Larceny and Lace (16 page)

Protection, love, and joy ensnare.

With harm to none, hear our prayer.

Finally, she offered me a broom so we could sweep our way upstairs. “"Only if you want to,”" she said.

Magic or not. Did I have it in me? More to the point, if I did, was I ready to accept it?

Maybe, maybe not. As my mother’'s daughter, I answered the question. “"I’'ll accept the broom on the condition that I sweep in Mom’'s place.”"

“"How appropriate.”" Aunt Fiona squeezed my hand. “"Kathleen cherished this broom. I didn’'t want the knowledge to color your decision, but your reaction reveals your natural talents coming through.”"

“"I don’'t mind them coming through on their own,”" I said, “"but I’'m not ready to force them.”"

“"I respect that, sweetie, and I’'d never have suggested this ritual, if I didn’'t consider it imperative to your well-being. When you want to read beginner’'s books on the craft, let me know. For now imagine your mother’'s hands on the broom, as they so often were, but over yours, guiding you and walking beside you.”"

“"If only I could see her like I can see
him
.”"

“"My name is Dante,”" our watcher said, uncrossing his arms and uncoiling his lanky body to straighten and approach us. Not hard to look at. Not hard at all. He examined our brooms, with doubt yet with curiosity and respect for our purpose.

“"By now, I guess you’'ve figured out that
I’'m
not negative.”" Fiona chuckled. “"I knew that.”"

“"So did I.”"

Dante’'s face relaxed. “"Then you aren’'t trying to get rid of me?”" Who wouldn’'t want a hunk like him around? “"Never.”"

He smiled, chin dimple deep. “"Thank you. Proceed,”" he said. “"I’'ll picture the negative energy here—--and there’'s been plenty—--going up in that ugly-colored smoke spiral with you, basement to chimney.”"

“"Concentrate hard on the basement, Dante,”" Aunt Fiona said. “"Neither of us can picture it.”"

“"Happy to,”" he said.

My confidence grew in our task. Funny how spirit confirmation helped, when so few of us saw spirits at all.

Us? I questioned. Those of us connected to more than one plane. Those of us with a gift. Hmm. I’'d included myself in “"us”" without hesitation. Imagine that. I followed Aunt Fiona’'s lead and swept in a circular motion almost feeling the weight of dark energy flying from the ends of our brooms like sparks that burned themselves out. Negativity disappearing, leaving in its place a clean, pure energy that evoked peace and hope.

Funny, Aunt Fiona hadn’'t
told
me to feel such strong emotions, this certain belief. She hadn’'t said this time to picture it happening. The act simply slipped into my being on the dawning wings of a natural cognition and spiritual awakening. As if sensing my newborn yet tentative spiritual harmony, Aunt Fiona hesitated, nodded, and continued. “"Sweeping is our last step.”" She began her final chant:Kathleen, raise our quest,

As we sweep from east to west,

Neutralize, purify, cleanse, and bless.

Protect this place with Goddess grace.

Your daughter’'s dream from bud to flower

To grow and prosper by the hour,

With joy, luck, love, and laughter won.

Harm it none, we declare it done.

“"Oh,”" I said. “"You invited Mom in. I feel her, Aunt Fee, as if I’'m six, again, standing beside her in Stroud’'s candy store. Chocolate. Smell the chocolate? That’'s Mom.”" Aunt Fiona’'s eyes grew bright. “"I smell the chocolate, sweetie. We miss you, Kathleen.”"

Oh, we do, but I was too choked up to say so.

We ended our sweep in the storage room, where we’'d left the candles to burn out after the blessing, because this room, more than any, needed uber-positive energy.

“"Madeira? Fiona?”" my father called as he entered the first floor of the shop and came up the stairs.

In this crowded room, we hadn’'t been able to place the candles
against
walls, so Fiona kicked one of the more obvious votives from sight.

My father stopped in the doorway with the two of us holding oddly shaped brooms,

ones he probably recognized.

“"What the hell is going on here?”"

Twenty-nine
I have a kind of in-built clock which always reacts against anything Orthodox.

—--VIVIENNE WESTWOOD

I felt a need to defend my beliefs, a surprising turn I’'d have to reflect on later. “"Bad day, Dad?”"

He clenched and opened his fists at his side, as if fighting something within himself. Certain he meant to blast Aunt Fiona, or both of us, for the ritual brooms, I thanked the Goddess, or my mother, for the scent of chocolate growing stronger and overshadowing that of burning smudge sticks.

