A Familiar Tail (10 page)

“Do you really think so?” I could tell by Laurie's voice the blush was back.

“Yes, I really do. You've done a great job with the details and the light.” In fact, the light seemed to glow from the depths of the paper. It's a beautiful effect that's tough to achieve, and even tougher when you're representing water. “Martine's getting herself a find.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” I laid the painting back down into the portfolio and Laurie flipped the cover closed, like she was trying to trap the praise. “I'd been hoping to maybe get something into one of the galleries in town, but so far I've had no luck.”

If this was a sample of what she could do, the gallery owners of Portsmouth must be blind. Not only was her painting good; it was perfect for tourists looking for something to take home with them. I opened my mouth to say all this but did not get the chance.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry. Didn't see you there at first.”

Two men came to stand beside our table, both carrying overloaded paper grocery bags. The one who called Laurie
“Mom” was a boy who looked like he was in high school. Tall and thin, he was still at that all-knees-elbows-and-ears stage, like he hadn't caught up with his final growth spurt. His white coat and checked trousers announced he had a summer job at one of Portsmouth's many restaurants.

“Hi, Colin,” said Laurie. “How was work? Hi, Brad.”

The second man, Brad, came out of his son's shadow and stooped to give Laurie a quick kiss. All the sound in the bar faded away into the background as I took in Brad Thompson's sagging cheeks and his mustache, and the way his pale skin turned dead white as he straightened up and saw me.

“Hi,” I said. Which was not original, but it was better than
So, Mr. Mustache, we meet again.

Because Brad Thompson was the other burglar.

16

“SO, LIKE, YOU
guys know each other?” Colin Thompson's narrowed eyes shifted from his dad to me. A minute ago, I'd been glad the bar's lighting was good enough that you didn't have to strain to read the menu or see a painting. Now I wished for a total blackout, because this kid most definitely did not like what he saw.

“Oh, do you?” Laurie also looked from me to Brad, but thankfully without the sting of cutting-edge adolescent suspicion.

Brad, on the other hand, looked about ready to pass out. “Miss, um, she was considering some properties and wanted some advice.”

“Just thinking about possibilities,” I mumbled and took a quick swallow of my Ginger Lady.

You know that awkward moment where what you really want to do is flee the scene, but you can't, because that would make people ask the wrong questions, so all you can do is stay put and pray nobody asks the wrong questions anyway? That was this moment, and the questions I did not want
included either Kenisha or Val wondering why I was “thinking about possibilities” with Brad Thompson when it had been pretty clear to all concerned that I hadn't been planning to stay long-term in Portsmouth until an hour ago.

After a brief but serious struggle, Brad pasted a smile on his face. “In fact, I'm glad I ran into you.” He shifted his grocery bag to the crook of his elbow and started fumbling in all his jacket pockets in rapid succession. “We didn't get to talk as much as I would have liked the other day. Maybe we could meet up tomorrow, or Monday? Monday would be better, I'm sure. No need to do business on a Sunday if we don't absolutely have to, right?” He finally produced a slightly battered business card and held it out.

“Sure.” I tucked the card into my purse. “Sounds like a good idea.”

Colin watched the whole show. I'm not even sure he blinked. Laurie's polite smile started showing distinct signs of strain.

“Well.” Brad tried to sound brisk. That didn't work any better than trying to sound nonchalant had. “I'd better get my family home. Nice to see you all again.”

“Yes, it's getting late.” Laurie got to her feet, holding her portfolio against her chest. “Just let me drop this off with the manager.” There were whole volumes of things not being said among the three Thompsons, but Laurie didn't look angry, just tired. “See you soon, Val, Kenisha. Nice to meet you, Anna.”

I nodded. Brad shot me a last pleading glance and hurried after her. Their son, though, stayed just long enough to make sure I couldn't miss the way he was glowering at me.

Once Colin had finally strolled out of earshot, Val slapped both hands down on the table. “Well! That was interesting.”

“Sure was,” agreed Kenisha.

I looked at the bottom of my empty glass and wished Sean would pick now to make another appearance.

Val levered herself to her feet. “Unfortunately, the pregnant woman needs the restroom. Don't start without me.”

But as soon as she was gone, it became clear that Kenisha had no interest in obeying her instructions.

“So.” Kenisha folded her arms and leaned them on the table. “That thing there, with Brad and family. Anything you want to tell me about that?”

