a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (26 page)

“
Everyone’s
heard of that one,” Oscar said, bottle-glass green eyes wide, with the exaggerated patience
he used when trying to teach me something. “What did you two
do
when you were kids?”

“Learned how to brew, how not to accidentally burn down the school or cause my obnoxious classmates head injuries, and how to call on my guiding spirit in order to influence reality.”

Selena nodded.

“Ah,” Oscar conceded. “Well done, both of you.”

I called Bronwyn and asked her if she had the game Clue. She did, so I asked her to bring it along for the overnight at the Rodchester House of Spirits. I didn’t expect it would provide me with any clues, despite the name, but I was tired of being clueless.

When the popcorn was done popping, I poured plenty of melted butter over the top and sprinkled it with salt, and the three of us settled in to watch the movie.

Oscar had a point: It wasn’t as good as the book, but we enjoyed it nonetheless.

Chapter 20

The next morning was busy, with folks stopping by who’d been disappointed to see Aunt Cora’s Closet closed for the last couple of days. Bronwyn and I planned to leave early, but Maya and Loretta would stay and close the shop at the usual hour. Conrad was around for backup. Given the way my life was these days, I didn’t like to leave anyone alone at the shop.

Selena’s grandmother came to pick her up at ten. The girl stood stiffly while Bronwyn and I imposed good-bye hugs on her, and Maya shook her hand. The only overt affection Selena showed was for Loretta, who thumped her tail.

“We’re allowed into the Rodchester House at six,” Bronwyn explained when she left at noon to get her things together. “But there’s a lot of traffic between here and San Jose, so I’d like to leave early. As long as we’re all there by eight, though, we’re fine. Thank you for letting us use the shop van, Lily! That way a bunch of us
can go down together, Wendy and Starr and Winona and Averna. . . . Oh! I’m so excited!”

I had to smile at her enthusiasm, despite my trepidation. “I’m glad you can use the van. It’s more fun to go as a group.”

“Exactly! But at least you’re coming with Sailor. Will Oscar be all right on his own?”

“He’ll be fine.” I ignored the imploring look in his pink piggy eyes. “I do believe he might do a little laundry with all his spare time.”

*   *   *

When we approached Rodchester House, there was a young man standing at the old iron gates who checked a clipboard for our names, then instructed us to pull up the curved drive, past the mansion, and up to the left, where we could park “next to the purple van.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Are you night security?” asked Sailor, leaning over me to speak through the driver’s side window.

“Yeah, I’m on till nine. But there’s a caretaker on the grounds, in the cottage.”

“And what happens after nine?”

“We lock these gates. After all, here at the Rodchester House of Spirits, you can check
in
 . . . ,” he said, then lowered his voice to a sinister note,
“but you can’t check out!”

Sailor gave him a heavy-lidded look.

“Aw, I’m just kidding,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “The back gate’s modern and has a car-activated trigger, so you can leave, but you won’t be able to come back in past eight at night.”

“But no security on the grounds other than the caretaker?”

The guard looked as though he was searching for an answer. “Um . . .” He shrugged. “There’s always 911. You’re that worried, maybe you shouldn’t be spending the night.”

“Just wanted to know what the situation was,” said Sailor.

“Honestly,” said the guard, “every once in a while some of the college kids get drunk and dare each other to break in, but other than that we don’t usually have much trouble. You wanna know what I think? People are too scared, afraid the widow’s ghost’ll come after them or something.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Sailor. I pulled slowly through the gates.

I had read about the Rodchester House of Spirits last night in the book I’d cadged from Aidan’s office. It was full of photos, but the stories and pictures didn’t do the mansion justice. In person it was much more impressive: a multistoried Queen Anne Victorian, painted a cheery yellow with maroon trim. There were turrets and spires, miles of pointy roofs, balconies, and gables. It was massive, more suited to a boarding school or a grand hotel than to the home of a lonely widow.

I didn’t often “read” buildings from the outside, and even within them didn’t feel things the way I did with clothes. But still, there was something forlorn about this house. It was grand and rich, and yet it seemed . . . so very sad.

But perhaps my imagination was running away with me, stoked as it was with the stories of the lonely Widow Rodchester searching for spirits at night and toiling away at her architectural drawings by day, seeking something she would never find in life: peace.

