Magic (18 page)

With a look of grim determination on his face, he opened the door in the wall, flipped on the light, and followed the scent of ammonia down the dusty servants’ stairs. The step with dry rot was cracked through, and he skipped it altogether, frowning harder. He slipped out of the cabinet in the pantry, careful not to make a sound.

The kitchen was dark, illuminated only by the reflection of moonlight on the fog that hung outside the windows, but his eyes adjusted quickly. He eased along the wall, keeping to the deepest shadows, his gaze taking inventory of every object as he moved toward the back door. Nothing moved. The only sound was the wind outside and the metallic screech and clang of the vent for the stovepipe of the old appliance Addie had set ablaze earlier in the day.

He let himself out the back door and stood on the porch with his hands on his hips. He looked out across the grounds of Drake House, solemn and silent. There was nothing to see but overgrown bushes shrouded in fog. There was nothing to hear except the roar of the wind and the sea But there was something out there. He could feel it. He could sense it—a menace, a threat. There was something out there, and he was determined to find out who or what it was.

After locking up and thoroughly checking the downstairs for any sign of an intruder, Bryan climbed back up the servant’s staircase, going slowly in hopes of picking up some sense of who their uninvited guest had been. Rachel met him at the door in the second-floor hall.

“I got Mother to go back to bed,” she said quietly, wrapping a sweater around her shoulders. “Did you find anything?”

Bryan shook his head. “No, but I have an idea or two.”

“Casper the Cleanly Ghost?” she suggested with an irrepressible smile.

“Very funny,” he drawled, sliding an arm around her and steering her down the hall toward her bedroom.

“Ammonia and hydrochloric acid. It’s an old magic trick,” he explained. “You soak a wad of cotton in ammonia and one in hydrochloric acid. Forcing air through the cotton produces volumes of white smoke. Very eerie-looking stuff. My dad taught me how to do it when I was ten. You can’t imagine the trouble I got into in Sister Agnes’s religion class when Mark Tucker and I engineered a surprise reenactment of the Ascension, using that trick.”

Rachel had a fleeting impression of the adorable little boy he must have been with his serious expression and his glasses sliding down his nose, his bag of magic tricks tucked under one arm. A little more of her heart gave itself over to him.

“So,” she said, forcing herself to stay on the topic, “you’re admitting what Mother saw wasn’t a manifestation from the spirit world after all?”

“Reluctantly. I’m not saying Wimsey isn’t legitimate, but I think our other visitor is a ghost of a different color.”

They stopped at the open door of Rachel’s room. Bryan leaned back against one side of the jamb and Rachel leaned back against the other. He gave her a serious look. “I think someone is trying to frighten Addie into leaving Drake House.”

An automatic shiver ran through Rachel at the thought, but she dismissed it. “Why would anyone do that? It seems to be common knowledge that we’re going to sell the place. Why would anyone bother?”

“Why, indeed,” Bryan murmured, combing a hand back through his hair. He had his theories, but they were only beginning to form. For the moment he had nothing concrete to share with Rachel, and heaven knew she had enough on her mind already.

A sexy smile curving his mouth, he pushed himself away from his side of the door frame. Bracing his hands above Rachel’s head, he leaned close and brushed his lips across hers. “I think we ought to sleep on that.”

“Really?” she whispered, heat sweeping through her. She ran her hands under his open sweater and up his sides, following the outward slope from his lean waist to his solid chest. “I was going to suggest we sleep on the bed.”

“Were you?” He chuckled, a low, masculine sound that rumbled deep in his throat as he pinned Rachel to the door frame with his hips.

“Mmmm …” she sighed, forgetting all about ghosts and goblins as her body melted into his. “Clean sheets, no ants.”

“Sounds inviting,” he said, nibbling at her earlobe. “Can I make one more suggestion?”

“What?”

“Let’s skip the sleep. I can think of better things to do in abed.”

“Thieves! Thieves! We’re being overrun by thieves!”