If we'd just run into Brad on his own, I would have told her straight-out, I think. As it was, though, I couldn't stop remembering Laurie's exhaustion and Colin's suspicions. Something bad was going on there, and as much as I already liked Kenisha, she was the police. I saw her sharp eyes, and her uniform with the patch on the shoulder of her dark blue shirt, reminding everyone she was here to “Protect and Serve.” Telling her that Brad had broken into Dorothy's house would open a whole new can of worms for the Thompsons, and it was pretty clear they'd already been through a lot.

“No,” I said.

Kenisha sighed and tipped her glass toward her, measuring the amount of cocktail still in the bottom. “Didn't think so.”

“Sorry.”

“Let's just hope it doesn't lead to more sorry. We've had too much of that.” She plucked another fry from its paper cone, dipped it in lavender mustard sauce and chewed. “Listen, Anna. You need to think long and hard about what you're actually doing here, because you're jumping in the deep end.”

“I did notice,” I said, to my drink and the last zucchini fry. “Is . . . Is Laurie another . . . you know . . .”

Kenisha rolled her eyes. “Will you please get over this stutter of yours? Is Laurie a witch? A member of the guardians' coven? No. She's just somebody who's had a hard time and could use a break. Now, here comes Val. Since you've got nothing to say, we should probably get you guys home.
If I don't get a shower soon, we are all going to regret the heck out of it.”

•   •   •

BY THE TIME
we got back to McDermott's, I owed Kenisha a whole boatload of favors. She hadn't let Val sit back down at the table, but stuck to her story about needing a shower, even adding that Sunday was her one day to sleep late, and she wanted to enjoy every second of it. She also mentioned that Roger was going to kill her if she let Val stay out too late, because he was deep into the whole nervous-father routine. In short, she didn't give Val any time to ask the kinds of questions she was clearly dying to.

I may have owed Roger a few favors too, because he had waited up for us. While Val was kissing him and telling him at least something about where she'd been for so long, I was able to sneak upstairs.

I set the box down and unlocked the door. My plan was to shut myself into the room, quickly. But when I put my hand on the knob, I remembered how the last time I'd been alone in this room, I'd gotten a vibe that was not just bad, but actively hostile in a new and personal way. Almost before I realized what I was doing, I reached into my purse and curled my fingers around the wand.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. Getting over the stutter thing. If I'm doing this, I'm doing this all the way.” I gripped the wand firmly and shouldered the door open.

The room was dark, but moonlight streamed through the white curtains, illuminating the furnishings and the gray cat sitting in the middle of the bed.

“Merow?” Alistair inquired, in a tone that could only mean
What took you so long?

“You know, I really shouldn't be surprised.” I kicked the box in and shut the door behind us. “I take it this means the coast is clear?”

“Meow.” The cat stretched out his front legs, toes spread and claws extended.

I dropped into the cozy armchair by the fireplace. I barely had time to put my purse down before Alistair was in my lap, butting his head against my hand.

“Okay, okay.” I dutifully rubbed him behind the ears. “So, Alistair, since you're so eager to talk, where
were
you the night of Dorothy Hawthorne's murder?”

Alistair had been purring. Now he stopped and mewed, pitifully, painfully, like a lost kitten. He rolled over in my lap and started trying to burrow down behind me.

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” I pulled him out gently and gathered him into my arms. “I'm sorry. It's okay. Really.”

As I've said, I'm not a cat person, but even I know sad and scared is not a normal feline state of being. Except that's what Alistair was. He was actually trembling in my arms.

“We'll figure it out,” I whispered, scratching behind his ears and under his chin. “I promise.” I had just made a serious promise to a cat. We were definitely not in Kansas anymore. “But you are going to have to give me some help. I mean, I can't just wave that wand and say ‘abracadabra,' right?” I paused and lifted Alistair up so we were brown eye to blue eye. “Right? I need some answers.”

And, like it or not, I knew where I had to start. I settled Alistair on my lap, pulled out my phone and hit Grandma B.B.'s number.

17

“ANNABELLE AMELIA! I'M
so sorry I didn't call back.” It was three hours earlier in Arizona, so either Grandma B.B. was on her second cup of herbal tea for the evening or she'd been out gallivanting with some of her gal pals. My bet was gallivanting. “But I was out with Margie and Patty, and I'd forgotten to plug my phone in last night and, well, that's that. Where are you this time, dear?”

This last was Grandma B.B.'s usual opener when I called. Out of all my family, Gran was the only one who never got impatient with the extended road trip that was my life. When Grandpa C. was in the navy, he and Gran moved all around the country. Once he retired, they traveled for fun—from Belize to the Himalayas and back again.

