The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles Read online

  "We didn't even get pizza," Clarence said. Then he shook his head. "You were going to marry this guy? Seriously?"

  I looked at Clarence. "That was years ago and Walter seemed a lot different to me then," I said.

  "I sure hope so."

  I felt like kicking him. I felt like kicking Walter. Most of all I felt like kicking myself for giving in and agreeing to hunt down just one more, benign artifact. That hadn't gone well at all.

  "Please take my advice," Walter said. "The next time we meet, if we do meet again, I won't go easy on you."

  "You sure about letting them go?" one of the men said. "That doesn't make sense, Walter. We don't need any..."

  "I'm sure," Walter said. "Little Cecelia here is going to listen to reason. You heard her—she never wanted this life and it's easy to see she doesn't understand what she's involved in. Even years ago, when things were calm I remember how little interest she had in the shop."

  "That's not the point at all," the man said.

  Walter put his hands in his pockets and swayed side to side, looking at me. "Sure it is. Look at her. Do you see a threat to our plan? Besides, in a few days it won't matter in the least. No one will be able to stop us."

  That sent my hackles up. "No one will be able to stop you from doing what?"

  Walter walked up to me, put his hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheek. "Don't worry your little head about that. You are going back to your city life, right? So I'll say goodbye now, my dear Cecelia. I expect we won't meet again. I hope we don't because I do care about you in my own way."

  Sure he did... the way a spider cares about prey caught in their web. That's how it seemed to me.

  Walter's men escorted us out to my rental car. It sat right where we'd left it. They watched us get in and waited until we drove off. I thought about going to the police. For about a nanosecond. Then I understood why Walter didn't mind letting us go. If I told them the truth, they'd have me locked away as a mental case. Even if they believed us and did come out to the mill it was likely they'd find nothing, not a shred of evidence anyone had even been there, much less that we'd been kidnapped. Even Clarence's wound wasn't proof of anything but a gunshot. Because of what happened earlier, they might even suspect he got shot in the scuffle with Timothy and that, for some nefarious reason, he'd decided not to mention it until now.

  And none of that mattered anyway. The police don't have forms for missing cursed objects, or people held ransom to get keys to Grand Storehouses. And I couldn't even tell them where that was or what was in it.

  As we left Walter, his men, the crates and the white van in our dust, I felt a huge sense of relief. Part of it had to be the feeling that we were, for the moment at least, out of the range of the cursed objects. Another part was that now I could just let it all fade into a bad memory and eventually, forget it altogether. Oh how wrong I was.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  "How are you doing?" I asked Clarence. He sagged against the passenger door, his head against the glass.

  He sighed and flashed me a weak smile. "I'm a little rattled, but I'm doing okay."

  "How did the bleeding stop? I was worried about you."

  "All I know is that I managed to grab the pen before the goon saw it. I stuck it in my pocket and asked Edgar if he could help me," Clarence said as I drove back toward town. I hadn't decided where we were going yet, only that the police were out.

  "Did he?"

  "He must've. I'm not sure what he did, and maybe he isn't sure either. Heck, I don't even know if he heard me, but the wound was bleeding steadily, and after I asked him, something happened. The bullet went through my leg and then it slowed and stopped." He reached over and slipped the pen into my jeans pocket. "And while the help was very much appreciated, I'll feel better if Edgar is back with you. I don't think he likes me as well as he does you."

  I wanted to protest. The idea of being popular with spirits was especially unappealing at the moment, yet the feeling that came over me as the pen slid into my pocket was oddly reassuring. "Did you see him at all? Edgar, I mean."

  "No. I just felt him."

  "Then why do you think he helped you?"

  "Because someone did and no one else seemed interested in whether I lived or died. I think you know the other reason. When Edgar actually touches you... there is that unique feeling."

  "Describe it for me."

  "First there was a prickly sensation, a kind of tingling like someone who was charged with electricity was touching me. And then, after the bleeding stopped, I noticed that the places he touched were kind of moist. Damp-like, actually, because they weren't really moist. That's just the closest word I can think of to what it felt like."

  I shuddered. His description was far too close to what I'd felt when Edgar had helped untie me. And now it seemed that something about making contact with our world exhausted the poor ghost. I could understand that... sometimes contact with this world exhausted me—took everything out of me. I wondered if that odd damp sensation was the residue of something, like touching us left something behind.

  All in all, I felt this was a perfect time for me to wrap up my career as a chaser of cursed objects. If Uncle Mason was awake I wanted to tell him how sick I was of running blind. I'd insist that he explain things or I was just flat done. Finished. It was over. I'd tell him even if he wasn't, and this time it would be final.

  "Where are we going?" Clarence said.

  "The hospital, of course."

  "Walter was right, you know. If we have them look at my wound then they'll report it."

  I winced. "Actually I wanted to check up on Uncle Mason. I'm hoping he'll wake up and tell us something useful, something that might make sense of things. If he can't or won't explain things..."

  "Fine, you're upset with him."

  "I am."

  "So have your family chat. If you don't mind I'll wait in the car. I'm not ready to walk around a lot."

