Drawn and Buttered Page 4

  I straightened chairs by the window. As I did, I caught sight of a small brown object on the windowsill. I picked up a small bundle of twigs, tied with wax-covered twine. I sniffed—the scent was sweet and reminded me of something I couldn’t quite identify. Cough syrup?

  I brought the bundle into the kitchen. “Aunt Gully, did you lose some cooking spice?”

  Aunt Gully took it from me and sniffed. “Ah. At first, I thought it looked like cinnamon sticks. It’s licorice. Some customer must have left it.” She put it on a shelf and grabbed her bright red tote bag. “Maybe they’ll come back for it.” We stepped outside and Aunt Gully tugged the door closed behind her.

  “Good night, ladies,” Hector sang as he watched us get into the van. Then he turned toward Pearl Street. He and Hilda lived in an apartment over the Sirius Pet Grooming Studio a few blocks down the street.

  It was a short drive to Aunt Gully’s cozy cedar-shingled Cape, Gull’s Nest. More and more of our neighbors had decorated for Halloween—several houses had hung small white ghosts from the spreading branches of an oak or maple in their yards. Our neighborhood of small cottages was a short walk from the beach. Tonight the sound of the waves washing onto the sand carried on a soft breeze that made the small white ghosts spin.

  Aunt Gully had been busy decorating Gull’s Nest, too. Jack-o’-lanterns flanked the front door, where she’d hung a black feather wreath decorated with a big purple bow. More orange fairy lights sparkled from the eaves and several scarecrows lounged on bales of hay. One wore a tutu.

  “Is that for me?” We laughed and went in through the breezeway between the garage and kitchen.

  Aunt Gully opened the kitchen door and flicked on the light. “Oh!” She stopped short at the threshold.

  “What is it?” I moved past her into the kitchen.

  Aunt Gully’s kitchen usually looked like a pristine set from a sixties sitcom—pink Formica countertops, gleaming black-and-white checkerboard tile floor, cheerful gingham curtains, with a cookie jar shaped like a pink Cadillac parked on the counter.

  Now a dozen cookbooks, tossed from their usual location on the counter near the stove, were scattered on the floor. Recipe cards from an old metal box were strewn on the table. Drawers had been pulled out and cabinet doors gaped open.

  For a moment, we stood in shocked silence, a silence that told me there was no one else in the house.

  “We should call the police—”

  Aunt Gully may be only five two but when something sets her off, watch out.

  “God bless America!” She steamrolled through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom. Doors opened and closed. “Nobody here and nothing’s been touched,” she called.

  Adrenaline surged through me as I ran into the bathroom and flung aside the shower curtain. Then I raced to the upstairs bath and did the same, then the bedrooms, throwing myself to the floor to peer under the beds—but nothing appeared to have been touched there, either.

  Strange.

  I ran back downstairs. Aunt Gully was putting the kettle on. “I checked the basement,” she said. “No one there.”

  I ran out to the backyard patio, flipping on the floodlights as I did. The yard was as tranquil as ever—Aunt Gully’s plants and garden looked the same as always, lush—but when the wind stirred the fairy lights strung overhead and leaves swirled across the slate patio and over my shoes, I jumped. But no one was in the yard. Nothing stirred. I didn’t feel watched, which was an atypical feeling. Aunt Gully’s friend and neighbor, Aggie Weatherburn, could see our backyard from her kitchen window and was generally there whipping up her divine coffeecake. Her window was dark.

  When I returned to the kitchen, I locked the door behind me.

  “Aunt Gully, did you lock the door this morning?”

  Her silence told me she hadn’t.

  “These locks are so flimsy! A thief could break in with a bobby pin. Let’s call the police. We should have called the police right away.”

  Aunt Gully gathered the recipe cards. “I’ll call in the morning. I don’t know what they can do now and I’d rather get a good night’s sleep. I’ll ask Aggie tomorrow if she saw anything. She goes to bed early and I don’t want to wake her.”

  I took the cards from her hands. “I’ll take care of these.” I put them in alphabetical order, noting all the different handwritten cards, as she readied the tea. The cards were from her friends—Aunt Gully kept them as tokens of friendship. The woman never followed recipes.

