Drawn and Buttered Page 6

  Whatever else you could say about Beltane, the woman had magnificent posture. She stood like a queen, her head high, her shoulders back, her chin lifted. There was something powerful about her. Beltane had stage presence.

  A man joined her and I had the sensation that I’d traveled back in time. He was dressed in colonial garb, with a long linen overshirt, breeches, and leather boots with a buckle, all topped with a long black cape that flowed in the wind.

  The man had sandy-brown hair and his hairline was high; the breeze lifted a slight comb-over. Wide-set eyes and a full beard flecked with gray. Handsome. The only discordant note was the stylish black-rimmed glasses, but that was the only discordant note. I could have been back in the 1700s.

  Beltane’s expression hardened.

  I stayed crouched. I didn’t want her to see me.

  “Did you have a chance to get those loans together for the history department?” The man spoke easily, not cowed by the anger radiating off her.

  Beltane’s voice was a hiss. “As if I don’t have enough to do with last-minute requests like that! I had to arrange this whole celebration—”

  “Royal wanted to move on that.”

  “Of course I did the loans! The box is in the office in the Annex.” Beltane spun away from him and stormed down the path into the house, inches from me. I turned my head away, hoping that she hadn’t recognized me. When I turned back, the man was still looking toward the path Beltane had taken, a bemused smile on his lips.

  “Lyman.” Another man in colonial costume hailed him.

  Beltane’s companion’s smile widened. “Royal!”

  I stood and scooted behind the trellis to get a better look. I’d never seen this scion of the influential Parish family.

  Royal, tall and broad shouldered, wore the same flowing cape over colonial clothes as the man named Lyman, but also wore a tall hat that made me think of pilgrims. Again I had the feeling of being lost in time, but the effect was ruined when a woman came up to Royal, fluttering a fan, her dark hair swept back into place with a white rose. She was dressed in something Martha Washington would have worn, a frothy ball gown printed with pink and blue flowers, with lace at the low neckline. Royal took her arm as if trying to keep her from making any further mistakes. When she faced me I realized it was the woman I’d seen talking to Madame Monachova in the college dance studio.

  I felt something touch my hair and then yank.

  “Ouch!”

  I turned. A woman in a colonial dress stood behind me, a baby girl strapped to her in a backpacklike carrier. The little girl reached out again and her mother took her hand.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! Prudie, stop that!”

  I disentangled my hair from Prudie’s chubby, sticky fingers. Prudie wore a little white linen bonnet just like the one her mother wore with her simple colonial dress.

  “It’s okay.” I laughed. “She looks very historically accurate.”

  “I try.” The woman smiled. She looked about thirty, with a round face sprinkled with freckles and oversized tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m Fern Doucette. I volunteer here on weekends. I’m coordinating the volunteers from the college. Sorry, don’t think we’ve met. Thank you for helping.”

  “Oh, I’m not with the college. I’m Allie Larkin. My aunt Gully is cooking the chowder.”

  “Oh, sorry, I just assumed. We have so many volunteers from the college today. I love Gully! She’s such a dear to help us out. Actually she asked me to see where you were—she just said ‘Find Allie the redhead.’”

  The thyme! “I got distracted!” I hurried inside and gave the herbs to Aunt Gully.

  Aunt Gully laughed. “Be sure you get a bite to eat before the ceremony’s over. We have a lot of people today.”

  I poked my head into the dining room where a long buffet table had been set up. Verity stood at one end, arranging napkins that didn’t need arranging while chatting with a guy in a Graystone College T-shirt. He was cute. I met her eye and gave her a smile, then returned to the garden, snagging two mugs of chowder on the way.

  Fern and Prudie were still at the trellis. Fern had taken off her bonnet and fanned herself with it.

  “Chowder?” I offered her a mug.

  “Oh, thank you!” The toddler pulled on a strand of Fern’s coarse, dishwater-blond hair. Fern winced.

  I nodded toward a bench under a tree on the front lawn of the house. “Let’s go there.”

  We passed a few teens in Halloween costumes, whooping on the front lawn.

  We settled on the bench. Fern took Prudie out of the carrier.

