One of the items on the list was a mirror. I’d heard of haunted mirrors, and they seemed to have a reputation for being especially nasty. By the time I considered the linens I was getting a little punchy from the stress and the caffeine. We didn’t sell blood-stained sheets, so I pictured a particularly hideous tablecloth my grandmother had always used for holiday gatherings. Remembering its ugly awesomeness made me chuckle. Memorable, but hardly haunted.
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Teag said from the doorway. “Something you want to share?”
I giggled. After all the stress, laughter felt good. “Just trying to figure out the mystery of the terrible tablecloth,” I said. I told him about my grandmother’s grapevine monstrosity.
Teag just shook his head. “I guess you had to be there.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me your family didn’t have any strange holiday customs when you were a kid.”
“My family was strange enough without needing odd holiday customs,” he chuckled. He sobered. “I’m working on a list of original owners for the items at the B&B. None of my notes indicate any interesting stories about the pieces at all. They were all normal purchases: estate sale, auction, family member, even a couple of yard sale finds.”
I sipped my coffee. “There’s got to be something that ties everything together. The people who sold us the pieces could have lied about them being haunted, but I would have picked up on it when I handled them. We wouldn’t have resold them if they had bad mojo.”
“Maybe it’s like the opera glasses,” Teag said, leaning against the door frame. “Maybe they have to be in a certain setting to be affected, or be used in a particular way.”
“We’d better figure this out quickly, before the whole store gets freaky.”
“That would be bad,” he said, glancing around at the multitude of items on our shelves.
I repressed a shiver. “That would be very bad.”
AFTER WORK, I headed home with my thoughts still focused on the bed and breakfast dilemma. When my key turned in the lock, sharp, high-pitched barks welcomed me home.
“Hello, Baxter!”
Baxter bounced around like a crazed cotton puff, pouncing and running in circles. I grabbed a treat from the bowl next to the door, and he danced on his hind legs. He seemed to know that cuteness was a sure-fire antidote for a stressful day, and I couldn’t help chuckling at his antics. It’s hard to resist anyone who is that happy to see you.
I put my purse down and scooped Baxter into my arms, getting a lick on the chin and then a play-bite to the tip of my nose. I blew a puff of air in his face, and he pulled back, only to return with more licks and wiggles.
Reluctantly, I put Baxter down and went through the mail. It, too, was gloriously normaclass="underline" a few bills, a couple of catalogs, and a magazine. I snagged the magazine out of the pile and carried it with me into the kitchen, promising myself some reading time later.
But first, it was time for Baxter’s walk. Baxter might weigh in at under six pounds, but he walks with a hustle that proclaims to the world that he has things to do and places to go. It was after five, and past the heat of the day, although in Charleston, that didn’t mean it was cool. I tried to get my mind off of the B&B problem. Baxter can move surprisingly fast for a little dog, and he takes his nightly rounds seriously. He sniffed his way along the garden walls, tried to peer beneath the gates or look through the wrought-iron fences, and wagged a greeting to everyone we met.
“Hello, Cassidy!” I looked up to see Mrs. Morrissey heading my way. Baxter saw her too, and began to dance on his hind legs.
“Hello, Mrs. Morrissey,” I replied with a smile.
“How’s Baxter today?” she asked in that tone people reserve for babies and small animals. I had never seen Mrs. Morrissey looking as if she wasn’t on the way to or from a dinner at the Country Club. Her hair was perfect, despite Charleston’s constant humidity. St. John suits looked as if they had been made with her slim frame in mind, and her minimal jewelry was all the more notable because the gemstones were, indubitably, real. Rumor had it that her late husband had left her quite well off, both monetarily and in the currency that really mattered in Charleston, social connections. And somehow, she had decided to take a shine toward me and Baxter.
“You know Bax. He’s up for an adventure,” I replied. Baxter had finished wiggling all around Mrs.
Morrissey’s stylish pumps. Now he sat looking up at her, blinking his black button eyes, expecting a treat.
Mrs. Morrissey did not disappoint. From her small purse, she produced a single dog biscuit, which she ceremoniously held out to Baxter. He knew the drill, and jumped to his feet, happily dancing in a circle before she handed the biscuit to him.
“How are things at the store?” Mrs. Morrissey asked. She had been a good friend to my late uncle, and even now, she occasionally stopped in when the mood struck. I enjoyed our conversations, because she moved in the rarified air of Charleston’s old elite and usually knew everything about everyone.
I sighed. “There’ve been a few problems lately,” I said, as Baxter crunched his biscuit. “A couple of customers made purchases and then had second thoughts.”
“I see.” She gave me an inquiring look. “By the way, how are you doing? I heard you weren’t feeling well.”
I felt my face flush red. “I think I’ve been skimping a little too much on lunch lately.”
Mrs. Morrissey nodded, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Of course, dear. Your Uncle Evan had spells of that, too, on occasion.”
I fought the urge to do a double-take, mostly at her use of the word ‘spells’. Could Mrs. Benjamin Taylor Morrissey, doyenne of South of Broad, have an inkling about what really goes on at Trifles and Folly? She looked amused as I recovered.
“Maybe it runs in the family,” I replied. “I need to remember – less coffee, more food.”
She smiled. Unlike so many older ladies of her social standing, Mrs. Morrissey had not removed all evidence of a life well lived with Botox and cosmetic surgery. Her skin crinkled around her bright blue eyes, and the fine lines around her lips hinted that perhaps in younger days she had been a smoker. It made her look real, and I respected her for her courage. “You haven’t been down to the Historical Archive for a while,” Mrs. Morrissey said, her tone gently reproving. She gave me a sly smile. “We could have told you about Trinket’s ancestor and the Iroquois Theater fire.”
I stared at her, open mouthed. “You know?”
Mrs. Morrissey chuckled. “Historians are the worst gossips, my dear. We gossip about the dead as much as we do the living. And, as they say, we know where all the bodies are buried.”
Her grin was positively impish. “Trinket had been down to see us not long before she sold the glasses to you. She wanted to validate a family story about her great-grandmother and a rather miraculous escape from a very famous theater fire, which was quite the scoop for the papers down here at the time, even if it did happen up North.”
Teag had Weaver magic, but I had my sources, and one of them was Mrs. Morrissey. She was one of a dozen older women whose blood was a blue as the rinse in their hair, and who spent their many volunteer hours serving as the keepers of Charleston’s long and sometimes salacious history. They could be the icy guardians of propriety, but if they liked a researcher, they could point the way to old and juicy scandals.
“I imagine she was horrified,” I replied. “I’ve read a little about the fire online. It was awful.”
Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “I’ve known Trinket for years, and she seemed genuinely distraught,” she said.