Drawn and Buttered Read online

  A woman pushed past me into the shack. “Well, if they’d had a security system, the giant lobster wouldn’t have gotten stolen in the first place,” she said to her friend.

  Johnny Sabino from the Mystic Bay Mariner parked on the street as the bus backed out, setting off honking from drivers trying to enter the parking lot from Pearl Street. He greeted Leo and Leo’s tech crew, who now enjoyed lobster rolls on the Adirondack chairs. I envied them having the time to relax.

  I hauled a bucket to the shed to collect more lobsters for the steamer. Fred and Gladys sat at the rickety picnic table we sometimes used for meetings.

  “Fred, how are you doing?” I said.

  Gladys glared at me. I angled the bucket between us. Whoa, lady, I’m not after your man.

  Fred’s thin shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. An untouched lobster roll sat in front of him.

  “You have to eat, Fred.” Gladys’s soft, high-pitched voice was at odds with her gruff demeanor.

  Fred pushed his glasses up his nose. “If only I’d taken Lobzilla to the lab on Thursday. But I needed a bigger tank, I thought it would be less stressful, and your tanks were fine, so…”

  I reached out to pat Fred’s shoulder, but at Gladys’s look I jerked back my hand. “It’s not your fault. Really. Who could know that someone would steal Lobzilla? Who knew we had him at that point?” I could have bitten my tongue. Johnny had been on scene from the beginning plus everyone on the school field trip and all their friends on social media. But the question remained:

  Who wanted a three-foot-long lobster?

  “I’m sure they’ll find him soon. My sister’s offering a reward.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.” Fred straightened his shoulders and bit into his lobster roll.

  “Your sister?” Gladys said. This woman’s hackles were up because my sister made a poster of a lobster?

  “Oh, I have to go.” Good grief, what is up with Gladys?

  When I went back to the kitchen, I called over one of the Gals. “Could you take a look at the woman with Fred Nickerson?”

  The Gals at the table exchanged glances. “Woman with Fred Nickerson? We don’t even have to look.” They laughed, but one went to the window. “Yep, that’s Gladys Burley. They live next to each other on Seabright Road. His guard dog. She takes care of him—cooks, cleans. Once, I even saw her cleaning his gutters.”

  “Cleaning his gutters?” That’s love.

  She ladled some of Aunt Gully’s chowder into a bowl. “Mmm. That smells good. Not that he notices what Gladys does. The only thing he loves is fish. Gladys took him under her wing.”

  Like the wing of a hawk. I shuddered. This talk of birds made me think of Beltane’s glittering black eyes.

  As the Gals chatted, I went to the trash can. The bundle of sticks Hilda had thrown away sat on top of a discarded hair net. I hesitated, then slipped the bundle into my pocket. I wanted to know what Beltane was up to and I knew just the person to ask.

  Chapter 8

  I hurried from the shack, heading up Pearl Street.

  Afternoon was flowing into evening, sunset’s fingers of pink and flame reached upriver from the Sound. Clouds tinged with red scuttled in the light breeze. If this weather held, it would be perfect for Halloween trick-or-treating tonight.

  The shops on Pearl Street were decked out with fall colors, carved pumpkins, masses of mums, and big purple and green cabbages. Banners with cornucopia, pumpkins, and scarecrows fluttered from shopfronts. Most businesses were handing out Halloween candy. Little kids in costumes—mermaids, cowboys, superheroes—ran from door to door with plastic pumpkins and bulging pillowcases, shrieking with excitement and an early sugar high.

  I stopped at a door painted lilac, sandwiched between the Tick Tock Coffee Shop and Mystic Yarns. A neon light blazed in the second-story window: PSYCHIC. This psychic had moved in a few years ago. What was her name? Deena? Daphne? I wasn’t sure I believed in psychics, but the little bundle in my pocket radiated with menace that set me on edge and made me want answers.

  A tiny white terrier sniffed my ankles as I passed a woman enjoying a cup of tea at a café table on the sidewalk. I bent to stroke his soft fur. He licked my hand, his warmth reassuring, grounding. I pushed open the door and went in.

  I closed the door, shutting out the street noise. I stood in a dimly lit vestibule. A sign at the foot of the stairs read PSYCHIC READINGS BY DELILAH BALL. Delilah, that was it. I started up the staircase.