Addie stamped her foot on the hall floor, causing several more people to turn their heads and stare at her. She glared back at them. The gall. For all these people to simply walk into her home and steal her things! She couldn’t imagine what the world was coming to. No good, that was for certain.

One of the strangers, a pudgy, middle-aged woman in a brown pants suit and a bad blond wig, emerged from the parlor, cradling a large white wire bird cage in her arms. Addie gasped in outrage, her narrow gaze boring into the woman. She recognized the culprit as being the receptionist for the intolerable Nazi doctor, Moore.

“I should have known you’d be a thief!” Addie snapped, launching herself at the woman.

She grabbed at the bird cage, her fingers threading through the wire. The startled receptionist hung on to the other side of the cage and the two women jerked each other around the hall like children fighting over a new toy.

“Mother! For heaven’s sake!” Rachel exclaimed, pushing her way through the crowd of bargain hunters. She grabbed Addie by the shoulders, halting the tussle.

“She’s stealing my bird cage!” Addie accused the receptionist as she gave her the evil eye.

“She’s not stealing it, Mother,” Rachel explained patiently, even though her patience had pretty much worn out an hour into the tag sale. She pried her mother’s fingers away from the now-bent wire cage. “Mrs. Anderson is
buying
this bird cage. We’re having a tag sale, Mother. We can’t take all this furniture with us to San Francisco, so we’re selling it.”

She turned to the receptionist, whose wig was askew, and mustered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Anderson. Mother is a little … confused about all this.”

“It’s all right, Rachel,” the woman said, composing herself like a plump pigeon whose feathers had been ruffled. “I understand.”

“Oh, I get it,” Addie said, turning on her daughter. “You’re in on it. It’s a conspiracy.”

“It’s a tag sale, Mother,” Rachel said through her teeth as she bit back her temper and her feelings of guilt.

It
was
a conspiracy. There was no getting around that fact. She had conspired to usurp her mother’s authority over her own property. The fact that she didn’t have a choice, that what she was doing was perfectly legal, that Addie wasn’t competent to handle these affairs, didn’t make it any more palatable. Not even thoughts of their dwindling finances and the upcoming visit from the IRS could make her feel justified.

“I’m calling the police,” Addie said flatly.

Rachel’s shoulders slumped, and she heaved a weary sigh as she watched her mother stomp away. She debated whether it would take more strength to stop her from calling or to deal with Deputy Skreawupp’s ire after the fact. Suddenly Bryan bounded into the hall, blowing a party horn. His magic hat was perched on his head.

“Hennessy!” Addie said. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s a party, beautiful!” Bryan declared, flashing her his most brilliant smile. He removed his hat with a flourish and pulled another party horn out of it for Addie. “Let’s go dancing on the lawn.”

Addie scowled at him, uncertainty flashing in her eyes. She didn’t like what was going on here. She didn’t like that she seemed to have no control over it. And all the strange faces in her house frightened her. There were so many of them, she had trouble distinguishing one from the next. But Hennessy, she knew. Hennessy, she trusted.

“I love your hair that way, Addie,” he commented. “It’s very … carefree.”

She raised a hand to pat at the hairdo, blushing like a schoolgirl. She had hacked off her long tresses with a pinking shears because she hadn’t been able to remember how to braid it. Now it fringed her face in a kind of frenetic pixie look. “You’re such a flirt, you big Irish rascal.”

Bryan tucked her arm through his and led her down the hall toward the front door, shooting a wink at Rachel as they went.

Rachel smiled her appreciation and mouthed a thank-you. Clutching her clipboard to her chest, she sighed up into the limp curls that had long ago escaped her sensible hairstyle. What would she have done without Bryan here these past few days? What would she do without him when she and Addie moved to the city?

“He’s something, isn’t he?”

She turned in surprise toward the voice that had suddenly sounded beside her. Alaina Montgomery-Harrison stood there, looking cool and immaculate in her Pierre Cardin ensemble of a black pleated skirt and cream-colored sweater. Tall, angular, elegant, she was just one of Bryan’s many friends who had volunteered to help with the tag sale.

