tickets!”

  Hector leaned over her shoulder. “Not just any basketball tickets—those are courtside for the Celtics.”

  “Lady, your boyfriend must be crazy about you!” a customer said.

  Aunt Gully’s mouth made a little red O. She looked up and caught my eye.

  “Don O’Neill?” I said.

  She nodded. I saw a flash of doubt in her eyes before she was swept up by the Gals into a group hug.

  Hilda handed Bronwyn a tray with lobster rolls and two cups of hot chocolate. I slipped on a jacket as Bronwyn and I went outside to the splintery picnic table by the shed.

  “Aunt Gully has a boyfriend?” Bronwyn set our tray on the table.

  I explained what was happening with Chowdaheads and Don O’Neill.

  She shook her head. “As long as she’s having fun.”

  “I think.” I hesitated. I had no proof that Don O’Neill had broken into Aunt Gully’s house.

  “What?” Bronwyn prompted.

  “Remember we had the Peeping Tom and someone broke into Gull’s Nest? I think Don O’Neill is trying to steal Aunt Gully’s chowder recipe.”

  “I’ll look into him.” Bronwyn took a bite of her lobster roll. “Oh, that’s good.”

  My relationship with Bronwyn, one of my oldest friends, had become complicated by her decision to study criminal justice. Now it looked like she was going to the police academy. I knew that I shouldn’t ask her for inside information about Max’s murder and I knew I should probably tell her everything I knew about Max’s murder. Why did this have to be so difficult?

  I sensed Bronwyn was thinking the same thing.

  “Allie, this investigation is turning into a political minefield. Royal Parish has been leaning on the police to clear up Max’s murder—fast. He’s telling them to”—she took a breath—“keep the focus on Madame Monachova.”

  I gasped. “She wouldn’t hurt a soul. Never!”

  Bronwyn nodded. “I agree. But he’s so well connected. People listen to him. He knows everyone—I mean everyone. Of course he’s a lawyer, but he’s powerful, too. People are afraid of him.”

  I thought back to the man in Pilgrim garb at the grant presentation. “Have you met him?”

  She shook her head.

  “He looks so much like his ancestors.” I pulled out my phone and showed her the portrait I’d photographed at the history department office.

  “What about the daughter? Isobel. Does she look like him and all the ancestors, too?”

  “She’s got the same nose and chin. I wouldn’t say she’s pretty, but she’s striking. She’s intense. Aggressive. Volatile. Like a bomb waiting to go off.” I filled her in on the fight I’d witnessed between Max and Isobel. I hesitated, then said, “She’s torn up by his theft of papers from her dad.”

  Bronwyn set down her lobster roll. “Holy crap. You’re telling me that Max Hempstead stole papers from Royal Parish?”

  My stomach twisted. “That’s what Isobel told me. I feel like a rat telling you this.” I was a rat. But if Isobel was guilty of Max’s murder that had to be brought to light. Madame Monachova was still in the hospital—any further stress brought on by being part of the police investigation would only harm her more.

  “Think of what might be in those papers. Maybe that’s why people are afraid of him. He knows their secrets.” That must be what was in the backpack. No wonder Max didn’t let it out of his sight.

  Bronwyn looked away, toward the river. There were a fair number of diners at the picnic tables overlooking the water, but now everyone wore jackets and scarves. The sunlight was beautifully golden, but didn’t have much warmth. I pulled my own jacket tighter.

  “Allie.” She took a sip of hot chocolate. “You know what? You have a fan. Detective Rosato.”

  Her words kindled a satisfied glow in me. I certainly
didn’t like Detective Rosato—to be honest, she scared me—but I respected her.

  “She told me that you have good instincts. So what do your instincts tell you?”

  I chewed the last bit of my lobster roll, savoring the combination of the rich lobster meat and buttery toasted bun.

  “First of all. Isobel.” Could she have been lying to me and Verity? No, it was easy to unburden herself to us because she didn’t know us well. “I think she was so upset that she actually would’ve told us that she killed Max. Her words were, ‘I wish I had killed him.’”

  Bronwyn, chewed, watching me.

  “Second, Max’s frat. They’re lying.”

  Her eyebrows flew up. “But I heard they cooperated fully. We got a ton of stuff from them.” I noticed she said we.

