Charmed Bones Page 15

  “Not a thing. We were performing an incantation in the front of the house,” Hope said. “We were beating drums and chanting. We didn’t know a thing until I was going to bed and I heard something out in the yard. I thought it was that vile little Fontana juvenile, so I jerked open the kitchen door. The motion detector light came on and there she was. I checked, but she was dead. Then I called you.”

  “Have you noticed anyone else around your house?”

  “Kitten Fontana and her spawn of Satan.” Faith had no problem calling a spade a spade. “They lurk out in the woods, spying on us. And she and Esmeralda were at each other’s throats a day or so ago.”

  “They were working together,” Tinkie said. “Kitten was using Esmeralda to stir up a mob against the Wiccan school.”

  “Maybe at first they were working together. Not now.” Faith yawned. “I’m exhausted. Can I go to bed?”

  Coleman shot her a glance, then shrugged. “Sure. I may have more questions later.”

  “We’ll be here. We aren’t going anywhere,” Faith said before she started toward the house.

  Hope and Charity followed her, but I hung back to talk to Doc and Coleman. They were huddled up by the body, acting like linebackers during a play.

  “I have to get home,” Tinkie said, checking her watch.

  “Really?” I frowned.

  “I have an appointment with Oscar. It’s time for our … reunion.”

  I’d hoped she’d given up the baby-making obsession, but obviously she had not. “Cece might give you a ride. I’ll finish up here.”

  “Oooooh, I’ll bet you will,” Cece said, winking at Coleman.

  “Go.” I was happy to be done with them. And I was glad it was dark. I could feel a blush climbing into my face.

  “Where’s Pluto?” I realized that while Sweetie Pie was resting on the back porch, there was no sign of my black cat or the dozens of ferals. It was as if they’d disappeared from the property by magic. And that was a troubling thought. Whatever had clawed my door and window, if it was a wild mutant creature it could easily kill cats.

  “He was over there.” Tinkie pointed to a cluster of small trees. Coleman had set up a series of large lights to allow Doc to examine the body before it was moved, and I could see the outline of the trees at the edge of the illuminated zone. The trees were peculiar—somewhat tropical. Not a normal Delta tree that I was familiar with.

  When I went to look for Pluto, I made the mistake of grabbing one of the slender trunks. Dozens of sharp thorns penetrated my palm.

  “What the hell?” I quickly drew back.

  Hope appeared on the back porch as if she’d been watching through the window. “The trees are devil’s walking sticks. We use them in our spells, healing potions—and salads. The plant has unusual properties.”

  “And it’s mean.” My palm felt like it had been bitten by a shark.

  “Stay out of the thicket,” Hope said. It was an order, not a request. “Those plants can be dangerous, especially in the dark.”

  “My cat may be in there.”

  “Cats know their business. He’ll be fine. You, on the other hand…” She seemed to consider her words and then shrugged. “It’s your skin. Some people have very strange reactions to those plants and we won’t be responsible.” She went back inside.

  14

  The thicket of trees with their thorny trunks was as effective as a razor-wire fence, but I wasn’t about to give up on my cat. “Pluto,” I called, because he disdained the “kitty, kitty, kitty” that most felines seemed to enjoy. “Pluto. You’d better come out of there.”

  Coleman and Doc were helping to load Esmeralda’s body into the ambulance to transport to the hospital for an autopsy. It was time to go home—but I couldn’t leave Pluto. None of the cats were around. The felines had some unique communication that allowed them to gather and disperse without making a sound.

  I felt someone’s gaze on me and looked up to the third floor. A dark figure was pressed against the wall on the balcony outside Trevor’s rooms. My heart lurched—the figure induced a primal fear in me.

  “Coleman?” I spoke softly, my gaze riveted on the figure. “Coleman?”

  “Sarah Booth.” He looked up and saw the tension in my body. “What is it?”

  “There’s someone on the third floor.”

  He shifted gradually, subtly, so he could look up. By the time his gaze was directed at the balcony, the figure had disappeared, almost as if it had been absorbed into the stones of the wall. “What did you see?”