  That made sense, so I drove around the parking lot until I found a shady spot, then parked and went inside, heading straight for Uncle Mason's room.

  The nurse at the desk waved at me. "No real news and no change in his condition," she said sounding quite cheerful. I guess she thought that was a good thing.

  "I'll just pop in and take a look at him."

  She was right. It didn't look as if he'd moved since the last time I was there and the sound of his breathing echoed in the room. I stood by his bed for a time, looking at him and wondering about his life. I thought I knew Uncle Mason. Now it was clear that I hadn't known anything about him at all... none of the big things, the critical things, like the fact that he'd been engaged to Enid, that he tracked down and stored cursed objects away. And why he did that, how he got started... I couldn't even begin to guess. "You are a mystery man, Uncle Mason." Saying it, the idea seemed completely unreasonable. How could it be that the only member of my family that I'd felt close to was a person who had so many secrets?

  "Hello, Cecelia."

  I turned towards the hospital room door and looked at a thin, middle-aged woman and a man in his thirties. "Hello. Do I know you?"

  "Oh yes you do, or at least you did when you were younger. We met several times. My name is Beatrice Bentley and this is my son, Albert." I felt that there was something familiar about this woman, but I couldn't place it. "Albert and I are antique dealers, like your Uncle Mason, like you."

  The idea made my head spin. "Here was yet another person who thought I was an antique dealer. "Is there some kind of antique dealer... club or organization that we all belong to?"

  "More like a community," Albert said.

  "A rather small, tight-knit community," Beatrice said. "We all know each other. We've been worried about Mason but had been unable to get over here to see him. When we heard you were filling in... well, Albert and I came as quickly as we could."

  After all that had happened, after the revelations about Walter, I had to treat the presence of anyone interested in Uncle Mason, or
me, or the shop, with extreme caution. That wasn't paranoia, I assured myself, just common sense. But that didn't mean I needed to be rude. "Well, you are here now. Thank you?"

  "Has anyone else come to see him?" Albert asked the question in an offhand manner, but I could tell that the answer mattered to him.

  "I think Enid might've been here once, although she denies it, but other than that... he hasn't been in the mainstream of the family. My daddy knows he's in the hospital, but it's not likely he'll visit. He's a very busy man, and he and Mason haven't been close for many years."

  "And how are you doing, my dear?" Beatrice asked.

  My hackles, still working overtime, went up. "Doing? Why I'm fine."

  She nodded at Uncle Mason. "ThenI assume you will be taking over the shop for the duration and... if and when something happens to Mason."

  "I'm still..."

  "After all, someone must run the shop."

  The way she said it, that someone must run the shop, with a heavy emphasis on the word 'must' made it sound like an imperative, and perhaps she thought it was. If this antique dealer coalition was real, and she was part of it, she probably knew about the cursed objects. She might know about the Grand Storehouse, about Walter. But her question suggested that she didn't know there had been a robbery or any of the subsequent events.

  I couldn't see what harm it would do for her to find out the objects were missing, but I decided not to tell her. Something was suspicious. I didn't know her or her son, or at least I didn't remember meeting them and I didn't feel like passing out information until I knew more. A consequence of being out of my depth was that I didn't know who I could trust, or what information should be kept close to the vest and what could be given out freely. I decided to err on the side of caution and give them a version of the truth that would be better, more plausible than a lie I made up. "As far as the shop goes, I have no idea what Uncle Mason wanted and he hasn't been awake to tell me. I live in the city and came when the hospital called me. I suppose that, if he dies, when the will is read we will all find out his intentions and then I can decide what I'll do. Or not do."

  I saw concerned looks pass between Beatrice and Albert. After a bit, Beatrice drew herself up. "Tell me, did Mason... give you a key at any time?"

  "A key?"

  "Yes."

  "I told you, he's been unconscious since I arrived."

  "It might have been some time ago. He might have given it to you and asked you to just hold onto it."

  "No, not that I recall. When I arrived in town his lawyer gave me a key to his apartment and one to the shop. Uncle Mason had made it clear that I should stay there and see that the place was looked after even though Clarence runs the shop for him. Is that what you mean?"

  She sagged visibly. "No, not those keys. This one is very old."

  "It's of great sentimental value," Albert said.

  The way they skirted the truth told me they wanted the same thing Walter did. That was not grounds for trusting them more. "Then I have no idea what key you mean. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd really like to be alone with my uncle for a bit. In just a little bit I'll be going back to his place. We'll have the shop open this afternoon."

  "Of course, dear," Beatrice said. "We just came to see Mason." She handed me a card. "We will stay in town for a few days. Your uncle and I go way back—I've known him for more years than I'd like to think of. If there is anything I can do, if you need to talk, or have any questions, please give me a call."

  I pocketed the card, feeling it slide down next to Edgar's pen. "That's very kind of you, Beatrice."

  As they left I put my head down on the side of Uncle Mason's bed. The sound of his labored breathing, the pinging of some machine attached to him depressed me. "Can you do anything for him, Edgar?" I asked.

  A faint voice seemed to resonate in my head, saying nothing. I imagined I heard a sorrowful, "sorry." So much for that hope.