Or, chocolate is how my nostrils interpreted the scent. Goddess knew what my father thought.

He took a deep breath, hands relaxing at his sides, and breathed easier, as if overcoming his inner turmoil. “"You locked the door in the middle of the day,”" he said, less hard, more in sync with the peace of our ritual.

“"Dad, this is a business. We’'re not open till noon tomorrow. The locals are eager. When this was a crime scene, I sold an outfit, outside, from one of the boxes in the parking lot.”"

His shoulders also relaxed. “"To be truthful,”" he said, as if he couldn’'t believe himself, “"as I cleared the stairs, I got a flash of your mother in labor eating a candy bar on our way to the hospital.”"

Holy thingamabobbin, he smelled the chocolate, too.

“"That shouldn’'t make you cranky, Harry,”" Aunt Fiona said. “"It should make you smile.”"

“"She’'s right, Dad.”"

Welcoming peace, he gave a serene sigh, and his lips curved up, almost involuntarily.

“"Other men griped about crumbs in their beds. For me, it was chocolate wrappers.”" He chuckled, surprising us all, even himself.

I dropped my broom to throw myself in his arms. “"That’'s the most open you’'ve ever been about Mom. I’'ve ached to know that kind of silly little detail about her.”" He held me tight for a minute, really tight, until he cleared his throat and pushed away as if seeing me for the first time. “"Look in the mirror, Madeira. She’'s right there.”" He touched my cheek. “"That’'s her dimple.”"

Like Fiona, I swallowed. “"I’'ve been known to eat chocolate in bed, too. Didn’'t know it was hereditary.”"

“"Poor Nick.”" My father hesitated, the puritanical professor tripping over unacceptable knowledge about his daughter. “"So,”" he said, changing the subject and rubbing his hands together. “"You already made a few bucks?”"

“"If you want to call three thousand dollars a few.”"

That got his attention. “"How many outfits?”"

“"One.”"

“"You got me,”" he said. “"You
do
know what you’'re doing.”" It was pure luck that somebody donated a treasure trove of rare vintage and that the White Star Circle harbored a true collector, but I wasn’'t admitting that to the man who once predicted my failure.

Dad watched while Fiona and I swept up the debris left by the electricians.

“"Harry,”" Fiona said, as we were finishing up. “"We need to move some furniture down to Maddie’'s sitting room area, so the shop will look good for her grand opening.”"

“"Not a bad idea.”" He looked over the possibilities in the storage room. “"It’'d save you money, Madeira, if you didn’'t buy new.”"

“"I know, Dad. I may as well go vintage all the way.”"

“"I can get a few locals to help move you after work hours,”" he said. “"What did you want downstairs?”"

“"The fainting couch.”" I ran my hand over it. “"The jadeite lamps, this side table, that desk. I’'d use the cabinet if it were enamel black, not hospital white. I’'d display my fashion dolls in the glass-front top.”" And relegate the tools of the mortuary trade to a body drawer.

“"I can spray paint the cabinet,”" Dad said. “"Won’'t take much sanding. Time has taken care of that, but there’'s a drawer missing.”"

“"It’'s in my bedroom. I took stuff home in it.”" A quilt and outfit that Eve feared I’'d
read
in front of her, but Dad knew nothing of my psychometric ability, and I prayed he never would.

He nodded. “"I’'ll paint it in the basement at home, happy I’'m not teaching as many courses this semester.”"

“"Now if we could figure out a way to shed some light on the collection I put inside.”"

“"Madeira,”" my father warned.

“"I’'m thinking out loud.”"

“"You could paint the inside a lighter color,”" Aunt Fiona suggested, “"to give the fashion dolls prominence.”"

“"Pale yellow inside,”" I said, “"and after the outside dries, I’'ll paint funky fashion designs on it. Maybe make the bottom cupboards look like they have frog closures. I’'ll see where my muse takes me. Let me know when it’'s dry, and I’'ll decorate it before we bring it back.”"

The scent of chocolate got stronger and sweeter, swirling around us like ribbons of fudge bringing the three of us closer, tying us with a chocolate bow.

“"Your mother,”" my father said, startling me, “"inherited furniture from her parents that she loved. In the, uh, early days, after we lost her, I relegated them to the basement beneath a tarp. Take what you want for the sitting area. She’'d be pleased.”" My mother knew how much I adored those pieces, my first introduction to art deco. The designs fascinated me. I remember tracing them with a tiny finger. I wonder if Mom had just nudged Dad’'s memory.

