Lucille Beaumont, whose silver hair did not seem to go with her sharp black eyes and her hawk-bill nose, patted her friend’s arm. “Yes, Clutie. You’ve told me,” she said in patient but repressive tones. “Wouldn’t you like to look around?”
Clutie Campbell shook her head. She looked up at the mummy. “You were going to tell us about him.”
“Oh, Herman. Don’t know that that’s his real name, of course. But that’s what we call him. We’ve had him for the last twenty years.”
The ladies turned and stared at the glass-sided wooden coffin resting on the top shelf of the far wall. Below it was a tangled assortment of knapsacks and canteens, and a hand-lettered sign that said: YOUR CHOICE-$5. Just visible through the dusty glass was the body of a man: a wrinkled, leathery face poking out from the folds of a tatty-looking black suit that seemed rather large for its owner.
“Is it real?” asked Lucille Beaumont, sounding as if she rather hoped not.
George Carr nodded. He was accustomed to the questions. Every time a stranger visited the store, the same conversation took place: He real? How’d you get him?
“How’d you get him?” asked Clutie Campbell.
George started his well-rehearsed tale at the beginning. “In the early Twenties, a traveling carnival came here to Greene County. You know how it was: they’d pitch a tent in the old fairgrounds, set up the booths and the rides and the girlie shows, and three days later they’d be gone, with the pocket money of every kid in town.”
Clutie nodded impatiently. “So-what was he? A sideshow exhibit?”
“No. Herman up there was a working member of the carnival. I think he was one of the construction crew, setting up the booths and all.”
“A roustabout,” murmured Lucille, but she was shushed into silence by Clutie, who clearly did not want the conversation to be derailed into a discussion of vocabulary. In her youth Lucille had been in show business, and she was entirely too fond of showing off her expertise by correcting people’s speech and by critiquing the performances on Days of Our Lives. Clutie, for one, was sick of it.
George Carr, well into his story by now, paid no attention to their bickering. “The way I heard it, Herman here died on the second night in town. I think maybe a beam knocked him in the head, or something. An accident, anyway.” He looked a little nervously at the stiff, leathery figure on the high shelf. “I never checked. Anyhow, his body was sent to Culbertson’s, the local funeral parlor. They got right to work embalming him, and they had him all ready for the funeral.”
“I expect they provided the suit,” said Clutie with an appraising glance upward.
“Culbertson’s had him all ready for the funeral and drew up their bill for services-and they come to find out that the carnival had pulled up stakes and left town. Nobody claimed Herman, and nobody paid the mortuary.”
Lucille Beaumont frowned. “Couldn’t they have notified his next of kin?”
George Carr shrugged. “Didn’t know who in Sam Hill he was. But Old Man Culbertson was firm on one point: no money, no funeral. So they kept him. As a floor model, you know. Showing what a good job they did at embalming. He was a curiosity around here when I was a kid. My pals and I used to love to go into Culbertson’s to look at Herman.”
“How did you get him?” Clutie wanted to know.
“Old Man Culbertson died back in ’68, and the funeral home went out of business. So Herman here was auctioned off with the rest of the fixtures. I’ve had him here ever since.”
Clutie pushed her gray bangs away from her glasses and peered up at the exhibit. “How much did you say he was?”
Her friend touched her arm. “Oh, Clutie, you know you don’t-”
Clutie Campbell slid a credit card out of her pigskin wallet. “Can I put him on VISA?”
The Craig Springs minivan had the usual fourteen passengers for the return trip to the retirement community. George Carr had agreed-after some negotiation-to deliver the purchase and to leave Herman in the toolshed behind Craig Springs one hour after sunset. When he asked what the ladies wanted him for, Clutie had replied, “Religious reasons,” in a tone that did not invite further discussion. In a way, it was true.
Lucille Beaumont had steered her friend to the back of the van, in hopes that Mr. Waldrop’s snoring would drown out their ongoing discussion.
“You cannot purchase a corpse as a conversation piece!” Lucille whispered as the bus pulled away from the curb.
Clutie Campbell sniffed and directed her gaze out the window. “It is not a conversation piece. This is just what the organization needs. The book lists all kinds of spells that you can work with a deader.”
“It’s probably illegal!”
Clutie smiled vaguely. “Do what thou wilt shalt be the whole of the law.”
Lucille shook her head. “I do wish you’d give this up, Clutie.”
Her friend patted her broom-straw hair. “I think you ought to join us, Lucille. Emmie Walkenshaw thinks we’re the oldest coven in the country.”
“I am a Presbyterian!” hissed Lucille Beaumont between clenched teeth. “I refuse to join a group of satanists!”
“Weren’t Presbyterians once called covenanters?” asked Clutie in mock innocence. “I’d look into it if I were you, Lucille. There may be no conflict of interest after all.” She smiled through a frosty silence for the duration of the ride.
Lucille Beaumont was so out of sorts that evening that she sat with the ancient Mrs. Hartnell at dinner, which was as close as you could come to eating alone at Craig Springs. Annie Hartnell was fond of asking people, “Did you have a nice life?” And after that she pretty much ignored you until you went away. Usually people took pains to avoid her, but tonight Lucille decided that Mrs. Hartnell was the only company she was fit for.
Really, she thought, Clutie Campbell’s satanist business was getting out of hand. Clutie was a widowed schoolteacher who claimed that the routine of Craig Springs bored her, and that the intellectual climate was nil. Her earlier attempts at culture-a poetry society and a debating team-had failed miserably, but the drama and secrecy of witchcraft had attracted a following. At first a group of folks had gone along with her because it made a nice change from square dancing and canasta, but now it was more than a game. The thirteen recruits had progressed from Ouija boards to table tapping to pentagrams and incantations. So far the staff was unaware of this diversion, and Lucille was determined not to be a snitch, but the coven was getting bolder (sillier! thought Lucille), and discovery seemed inevitable.
As she carried her dinner tray to the service hutch, Lucille could not resist a warning to the head witch. “Clutie,” she said dramatically, not even bothering to lower her voice, “there is great danger in tampering with the forces of darkness!”
Just then Mrs. Hartnell was wheeled by in her chair, beaming and nodding at the table of satanists. “Did you have a nice life?” she asked sweetly.
Tinker’s Meadow was a quarter of a mile from the retirement community. It was bordered on three sides by piney woods and was fronted on the east by a little-used dirt road. High Priestess Clutie chose it for the ceremony for privacy-and because it was as far from the home as they could carry a mummy in a glass-fronted box.
A pale dime-sized moon shone on the long grass, and an autumn wind made the coven shiver. It was just after eight o’clock. Midnight would have been a better time for spells to work, but several folks had to be back by eleven to take medication, so they had to make do with the darkness, the full moon, and a real corpse.
Clutie wore a homemade Egyptian collar over her black evening gown, clumps of rings and bracelets, and a black pageboy wig reminiscent of Cher. But she was very dignified. She clutched her copy of Ancient Spells & Rituals with an air of solemn authority. At her direction, Mrs. Walkenshaw drew a pentagram on the ground (with chalk borrowed from the Craig Springs billiard table). Mr. Waldrop and Mr. Junger took the mummy out of its shabby coffin and placed it faceup within the circle. There was a smell of mothballs from the vintage suit.