  It was a good question. I couldn’t be certain. Maybe it had just been a shadow. “It looked like a large man dressed in black.” I shook my head. “I’m tired. Maybe it was nothing.”

  “You go home, or go to the hospital with Doc. I’ll check out the upstairs. DeWayne went through Trevor’s rooms, but he didn’t find anything but a lot of wine bottles and clutter. No evidence that Esmeralda was pushed or had struggled, but we definitely need a more thorough search.”

  “Let me come with you.” I suddenly had a terrible feeling about Coleman entering the manor.

  “It’s not safe,” he said. “I need to check it out and see if someone is up there.”

  “Make DeWayne stay with you.”

  Coleman chuckled. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You know, when you ask me to be careful?” I waited until I was certain he understood. “The shoe is on the other foot now. I know how you feel when you think I might be injured.”

  “It’s my job, Sarah Booth.”

  I nodded. I would not allow myself to argue or hover. Coleman had taken care of himself for a long time and with a lot less physical damage than I’d sustained. When I’d taken him into my bed, I’d opened the door to my fears. It seemed the people I loved the most were always taken from me. I couldn’t let that be my reality, though. “Be safe.” I kissed my palm and blew the kiss to him. “Call me when you’re done.”

  Coleman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I will.”

  I called Pluto again and was rewarded when he popped out of the thicket of devil’s walking sticks and fell into step beside me. We went to the car and got in.

  A low, friendly voice made me jam on the brakes. “It’s just not suitable to leave that single lawman in a house with three women.”

  I almost got whiplash swiveling around to the woman who sat in the passenger seat of the Roadster. She wore a blue tam with a big ball, and her swanlike neck was elegant, though she seemed a bit flustered.

  “Who are you and why are you in my car?” I asked.

  “We have to find the final spell,” she said. “Otherwise, it’s all for naught. All of the spells and learning and … where are the children?”

  I knew her then. Angela Lansbury playing Miss Eglantine Price. She’d been one of my mother’s favorite characters from her childhood. Miss Price was an eccentric with a giant heart and a real belief in magic. The woman in my car portrayed her perfectly.

  “There are no children and you are no witch in training,” I said.

  “Filigree, apogee, pedigree, perigee!”

  “If you can’t make sense, I’m not going to give you a ride back to Dahlia House.”

  “I have my broomstick.”

  I would pay good money to see my haint riding a broomstick around Musgrove Manor. Now that would give the Harrington sisters something to really think about. “Fire that baby up and let me see you streak across the moon.”

  Angela gave me a sour look. “I should have frightened you away from Dahlia House the minute you showed up. I’m more than a little responsible for where you find yourself. Had you moved to Tucson, or say, Seattle, you’d probably be married and popping out the babies.”

  I ignored her and watched Coleman on the front porch of the manor. He talked with Hope and Charity for a few minutes and then came toward his patrol car. He couldn’t catch me talking to an empty car seat—because he couldn’t see Jitty. It was time to leave.

  “Do you want h
im to see me?” Jitty asked.

  “What?” She took me so by surprise that I hit the gas too hard and lurched forward, almost running Coleman down.

  “Do you want your man toy there to be able to see me? I didn’t stutter.”

  “Is it within your power to manifest for other people?” All this time and she’d hidden this ability from me!

  “What do you want?”

  Coleman was approaching my window. “I want you to go home and wait for me. We’re going to have a long, long talk.”

  And she was gone. I rolled down the window. “I wanted to be sure you were okay. They might have decided to make you their sex slave.”

  One side of Coleman’s very passionate lips curled up. “Go home. I’ll call you when I’m done with work.”

  “Did you find anything upstairs?”

  He shook his head. “That house is like a maze, though. Someone could be up there and slip around the different halls and passageways and avoid detection.”

  “Do you think the sisters are hiding Esmeralda’s murderer?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Coleman said, tired and frustrated. “I have two people dead on the same piece of property. Doc can’t find out what killed Trevor and I don’t think Esmeralda jumped.”

