The Sinister Secrets of the Snake Mirror

  The Sinister Secrets of the Snake Mirror

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2018 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Chapter 1

  Grace Longstreet sat at her cubicle, putting her case together with a deft hand. The bullpen, stuffy and hushed late on a Monday, spurred her to finish. She glanced up from her work. Her cubicle sat in the center of the Investigations pod. No windows let in the early summer light, the florescent tubes buzzing above the drop ceiling, industrial carpet worn and stained underfoot. Considering Cartwright & Sons insured collections of astounding value--art, wine, furs, antiques, classic cars--the office looked cheap. Grace had to get the hell out of there. Salisbury Beach? Maybe.

  A fire in the Bigsbys’ kitchen inspired a three million dollar damage claim. Yes dear, the Salem Bigsbys, she said to herself, remembering the client, Beryl Bigsby, swooping through the damage like Scarlet at Tara. Well la-de-frickin-da. Central to the cost was a Goddard and Townsend highboy. It had stood in a bedroom on the floor above the kitchen. Its finish was smoke-damaged, back panel cracked from the heat, two of the spindly legs scorched. How about Plum Island? She thought. A distinct possibility.

  Grace went through the photos she’d taken. No doubt about it, this was a pre-Revolutionary piece, the label signed by John Goddard. It was the kind of thing you saw in museums—or at pricey auctions. A larger example of the same type had sold at auction for more than eleven million dollars. She stopped at the money shot. Or, rather, the less-money shot. The image was a close up of a claw-and-ball foot.

  It might have escaped the attention of a less thorough adjuster. But Grace had a degree in archaeology and antiquity preservation. The claw in question rested fully on the ball. Goddard and Townsend claw-and-ball feet had a space between the claw and the ball. Grace surmised that at some point in the highboy’s past, one of the feet had broken off. She herself had a bookcase this had happened to—nothing as fancy as the highboy, but the same principle. In her case, the bookcase now had a brick serving as the foot.

  She doubted that the Salem Bigsbys would settle for that kind of quick fix. Instead, some earlier generation of Bigsby had all of the feet replaced. So they all matched, Grace figured, but a costly mistake. Exquisite workmanship, she noted in her adjustment report, but these were not the original feet. That made a multi-million-dollar piece of furniture a high-six-figure piece of furniture. Well la-de-frickin-da. Crane Beach was another option to consider. It was farther to travel, but probably worth it.

  Grace smiled to herself. It hadn’t taken long to adjust the claim. She could still smell the smoke in her hair. The Old Lady (or boss) had given her a week to investigate. That meant Grace had the rest of this week to herself. No way would The Old Lady complain, not when Grace knocked a decimal point from an expensive claim. The policy was inherited by Cartwright and Sons five years before, but the clients had declined an appraisal. She signed the last page and closed the folder. She really liked Good Harbor Beach, near Gloucester, the way the rocky Salt Island jutted out from the Atlantic. There weren’t many amenities there, and parking was expensive, but that just might mean not many people, either.

  Dropping the file in the interoffice mail, she shut off the lights. As she moved down the corridor toward the exit, a distinct tingling sensation tickled her throat. Unconsciously, she fingered the cameo hanging there. The sardonyx pendant was the only thing of her mother’s she had kept. Grace did her best not to think about her mother, and she didn’t wear the cameo in honor of her. She wore it, rather, as protection.

  The sensation raced to her brain. Grace’s vision fogged. A mental image appeared, a premonition of some life-changing event. She saw a woman pushing a baby buggy. So strong was the image that Grace stopped in her tracks. It took a moment to get her breath back.

  Visions from the amulet were rarely clear, at least at the time she experienced them. Certainly, the woman with the baby carriage wasn’t Grace. She didn’t even have a current boyfriend, let alone family plans. Not with her screwed up genealogy.

  She continued on. Whoever the mother and baby were, they better be somewhere on her route to a long, long weekend of doing nothing on a beach.