Rachel wondered how the woman managed to appear so unfrazzled. They had all been run ragged in the four hours the sale had been going. She decided Alaina was just one of those few lucky women who got out of bed in the morning looking like an ad for ageless beauty.

“Bryan,” Alaina prompted with a wry smile.

“Yes.” Rachel shook her head. “He’s something.”

They were alone in the hall for the moment. Alaina fixed her with a sharp, intuitive stare that made Rachel feel as if she were suddenly under a very powerful microscope.

“May I ask what exactly he is to you?”

Rachers eyes widened, revealing most of the information Alaina required.

“It’s not that I have designs on him,” Alaina said, deliberately softening both her look and her attitude. Her translucent blue eyes glittered with warm affection. “My husband is the only lunatic I need. It’s just that Bryan is a very special friend. I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Rachel said carefully.

Alaina bit her tongue on the words
but you will if you have to
. A little worry line formed between her eyes, then her gaze came to rest on the brooch Rachel wore at the throat of her white blouse.

“Did he, by any chance, give you that?”

Rachel lifted her fingers to the heavy pin and brushed them across the smooth surface of the stone. “Yes, he did. Why?”

A soft, knowing smile curved Alaina’s mouth. “No reason,” she said softly. Changing gears smoothly, she motioned toward the empty hall. “There seems to be a lull in the storm. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Rachel had the distinct impression she had just passed some kind of test. Relief poured over her, and she smiled at the dark-haired woman, glad, though she wasn’t quite sure why. “I’d like that.”

They walked outside, onto the porch, where Alaina’s husband, Dylan, was overseeing the group of children running the refreshment stand. Dylan’s son, Sam, who Rachel guessed to be about eleven, seemed to be in command of everything. He was a very serious boy with sandy hair and a mind-boggling vocabulary. His assistants included his younger sister, Cori, a dark-eyed, dark-haired charmer; and Faith Callan’s daughter, Lindy, an adorable little six-year-old moppet with burnished gold curls. Lindy appeared to be in sole charge of the brownies—there was a telltale smudge of chocolate frosting on her cheek and a dot of it on her button nose. Dylan was lounging on a folding chair with his feet up on the porch railing and a chubby baby girl on his lap.

“Hardly working, as usual, I see,” Alaina said dryly, an affectionate light in her eyes as she mussed her husband’s unruly chestnut hair.

Dylan flashed her a lazy smile. “I know how to delegate authority.”

“That’s one explanation.”

Alaina scooped the baby up in her arms and cuddled her, making a comically disgusted face when the baby squealed in delight and wiped chocolate frosting on her immaculate sweater. Alaina dabbed ineffectually at the stain with a napkin.

“I swear, they gave us the wrong baby in the hospital,” she said mildly. “They gave us the dry cleaner’s child; it was a plot.” She kissed her daughter’s nose and grinned. “But I won’t trade you back, will I, sweetheart? No way.”

The baby squealed again and bounced in her mother’s arms.

Rachel smiled and sipped at her coffee. Alaina didn’t strike her as the baby-cuddling type, which made the display of affection all the more touching. Her gaze fell on her own mother, who stood with Bryan near a set of lawn furniture they were trying to sell—a wooden glider and three chairs. Addie had never been the cuddling type either. Still, they had been close once. Rachel had hoped they would be close again, before Addie’s illness stole away all familiarity. But they didn’t seem to be able to manage it. The past stood between them like a wall, and the present, with the conflict about the move and their changing roles, was only reinforcing that wall.

“Excuse me, Miss Lindquist.”

Rachel nearly bolted out of her skin. Her coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup, and she had to hop back to avoid getting it on her plum-colored slacks. “Mr. Porchind. You startled me.”

To say the least, she thought as she looked down at the man. Mr. Rasmussen stepped out from behind his partner, where he had been almost completely obscured from view. The bruise had faded from the thin man’s cheek, but he still looked creepy with his sunken eyes and sharp features.