  “The police took a bunch of stuff from a room they call the ‘bullpen’—it’s just for freshmen. Max was a junior. When I went upstairs, Nate Ellis, the frat president, was there, putting stuff into a sports bag. I wonder what he was taking. And one of the guys told Nate that he stayed ‘on script’ with the cops.”

  “Whoa,” Bronwyn said.

  “Did the police find a black backpack?” I told her about the way Max hadn’t let it out of his sight. She shook her head. Bronwyn held her body very still. She blocked out everything when she was listening intently.

  “Back to Isobel. She and Max had a huge fight when I saw them leaving her fencing class the night before the murder.” I swallowed. From what I’d seen she could’ve killed Max. Maybe she had lied to me and Verity. I explained how Max had pretended to care about Isobel, but was just using her to get into Royal’s home office to steal legal papers.

  “And then there’s a Halloween party two nights later and he’s dead.” Brownyn tilted her head. “What was her costume?”

  “She was a pirate.”

  “With a sword?” Bronwyn’s gray eyes were steady.

  “With a sword.” I tried to remember what Isobel had called it. “An épée.”

  “A what?”

  “She had a long narrow sword. It was part of her costume.”

  A cool breeze stirred my hair around my face. I smoothed it back into a bun. “Was Max stabbed with a sword?” I held my breath, wondering if Bronwyn would share that information with me.

  Bronwyn said quietly, “Max was hit over the head with a heavy object, probably a rock. Then he was stabbed with a long narrow”—she hesitated—“implement. They’re not sure exactly what. In the heart and in the throat.” She sipped her cocoa.

  I winced. “A lot of kids said Otis Parish killed Max.”

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “And then there’s the giant lobster, just to add to the crazy.” Bronwyn rubbed a hand through her short brown hair, tousling it.

  “Speaking of crazy”—I lowered my voice—“at Witch’s Rock I found a bundle of licorice, candles, and a wooden spoon that’s part of a magic spell Beltane Kowalski cast to make Aunt Gully join her coven.”

  Bronwyn burst out laughing, rocking back and forth. “Look what happens when I’m not here.” She sipped her hot chocolate and looked toward the parking lot. “Speaking of crazy,” she muttered.

  Delilah limped toward us and stood by the table, the breeze stirring her coppery red hair, the onyx pendant of the Egyptian cat god nestled on her ruffled purple top. She wore a swirling patchwork skirt that brushed the top of well-worn shearling-lined moccasins. “My bunions are killing me.” She leaned on the table. “I came to see how your aunt’s doing.”

  “She’s fine, thanks.”

  Delilah looked at me over white plastic Jackie O sunglasses, her heavy-lidded eyes lined with a peacock’s palette of colors. “You owe me a cup of chowder, remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I’d completely forgotten.

  Bronwyn looked from Delilah to me. She was trying not to laugh. “I’ve got to get back to the Plex. Thanks for the lobster roll.” She gave me a mischievous grin as she waved and took off.

  “Delilah, do you want your chowder for here or to go?” I asked.

  She spread her skirt and arranged herself on the seat across from me. “Right here’s fine. Fresh air is good. And come back and chat for a minute.”

  “Oh—kay.” I wondered what she wanted to talk about.

  I returned with the chowder. Hilda watched, eyes narrowed, from the back door as I sat down with the psychic.

  Delilah rubbed her hands, her nail polish bright purple, when I set a tray with the chowder, crackers, and a spoon in front of her. She inhaled. “Ah, the aroma. It’s wonderful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sit down, sit down. You’ve got a sec, right?” She parked her sunglasses on her head. “Everything’s slowed down so much in the fall. Well, for you. Halloween was gangbusters for me.”

  “I suppose it would be.”

  “You know, a long time ago redheads were automatically assumed to be witches.”

  I laughed. “We’re dangerous, right?”

  She smiled. “Give me your palm.”

  I hesitated, then held out my hand. I hoped I wouldn’t owe her anything else. I felt like everything with Delilah was an exchange.

  She took my hand in hers. Multicolored stones sparkled in the rings she wore on almost every finger as she spooned up soup with her other hand, like people scroll their phones or read while they eat. “Hmm … good life line. Creativity.” Her eyes flicked up. “Very strong curiosity. Love line—a bit of rockiness.” She smiled, genuinely. “But then smooth for a long, long time. Just like your aunt.”