  Chapter 2

  Compared to the bullpen, reception at the Salem branch of Cartwright and Sons was the Taj Mahal. Marble floors and pillars, high ceilings with ornate plaster work, replicas of the famed Dragon Chair for clients to rest their wealthy asses on beneath large Hudson River School and Luminism oils, the affect of culture and taste marred only by the woman at the mahogany reception desk.

  “Sorry, they just arrived.”

  Paisley was temporarily taking over from Carole, the usual receptionist, out on pregnancy leave. Did the vision have something to do with Carol? Green bangs hung over an alabaster face as pale as death, contrasted by black lipstick, arched brows and spidery false lashes. A spiked choker ringed a neck, emphasizing the exposed shoulders over a lace halter dress decorated with black roses. Paisley shrugged, cracked her gum, and studied something on the desktop.

  “They?”

  The echo-y sound of singing caught Grace’s attention. Pushing a baby buggy through the foyer was the largest woman Grace had ever seen. Well over six feet tall, heavyset, wearing a rainbow dress that could house a big top, blonde hair in two long braids, the woman reached the far end of the elevator foyer and turned back, smiling as her dress lifted with the twirl. As she did, she revealed a second woman, eclipsed by the mass of the buggy-pusher.

  The two of them approached, the larger woman’s face baby like, concentrating on the contents of the carriage, singing under her breath. It was the smaller one who stuck out her hand. “Miss Longstreet? Hi, I’m Carlotta Myerscough. This is my sister, Lavinia.”

  Lavinia turned again, as if reaching some invisible barrier, and sang her way to the other end of the foyer again.

  “She’s… different,” Carlotta apologized.

  In the corner of her vision, Grace caught Paisley’s ironic eye-roll.

  Myerscough, an old family in New Carfax, Grace’s hometown. She had read something about Prudence Myerscough passing away very recently. “What can I do for you?”

  Carlotta Myerscough studied the marble floor, lips pressed together, as if not wanting her words to escape. After a heartbeat, she looked up. “We need your help.”

  Did her shoulders sag visibly, did she sigh out loud? At any rate, Carlotta picked up on it.

  “I know it’s late. We can talk on the way to your car?”

  Grace eyed Paisley, hoping she would make a save, but the goth receptionist carefully avoided looking back. “Sure,” Grace agreed, hoping she feigned at least a little enthusiasm.

  “C’mon, Lavinia, we’re going for a ride,” Carlotta said gently.

  Lavinia smiled widely, Grace half-expecting a missing baby tooth. “Cool!” The large woman said with the kind of excitement only children can generate at the most mundane things. “Can I push the button?”

  “You bet,” Carlotta smiled back.

  Lavinia pressed the button, eyes widening as it lit up. She pressed it again and again until the door opened. Luckily, Cartwright and Sons sometimes moved large obj
ects to the second floor, and the car was big.

  “Going for a ride,” Lavinia sang, pushing the buggy inside. “Yes, we’re going for a ride!”

  Carlotta and Grace followed. As the door closed, a pale hand stopped it. Paisley avoided looking at anyone and pressed herself into the back corner.

  “Oo, look, Linda!” Lavinia bent over the baby carriage. “Do you see the funny clown?”

  Paisley’s black mouth bunched as she glared at the floor.

  “You’re from New Carfax, so you probably heard about our grandmother passing,” Carlotta said.

  Grace wondered how they knew where she lived, but didn’t comment. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry. Prudence did a lot of charity work in New Carfax. I never met her myself.”

  The elevator stopped and they filed out, moving from the cool of the office building onto the stifling blanket of Central Street. Despite the shade of the trees, the heat and humidity suffocated. Grace was parked only a half block away. You better talk fast, Carlotta, she thought.

  “They say Gramma died of natural causes,” Carlotta spoke as they walked. “Ischemia, I think, was listed as the cause of death, but there was no autopsy. There’s no way of knowing, really.”

  Her voice was soft, nearly inaudible above the distant rush hour traffic.