  The walls were painted black, decorated with symbols—stars, astrological signs, runes—in shiny silver paint. Dozens of mirrors, none the same, lined the steps, with the disorienting effect that dozens of redheaded Allies climbed the stairs. The scent of incense—was it sandalwood? frankincense? and something else I couldn’t identify—grew stronger as I reached the top step. Water trickled somewhere, a peaceful sound, but a shiver passed through me, as if a cold finger traced the nape of my neck.

  Shake it off, drama queen.

  At the top was an open door leading into an overstuffed waiting room. I stepped inside. No, it was a parlor. Old-fashioned Victorian couches upholstered in ruby velvet, windows swagged with the same heavy fabric and tied back with black tassels—the room looked like a bordello in an old western movie. The heavy drapes blocked noise from the street below so well that I could hear the gentle ticktock of a tall grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

  Words were written in Latin on the wall over a heavily carved desk. With a shudder I turned to face a wall of stuffed and mounted animal heads—a goat with magnificently curled horns, a deer, and a bear.

  “Good evening.”

  I jumped and turned. Delilah had come out of a door by the clock. It started a low, mellow bonging.

  “Don’t you love that sound?” She approached and took my hand. Her hands were cool and soft. “Allie, right? From the shack. And I saw you in Ondine this past summer. Amazing performance.”

  “Thank you.”

  Delilah was a short, curvy woman draped in multiple rainbow-hued scarves and heavy gold necklaces. An onyx pendant of the Egyptian cat god, Bastet, nestled in the scarves. She’d swathed her head in a dark blue velvet turban, but tendrils escaped, tendrils the same deep red as the leaves of the sugar maples on Old Farms Road.

  Delilah patted the couch. I lowered myself onto cushions that were so deep I wondered if I could get out. Get out! You can never leave!

  A giggle rose in my throat. I coughed to hide it.

  “Social call or business? I have an appointment in fifteen minutes, so I don’t really have time for a full session. Halloween, you know? I’m booked.”

  “I’d be happy to pay, because it’s not really just a social call.” I reached into my bag.

  She waved it away. “How about a free bowl of your aunt’s chowder next time I’m in.”

  “That’s great.”

  Delilah leaned toward me. “What is it, honey? I sense you’re upset?”

  She probably said this to everyone. Everyone’s upset about something.

  The expression in her deep blue eyes was warm but something about her made me uneasy. Or maybe it was the statue of a prancing naked demon on the bookcase behind her.

  I pulled the bundle of sticks from my pocket. “What is this? Aunt Gully says it’s licorice.”

  She had pince-nez on a jeweled lanyard around her neck. She took the bundle from my hand. “Root. Licorice root. I don’t even need my glasses. It has a nice scent, doesn’t it? I add it to a lot of herbal remedies—it adds sweetness to the herbs, which can sometimes be bitter.” She hesitated. “Where did you get it?” She kept her voice light, but glanced away, her body stiff.

  My guard went up. “Someone left it at the shack.”

  “Just left it? With nothing else?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Suddenly, I felt foolish. The bundle probably fell out of Beltane’s pocket or bag. Delilah tilted her head as she gave the licorice back to me, the look of a woman who knows more than she’s
letting on. I wondered if she’d read my mind and knew I was talking about Beltane.

  “Licorice root is used in spells,” she said. “Usually cast at the half-moon—the light and the dark represent two spirits. The practitioner will circle the root with eight candles and in the center is something belonging to the one the practitioner wants to gain power over.”

  Gain power over? To my shocked expression she said, “Or sometimes it’s just to change someone’s mind.”

  She reached out for the bundle again, but then jerked her hand back, as if she’d touched a hot stove. “Beltane,” she said.

  I nodded, spooked. Suddenly, the room was suffocating and I couldn’t wait to get out. Plus the sound of water made me realize I really wanted to go to the restroom. “I’m sorry, could I use your…?”

  “Of course. Down the hall on the left.”

  I hurried down the hallway. The bathroom had deep violet walls and the toilet was topped with one of those fussy little dolls whose long crocheted skirt covered an extra roll of toilet paper. The doll was dressed as a witch. On the back of the door was a sign: IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE, PLEASE BE SWEET AND WIPE THE SEAT.