  “There are so many irreplaceable artifacts and antiques that Prudie could get her hands on inside the house. And I couldn’t get a baby sitter so we’ll have to stay outside.” Fern blew on a spoonful of chowder and gave Prudie a taste. Prudie spit it out. I laughed. Fern gave Prudie a cracker.

  “I could watch her for you,” I said. “If you want to go inside for a while.”

  Fern shook her head. “I’ll listen from outside the window. I want to hear Royal Parish announce the Parish Grant. Twenty-five thousand dollars for the lucky winner.”

  “Did you say you were at the college?”

  Fern shook her head. “I got my grad degree from Graystone a year ago—I did anthropology, history, and women’s studies.”

  Triple major. Impressive.

  “Plus Prudie,” I said.

  Fern smiled. “She was a nice surprise. I’m, I was, a part-time teaching assistant for Lyman Smith in the history department.” Lyman Smith. That must be the name of the man who’d spoken so imperiously to Beltane. Not that many people could be named Lyman.

  Fern continued, “I’ll be going back to work for him soon. I just had to arrange child care.”

  Johnny Sabino set up a camera tripod just a few feet in front of us. “All the folks who are in the running for the Parish Grant, gather here for a photo, please.” He beckoned.

  Almost two dozen people milled uncertainly by the front door. Most wore business dress or New England “school clothes”—wool skirts and cardigans on the women, button-down plaid shirts, sweater vests, and corduroy or chino slacks on the men—but a few were in historical costume.

  Madame Monachova stepped out the front door. She wore a pale blue colonial dress topped with a black cloak, which fell elegantly from her shoulders. Johnny waved her to the front of the group.

  The man I’d seen talking with Beltane and Royal Parish stood next to Madame, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “That’s Professor Smith.” Fern jutted her chin toward him.

  He looked like he knew he’d already won.

  The woman in the Martha Washington dress hovered by Johnny, blocking our view with her elaborate, broad skirt.

  “That’s not really colonial clothing, is it?” I whispered to Fern.

  “Off by a hundred years, and Virginia colonial rather than New England colonial.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know.”

  “That’s Kathleen Parish, the wife of Royal Parish. Of course she knows,” Fern scoffed.

  Looking at Fern’s accurate but drab dress and cap, I could hardly blame Mrs. Parish for her little rebellion.

  Fern shook her head. “Remember, colonial means more than just the Revolutionary War period. In this area, colonists arrived to settle from Massachusetts in the 1600s, so the clothing style is not what you think, with the tricorn hats and cutaway coats. They were Puritans, so you do have a bit of that pilgrim-hat thing. And soldiers of the time would have used those muskets and also those pikes.” She pointed at two guys who carried long poles topped with mean-looking, pointed, leaf-shaped blades. They flanked the grant hopefuls.

  “Whoa. They look dangerous.”

  Fern nodded. “The most famous weapon here is the Parish sword that hangs over the fireplace. Well, that’s a reproduction. The real one is in Royal Parish’s home office.”

  “‘The Parish sword, given to Otis Parish for his service to the Crown,’” I recited from
memory.

  Fern laughed. “That’s right, you’re from Mystic Bay. So you know about the Parish burying ground and all the stories about Otis and his son Uriah.”

  Along with ringing the doorbell at the haunted Wells House, the other big dare for kids in Mystic Bay was to visit the grave of Otis Parish on Halloween. His grave wasn’t far from an unusual structure some called Witch’s Rock. It looked like an altar—a large stone slab set across two large boulders. Everyone said that if the ghost of Otis Parish caught you, you would be murdered on the altar.

  The group of grant hopefuls dispersed. Lyman Smith left the group and chatted with Johnny Sabino. Verity ran over to us from the kitchen garden.

  I introduced her to Fern. Verity cooed over Prudie.

  “We were just talking about visiting the grave of Otis Parish,” I said.

  “An interesting family.” Fern’s eyes gleamed. “Professor Smith has been working with the Parish family to document their old cemetery, including the grave of Uriah Parish.”

  “Don’t you mean Otis?” I said.