  Aunt Gully poured steaming water into two mugs, the scent of her herbal good-night tea calming. She shook her head and handed me a mug. “Who would do this? Who would want to ransack my kitchen?”

  “Aunt Gully, Officer Petrie said you should get security cameras for the shack. Maybe we should get them for here, too.”

  Aunt Gully went into the living room and sank into Uncle Rocco’s old recliner. She popped up the footrest and sighed. “Allie, I have nothing to steal. Whoever broke in surely realized that. And the shack … well, I feel terrible about Fred’s lobster, but I don’t want to live in a fortress, or work in one.”

  “What about the beer bottles at the shack? Officer Petrie said he’d do more stops there until they get a handle on who’s doing it but that may not be enough.”

  Aunt Gully set down her mug and ran her hands along the armrests. “Strange goings-on, that’s for sure, Allie. I’d say it’s the full moon—it brings out the crazies—but it won’t be full for another week or so.”

  That reminded me. “Speaking of crazies, what does Beltane want?”

  To my surprise, Aunt Gully chuckled. “She’s a character, all right.” She picked up her mug and sipped again. “Beltane Kowalski used to be Jennifer Kowalski. Poor thing went off the rails a few years ago. After”—she gave me a look—“an affair with the president of the board of the historical society went badly. Almost lost her job, but everyone moved past it.

  “But soon after, Jennifer, ah Beltane, took a bus trip to Salem with the Women’s Club and next thing you know she’s dyeing her hair, dressing all in black, and hanging pentangles in the trees around her house.”

  “Is she a witch?”

  Aunt Gully eyes twinkled. “She thinks she is.”

  “And what does she want from you?”

  “She wants me to, oh, it’s ridiculous, Allie. She wants me to join her club.”

  “Witch club?”

  “They’re called covens, dear.”

  I choked with laughter, tea spurting out my nose. Aunt Gully, on the board of the Ladies Guild at St. Peter’s, in a coven. I wiped my eyes. “Do you want to join Beltane’s Wiccans, Aunt Gully?”

  “Black’s not my color,” she said. “Besides, she’s not a Wiccan, Allie. They meet at the Psychic Shop above the Tick Tock Coffee Shop. No…” Aunt Gully put down her mug. “Beltane came back from Salem with all these ideas. She was extreme. The group at the Psychic Shop kicked her out.”

  “Whoa.” What was so bad that a bunch of witches would kick out another witch?

  “Want a cookie? I made oatmeal raisin this morning.” Aunt Gully started to get up.

  “I’ve got it.” A cookie would hit the spot. I went into the kitchen and lifted the lid on Aunt Gully’s pink Cadillac-shaped cookie jar. Except for a few crumbs, it was empty. “Aunt Gully! The thief stole your cookies!”

  Aunt Gully steamrolled into the kitchen, hands on her hips. “That’s it. I’m calling the locksmith for new locks in the morning.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, Aunt Gully called our neighbor Aggie Weatherburn. Unfortunately, Aggie hadn’t seen anything unusual at Gull’s Nest the night before.

  As I packed fresh aprons in Aunt Gully’s tote bag, she bustled into the kitchen, carrying a black dress over her arm.

  I took it from her and held it at arm’s length. It had a matching apron and cap, made of a coarse, scratchy homespun fabric. “I’m confused. You’re going to be a Pilgrim for Halloween?”

  A
unt Gully shook her head as she went to the coat closet by the back door. She opened the door and shimmering pink tulle spilled out. She held up a gown with a frothy pink skirt, fuller than any tutu I’d ever worn. She waved a gold wand.

  “Glinda!”

  She spun. “You know me. The good witch!”

  I pointed at the plain dress. “So what’s this?”

  “I’m making my Noank chowder for the historical society’s commemoration. They want us all to look historically accurate.” She stuffed the poufy pink dress back into the closet.

  “Yum.” Noank style was my favorite. It’s different from creamy white New England clam chowder, which is what we served at the shack. Noank, or Rhode Island, chowder is clear, so nothing gets in the way of the briny tang of the sea and the sweet flavor of the clams. Many folks think it’s plain but to me the flavors are even more distinct and delicious.

  “The Parishes are still calling it a commemoration instead of a birthday?” Otis Parish, the founder of Mystic Bay, had been born on October 31. This had always been a thorn in the side of his stuffy descendants.