  “Could it have been an accident?”

  “I don’t see Esmeralda as the type to fall off a balcony. And what was she doing up there? The sisters denied any knowledge of her presence.”

  “I think Esmeralda was looking for that painting that Trevor did of her. The one she sued him about.”

  “Could be.” Coleman reached into the car and brushed his hand over my cheek. “Go home. Please.”

  I had my cat and dog and no good reason to stay at the manor. And I didn’t want to be there, alone, in the dark after Coleman left. “Okay.” I started the car and waited for him to get in the cruiser and pull out ahead of me.

  While Sweetie Pie wisely slept in the back, Pluto sat on the front seat watching the manor intently. In the high beams of the car, I saw numerous pairs of bright kitty eyes. The feral cats had all lined up on the porch roof and were glaring down at us. I slowed to count them. I’d gotten up to twenty-four when Pluto flew through the window I’d lowered to speak to Coleman and darted toward the manor.

  “Pluto!” I tried to grab the cat but he was long gone. And so was Coleman. His taillights disappeared down the winding driveway. “Dammit.” I had a great reluctance to get out of the warm car to chase the cat, but I knew I had to do it. I couldn’t leave Pluto at the manor, though he certainly deserved to be left.

  I turned off the car and got out. My cell phone buzzed and I prayed it was Coleman, who’d noticed I wasn’t behind him. Instead, it was a number with a 337 area code. The text was from Cherie Sistrunk, the reporter in Lafayette, Louisiana.

  Give me a call. Interesting development.

  I debated on calling her or knocking on the door of the manor. Pluto had jumped on the front porch and disappeared. He had to be somewhere close. I went for the cat. “Pluto!” I called him even knowing he would ignore me. Cats were so damn anti-authority, and Pluto was very smart.

  My boots sounded like a clodhopper to my ear as I walked across the boards of the porch. “Pluto.” He darted into the shadow by the front door. I was really going to kill him when I got my hands on him. “Pluto.”

  The front door creaked open slowly. Very slowly, with the chilling eeeeeeeeek of the door in the haunted house. I was sorely tempted to turn tail and run. Instead I froze on the spot. Pluto took that opportunity to leap through the door.

  I pushed the door open on complete darkness. Where in the heck had the sisters gone? It was as if the house had eaten them and left no remains behind. Pluto darted to the stairs with the dragon motif and started up them. I knew he was going to the third floor. I recognized that Pluto had something important to show me, but I wasn’t certain that I wanted to see it.

  I followed him up the stairs. If the sisters caught me snooping around like this, they could have me arrested—and likely would. I wouldn’t blame them. It wouldn’t matter that I didn’t want to be in their home or that my cat was possessed by a demon.

  Pluto led me past the second floor and up to the area that had been Trevor’s. The claw marks still marred the beautiful wood floor, and I stepped past them and went to Trevor’s studio. When I’d shut the door behind me I hit the light switch. I didn’t have a prayer of grabbing my cat and getting out undetected, so I might as well search the place thoroughly. If Coleman got mad at me, I’d have a perfect score—everyone I had contact with today would be pissed off at me.

  Pluto never moved far away from me—he stayed just out of reach. Sly devil.

  I wondered why none of the other cats made any attempts to enter the house. Cats were notorious for darting in and out of places, just as Pluto had done. But none of the dairy cats ever made an attempt to enter the witches’ abode. Hmmmmm. I’d always been told cats had a sixth sense about spirits and ghosts and such. That they could sense a specter in a room or know when someone was going to die. I’d considered that foolishness, until right this minute. Pluto gave a low growl. He was focused on something I couldn’t see, and it creeped me out. What was he seeing?

  A heartrending sob answered my question in a way that made the hair all over my body lift up and tingle. Someone else was on the third floor. Someone in emotional distress.

  And they weren’t far from me. Yet no one else had detected their presence.

  While my brain told me the sobbing person was female, my gut told me it didn’t matter. This could be a trap. A deadly one. Coleman and DeWayne had searched the manor and come up empty-handed. They were not careless in their duties. Which meant whoever was up here had successfully managed to hide from them. How? Oh, I didn’t like the answers that flitted around my brain.