  “Uriah was Otis’s son. I’ve done my own research and have made some important discoveries in an old diary. The story—”

  Lyman Smith joined us, shaking his finger. “Loose lips, Fern.”

  Fern’s cheeks flamed. “Oh, hi, this is the professor I told you about. Lyman Smith, this is Allie Larkin and Verity Brooks.”

  He gave us a curt nod. Prudie threw her half-gummed cracker at him. He stepped away from her with exaggerated care. “Fern, is the plaque for the Parish display at the college museum ready?”

  She bowed her head. “It’s in the annex. I’ll get it.” Fern had seemed excited about returning to work for this guy, but as she spoke to him her shoulders curled. From what little I’d seen, he’d be a difficult person to work for.

  “Excuse me.” Professor Smith went back to the house.

  Verity and I shared an uncomfortable glance. What a pompous jerk.

  “I’d better go. Nice to meet you guys.” Fern hurriedly put Prudie in her pack and gathered her things. Prudie gurgled and reached out her hands to me as they left.

  “Let’s go see the grant presentation. Oh, I hope Madame Monachova wins!”

  Verity said, “Fingers crossed.”

  Chapter 10

  Verity and I went inside and found a spot at the back of the crowded front room. We wedged ourselves into a corner next to a showcase full of colonial-era sailor’s equipment: knives, hooks, and marlinspikes. Marlinspikes were metal tools, with long cone shapes that tapered to a point. Sailors used them to untie knots or splice line. My dad carried one on his lobster boat, but these were made to work the huge ropes on old whaling vessels.

  There were several empty spaces filled with little white cards that read either On loan to Graystone College or On loan to Mystic Marine Museum.

  Someone had left a program on top of the glass. I skimmed the list of people who had applied for the grant money. Three names jumped out at me:

  Madame Svetlana Monachova for the creation and choreography of a new work in celebration of Graystone College’s one hundredth anniversary. She’d talked about this for years. Please let her win.

  Professor Lyman Smith, for work to catalogue and maintain the historic stones of the Parish Burying Ground. Wasn’t that a bit self-serving?

  Professor Fred Nickerson, for the maintenance and upkeep of the research vessel, Sparhawk.

  A portrait of Otis Parish as well as the famed Parish sword were hung over the fireplace at the end of the room. Four college-age guys marched in and flanked the fireplace, two with muskets, and two with the pikes. They were backdrop, almost literally spear carriers in this little historical reenactment drama.

  One student was dressed more elaborately than the others. He had the same type of breeches and shirt, but also wore a cloak and hat almost identical to the ones worn by Royal Parish. With the crowd in the room and the heavy cloak, his face was red and sweat shone on his upper lip. Like the other guys, his running shoes were an unintended comic touch.

  With surprise, I realized I’d seen him before. He was the guy who’d helped Fred Nickerson with Lobzilla and who had argued with the girl from the fencing class. Max Hempstead.

  I told this to Verity in a whisper.

  “Busy kid,” she replied. “Teacher’s pet. Hey, isn’t that Fred over there?”

  Wedged in the corner across from us, Fred Nickerson stood with his guard dog, Gladys Burley. She caught my eye.

  “Why is she looking at you like that? What did you do to her?” Verity whispered.

  “Nothing! I swear!”

  Royal and Kathleen Parish entered, her broad skirts sweeping the floor. Cameras were raised and the crowd applauded. Johnny Sabino crouched at the front of the room with his camera.

  Royal Parish basked in the attention. I’ve seen a lot of people who like the limelight—I am a dancer, after all, and love curtain calls as much as the next performer—and Royal Parish did. More than that, he took it as his due. Since he was funding the grant, I guess it was. His wife had smiled, but as she turned from the college kids to face the room, her smile disappeared and she lowered her eyes. This struck me as odd—she’d dressed for attention and now she looked uncomfortable.

  I looked around at the crowd of hopeful faces. The term vassals came to mind. Also supplicants. Beggars.

  “Welcome to the celebration of the birth of our town’s founder, Otis Parish,” Royal said. He gestured to a portrait on the wall behind him. “He’s looking good for 364 years old!” The crowd laughed. Verity rolled her eyes. Every art and history organization was on a shoestring budget. Everyone was willing to laugh at whatever lame joke Royal made to get money for their group. No matter what happened, they’d want to stay in Royal’s good graces.