I could picture my grandmother sitting in the sunny little house in Sedona, Arizona, with the souvenirs of her busy life spread out across shelves, coffee tables and mantelpieces. There'd be framed photos of her children and grandkids, with the budding crop of great-grandkids in between. The last photo she'd tweeted (yes, Gran tweeted, and
Pointred and said HeyLook!—she loved new tech) showed that she'd started wearing her hair in a Roaring Twenties–style bob with a sparkly orange lily barrette. That was how I imagined her now, as she leaned back on her sofa, anticipating a cozy chat.

Sorry to disappoint, Gran.

“I'm in Portsmouth,” I said. “New Hampshire,” I added.

I know I did not imagine the pause, or the hollow ring underneath her cheerful answer. “
Portsmouth?
Really? What on
earth
for?”

Grandma B.B. lived in italics. She was not a hinty, sit-in-the-dark-and-don't-mind-me kind of grandmother. She made sure everybody knew exactly what she meant when she meant it.

“I am—at least I was—visiting a friend,” I told her. “You've met Martine Devereux, right? She's got a job as executive chef at the Pale Ale.”

“Oh, yes, Martine, of course.” Gran's relief was just as real, and just as marked, as the pause had been. Alistair looked up at me, blinking both eyes. Yeah, he heard it too. Never mind how. “I would have thought
Portsmouth
would be a bit out of the way for her, but I suppose everybody's got to take
whatever
they can find these days. She should come down
here
to Sedona. The town is
absolutely
booming. Margie and I had dinner at this
wonderful
little . . .”

“Gran,” I cut her off before she could really get going. “I met an old friend of yours here. Julia Parris.”

Silence. Long and completely uncharacteristic. Silence with italics and underlinings.

“I don't remember you ever mentioning her,” I went on. “Or any of your other old friends from Portsmouth.”

She took a deep breath. “I never thought you'd be interested in the little details of my past. Children usually aren't.”

Oh, no, Gran. You aren't getting out of this that easy.
“I'm not a child anymore, Gran. Julia told me you and she and some other women had a huge falling-out before you married Gramps and moved. What was that about?”

“I'm not even sure I
could
tell you, Annabelle. After all, it's
ancient
history, even to me. It can't possibly matter to you, dear.”

“Mer-oww,” remarked Alistair.

“Do you mind?” I said to him. “This is a private conversation.”

“Mer-oww,” he said again.

“Is someone
there
with you?” demanded Gran. “
Really
, Annabelle Amelia. I
know
young people have
no
concept of privacy anymore, but your
mother
taught you . . .”

“It's just the cat, Gran,” I told her. Then I added, “His name is Alistair.”

There was that silence again. I was starting to feel bad. You shouldn't deliberately make your grandmother uncomfortable. It wasn't nice. I knew that. But then again, I was pretty sure the usual etiquette rules didn't apply here.

“He's kind of adopted me,” I went on. “Julia Parris says he belonged to a woman named Dorothy Hawthorne. She died recently.”

“
Dorothy's
gone?” Unlike the cheerfulness and the outrage, the shock was real and it hit me like a splash of cold water.

“About six months ago.”

“
Oh.
My. Oh. Annabelle, I'm having one of my dizzy spells. I need to hang up
now
and lie down.”

“I'll call back,” I said. “I'll call back a whole lot.”

“I can't believe
you'd
be so inconsiderate, Annabelle Amelia, my
favorite
grandchild.”

“I'm only your favorite because I'm the one on the phone with you right now. I'm also in the middle of something very strange, and I need your help. Please.” I paused and let her spin out another silence, but not for too long. “It does matter, and it matters a lot. Grandma, are you a witch?”

I waited for her to explode, to demand to know how I could talk to my
poor
,
aging
grandmother
like that. There'd be italics on her italics and extra exclamation points, and bold type.

Except I was wrong. There was only a soft murmur of regret. “I used to be, Annabelle. I used to be.”

“And you didn't think maybe you should tell me about this?”

“Well, how was I to know you'd go back to Portsmouth? You were always so happy in the city.”

Which city?
I pinched the bridge of my nose and did my best to rein that burst of temper in. To be fair, I'd thought I was happy too. A little too restless maybe, but happy.

“So. Okay. You did know Julia Parris and Dorothy Hawthorne. What happened, Grandma?”

“Oh,
dear
. Really, Annabelle, this is all too
much
. I
can't
possibly.” I heard her drawing in another huge breath and pictured her pulling her round shoulders back and shaking her bobbed white hair. “
No.
No. I
will
. You're right. You
should
know the
truth
.” She stopped again, and I could practically hear her deciding what that truth should be. I steeled myself to be firm. I was
not
letting her pull a conversational fast shuffle on me. Not this time.

