Chapter and Curse Page 5

  I could see a cluster of smaller branches had fallen into the road. Kathleen had reminded me that yew wood was very good for wands and divining rods, and a tree this old would have power of its own. I pulled my car to the side and got out and walked over. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood, the piney scent of the old tree, earth and, oddly, I caught a whiff of body odor.

  There was a branch, about two feet long, that hung balanced on the top of the old wall as though offering itself to me. I picked it up and immediately felt a tingle in my palm as though it were communicating with me. Nice. I ran my thumb along the dark green needles. There were even a few red berries on it. Once I’d dried the wood, I could work with it. I wasn’t normally one to use wands. I’d found that all a wand really did was improve your focus, and mine was good. But it might be nice to experiment with a divining rod, and what better material than this legendary and historic piece of yew?

  I put the branch on the passenger seat, then carried on my way.

  When I got back to my shop, the sky was gray and dismal, and as the afternoon grew longer, rain began to fall. I was from Seattle, the Pacific Northwest, which was famous for its rains. But I’d rarely seen a rain like this. It was raining so hard the drops were bouncing up off the pavement, and soon the road was awash with little streams. I’d driven in this morning because rain was forecast. By the time five o’clock rolled around, it was gloomy and wet, and when I put my head out the front door past the awning, I was immediately soaked. No wonder I’d had no customers since Edna and Clara had left.

  I went upstairs thinking I might as well at least have a look at those boxes Brenda and Archie had dropped off. I was in no hurry to drive home in a storm, and Cerridwen was happily sleeping on one of the chintz reading chairs.

  I made my way up the spiral staircase and was pretty shocked at the sheer number of boxes that had come from Brenda O’Donnell. At least Archie had stacked them nice and neatly. And she’d labeled each one, for which I was grateful. I took a quick look. In black Sharpie she’d written, “books, history” and “books, hobbies and crafts” and “books, paperback thrillers and romance” and “books, possibly valuable.”

  Naturally, I chose to open that one first. I pulled it toward me. There was so much packing tape on there that I needed to go to my desk and get scissors and a box cutter. When I returned, I shook my head. I was like a little kid at Christmas going for the brightest, shiniest package first.

  No. I would make myself do a couple of the most boring boxes, get those out of the way. No doubt I could very quickly have a junk pile, and I’d call Archie back and get him to take the books down again and probably all the way up to the recycling depot. Or maybe I could put some free boxes out in front of my store. If Kathleen was right, and the residents loved a good rummage, perhaps they’d like a literary rummage.

  Maybe I could make it a charity where I’d raise a bit of money for the church’s restoration campaign. I thought it would be a nice way to add something to the community.

  So I began with the box labeled paperbacks, thriller and romance. Those seemed like the kind of books that somebody might give a few euros for, enjoy a nice read and also feel good about supporting the church restoration project.

  Even as I opened the box, the smell of must hit me. As I went through the books, I started to laugh. These books might have been thrilling in the forties, but now they were more like relics of history. And as for the romances, most of them were of the doctor and nurse variety. Where the doctor was always male and superior, and the nurse was female and deferential. I shook my head. As a feminist, how could I even put these out? I pushed them to one side. Then I opened the next box of thrillers. These were more hopeful. They were all published within the last twenty years at least, many of them hardback. I pulled out an old John Grisham, but as I opened it, a dead moth fell out. In about ten minutes, I had ten books I’d keep for myself to sell and thirty books for the donation box out front, and another five or six were going straight to the recycling depot.

  I worked steadily for a couple of hours and got to know Mr. O’Donnell. Digging through people’s books is like digging through their psyches. I learned about his interests, his passions. And I could soon differentiate which books were his and which were his wife’s. There were a few books that I suspected had belonged to Brenda growing up.

  There was a very respectable set of Tolkien in hardcover that, from the date, I suspected had been Brenda’s. I thought it was sad that she was giving the set away, but if she’d wanted it, she’d have taken it with her.

