“Seriously? That’s where you started, and after all that, you’re still there?”
She takes a bite of pancake and chews before answering. “I liked Aiden. I liked him for you, friend or otherwise.”
“Not missing the past tense in that.”
“I don’t like what he did this past weekend. It shed a very different light on his character, and . . .” She sets down her fork. “You were angry. Hurt and angry. Normally, you wouldn’t put up with that, but I’m afraid that, in this case, you might.”
“You think I’ll jump on any excuse he gives.”
She meets my gaze. “Did you?”
I look her in the eye. “Yes, he had an excuse. Yes, it was a decent one—family drama, and that’s all I can say. But, no, I didn’t give him a pass.”
“Good.” She cuts into her pancake. “I’m sure he’s accustomed to that. I don’t think he expects it—you wouldn’t be friends if he was that sort of man—but when you’re used to people treating you a certain way . . .”
“Aiden is aware that he isn’t as considerate as he should be. We had that conversation. He initiated it.”
“Good. Just be careful, K.”
“I am being extremely careful. Now, any thoughts on the rest of it?”
“Only that you’ll want nothing to do with Mercury, if she’s behind this. No matter how useful that mentorship might be.” She takes another bite of pancake. “It’s a similar situation. If Aiden plays you wrong, you need to step away, however much you don’t want to. If Mercury has played you wrong?”
“Run away, however much I might want her training.” I look at Ani. “I will. In both cases. I promise.”
A rap sounds at the door. Ani calls a greeting.
“Just in time,” Ani says as a tall, broad-shouldered guy walks in.
Jonathan looks at the stovetop, where a stack of pancakes stay warm. “I am indeed. Good thing I skipped breakfast.”
“Oh, I don’t mean breakfast,” Ani says. “Kennedy has research questions.” She hands him a plate. “But I’ll offer breakfast in payment.”
“Fair enough.” Jonathan takes three pancakes. “So what’s up?”
Jonathan has been Ani’s best friend since they were toddlers, and now that they are no longer toddlers, he should be more than a friend. They are perfect for one another—two uber-responsible, hard-working idealists who cannot get enough of one another’s company. Yet since getting to know Connolly, I’ve stopped teasing them about becoming more than friends. I understand now that this is something that has to happen on its own.
I tell Jonathan about the paintings. He’s our local librarian, and while this isn’t something he’ll find at the library, he’s a bit of a research geek, hence the occupation of choice. He knows more about the magical world than we do, even though he’s not part of it himself.
As I talk, his fingers tap his phone, accessing his database.
“I can’t tell you much about the curses,” he says. “Everything I have is on the urban legend, which you’ve already nailed.”
“I know the basics of the legend, but not the actual paintings, beyond the bit in Mom’s book of famous curses. Four paintings. Crying Girl, which I met last night. Vengeful Boy. Eldest Daughter. And a fourth that’s just vaguely listed as another son.”
“That’s all I have on the fourth. It’s the oldest son, no other details. All four are illusion based. The children—or teens, the last three being older than the Crying Girl—appear to step from the paintings and scare the viewer.”
“Scare them to death?”
“Yes, they’re all linked to fatalities. That’s really all I can tell you. I’ll keep digging, though.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
We live on the same street as my shop. I’m not sure of the exact distance, but I know I can walk there in 4.5 minutes and jog in three. Yes, I’m that kind of person, the one who knows exactly how late she can leave.
I’m there at 7:45, early for my appointment. I head in the back door because once tourist season hits, visitors are already up by seven, looking for coffee and quite happy to “pop into” any shop that seems open.
In the storage room, I open my phone to find a message from Connolly. It’s a standard check-in that turns into a conversation, just like it would have before this weekend. We don’t talk about the painting. There will be time for that later. We’re chatting about our respective breakfasts when a message pops up.
Congratulations, Kennedy! You’ve passed your first exam with an A+! For your efforts, you win our special prize. Three to five years in prison for theft over a thousand dollars.
I blink. Then I send it to Connolly with “WTF?” My phone rings.
“How did you receive that?” he says in greeting.
“It’s a text message from a string of numbers. I can’t tell if it’s a foreign phone number or some kind of spoofing address. Is it Mercy’s idea of a joke? Tee-hee, wasn’t that funny last night when you almost got arrested? If that’s her, I don’t care how much she could teach me. Not interested.”
Another text pops onto my screen.
Please await further instructions! Failure to comply with all regulations and restrictions will result in possible jail time.
“What the actual hell?” I read the text to Connolly. “If she thinks she’s being clever . . .”
I’m struggling for words when a loud rapping has me nearly falling off my chair. I throw open the storage-room door to see my eight am appointment knocking on the window . . . with the clock showing 8:01.
I tell Connolly I’ll get back to him after my appointment.
“I’ll be waiting,” he says.
“Thanks.”
I sign off and hurry to open the front door.
Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
At my Boston shop, I was mostly open by appointment only. It wasn’t in the kind of location that saw much foot traffic, and “appointment only” sounded exclusive while allowing me to refinish and uncurse antiques when I didn’t need to worry about anyone walking in.
Here, my clientele is ninety-five percent tourists. However, I still offer appointments before and after hours for the monied clientele who expect my full attention and expect to be able to examine a Tiffany lamp without leaning past a sticky-fingered kid in face paint.
Or that’s the theory. The reality is that everyone likes to feel special. I presume those appointments will be the final stage of a significant purchase. A client has contacted me because they’ve seen a gorgeous Tiffany lamp on my website and just want to have a look before plunking down a thousand dollars. But what I’m getting is people who tell me they’re so very interested and require a special appointment, and then act like every demanding browser, wanting the owner at their side as they poke about.
This woman falls squarely into that category. She listed three things on the site she wanted to buy, none of them under five hundred dollars. I showed her each, and now she’s wandering, getting snippy if I’m not right there when she has a question. Burning questions like “Is this mahogany?” and “Is it Edwardian or Colonial?” about a piece labeled “Solid Oak Victorian Dresser.”