“You asked about witches,” Gran said. “Yes.
It's
true. There are, or were, a
few
families in Portsmouth that practiced the
true
craft and followed the
old
traditions. It was always kept very quiet. You knew each other, of course, but you never,
ever
discussed craft or family matters with
outsiders
.” I heard the soft shudder underneath that word. “Dorothy wanted to change all that.”

“Change it? How? Why?”

“Oh. Well. You have to understand, dear, it was a
very
different time back then. The war was over, everything was
supposed
to be back to
normal
—men at the office, women in the home, children all clean and happy and in bed by eight o'clock. My mother
tried
to be that way, even after she'd worked three years at the shipyard. But somehow, the world kept going from strange to stranger. There was rock and
roll
, and all these new
books
, and the
bomb
and
Iron Curtain
and the
Red
Scare and . . .”
And the kids with the hair and the clothes . . .
I covered my mouth. Alistair gave me a knowing look, and I stuck my tongue out at him. He very pointedly curled himself up so his face was tucked into his belly.

“. . . and we were all so young and excited about everything,” Gran went on. “But Dorothy, she was, well,
radical
. I mean, we all smoked and went
completely
gaga when we discovered the
Beatles
, but Dorothy had
ideas
. You see, back then, if you had the old ways,
the ways to get and guard
—that's what we called them; sounds
unbearably
quaint now, doesn't it?—you used them
strictly
to look after your family. Perhaps a few
close
friends, but we were all taught that magical abilities were a
consequence
of heritage, bloodline, breeding, all
those
things that were
supposed
to make our family, well, better.
Special.
”

Alistair peeled open one eye. “Merow?”

“Don't rush me,” I muttered.

“What was that, dear?”

“Nothing. So, what was it Dorothy Hawthorne did back then that got everybody so upset?”

“Dorothy decided to break tradition. No, that's not strong enough. Dorothy decided to
shatter
tradition. She started saying
anyone
could learn witchcraft—the real craft, the true magic—not just the songs and meditations like some of these airy-fairy New-Agey selfie-help sorts go on and on and
on
about.

“Now, it would have been one thing if she'd limited
herself to talking, but one day she announced she was going to actually start teaching people,
regular
people. It sent a shock wave through all the old families, I can tell you.”

“What happened?”

“The families lined up against her, of course. First they tried to shame her into silence. Some tried to threaten her, but most just shunned her.”

She was trying to change tradition in hardheaded, granite-souled New England. Of course they shunned her. “Most, but not all?”

“Well, she
had
her friends and supporters. And some of us were sure it would all blow over. We didn't believe there'd be that many . . . seekers. True craft is internal, and nondramatic, and takes a long time to learn. It can be difficult to hold on to a belief in its possibilities, even when you do see the results. But when Julia Parris joined Dorothy's coven . . . well, I at least knew the argument had shifted. The Parrises were the oldest of the families, and Julia was their sole heir. If she changed her mind, everyone else would too, eventually. I thought.”

I found myself wondering how this fit in with how prickly Julia had been toward me when we met. “What happened?”

“The worst thing possible,” said Gran. “It turned out Dorothy was right. She took in a gaggle of girls and even a few boys without even half a bloodline between them, and they successfully learned the true craft.

“Well, there was explosion and splits right down the middle of the old families. People who had been best friends stopped talking to each other overnight. Most of the town
thought it must be over men or money or something of the kind. Only those of us on the inside knew the truth.”

“Which side were you on?” I asked.

“Oh, dear. I'm not proud of this, Annabelle.” Which was as shocking as any confession she'd made yet. “It was very confusing. Dorothy was so confident. She was trying new things, looking at the world in a new way. She thought everyone should have a chance to excel, each according to their lights and their passion. I mean, it seems obvious now, doesn't it? But it was so different back then. Everyone was so angry, and called her such
ugly
names. What they called her students was even worse. And there I was, the last of the Blessingsounds. I wanted to support my friend. I thought she was right, but
my
mother and my aunts wouldn't see it; they
couldn't
see it . . .”

“Julia said you guys had a falling out before you married Grandpa C. and left. Was it because of Dorothy and Elizabeth's feud?”

“What? Oh, no, no. It was my
mother
. Mother badgered me and badgered me to swear that I would only follow tradition. That if I taught the craft, I wouldn't ever teach outside the family, that I would only teach a daughter . . . It got to be too much. I gave up the practice and I just left. Your grandfather . . . he proposed rather than lose me.”