  The Victorian women’s novels had belonged to Brenda’s mother, I thought. Also the books on feminism, probably the cooking and home decorating books, and perhaps the books on music.

  I had at least a hundred books I could add to my shop’s stock, and it was after seven. The rain had eased up a bit, so I could get home and get some dinner. I would definitely need a bath after handling all these dusty books. Cerridwen snoozed contentedly on the couch in the upstairs office, and the rain drumming softly against the roof reminded me so much of Seattle that I felt oddly at home.

  Okay, I decided that I had earned my prize. The box of books she considered possibly valuable. This was a woman who had a full set of hardcover Tolkiens and hadn’t considered those valuable. I wondered what she considered a treasure.

  With some eagerness, I ripped into the box.

  On top was a note: “Mother collected books by female Irish authors.” Oh, good. I could put more books in my local authors section. I scanned through and found some lovely hardcovers by Elizabeth Bowen, Iris Murdoch and authors I’d never heard of but should probably read. I suspected some of these would turn out to be first editions and possibly valuable.

  I stacked them neatly on a table. Beneath the Irish women was a copy of The House at Pooh Corner, the second of the Winnie-the-Pooh novels. Just looking at the book, bound in green cloth, made me smile. I’d loved those books as a child. I had a look at the copyright page. This copy had been published by Methuen in 1928. I sucked in my breath. This was a first edition of the famous children’s book written by A.A. Milne and illustrated by E.H. Shepard. If I was right, it was worth thousands.

  If the Milne was a first edition, I’d give it back to Brenda. This was one of her father’s treasures, for sure, and I couldn’t keep it knowing she’d given away something unaware of its true value.

  I continued through the box, feeling that I was finally being rewarded for my kindness in letting her dump all this junk on me, as I discovered two Ian Flemings, one signed by the author. I’d have to return that to Brenda, too. It would be worth a lot.

  At the bottom of the box was a thick book wrapped in cloth. That was odd. I drew it out, and as I unwrapped it, my fingertips began to tingle. What emerged was a leather-bound book that looked ancient. Another treasure? I opened the cover. And discovered that this was a handwritten manuscript. I opened it carefully, turning the pages as though they were infinitely precious, not because they had monetary value. This was a book of shadows.

  A witch had left this behind. There was no date on it, but given the type of paper, the ink and the general condition made me suspect it was very old. Perhaps hundreds of years old. Unfortunately, I couldn’t read any of the spells because it was in Gaelic.

  This was a treasure indeed. As was the A.A. Milne and the signed copy of Casino Royale. Brenda had probably been so busy shoving books in boxes that she’d stopped paying attention. I didn’t blame her being completely overwhelmed, but I would blame myself if I took advantage. At least two books were worth a lot of money. The book of shadows was a valuable collector’s item.

  As a witch, I would love to get it translated and find out what was in it. What secrets did it tell? But I couldn’t. I had to return this.

  Chapter 5

  The rain had let up now to barely a sprinkle, and I was getting hungry. I’d take the valuable books back to Brenda on my way home. I didn’t even want books worth that much money stored i
n my shop overnight. It made me nervous. Besides, she’d said she was leaving in the morning. I didn’t want to miss her.

  When I put my coat on, Cerridwen rose on her paws and stretched her back out, then gave an enormous yawn before hopping off the chair and following me. I made sure the lights were all out and the front door locked and then let myself out the back. My little car was drenched, poor thing. I opened the passenger door, and Cerridwen didn’t need an invitation to jump up quickly to avoid getting wet. I walked around and settled myself behind the wheel. I muttered a quick protection spell, as I always did when I was driving. Not so much for myself, but for anyone else unlucky enough to be on the road at the same time as me.

  I backed out carefully into the little lane, then headed toward Brenda O’Donnell’s house. It didn’t take more than seven minutes to get there. The windshield wipers were scraping on the windshield now as the rain had eased up to almost nothing. When I pulled up in front of the O’Donnell house, I noticed the white van still parked in front with its back doors open and more furniture and boxes partly loaded.