Scary stuff, straddling the veil between the planes. Or comforting? Or all in my mind?

My father headed for the stairs. “"I’'m off to buy black enamel and pale matte yellow paint.”"

“"Thanks, Dad.”"

He waved. “"Madeira, you might want to get that black candle away from your cat. And Fee, don’'t forget to sweep up the salt by the windows and doors.”" He knew!

Thirty
Just like the silhouette of a car needs to be changed periodically so as not to lose its power of attraction, in the western world the female body is also reshaped from time

to time.

-BERNARD RUDOFSKY

I grabbed Chakra so she’'d stop gnawing on the candle and I gave her some of the kitty treats I kept in my pocket. “"You gave us away, you.”"

“"She only confirmed our activity,”" Aunt Fiona said. “"Your father probably saw the salt at the front door. He always had a way of ferreting out spells, but I must say, he’'s mellowed in his old age.”"

“"Old? Dad’'s a
young
fifty-two.”"

Fiona grinned. “"So am I.”"

I chuckled as my watch alarm rang. “"Time got away from us. I have an hour before Eve and I leave to pick up my car, and another before we have drinks with Lolique.”"

“"Lolique? Councilman McDowell’'s midlife crisis?”"

“"You mean his late-in-life crisis. How long have they been married?”"

“"No more than a year. He had to have his first wife declared dead before he could marry her.”"

My head came up. “"Why? What happened to her?”"

“"Nobody knows. She went missing years ago, and they say he did everything possible to find her. Him and the Groton police.”"

Groton? “"I saw her picture but didn’'t know her history. Speaking of whom, come see this.”" I brought Aunt Fee to the stacked white boxes. “"This is where I found the cape and dress. Look, these are priceless.”" I took out several outfits to show her.

“"I might buy this.”" She held up a patchwork skirt and vest set, slipping her hand in the skirt pocket. “"Look, a broken fingernail.”"

I reminded her about how we found Lolique. “"If these
are
from Lolique,”" I said.

“"It’'s weird that she should break two nails packing clothes,”" Aunt Fiona said.

“"And that they should all end up in pockets? Seems practically premeditated to me.”" I pulled out a silk draped evening dress by Lucien Lelong in a translucent aqua coloration. A one-of-a-kind masterpiece. “"This looks so familiar. I must have seen a picture of it when I studied fashion design. It’'s decades older than the rest, and I
hate
the way it’'s been treated. Who would put such treasures in boxes? Help me get them on hangers and into garment bags, will you?”"

I rolled a rack over. “"I’'ll send some of them to an artisan friend in New York to be cleaned and restored.”"

Before Aunt Fiona hung each piece, she searched their pockets and found four more leopard fingernails.

I scoffed. “"Nobody breaks that many by accident.”"

“"Maybe Lolique didn’'t care about her nails or the clothes. They surely belonged to McDowell’'s first wife.”"

“"I thought that, but they keep leading me to an Isobel when the councilman’'s first wife was named Gwendolyn.”" But I’'d flashed to Isobel wearing the cape with the diamond on her finger, the diamond from the quilt. “"When exactly did his first wife disappear?”" I asked.

Aunt Fiona slipped a garment bag over an early Versace. “"McDowell didn’'t live in Mystick Falls back then, so nobody knows the details.”"

Right. Groton, I remembered. But unfortunately, the only connection I had between the woman in the cape from these boxes and McDowell’'s first wife was psychic and worthless at best. I wondered what Natalie knew.

When Eve and I left to pick up my car, Aunt Fiona stayed to finish hanging the clothes from the white boxes.

“"You’'re quiet,”" Eve said. “"I thought you’'d be chatty after spending the night with Nick.”"

“"You’'re fishing, Meyers.”"

“"No, you’'re too quiet. You and Nick didn’'t break up or anything, did you?”"

“"You wish.”"

She gave me an innocent look. Not.

“"It’'s just that we’'re on our way back to the dealership and whatever was bothering me when we left there is bothering me again, but I still can’'t put my finger on it.”"

“"I’'ll tell you what I remember from the last time we were there: that portrait of the councilman’'s late wife. Was that a rock on her hand or what?”" I looked sharply over at her. “"Was it an emerald-cut diamond?”"

“"I’'m not the fashionista here, but it was the focus of the entire portrait. How could you not notice it?”"

How could I not be sick at the thought of it? But if the ring in the portrait matched the one I found in the quilt, that would
tangibly
connect Gwendolyn McDowell to the quilt and cape set. Who the heck was Isobel?