  Aunt Gully tied a knot in an orange and black pumpkin-print scarf. Tiny skeleton earrings danced as she turned her head. “Royal Parish takes his family history seriously. And they’re doing a grant presentation, too.”

  “Grant presentation?” I’d heard Madame Monachova talking about a grant at the studio.

  “The Parish family gives a big grant once a year to a history or art organization,” Aunt Gully said.

  Maybe this was the grant Madame applied for. For years, she’d talked about creating her own ballet. Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Maybe she didn’t want to jinx herself?

  Aunt Gully gathered her black dress. “You and Verity are going to a party tonight, right?”

  “Yes, one of her customers invited her. She’s been vague about it—said she wants to surprise me. I’m going to pick up my costume at her shop this afternoon.” My best friend, Verity Brooks, owned a vintage clothing shop. I couldn’t wait to see what she came up with for tonight’s Halloween party.

  “Oh, don’t let me forget the candy to hand out at the Mermaid!”

  Mystic Bay merchants gave candy to kids who came in costume on Halloween. I loaded two cartons of candy bars into the van.

  As we left the house, Aunt Gully pulled the kitchen door shut firmly. “Locked.”

  At the Mermaid, we spoke to Officer Petrie about the break-in at Gull’s Nest and the Peeping Tom at the shack. “Thank goodness you scared the thief off before he got past the kitchen.” He shook his head. “Locks, Gully. They only work when they’re used. Look at Royal Parish out on Rabb’s Point. He must have a very expensive security system and still burglars got in.”

  I put Aunt Gully’s oversized cooking pot into the van. It was a bright blue-sky day and tourists plus local kids in Halloween costumes were already crowding the narrow brick sidewalks of Pearl Street.

  “Why don’t you and Verity stop by the commemoration?” Aunt Gully said. “I’ll make sure to put some chowder aside for you.”

  A historical society event normally wouldn’t interest me, but now that I knew Madame Monachova might be there, possibly getting a grant for her new work, I wanted to go. Plus, Aunt Gully’s chowder was a powerful lure. “Sure.”

  Aunt Gully got into her van and started the engine. The van shook and belched a cloud of gray smoke.

  “I thought you were going to look at a new van,” I said, coughing.

  Aunt Gully slid on her sunglasses, a bright red that matched her lipstick. “Yes, when I have time. Tootles!”

  I shook my head. Aunt Gully would get a new van when this one fell apart around her.

  As I went into the shack, the American flag by the door fluttered. Aunt Gully’s remembrance for Uncle Rocco. I wondered if Aunt Gully didn’t want to replace the van because it reminded her of him.

  My reverie was interrupted by the rumble of an SUV emblazoned with WWMB NEWS. It rolled up to the front door of the shack.

  Leo Rodriguez waved and jumped out of the SUV, smoothing back his thick black hair. I tried to flag down Aunt Gully, but she’d already turned onto Pearl Street. Either she didn’t see me or she decided to let me handle Leo as a growth opportunity. She was big on those.

  I have nothing against the news, but over the past summer, every time something terrible happened in Mystic Bay, this same reporter was on scene, and here he was again.

  He’d seen me. I couldn’t run and hide, no matter how much I wanted to. I looked down and sighed. Why was it that every time I saw him, I was wearing a clamshell bikini T-shirt?

  Leo jogged up to me with hand outstretched. His camera crew got out of the SUV and started setting up equipment.

  Just then, Fred Nickerson’s blue station wagon pulled into the parking lot. I relaxed. With Fred, the real heart of the Lobzilla story here, Leo would lose interest in talking to me.

  My smile was genuine as I shook hands with Leo.

  “Allie, how are you?”

  “Fine, Leo, and you?”

  “Can’t complain.” His smile was megawatt, movie-star brilliant and his eyes held genuine warmth.

  I felt myself melt a bit. Don’t get distracted, Allie! “You’re here about Lobzilla?”

  “He’s big news.” He chuckled. “I love what you guys are doing to help find him.”

  I blinked.

  “Maybe it’s your sister, Lorel?” He slid his phone from the pocket of his navy blue blazer and turned the screen so I could see it.