The ornate entry was framed by two mature palm trees, and the drive lined with formal manicured hedges. What I could see of the extensive gardens included mature trees, gravel walks, and topiary and statuary.

We drove around to the left and found the purple van. We didn’t have to look any farther. As soon as we pulled up we were met by Bronwyn and her “wacky” coven.

“Oh, my goddess,” she gushed, clapping her hands together under her chin. “We’re all set up in the ballroom! There are
forty
bedrooms in the house, but we’re in the
ballroom
so we can all be together; isn’t that amazing? Oh, this place has forty-
seven
fireplaces and ten
thousand
windows! Can you believe this? We have the run of the place!”

The group gathered around and helped us to unpack, though we hadn’t brought all that much: just sleeping bags and a small pack each, plus my shopping bag full of protection brew, the sprite dust, and some packs of herbs and stones. Just in case. Bronwyn had assured me the coven had snacks and dessert—and cocktails—covered.

“Too bad Oscar couldn’t come!” said Val, one of the coven sisters.

“He really wanted to, but I made him mac ’n’ cheese, so he’s okay.”

They laughed.

“So, really? We have the run of the whole mansion, and the grounds?”

“As long as we obey the signs,” put in Wendy. Wendy was the head barista at Coffee to the People, and she was also one of the high priestesses of the Welcome coven. She liked to shop in Aunt Cora’s Closet for vintage lingerie—slips, camisoles, garters, and the like—which
she then wore as outerwear to complement her combat boots and tattoos and Bettie Page haircut. Despite her distinctive style—or perhaps because of it?—she was extremely practical and levelheaded, and I knew her to be one of the more law-abiding of the bunch. “Or else they reserve the right to send us out into the night.”

“Well, then, by all means, let’s obey the signs.”

“And also velvet ropes,” added Wendy. “We ‘must respect the velvet ropes.’ They have surveillance cameras as well, so they’re pretty strict. There’s still more than enough house to check out. This place is huge, as you can see.” Her eyes swept over Sailor.

“Hey, he’s not staying, too, is he?”

Her objection reminded me of the discussion I’d had with the squabbling witches yesterday.

“He won’t be participating in the circle,” Bronwyn said. “Sailor’s here as our bodyguard.”

“A psychic bodyguard?”

“Only the best for the Welcome coven,” Sailor said with a slight shrug. “I like to think I can see ’em comin’ and goin’.”

“It’s just in case,” I said. “I wasn’t sure . . . I don’t know, haunted houses make me a little nervous. So Sailor and I wanted to make sure Bronwyn’s birthday bash was just good, safe fun.”

Wendy studied Sailor for another moment, then nodded slowly and said, “That’s cool. Thanks.”

“Well, now, let’s all go inside and get you settled,” said Bronwyn. “We were just having a quick arrival ceremony in this lovely grove of trees—which was where the Widow Rodchester used to sit and contemplate, apparently—but we’re losing the light, so let’s go inside! They don’t use the actual front door here, except for
very special occasions. And since we’re practically like family already, we just use the side door!”

She looped her arm through mine and led me to the side entrance.

“According to Clyde, the front door was used maybe half a dozen times in all the years Sally Rodchester lived here. Can you imagine? In fact, she tried to use a different door every day and asked the servants to do so as well. They say when the bell tolled at midnight, she would take a different route to the Russet Room for her séances. Every night she would consult the spirits in her special séance room and then in the morning she would come out to the grove to analyze what the spirits had told her.”

“And what sorts of things did they tell her?”

“Oh . . . all sorts of things! But mostly what to build next.”

We passed through the small oak door. Inside, the hallway was cramped, low ceilinged, and lined with tongue-and-groove paneling painted a creamy white. Bronwyn, an intricate floor plan of the house in hand, led our group left, then right, this way and that. Up a few stairs, down some more. We passed myriad doors and windows, staircases, and narrow passages. “Labyrinthine” was the word that came to mind.

“I’ve always liked the servants’ quarters in old homes, don’t you?” Bronwyn asked as she led the way. She’d been here all of an hour but already seemed prepared to lead a tour. “The upstairs is quite grand, as you’ll see, with paneling and stained glass windows and fine furniture, but if you asked me, the best parts of
Masterpiece Theatre
take place among the servants, in the basement service rooms and the kitchens. And
speaking of which, there are
six
kitchens in the Rodchester House.”