  Despite my mistrust, I said, “You mean with Uncle Rocco?”

  She nodded. “Those two were two peas in a pod.”

  I pulled back my hand. I didn’t want to get personal with her. “So what did you want to talk about?” This odd woman was a cross between a gypsy and a witch and an ordinary housewife you’d see at the Big Y squeezing tomatoes.

  “Ah, that chowder’s so good.” She patted her lips with a napkin. “But like I said, I wanted to see how your aunt’s doing. If she’d made any changes, you know, decisions.”

  “You mean about Beltane’s group?”

  She nodded. “Or anything else.”

  For a second Don O’Neill and Chowdaheads flashed in my mind. Delilah couldn’t know about that. Could she have been the one to put a spell on Aunt Gully instead of Beltane? “Why are you so interested?”

  Delilah’s lips twisted. “Beltane and I do not have the best relationship. Who am I kidding? I hate her guts. She gives all the rest of us a bad name.”

  Hilda stepped out the kitchen door carrying a trash bag. She dropped it into the Dumpster and let the lid fall back with a bang. She walked back, waving to me as she passed.

  Hilda, my watchdog.

  Delilah scraped the last of the chowder from her bowl. “Drama, drama, drama, that’s Beltane. She has an orgy in the woods and who does the Mystic Bay Mariner call for a quote? Me, that’s who. I’m trying to run a respectable business. I can’t put up with that crap. It makes me look bad.”

  “Orgy in the woods?” In Mystic Bay?

  “She takes her name seriously. Beltane is a holiday halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. It’s a celebration of fertility. Long ago there would be, oh, what were they called?” She squinted, trying to remember. “Ah, greenwood marriages, where couples would try each other out, see if they’d have children together. Simpler times.” She tugged on her gold hoop earring and burped quietly. “Anyway, Beltane takes herself too seriously and the rest of us pay.” She looked out at the river. “And I’m not being entirely honest.” She set down her spoon. “She wanted to oust me, can you believe it? A power grab! When we are a sisterhood!

  “So she left. None of us were as extreme as she. None of us. She hooked up with some folks”—she shifted uncomfortably—“I don’t know.”

  “Where do they meet?” I asked, although I was sure I knew.

  Delilah lowered her eyes. “A vortex of evil. Of sacrilege an
d broken taboo so strong, I don’t dare go. The echoes are too strong, too dangerous.”

  “The Parish graveyard,” I whispered. She was giving me the creeps. I rubbed my arms.

  Delilah nodded.

  I stood. “All’s good with Aunt Gully. She’s not interested in joining the group.”

  Delilah sighed. “We could use someone a bit younger. We have some members who can’t drive at night and the carpooling can get hard to arrange. We’re always taking new members, if she’s interested in joining a coven, I mean.”

  I thought of all of the Gully’s Gals. “She already has one.”

  Hilda called from the door. “Code Red. We’ve got a tour bus rolling in!”

  “Sorry, I have to go.”

  Chapter 25

  “Did she try anything weird?” Hilda said.

  “No,” I said. “Though that was one of the stranger conversations I’ve had in a while.”

  When the tour bus rush subsided, I scrolled on my phone to search for information on Delilah. All I found was a Facebook page with a twenty percent off coupon for readings.

  I mulled what Delilah had told me about Beltane. A distant memory struggled to surface. Aunt Gully had said something about Beltane having an affair that went wrong with the president of the historical society two years ago. That affair had sent her over the edge, into a new persona.

  I also searched online for Mystic Bay Historical Society. Mystic Bay Historical Society and Old Otis Parish House was the name of the site. What a mouthful.

  There were dozens of photos from the Parish Family Trust Grant announcement. I scrolled through, surprised by a photo of me talking to Fern. The photo credit read “Photo by Beltane.” I shivered. I hadn’t noticed Beltane taking the photo. There was a photo of Aunt Gully waving a wooden spoon, her hair frizzing out from under her white bonnet.

  I stopped at the photo of a group around the lucky grant winner, Professor Lyman Smith. This must have been shot after Verity and I—and I recalled, Madame and Kathleen—had left the room.