For just a second Rachel tried to picture either of them as Addie’s ghost, but she dismissed the idea. Bryan was being overly dramatic thinking someone was trying to get her and Addie to leave Drake House. She was convinced it was just some local kid playing a prank, if indeed anything
was
going on. The last incident, which had happened several days before, had faded enough from her memory to seem almost as unreal as Addie’s whimsy.

“Mr. Rasmussen and I thought we would stop by and do a little bargain hunting.”

“Bargains,” Rasmussen echoed, steepling his hands in front of him like a preacher giving a blessing.

“Yes, well,” Rachel said with a smile that looked more pained than pleasant, “there are plenty to be had here today. I see you’ve found some things already.”

Porchind held a small stack of old books in his dimpled hands, the bindings pressed back into his enormous belly. “Indeed.” He gave a nervous little laugh. “Have you had a chance to speak with your mother?”

“No, I haven’t. No, not yet. I’m sorry.”

As if on cue, Addie, standing down on the lawn, shouted, “I’m not leaving this house! Get that through your thick head, Hennessy! I am not leaving this house!”

Rachel felt the color drain from her face as all eyes turned toward her mother. There had to be close to thirty people on the lawn, browsing at an assortment of sale items, and another ten on the wide porch. Addie stared back at them, a truculent gleam in her eyes. She pulled her party horn out of the pocket of her sweater and blew it at them.

Jayne Reilly saved the day, bravely stepping forward to comment on the attractiveness of Addie’s new hairstyle, thereby distracting her from Bryan, who had suddenly fallen out of favor.

“Well, there you have it,” Bryan said, shrugging as he mounted the steps to the porch. A particularly inane smile graced his handsome face as he regarded Porchind and Rasmussen. “Addie’s not moving. Looks like you’re out of luck, gentlemen. How about a consolation prize?”

He flipped off his magic hat, reached into it, and pulled out a bouquet of red carnations. The children paused in their work at the refreshment stand to applaud. Their cheers broke abruptly into laughter as Bryan offered the flowers to Porchind and a fountain of water suddenly sprayed up out of the silk blossoms, drenching the man.

“Gee, I’m sorry about that,” Bryan said, thoroughly unrepentant. He tossed the flowers aside. “I didn’t know they were loaded.”

Rachel glared at him as she grabbed a handful of napkins. “Bryan, must you be so
helpful
?”

“Helpful is my middle name,” he said pleasantly. He took the books from Porchind’s hands and handed them back to young Sam Harrison, who wrapped them in a towel to dry them while the fat man dabbed at his eyes and his dripping double chins with cocktail napkins. “Bryan Liam Helpful Hennessy. It’s on my confirmation certificate.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Porchind,” Rachel said sincerely, handing him more napkins. “I hope it didn’t ruin your suit.”

“Impossible,” Alaina muttered dryly.

“No, no, I’m fine, Miss Lindquist,” Porchind said, shooting Bryan a malevolent look. “We were just leaving.”

“Oh, well, here are your books.” Bryan took the stack wrapped in white terry cloth from Sam and handed it back to Porchind. “Keep the towel—our compliments.”

The two men nodded to Rachel, glared at Bryan, and stomped down the steps. Bryan watched them cross the yard toward an old brown Ford Galaxy that was parked among the dozens of cars on the lawn. Out of habit he memorized the license plate. He also noted with grim satisfaction that Rasmussen was limping slightly.

“That was really uncalled for,” Rachel said through her teeth when the rest of the crowd had dispersed.

“On the contrary.” Bryan regarded her with an earnest look. “It was most necessary.”

“Here are the books, Uncle Bryan,” Sam Harrison said, handing the little stack over.

“Well done, Sam. Worthy of the Baker Street Irregulars, I’d say.”

“Thanks, gov’nor,” Sam said, using the dialect of the London street urchins who had come to the aid of Sherlock Holmes on occasion.