“I see.” Detective Willows adjusted his weight in the chair, sinking lower.
“The colonel spent the last part of the war hunting down deserters. He was killed by a deserter in South Carolina.”
The detective closed his notebook. “You have no idea of Mrs. Lund’s real name or who she was?”
Mrs. Loblolly shook her head. “No.”
He kept his eye on the bottles of jam stacked on the buffet server until he couldn’t hold back any longer. “I’m a big fan of the jam,” he said.
“Please take some.” She got up and handed him a few jars.
“Thank you.” He placed them in his suit jacket, smiled at Mrs. Twiggs, and left.
When Mrs. Loblolly came back, I asked her, “Where was the colonel killed?”
“Right across the border near Traveler’s Rest.”
Abigail and Charlotte ran into the room with a crash, laughing.
“What’s gotten into you two?”
“We’ve been talking and decided that I’m going to move in with Char at the Tangledwood Estate,” Abigail said.
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“She wants to stay in Asheville, and it’s a big house.”
“It’d be nice to have someone stay with me,” Charlotte chimed in.
Mrs. Loblolly gave a concerned look to Mrs. Twiggs. “Charlotte, be a dear and help me with these plates,” she said. They picked up the tea service and carried it into the kitchen.
“Abigail, I don’t think this is a good idea. What if Charlotte sees you performing magic? What about your training?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“Mrs. Twiggs, I can do that at the cabin. I need to be around people my age and nothing personal I love all you ladies, but I need a life.”
“Abigail, your life is not your own,” I said. She was meant for a greater purpose. “Take a minute to remember who you are and your bloodline. You started your journey to become a witch, and there is no turning back.”
“Can’t I do both? Can’t I be a witch and a girl? Look at you. You’re a witch and a cat.”
I let out a little hiss that I couldn’t hold back. “This was not of my making, Abigail Oakhaven. Your great-grandmother, my Elizabeth, imprisoned me in this body.” And I continued. “You mock my pain and think yourself above your bloodline,” I said with a hiss.
“Terra, that wasn’t my intention. Come stay with us. You can make sure I keep on track, okay? But really? I need a break.” Abigail crossed her arms across her chest.
I glanced at Mrs. Twiggs for an answer, and she had none.
“Anyway it’s not up to any of you.”
“Very well. Pixel and I will go with you.”
Pixel woke up, stretched and muttered, “Go where?”
Chapter 21
A Secret Revealed
“Let’s do something.” Charlotte flew down the stairs. After visiting Mrs. Loblolly, we had moved into the Tangledwood Estate. Miss Hartwell had the housekeeper prepare rooms for us. Large master suites with sitting areas, soaking tubs, and wood-burning fireplaces. I shared one with Abigail. Pixel preferred his own room; he said he needed quiet time or “no-talk time” as he phrased it.
Abigail sat on one of the stools at the large kitchen island. “What do you have in mind?” She spun around to ask Charlotte.
“Dance. Drink. Something. I don’t want to sit in this house all day,” Charlotte said.
I was not sure how I felt about this young friend of Abigail’s. She might be a bad influence on my protégée. I had tried to get Abigail back to the cabin, but she refused, always too busy with Charlotte.
“Okay. Okay.” Abigail laughed, releasing her long white-blond hair from its ponytail.
Charlotte grabbed Abigail by the hand and pulled her down the long hallway from the kitchen leading into the garage. She turned and smiled at Abigail as she opened the door to reveal a massive ten-car garage. Each stall held a magnificent work of art. “Well, Abigail, do we take the Porsche, the Bentley or the Rolls?”
Abigail shook her head until they reached the last car, encased in a white cover. Charlotte flung the cover off to reveal a 1961 Mercedes 190SL convertible, black with a blood-red interior.
“Good choice, Abigail. Miss Hartwell told me that was my great-uncle’s car. He bought it new, the year after he married my great-aunt. I found some letters of my great-aunt’s. One was from Germany when my uncle went to watch his car being built. Actually, a pretty passionate love letter.”
I thought I had never seen Mrs. Tangledwood drive this car. She was a woman of means, but by no means was she extravagant. All the cars must have been her husband’s idea. I could feel the energy coming off this car. For a moment I had visions of a young Mr. and Mrs. Tangledwood flying around the winding roads up the Blue Ridge Parkway. Mrs. Tangledwood laughing, her hair tied in a silk scarf. It was the first real memory I was able to discern from the Tangledwood Estate. When I walk in most houses, I am bombarded with sounds and smells and even visions. Memories are electromagnetic just like humans. They cling to the walls like scared children clutching a mother’s leg. They engulf you in their emotions. Something about this car held the key to the memories of the Tangledwoods. Abigail was drawn to it too. Charlotte tossed the keys to Abigail. They jumped in, Abigail behind the driver’s seat. Pixel was busy in the corner of the garage, searching for intruders of the mouse type. I summoned him with a loud meow. He flew to me, and we jumped into the tiny back seat.
“Can you drive a stick?” Charlotte asked.
“Yeah, my dad.” She stopped for a minute. “My adopted dad had an old Mustang. He taught me to drive a stick.”
“You never talk about your parents. You just said they were both dead. How old were you?”
“Let’s not talk about that now. Let’s take this baby out for a ride,” Abigail said.
Charlotte nodded.
Abigail turned the key. The car roared to life. The diesel engine kicked on angrily but purred smooth and hungry. I smelled the oil and pipe tobacco. I jumped on the back of the seat, glancing around the garage as Abigail pulled out. All I saw was a puff of pipe smoke as the garage door closed behind us. Pixel stuck his head out the side, his tongue dangling like a dog. We headed through the rows of poplars down the cobblestone driveway that went on for a half mile until we reached the main entrance of Biltmore Forest, the small exclusive subdivision built on land that had once belonged to the Vanderbilts. Charlotte turned on the AM radio, sliding the dial up and down until she found a station playing classic rock. The song that came on gave me a chill because it was the song playing when Katrina washed away Abigail’s parents. The Rolling Stones belted out “Gimme Shelter.”
Abigail reached over, switching the station. Every station was playing “Gimme Shelter.” She grabbed for the volume knob to turn it off. The radio grew louder.
“Abigail, look out,” Charlotte screamed.
Abigail turned her eyes away from the radio in time to see she had missed a curve and was heading into oncoming traffic. She swiveled back and pulled over to the side of the road, gasping heavily for air.
“What’s going on, Abigail?” Charlotte asked.
“You didn’t hear it.”
“Oh, the song. “Gimme Shelter.” It’s a good song.”
“It was on every station.”
“I think the dial is just broken. It was the same station.”
I gently tapped Abigail with my paw. “You’re probably right. I was shook up. I should have been watching the road.”
“Let me be the navigator. You just drive.”
“Let’s head to the Orange Peel,” Abigail said, the music hall downtown that hosted bands. “There’s a band I’ve been wanting to see.”
“How do you get in? It’s twenty-one and older.”
“I’ve got that covered.” Abigail reached into her leather coat pocket. As she did, she looked at me and twitched her nose. A bad habit she had begun after her binge-watching Bewitched. Now she did it just to irritate me. She smiled and retrieved a driver’s license, handing it to Charlotte. “I’m twenty-two, Charlotte.”