  I got out of the car and stared at the house. That place still gave me the creeps. I wouldn’t stay. I wouldn’t even go inside. I’d bang on the door, give Brenda’s books back, or at least make some arrangement whereby I might sell them and give her the proceeds, all but a small commission.

  There were lights on in the house and, leaving Cerridwen in the car, I picked up the bag with the valuable books in it and hurried up the path to the front door. I banged on it. No one answered. I knew she was there because I’d seen the lights on, the van half loaded, and in front of it was the battered Land Rover. Was there a bell? I found it and pressed the doorbell. I could hear it ringing inside. No doubt she was up on another floor and couldn’t hear me knocking. Again, nothing. That was odd. I was tempted to get in my car and drive away, but I’d come this far and I was certain she was inside. I walked around to the kitchen door. It was open. I knocked against the open door and called out, “Hello?”

  Then I heard footsteps banging as though someone was racing down the stairs. What on earth?

  Before I could even take in that the banging footsteps were far too heavy to belong to Brenda O’Donnell, Archie burst into the kitchen. He looked wild-eyed, and his hair was all over the place. He saw me and yelled, “Help. I don’t know what to do. She’s fallen down.”

  I immediately grew calm. Well, somebody had to be. And Archie clearly wasn’t the man you wanted in an emergency.

  “I’ve got to call 999. She’s hurt.”

  The first thing I had to do was calm him down before he fainted. “Take a breath.” He couldn’t. He was near passing out. His color was heightened, and he was hyperventilating. “Archie. Look in my eyes.” I kept my voice deliberately calm. And when he finally looked at me, I said, soothingly and calmly, “Archie, you’re feeling calmer now. Breathe in with me and breathe out with me.” He did. And we repeated the exercise until he was calm enough to tell me what was going on.

  “It’s Brenda. She’s upstairs on the floor.”

  “Did she fall? Is she sick?”

  “I don’t know. There was blood. She wasn’t moving.” Oh, that did not sound good.

  He was trembling all over. “I don’t want to go back there.”

  I was already moving. “Call 999,” I said.

  I heard him make the call as I ran through the house to the stairs. The rooms were shockingly bare after the chaos of clutter at the wake. The junk and knickknacks were gone, as was most of the furniture. There were boxes everywhere, neatly labeled and stacked.

  I didn’t see any sign of Brenda, so I ran up the stairs. “Brenda,” I called out. There was no answer.

  Oh, dear. I felt that shadowing heaviness.

  I found her in the master bedroom. It was the biggest room at the front of the house, no doubt the room where her father had breathed his last. She was on the floor on her side. One hand reached out. I thought she’d been reaching toward the old telephone that was still on the stand beside the bed. I didn’t need the doctor to figure out what had felled her. There was a massive gash in the back of her head and a brass candlestick on the ground. Someone had hit her very hard.

  I sank to my knees at her side. “Brenda?” I called out softly. I put my hand to her forehead and found it warm. Oh, good. She wasn’t dead. She moaned. It was soft, but she’d made a sound.

  “Stay with me, Brenda. I’m getting help. You’ll be all right.”

  I knew Archie had called the ambulance, but I grabbed my cell phone and called Dr. Drew Milsom. He picked up right away, and I explained what was going on. He said, “Stay with her. I’m on my way.”

  He didn’t need to worry. I would hardly leave her. I ran to the door and yelled down to Archie to keep an eye open for the ambulance and police and bring them straight up as soon as they arrived. “Will do,” he called up in a wavery voice.

  I thought he’d be better with a proper job to do, even if it was just watching out for the ambulance. I strained my ears for the sound of sirens as I ran back and spoke soothing words to Brenda. “The ambulance is on its way, Brenda. We’ll get you to the hospital. You’ll be all right.”