  I snorted. Witches: they’re just like the rest of us.

  When I finished washing my hands, I opened the door and noticed a room across the hall, the doorway covered with a beaded curtain. I made sure Delilah wasn’t watching and pulled them aside. Shelves lined the walls of the room, shelf after shelf lined with glass jars, each full of herbs, leaves, powders, and other things I couldn’t identify. I let the beaded curtain fall closed as quietly as I could and headed back to the parlor.

  Footsteps thudded up the stairs. A couple walked slowly into the parlor, their eyes wide.

  “Thank you, Delilah,” I said on my way out. As I walked through the doorway, I caught sight of my reflection in a mirror. In it, Delilah gave me an appraising glance. I rushed down the stairs.

  * * *

  I walked to the center of town, laughing at myself. The psychic’s front window faced Pearl Street. She probably saw Beltane go to the Mermaid. You couldn’t miss her. Of course, Delilah knew Beltane. How many witches were in Mystic Bay anyway? Beltane probably bought the licorice root right upstairs at the psychic supermarket.

  A thought gave me pause: Could Delilah and Beltane have been working together?

  The everyday sights of Mystic Bay cleared the cobwebs of the supernatural that clung to me after leaving the psychic. Sure, plenty of kids were dressed as witches, but the happy Halloween vibe wiped away my unease.

  I passed the lime-green sign of ultraexpensive boutique Fashions by Franque and entered the door under the carved neon-pink sign of Verity’s Vintage.

  Verity’s been my best friend since preschool. She stood behind a glass showcase wearing a fur stole and a flapper’s jeweled headband. The headband sparkled in Verity’s smooth black curls and the white mink stole set off her caramel-colored skin.

  “You look perfect!” I said. “Is that your Halloween costume?”

  She admired herself in a mirror. “I wish. Too bad tonight’s not a Gatsby party.”

  “Thank goodness we don’t have to wear the dowdy Pilgrim dresses that Aunt Gully’s wearing at the historical society event.”

  Verity shuddered. “Don’t get me started. Have you seen what women in Mystic Bay had to wear in the 1700s? Unless you were royalty you were just, ugh, a peasant in a linen bag. But the party tonight will be a real party. Isobel Parish told me herself.”

  “We’re going to a party thrown by one of the Parishes?” This was an exciting development. The Parishes were the founders of Mystic Bay and were still one of the wealthiest families here. This would be some party.

  “Isobel’s a customer. She told me that she’s thrilled that we’re friends because she wants to meet you. She likes ballet. Go figure.”

  Verity led me to the dressing room at the back of the shop. “She’s a freshman at Graystone College and wanted to invite her friends. So after the historical ceremony thingie there will be a real Halloween party at the fabulous Parish home.”

  Excitement kindled in me. “I can’t wait to see my costume. Is there a theme?” I remembered Delilah and Beltane. “Not witches, I hope.”

  Verity cocked her head as she lifted two hangers from a rack. “I’m sure you have a story for me. Drumroll, please—the theme is pirates! I knocked together two costumes. And look at this!” She lifted a huge black velvet hat draped with a black ostrich feather. “My hat. I don’t want to cover your pirate-wench hair.”

  She gave me a hanger with a pair of black breeches, an oversized white poet’s shirt, and a ruby-red velvet vest. “And wait for it.” She handed me a pair of knee-high black leather boots.

  Boots are my absolute weakness. I ran my hands over the supple leather. I peeked inside. “And they’re my size!”

  “It was meant to be.” She pointed to two black velvet cloaks. “We even have these. I got them from a Broadway by the Bay actor’s house when he retired to Florida.”

  I swung the cloak over my shoulders and struck a pose in Verity’s full-length mirror. “You’ve outdone yourself, Verity.”

  “This will be a party to remember.”

  Chapter 9

  The late afternoon sunlight was golden and surprisingly warm for late October. Verity and I drove into Rabb’s Point, a waterfront enclave not far from the Mermaid. Verity’s ’62 DeSoto, which we called the Tank, rolled past tiny antique fisherman’s cottages that in recent years had been expanded with huge additions. Modern life just didn’t fit inside tiny old houses. Though the additions were tasteful, the original houses looked dwarfed and sad.