“You already seem quite at home,” I said. “And honestly, you have the run of the place?”

“Well . . .”

“As I was saying, and reminding my coven sisters, there are pretty strict rules,” said Wendy, behind me. “All the velvet-rope places are off-limits, and of course any locked door. We’re pretty much restricted to the regular tourist areas, though we get to check them out at our leisure, which, I’ll admit, is pretty darned cool.”

“They made us practically sign away our firstborn when we arrived,” said Winona, another one of the group’s high priestesses. The coven had several leaders, as any self-respecting nonhierarchical group would. Only recently had I learned that Winona, in addition to practicing witchcraft, was a very well-regarded paralegal in a high-powered law firm with offices in a high-rise on Market Street. Starr was a bookkeeper, and Kendall was a surgical nurse. We witchy women were to be found everywhere these days, it seemed.

We continued through the maze of hallways and chambers and past a second kitchen. Then we mounted a staircase made of very shallow steps and emerged in a broad wood-paneled hallway. There was a thick oriental runner on the polished inlaid oak floors, beautiful amber sconces glowing along the wall, and a row of stained glass windows overlooking the garden.

“Isn’t it lovely?” asked Bronwyn. “This is a side hall, and right down here we take a left, and then we come upon the
ballroom.
I have to say, I’m glad to have the map in hand; I think it would be awfully easy to get lost in here, don’t you?”

“I don’t suppose it could go too badly,” said Starr. “There are security cameras, and Clyde says they’ll be watching.”

“And Clyde is . . . ?” I asked as we headed down the hallway toward the ballroom.

“Clyde’s the caretaker. He lives in a cottage on the grounds, so he’ll be around if we need— Oh, here he is now!”

I was glad she pointed him out to me as a real person. Otherwise, I might have assumed he was a ghost. Not that he appeared to be floating or misty or fading in and out, but the fiftyish man sported an honest-to-goddess walrus mustache, and his portly physique was encased in an old-fashioned brocade waistcoat. I wondered what the well-coiffed boys at the David Gallery would make of him: I reckoned they’d either love his look—and therefore try to emulate it—or make fun of it.

“These are the rest of your folks?” he asked. He had a decided limp as he walked toward us.

“Yes, Clyde,” answered Bronwyn. “The last two stragglers! Let me introduce Lily Ivory, and this is Sailor . . .”

“Just Sailor,” he said as he stepped forward and put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Clyde.”

Clyde looked Sailor up and down. “Don’t tell me they’re lettin’ menfolk into the covens these days?”

“That appears to be a matter of some contention,” I murmured.

“Our dear Sailor isn’t one of the
sisters
,” said Bronwyn. “He’s a protector. And so’s Lily, in this instance. She won’t be taking part in the circle. But they’re both here as friends of the coven.”

“Glad to hear it,” Clyde said with a broad wink toward
Sailor. “Keep ’em in line, eh, Sailor? That way I don’t have to get out of bed, come get you to quiet down with the giggling. I know how girls get.”

“So, I take it the idea of the coven activities doesn’t bother you?” I said, ignoring Clyde’s blatant sexism.

“I’ve been caretaker to this house for several years now,” said Clyde. “Our dear departed Mrs. Rodchester was quite a spiritualist herself, you know. She was a medium, I believe. Used her planchette—an early form of the Ouija board—every evening in the séance room to communicate with her husband and other friendly spirits. I do believe she’d be pleased as punch to welcome the likes of the Welcome coven.”

“That’s very accommodating.”

“You know, we just started this overnight program and got lots of requests from people wanting to have bachelorette parties, that sort of thing. But I choose carefully—I don’t like the idea of people staying here, hoping to be scared out of their wits or to scare their friends. Seems . . . disrespectful, don’t you think?”

“I agree,” I said. “I think that’s a good way to approach this.”

“Anyway, Bronwyn’s got all the paperwork in the ballroom. You’ll need to sign a release, if you don’t mind—it’s an insurance thing. And the girls can give you the floor plan map and inform you of all the rules. Remember: Always use the buddy system, and ring the bell if lost or anything goes wrong.” He gestured toward a tasseled strip of heavy cloth hanging at the end of the hallway; I had seen several as we walked through the corridors. An old-fashioned bell pull, I gathered.