  I didn’t believe my words. I didn’t think she would be all right. Her skull was bashed in and still bleeding sluggishly. I hoped doctors could save her even as I felt her slipping away. Death doesn’t always take a person all at once. Sometimes it pulls them slowly to the other side. Brenda was young and in the prime of life. I could feel the way she was clinging to life. Fighting for it. And I was cheering her on in that fight. I took her hand in mine. Oh, I was tempted, but only for a nanosecond, to use the spell that I knew could hold her to life. I thought, even if I could keep her alive until help arrived, that would be okay, wouldn’t it? But even as the idea crossed my mind, I squashed it. I had learned that lesson the hard way. I could do everything humanly possible to help Brenda cling to life, but I couldn’t use magic.

  She whispered, “Water,” in a soft, reedy voice, but the word was clear.

  “I’ll get you some. I’ll be right back.”

  If she wanted water, that had to be a good sign, didn’t it? I ran into the bathroom. There must be a glass, even if it was just a toothbrush glass. I turned on the tap and found a water glass by the side of the sink. I filled it and then, as I turned to go, I noticed writing on the mirror.

  In crude letters formed in some substance that looked like blood but was probably red lipstick, someone had written, “Go away. You’re not wanted here.”

  I didn’t have time to stand there and analyze the horrifying message. I took the glass back to Brenda. By the time I got there, her eyes were closed. Her breathing was shallow. “Brenda, I’ve brought you water,” I said. She didn’t answer. I took her hand in both of mine. I kept talking to her. I reminded her that help was on the way and that soon she’d be feeling better.

  I heard the sirens now and told her that. I don’t even know what I said. I just kept talking even as I could feel her life force fading. Then, thankfully, I heard the sounds I had been listening for so keenly. Male voices downstairs and then footsteps running up. Andrew Milsom came into the room, took one look at me, gave me a curt nod and strode over. I moved away so he could take my place beside Brenda.

  “Ambulance is pulling up now,” he said as he knelt at her side.

  Now that a doctor was here, I could fall apart a little. She’d been fully alive and drinking tea with me what, four hours ago? Maybe five? So full of plans, in a hurry to get back to Dublin.

  Brenda O’Donnell would not be going to Dublin tomorrow. She wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  The paramedics arrived then, with a stretcher. I couldn’t watch this part, so I went downstairs. Archie was holding the door open, and two uniformed Gardaí walked in. “She’s upstairs,” Archie said, pointing.

  One began running up the stairs. The second said, “Who found her?”

  Archie gulped. “I did.”

  She sa
id, “Go in the front room.” He shot me a scared look and complied. Then she turned to me. “And you are?”

  “Quinn Callahan. I came to drop something off and Archie told me Brenda was hurt. I went upstairs and stayed with her until the paramedics arrived.”

  “Go sit with your friend.”

  Archie was in the dining room, as the front-room furniture was all loaded and poor Brenda had yet to dispose of the dining room suite. The big, old-fashioned oak table with its eight chairs and the matching cabinets filled the room. The cabinets were empty now, and the surface of the buffet cleared, but at least we could sit.

  Archie was running his thumbnail along a crack in the dining table, back and forth as though the movement soothed him. “Will Brenda live?” he asked in a trembling voice. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down as though it had better places to be.

  “I don’t know.” I couldn’t make sense of it all. “What happened?”

  He turned to me, looking wild-eyed. “I went for my dinner break. Brenda told me to. She said she had to meet someone, so we’d take an hour and meet back here.”

  “Did she say who she was meeting?”

  “No. And it wasn’t my place to ask.”

  I nibbled my lip. At least thinking about who might have done this to Brenda helped keep my mind occupied. “Was she meeting them here or going out to meet them?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. I thought she was going out. There’s no food in the house, but maybe she was meeting someone here.”

  She’d been attacked upstairs, but whoever she met could have come back with her. Perhaps with violence on their mind.

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and someone calling out instructions. I was pretty sure they were taking Brenda away on a stretcher. Andrew Milsom popped his head in to tell us he was going along in the ambulance. “We’ll do our best to save her,” he said.