  “Gramma wasn’t sick!” Lavinia stated this so fiercely that Grace nearly took a step back.

  “You’re right, Lavinia,” Carlotta’s tone was calming. “Gramma was as healthy as a horse. No heart disease, no diabetes.” She turned back to Grace. “So it seems like she wouldn’t just pass like she did.”

  Grace’s blue Prius gleamed just ahead in the hot sun. To indicate the fact that their talk was near an end, she beeped the locks open. A few paces behind, Paisley opened a black lace parasol as she remained within earshot.

  “What do you think happened to her?” Grace asked.

  “We don’t know!” Lavinia shook her head, braids twirling. She bent over the carriage. “We don’t know, do we, Linda?”

  A bark ensued from the baby buggy, startling Grace. Huge arched ears of a toy Papillion emerged before the wagging tongue.

  “She’s my companion animal,” Lavinia confided.

  “The thing is, she had a triple indemnity insurance policy.”

  Grace was so surprised by the dog, she almost didn’t hear Carlotta. “Triple indemnity?” She suppressed a smile. Double- and triple indemnity policies were mostly just sales gimmicks. Not just double, but triple indemnity, Mrs. Myerscough! She could hear the pitch in her head.

  “We’d like you to prove that Gramma didn’t die of natural causes,” Carlotta said.

  She felt itchy. Grace wanted out of the power suit, into a bathing suit. Dealing with wealthy people all the time earned her time alone at the beach. She looked the sisters over. As far as her usual clients and cases went, they weren’t so bad. Carlotta was beseeching, Lavinia just kind of sweet and weird. But Grace wasn’t what they needed.

  “You realize that I’m an insurance adjuster, right? What I do for a living is the exact opposite of what you want me to do.” Grace thought she’d let them down easy. “I can recommend some very thorough and ethical private investigators.”

  Carlotta’s face colored, a blush beyond what the temperature would cause. “People say you have… a kind of unique set of skills.”

  Grace did have a reputation in New Carfax. She was a Longstreet, a family people whispered about, strange doings, arcane understanding, magic. “Well, I’m an archaeologist as well as an insurance adjuster. I can’t imagine how that might help you.”

  For a moment, it looked like Carlotta might argue the point. Paisley took a step closer, eyes intent. Grace wondered if the family reputation in New Carfax also circulated around the office. But the young woman didn’t press the point. Instead, she dropped a bomb.

  “We’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars,” Carlotta said quickly, eyes wide.

  Lavinia whispered to Linda, “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll take the case,” Grace said.

  Chapter 3

  Carlotta and Lavinia were late. Grace glanced at the antique shelf clock above the mantle. It was after eleven already, her Dunkin Donuts coffee gone. She reclined in the squeaky chair and put her feet on the desk. Grace had inherited the appraisal business from her father, who had inherited it from his father, who had inherited it from his great-uncle, and so on. Though she worked full time for Cartwright and Sons, she had risen high enough in the company to the point where she had a lot of free time. Like right now, for instance. The hours on the shop changed from Saturday and Sunday, one to four to By Appointment Only. Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques Appraisals still did a fair amount of business.

  The office was small, her work done mostly on site, and appointed like a Victorian gentleman’s study, hunter green wall paper, dark wood furniture, hunting oils in gold frames, standing ashtrays and overstuffed chairs. The back room housed generations of appraisal paperwork and a workbench for studying smaller pieces.

  This part of Hale Avenue, locally known as Antiques Alley, was not exactly buzzing with activity on a hot Tuesday morning. Across the street, Liberty Park, what the locals knew as the Witches Cemetery, wilted behind a mirage of heat. When the Lincoln pulled up behind her Prius, Grace knew her visitors had arrived. Instead, a gangly, balding man angled himself out of the driver seat, retrieved a briefcase, and headed to her door.