  We turned onto a narrow lane canopied with old oaks and lined with gray stone walls. There weren’t many houses on this almost mile-long road. We passed the yacht club, then a couple of narrow gated driveways leading to private estates.

  The road forked.

  “That road to the right goes to Isobel Parish’s house. Where the real Halloween party will be tonight,” Verity said.

  We turned left into a parking lot by a sign on a black wrought-iron post: OTIS PARISH HOUSE. HOME OF THE MYSTIC BAY HISTORICAL SOCIETY.

  The Otis Parish House was a large brown saltbox. Saltbox meant the back roof of the building sloped down at a steep angle, so the snow wouldn’t accumulate and that you’d better watch your head because of the low ceilings. Brooding and brown, with tiny slits for windows, it was a most unwelcoming house.

  To say the Parish family was influential was an understatement. Otis Parish was the founder of Mystic Bay. Parish Farms was the name of a neighborhood development. Mystic Bay kids skated on Parish Pond in Parish Park, which was near the Parish shipyard. Parishes had been senators, selectmen, mayors, judges, bankers. If there was money or power, there were Parishes.

  Every third-grader in Mystic Bay took a field trip to the home, churned butter in the kitchen garden, watched the spinning wheel and sheep shearing demonstrations, and walked the hallway under the gimlet eyes of the Parish ancestors whose portraits lined the walls. I still had nightmares of the portrait of Otis Parish. The stern-faced governor of the colony looked down his long nose from his portrait above the hearth.

  We found a parking space by a small red barn behind the house. A sign reading ANNEX hung by the worn brick path leading to it.

  Verity and I followed the path to a kitchen garden on the south side of the house.

  There a docent dressed in a plain gray homespun dress, white apron, and simple linen cap led a tour group. Dozens of visitors thronged the grounds, some dressed in historically accurate garb, some in Halloween costumes. There was a festive feel in the air, no doubt due to the unseasonably warm, sunny day. A dreary, wet October day would have been much more fitting for the dour Parish ancestors.

  We skirted the tour group and went in the kitchen door.

  Aunt Gully was stirring a huge pot of her chowder over a fire in the open hearth. The hearth ran the entire side of the room an
d was so big that Aunt Gully fit inside. The heat made her cheeks even pinker than usual. She now wore her homespun costume with a white linen apron and bonnet. She spun and did her Marilyn Monroe pose, one arm held high, hand on her hip, her shoulder forward. “I feel like an extra in The Crucible!”

  Verity tapped Aunt Gully’s swinging skeleton earrings. “These are great!”

  “Oops, I forgot.” Aunt Gully tucked them in her pocket.

  I nodded to the other kitchen helpers. “If those dresses were red they all could be extras in The Handmaid’s Tale,” I whispered to Verity.

  Aunt Gully stirred her chowder. “I was hoping I’d see you in your costumes.”

  “They’re in the car. Can we change in here later?”

  Aunt Gully nodded toward the far end of the kitchen. “Yes, in the office. Oh, Allie, I saw Madame Monachova.”

  “She must have applied for a grant,” I said to Verity.

  “Fingers crossed for her!”

  “I’m glad you girls stopped by. So many people are here, almost double what we had last year. I’ve been cooking up a storm,” Aunt Gully said.

  “How can we help?”

  “Allie, will you go into the garden and pick me some more thyme? It’s by the trellis. And Verity, will you slice these loaves of bread, please?”

  I was grateful to escape the kitchen’s heat. The tour group streamed from the garden into the Annex building as I stepped outside.

  A single bee buzzed over late-blooming herbs. I crouched and ran the leaves through my fingers, releasing the fragrant oils. As I gathered some thyme, movement by the back gate caught my eye.

  Beltane stood outside the garden gate like a wraith, dressed in the same simple dress as Aunt Gully, except hers was black and she’d topped it with a magnificent flowing cape. She hadn’t covered her hair, but wore it thickly gathered at her neck.

  She kept popping up. Was she stalking Aunt Gully? I knew she worked at the historical society but now I suspected that she’d asked Aunt Gully to be part of the celebration in order to get closer to her. What a witch.