  Musgrove Manor had been built before the civil war. Like so many of the old homes, there could easily be secret hiding places and passages. The manor itself had been patterned after a vast estate in the lowlands of Scotland. I had a vague memory of some school lesson about the manor house and the limestone that had been quarried from Tishomingo County and hauled south with great effort.

  Mule and oxen teams and slave labor had brought the limestone slabs south to erect the formidable house. As schoolchildren we’d toured the dairy and barns, but we’d never been allowed inside the manor. The Musgrove family had a reputation for privacy, and the public schools were simply glad for a chance to show children where milk came from and allow us to touch a cow and try milking. Many of the students came from farming families, but that no longer included owning livestock or poultry. The land was used for money crops now. Cotton, corn, soybeans. An experience with a moo cow was a true bonus education for the lower grades.

  My substitute history teacher, Budgie Burton, who took over the eighth-grade class whenever we’d driven Margie McLeod to a weekend bender—her fondness for vodka stingers was well-known but the county paid so little no one else would even consider taking over the class—had been something of a conspiracy nut even back then and was always talking about the big houses of the Delta and how they had been renovated to create survivor’s “dens” where the wealthy could endure a nuclear holocaust. Musgrove Manor was a favorite topic of his.

  I could still hear his voice as he drew all of us into his world of secret passages, Nazi spies, Russian counterintelligence, and his hero, James Bond. “British intelligence found secret chambers in many of the old British and Scottish estate homes. Musgrove Manor’s interior design was patterned on a portion of Finwake’s Priory.” Budgie was positive that estate had been used to house part of a religious complex that had hidden various books of the Bible actually written by Jesus.

  Whatever he was selling, Budgie made it exciting and interesting, but not particularly believable. Now I wondered about the manor and what secret rooms might truly exist. And what might be hiding in a secret room. Budgie did not seem nearly as nuts as he had be
fore the low keening echoed through the third floor. The claw marks on the floor—and at Dahlia House—had burrowed into my subconscious with the stealth of Freddy Krueger. Nightmare images flooded me. For a few seconds, I was literally paralyzed by fear.

  Pluto’s sharp claws startled me out of my inertia. I wasn’t any safer standing in the third-floor studio or in Trevor’s rooms. It was time to fish or cut bait, and I decided to fish. If there was anything to be found here, I meant to find it.

  I entered Trevor’s bedroom, which still contained the empty wine bottles, dirty glasses with a color chart of various lipstick shades on the rims of some, his clothes—all black—and books and papers. Someone had been in the room and pulled his books off the shelves, scattering their contents and the papers they’d found. Coleman had already examined the rooms so I reshelved the books and picked up the papers to take home for further study. But when I removed the first layer of clutter, I was able to see that aside from the wine and libidinous behavior, Trevor had been relatively neat.

  The papers had come from a filing cabinet in a corner, and when I checked it, I realized he’d had his affairs organized. There were empty folders for his will, his assets, his holdings. I had no clue what paperwork might have been stolen, but a lot of it was still in the bedroom, along with some crumpled papers I found in a pair of Trevor’s riding boots.

  Trevor’s basic neatness gave me pause. Why would he use his riding boots for a trash can? There were no longer horses at Musgrove Manor, but once upon a time Trevor had been an accomplished rider and had been master of the Sunflower County hunt. I’d never approved of the brutality of fox hunting, but I admired the athleticism of the horses and riders. Trevor had cut a dashing figure in his red jacket, tan breeches, and tall boots. He’d ridden a tall blood bay gelding, Fletcher. I still remembered his horse and how handsome he was astride him. Right out of Jane Austen, to my childish imagination.

  The boots were polished and clean.

  I unfolded the crumpled paper and realized instantly that I’d made a terrible mistake by touching it at all. I read the words aloud, “‘I am going to cut your gizzard out and serve it to you in a black grape and balsamic sauce.’”