  The bell above the door jangled as he bulled his way in. His skin was pinked by the sun, tortoise shell glasses slipping down a damp nose. “Miss Longstreet? Bentley Marlborough, of Higgins, Goldfield, Albert and Marlborough.” He passed her his card. “I’m the attorney for the Myerscough family.”

  “Have a seat.” Politely, she read the Boston address on the card before tucking it away. “You know what the Myerscough sisters are asking me to do.”

  “I’m here to ask you not to.”

  “Oh?”

  He leaned back, tapping his fingers on the armrest. After squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, his expression softened. “I understand that the girls are grieving. Prudence was a loving woman, and I imagine it’s hard for them to grasp that she’s gone. She was very active for a woman of her age, very full of life.

  Grace waited, saying nothing.

  Marlborough went on. “My firm deals with the estates of many wealthy clients. This sort of thing, as distasteful as it may sound, occurs frequently.”

  “What sort of thing, Mr. Marlborough?”

  “Greed, frankly.” He sighed explosively. “I’m not sure if you realize this, but Tabitha Myerscough, Carlotta and Lavinia’s mother, is very much alive. She is the inheritor in this case. Prudence’s insurance policy was substantial. Three point three million dollars. The payment was divided between the girls and their mother. More than a million dollars apiece.”

  Grace took in the words. “I still don’t get why you would rather I not look into Prudence’s death.”

  “This might sound contrived.” He did the eye squeezing thing again. “Here’s the truth. I liked Prudence very much. I believe you and I do business among similar circles, so you’ll understand when I say it was very, very rare that I enjoyed a client’s company.”

  “Yes, I get that.”

  “Given Prudence’s philanthropy, her reputation in the community, I just don’t want to see her good name dragged through the mud by two girls who have more money than they can spend in a lifetime. Don’t misunderstand, I like Carlotta and Lavinia as well. However, I think the possibility of this greater payout, exacerbated by their grief, is blinding them to Prudence’s nature. She was a private woman, very giving, very funny, but she shied away from the spotlight. An investigation making her death more than it was, perhaps even sensationalizing it, would go against her nature. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Grace sat back, thinking. Suddenly, Marlborough seemed human. “You make a good argument, Counselor.”

  He chuckled. “
Sorry. Force of habit. I’m not telling you what to do, Miss Longstreet. In fact—” Marlborough set the briefcase on the arms of the chair and withdrew a large format check. “I have the check written, funds available immediately.”

  Grace took the check, staring at the zeros for a moment. Mouth a moue, she handed it back. “How about this, Mr. Marlborough—you keep the check for the time being. I feel like I should make a few discreet inquiries first. But for now, let’s put the case on hold. You’ve probably back grounded me already. You know what I do, and it isn’t murder investigation.”

  Marlborough gave her a look she couldn’t read. “From what I understand, you have a fairly unique set of skills.”

  “Let’s put all that aside. Just so you know, if I turn up anything even remotely suspicious—”

  “As well you should.” He stuffed the check in his suit coat and closed the briefcase. “The facts of the case are this: Prudence died while drawing a bath. The door was locked from the inside, with no key hole on the outside. In fact, the door had to be forced open when the granddaughters and servants became worried. There was no chance of foul play, nor was an autopsy required. The police didn't even bother to investigate.”

  So why should you? was the implied end of the sentence. “I understand,” she said.

  “You have my card. Call me at any hour, Miss Longstreet.”

  Grace watched him walk out, fold himself into the big black car, and drive away. For a few moments, she thought over what he said. Ultimately, she had just bought herself some beach time. She needed to get home to grab her beach bag and change into her bathing suit.

  Chapter 4

  As she juggled her keys to lock the front door, she felt a shock from the cameo. Her field of vision darkened, narrowing to a tunnel. An image appeared in her mind’s eye. She stood over a dead animal, partially decomposed, ribs exposed to a cloud of flies. A horse, she discovered as the premonition unfolded. What could it mean? Would she hit a horse on the way to the beach? After a few moments, regular eyesight returned. Grace locked the door, shaking her head.