  Royal spoke about his family history, in excruciating detail, for almost twenty minutes. The room grew stuffier. My mind wandered. Verity stifled a yawn and whispered, “This is actually making me wish I was scrubbing out pots in the kitchen.”

  “And so, it’s time to announce the annual Parish Family Grant, to support history and the arts in our little part of the world.” Royal pulled a card from somewhere under his cape.

  The crowd stirred.

  Please let it be Madame Monachova.

  “The Parish Family Foundation will grant $25,000 to the history department at Graystone College!”

  The air was momentarily sucked out of the room, but everyone collected themselves and applauded. Lyman Smith raised his clasped hands over his head, like a champion boxer. He’d donned his long cloak. On his tall frame it looked handsome, dashing even. Some men can carry off a cloak.

  Fred Nickerson’s shoulders slumped, well, slumped even more than usual. His spine curled like a question mark. Gladys glared at Royal.

  Verity jutted her chin and whispered, “If looks could kill, Royal would be dead.”

  “Didn’t Fern say that the history department was documenting Royal Parish’s graveyard? Isn’t that like paying yourself?” I muttered. Maybe I was just disappointed for Madame Monachova but it seemed so unfair. I craned to spot her in the crowd but didn’t see her.

  Royal and Kathleen flanked Lyman as he held a plaque, and they in turn were flanked by the role-playing soldiers from the college.

  They all smiled for Johnny Sabino’s camera. Then Royal raised his hand. Chatter subsided. “Everyone’s welcome to join us at the party up at the other Parish House.” He chuckled but no one laughed at his lame joke.

  The crowd streamed toward the buffet in the dining room, disappointed murmuring barely restrained. Fred and Gladys joined me and Verity.

  “Allie.” Fred ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up straight. Gladys gripped his upper arm as if afraid he’d get lost in the crowd. “Any news about Lobzilla?”

  “No, sorry, Fred. I was hoping you’d heard something.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, now this.” He pushed his glasses, which had been taped tog
ether with masking tape, up his nose as he looked at Royal surrounded by his court. “I’d hoped to get the grant to do some repairs to Sparhawk. I guess that’ll have to wait.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gladys turned her glare from me toward Royal.

  “Well, that’s life,” Fred said.

  “Are you going to the Halloween party?” Verity asked.

  “We’re invited.” Fred made it sound like the invitation to his own hanging. He and Gladys joined the throng heading for the buffet.

  “I feel bad for him. If he had Lobzilla, he could turn him into a media star, you know, maybe sell Lobzilla-themed T-shirts to make money for his repairs,” said Verity.

  “Have you been hanging out with Lorel?” I considered. “Though that’s not a bad idea.”

  As I scanned the crowd, looking for Madame Monachova, I saw Royal put an arm around the history professor. “These kids look great, Lyman. Bang-up job! Great idea of yours to have them here. Last-minute, but you made it work.”

  “The Royal court,” I muttered.

  “You all look so wonderful in those uniforms,” Kathleen said. “Great job, Lyman.”

  Finally, I spotted Madame Monachova by the front door. She was so short she got lost easily in the crowd.

  Kathleen spoke quickly to the young men surrounding Royal. “Thank you. You’re all from Royal’s fraternity, right? See you at the party.” She then swept to the door where she touched Madame Monachova’s arm. With that gesture I was certain she was the woman I’d seen speaking to Madame at the dance studio. She put her arm around Madame and the two left together.

  I started after them, but Verity pulled me back. “Time to get dressed for the Halloween party.”

  We grabbed our costumes from the car, ran into the office, and changed into our pirate garb.

  “The finishing touch.” Verity handed me a huge gold hoop earring. She wore the other. “Two together would be too much.”

  As we emerged from the office, several volunteers clapped and whistled.

  “You girls look great!” Aunt Gully tucked a dishcloth into the plastic laundry basket she used to carry her cooking equipment. “Now I’m off to see the wizard!”