Mrs. Twiggs, Beatrice, sat at the opposite end of the long table, greeting everyone. She wore a simple purple cotton sundress, her wide brim straw hat garnished with lavender roses. It was the same hat she wore for gardening. Her turning had been the most remarkable of all the ladies. The once large woman of eighty years now moved with elegance and grace. Her sparkling eyes, her warm smile, enchanted all who had the pleasure of meeting her. She had the power of premonition. Unlike the other ladies, I could not identify her patron goddess. Since her turning, she had many premonitions but had not learned how to decipher their meanings. I had hoped Agatha Hollows’s potion would bring her clarity, but without the right hogweed the potion was not complete or effective.
Detective Willows came up to Mrs. Twiggs. It was strange to see him out of his standard-issue suit. He was wearing aqua-blue Bermuda shorts, a button-down white shirt half untucked, black socks and sandals. He smiled at Mrs. Twiggs.
“Butch, I’m so glad you came,” she said as she noticed him eying the cookies. She picked up the plate and presented it to him. He grabbed three or possibly four.
“You know I can’t say no to your special double chocolate cookies. You’ve done quite the job.”
“Thank you, Butch.”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Mrs. Twiggs stood up.
I followed behind as they went into the tent; no one noticed me. Abigail’s spell, the forget-me spell, appeared to be working. I was grateful I did not have to wear the itchy ESA vest.
More tables were set up inside facing a small stage for local music acts. They sat in the front row on the folding chairs. Detective Willows’s chair creaked with annoyance. I sat under Mrs. Twiggs’s chair.
“Now, Butch, what brings you here?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“We contacted the University of Richmond, trying to locate next of kin for Mrs. Lund. They have no records of a Mrs. Lund there.”
“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Twigs shook her head. “The Biltmore hired her for the Civil War exhibit. Surely they would have checked her references.”
Detective Willows finished his third cookie and cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s no record anywhere of a Belinda Lund. I ran her fingerprints and images of her face through our recognition program.”
“And?”
“And she doesn’t exist. At least not in any known database.”
My fur stood up on the back of my neck. The sense of foreboding returned.
“I don’t understand. Why was she here? And why would someone kill her?”
“We’re still investigating.”
“What happened to your retirement?”
“Retirement. I’ll retire when I’m old,” he said with a laugh. “The Biltmore Estate was good to Annabelle, and it’s important to Asheville.”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled and placed her hand on top of his. Annabelle Willows sat a respectful four rows back. She was now part of the Biltmore Estate. As many who passed away in Asheville, she clung to the things she loved most in life. First her husband, Butch. The second being the Biltmore Estate where she had worked as a tour guide. Detective Willows couldn’t retire until he felt the Biltmore and the people around it were safe, and Mrs. Willows couldn’t continue on her journey until Mr. Willows completed his.
Mrs. Twiggs darted her eyes behind Mr. Willows and smiled at Annabelle, who disappeared.
“I need to speak with Mrs. Loblolly. I understand that she was partially responsible for bringing Mrs. Lund to Asheville,” Detective Willows said.
With the news of Mrs. Lund, I felt an urgency to complete Agatha’s premonition potion. We were in the dark to the events happening around us.
As I thought about the potion, I felt a goose walk over my grave, a phrase I had heard during my childhood. I ran outside. Off in the distance I saw him, the rocking chair man, the apparition I had seen rocking on Karen Owen’s porch, opening and closing his timepiece, reminding me of the coming darkness. He stood tall and thin, dark sockets where his eyes should have been, dressed in his morning coat, his praying mantis legs stepping slowly out of the woods toward me. Karen Owen, Mrs. Owen, appeared standing over me. She reached down and whispered, “Pay him no mind.”
I shuddered. Pixel flew when he saw Squirrel, the black-and-white cat. “Me friend.” They ran off onto the dark green grass and tumbled chasing bees. Pixel, I believe, had a crush on the tuxedo female cat. I did not trust her, or perhaps I was jealous?
Mrs. Twiggs jumped out of her chair and ran to Mrs. Owen, embracing her. Mrs. Owen’s solemn appearance turned slightly receptive, almost a smile you might say. She was dressed in a fine, very old, violent-and-polka-dot sundress and black cloak. I rubbed up against the cloak. I could not tell its origin. It was silky-looking but rough to the touch. I felt a drop rolling down my face. I was bleeding from my head where I had rubbed the cloak.
Mrs. Owen opened the cloak and reached into a deep pocket, retrieving a small leather bag that she handed to Mrs. Twiggs. Karen Owen is a witches’ apothecary, a trader of teas, herbs, spices, and magic. As in any good trade, she always expects something in return. The hogweed she had just given Mrs. Twiggs had come from another time, a time before the humans. I feared its price tag.
“Beatrice, walk with me, won’t you?”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled and followed Mrs. Owen up a cobblestone path heading toward the rose garden. I kept a safe pace behind. Mrs. Owen was neither black magic nor white magic. She kept a sturdy hold on each side of that line. Hers was purely business for those who could afford her wares. I remembered Elizabeth telling me one time the phrase “time to pay the piper.” Mrs. Twiggs was about to pay for her dance. They sat on a granite bench facing the rows and rows of tulips. “Karen, how did you ever find this particular hogweed? I’ve Google searched, I’ve called colleagues, I’ve looked through spell books.”
“This strain of hogweed grows in complete darkness. It only flowers once a century. Its roots are deep in the soil of a County Cork graveyard,” Mrs. Owen said.
Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused.
“It was buried in a grave some five hundred years ago.”
Mrs. Twiggs held out the small leather pouch.
Mrs. Owen placed her hand on top of Mrs. Twiggs. “It’s okay, Beatrice. I know your purpose is for good not evil. This plant like me serves its purpose by them who wield it.”
“How do I pay for such a treasure, Karen? How do you price such a rarity?”
“In time, Beatrice, in time. Your account is good with me.” Mrs. Owen gave a Mona Lisa smile.
As I feared, Mrs. Twiggs was accruing a debt she would never be able to pay. I could hear the ladies calling for Mrs. Twiggs. She rose up. “Karen, I’m sorry, there’s so much to do for the celebration. Of course, you’ll stay, won’t you?”
Mrs. Owen sat back down. “I’m sorry. I must be on my way. Give my regards to the ladies.”
As Mrs. Twiggs hurried off, I leaped onto the bench next to Karen Owen. Without warning, I felt myself lifted off the bench by my scruff. The rocking chair man twisted me around until we were eye to eye. “Put her down,” Mrs. Owen commanded. For a moment the rocking chair man hesitated. As he did I could see an earthworm sliding in and out of his eye socket.
“Terra Rowan, you have no power in this world anymore, and without power you have no value. You think you mentor these ladies, but what you do is bring the black magic upon them. It is drawn to you and to your Abigail. The ladies will never be safe as long as you two are near them.” I knew she was right. I had no argument for her, and then for the first time since I had known her, Mrs. Owen showed a spark of kindness toward me. “I say this for your own safety too. Get to the Dark Corner.”