  On the Lazy Mermaid Facebook page, a cartoon Lobzilla waved a claw. “REWARD. Dinner for two at the Lazy Mermaid for the return of one Lobzilla.”

  The post had over one thousand likes.

  Leo smiled and slid the phone back in his pocket. “Your sister’s on top of things.”

  “Am I the only one who thinks it’s odd that the prize for returning a lobster is a lobster dinner?” I said.

  Leo threw his head back and laughed. I almost liked him then.

  “So, what’s the news on Lobzilla?” Leo said.

  I waved at Fred to come over. “Oh, look, here’s Professor Nickerson now!” A short, broad-shouldered woman trailed him, walking with her hands on her hips.

  Fred hung back but I took his arm and steered him toward Leo. The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “Leo Rodriguez, this is Professor Nickerson from Graystone College and…” I turned to the woman.

  Fred shook hands with Leo. “This is Gladys Burley, my neighbor.”

  “How do you do?” Leo stretched out his hand but Gladys didn’t take it. He smoothed his hair and turned back to Fred.

  “Well, I’ve got to get cooking. See you!” I hurried away, feeling waves of animosity emanate from Gladys. What is going on with Gladys?

  “Allie, we’ll talk later,” Leo called.

  I waved. I planned to be too busy.

  I squeezed past some Gully’s Gals who were snapping photos from the kitchen door. “Leo Rodriguez! He’s even more handsome in real life!”

  I washed my hands and caught Hector’s eye. He knew how I felt about Leo Rodriguez.

  Hilda bustled into the kitchen and stopped short. “What’s this?” She pointed at the tiny bundle of sticks I’d found at closing time the night before.

  “Aunt Gully says it’s licorice root. I found it in the dining room, by the window, last night.”

  Hilda’s eyes went wide. She pinched the bundle between two fingers and dropped it into the trash.

  “What’s wrong, Hilda?”

  “Bad juju.” She shook her head. “I had a friend who got into some weird stuff when she was younger. Casting spells and nonsense like that.”

  With a shock I remembered who’d been sitting near the window yesterday. “Beltane was sitting by that window.”

  Hilda frowned, her big dark eyes troubled. “I know she’s been after your aunt to join her—” She hesitated then said, “Club,” at the same time Hector said, “Coven.”

  I s
pread butter on some hot dog rolls and put them on Aunt Gully’s specially built grill to toast. “I wondered why she’s been coming in for the last few weeks.”

  Hector grinned. “It’s not the delicious lobster rolls made by the devastatingly handsome captain of Happy Place?” Happy Place was Hector and Hilda’s boat.

  I nudged Hector with my hip. “Would you want Beltane coming in for that reason?”

  Hector shuddered and took a lobster out of the steamer. “God, no.”

  “Incoming!” a Gal called, using code for tour bus.

  I ran to the front window. A huge bus nudged into the parking lot, but there was no place to park. The driver just stopped and opened the bus door. Passengers streamed out. We kicked into high gear, ferrying live lobsters from the shed to the steamer, from the steamer to the stainless-steel table, where we picked the meat from the steaming shells and layered it into the toasted rolls. The cool fall weather enticed a fair number of diners to try the chowder. Every time I went past the window I looked out, watching Leo interview first Fred, then a couple of tourists, about the disappearance of our celebrity crustacean.

  I went back into the kitchen just as a deliveryman knocked on the screen door. I signed for a large, flat package.

  As I opened it, Bit Markey hung his backpack on a peg by the back door. “Avast, ye swabs.” He was dressed in a striped T-shirt and baggy pants cut off to shin length. His glossy dark hair curled under a bandanna tied around his head and an oversized fake beard hung from his ears.

  “Blackbeard, reporting for duty.” He and Hector fist-bumped.

  “You look great, Bit.”

  He stood by me as I pulled a poster out of the box. It was the Lobzilla Wanted poster Lorel had designed.

  “Cool!” Bit said.

  I tried not to roll my eyes. I wondered if I could toss it out without anyone noticing.

  “Oh, that’s so cute!” The Gals gathered around and next thing I knew I was hanging the poster by the front door between the mermaid figurehead and one of Aunt Gully’s scarecrows. Within moments, tourists were taking selfies with it. The poster was a good idea, I had to admit.