  With Uncle Mason unconscious, we had so little to go on. If Enid knew anything... she was parsimonious with details, as if she needed for us to learn things and only willing to confirm or deny them. Clarence and Edgar were on my side, but they were in the dark too—Edgar literally so at the moment. I'd thought we had an ally in Kenneth Parker, but either he'd been tricked or he was working for Walter. Either way, nothing he said could be trusted. No, we were on our own. Beatrice and young Albert were totally unknown quantities, but clearly they knew more about what was going on around us than I did. They could be helpful or take us down completely.

  I sat in a chair by the bed and took Uncle Mason's hand in mine. "Uncle Mason, I thought we were close. If you expected this, if you needed me to do something to carry on your work, why in the world didn't you tell me about it? I'm stumbling in the dark. Could you at least have left behind some kind of instruction book or something? An owner's manual for my ghost would be a start. Best of all, isn't there a list of names of people with information I can trust? I sure wish you'd wake up and tell me what to do."

  These thoughts tumbled in my brain. Not only was I confused and frightened, the adrenalin rushes I'd been through had exhausted me. Holding his hand, I put my face down on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

  Sometime later I woke to a steady tone. Uncle Mason's breathing had stopped. The nurse came in and bent over him then shook her head. "He's gone," she said calmly. "I'm so sorry."

  I nodded, dazed. "He promised we'd have a chance to talk."

  "He didn't know; he couldn't know."

  I looked at him and felt his hand grow cool. Uncle Mason couldn't help now, no matter how nicely I asked him. So I kissed his cheek. "Goodbye, Uncle Mason. I'll do what I can. I'll do the best I can."

  Then I remember that while I'd slept, Clarence had been waiting in the car.

  I looked at the nurse. "You go," she said. "All the paperwork is taken care of. The funeral home will call you about the time and place for the service."

  I nodded again. There just weren't any words... none at all.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  It was dark when I came out of the hospital and when I reached the car the passenger door was open. In the glow of the interior light, I saw Clarence sitting in the seat with his leg stretched out. Steve, the taxi driver was wrapping it up in a fresh bandage. "Hey there," he said cheerfully. A fairly extensive medical kit was open on the ground next to him.

  "Do you normally practice medicine in the parking lot?" I asked.

  "Only when I don't have any taxi jobs," he laughed. "And on special occasions, such as when it isn't a good idea to take the patient through the front doors and into the mystic realm of insurance forms and police reports."

  "Aren't you supposed to report things like this anyway?"

  "What things? I mean, if I treated a gunshot wound, just as an example, then yes I'd be obligated to report it to the police. Good thing all Clarence had was a scratch, isn't it?"

  "Good thing," Clarence said.

  "See, I really can't stand doing paperwork," Steve said.

  "How did you know..."

  "Know what? I was on my way to work, minding my own business whenI saw Clarence sitting in the car you rented." He smiled at my look of surprise. "My uncle has the car rental agency, such as it is, and I pay attention when my best customer has abandoned my services in favor of renting. Anyway, I came over to say hi, and noticed that his wound had started bleeding again." He nodded toward the yellow toaster. "I always carry a medical kit and thought I'd be neighborly."

  "He offered to stitch it up. So we introduced ourselves," Clarence put in.

  "Is he going to be okay?"

  "I can't be certain. Anyone who gets himself shot is probably poking his nose into things that are dangerous, but as far as this particular injury goes, he'll be fine."

  "I was cleaning my gun," Clarence said."

  "I do recommend you get a cane to help you keep some of your weight off that leg until it heals," Steve said. "There's no sign of infection, in fact, it looks stran
gely like someone cauterized it."

  He looked at me, so I shrugged. "I didn't do that." There was no point in telling him something I couldn't explain.

  "So you need to be more careful, Clarence," Steve said. He was watching my face. "Although guns do go off when they are cleaned, it takes a bit of effort to make it happen. Usually, in cleaning a gun you've taken it apart enough to know there are no bullets in it."

  "I was in a rush."

  "Okay. Well, I'll leave you to it then. How's your uncle doing, Cecelia?"

  "No so well. He just died."

  "Died?" Clarence looked shocked.

  "They didn't seem surprised, the doctors, I mean."

  "Well, I suppose they wouldn't," Steve said. "And I saw that you signed a 'do not resuscitate' order."

  "It's what he would've wanted. Well, thanks for cleaning up Clarence's scratch."

  "No problem. Next time, give me a call. I do better kitchen table surgery when there is actually a kitchen table. And I even have one we can use."

  "Next time?" Clarence said. "There won't be a next time."

  "That's good to know. Well, now I need to get to work... at the hospital."

  As he left, Clarence stretched his leg. "I do have a gun," he said. "I never bothered with it much but now I'm inclined to get a permit to carry it."

  "Why do you want to carry a gun?"

  "These are some bad people we are dealing with," he said sullenly. "I prefer to equalize the odds."

  "After all that's happened you intend to keep looking for the objects?"

  The shock on his face was impressive. "Of course I do. I want some answers. What is this key they are looking for? What's this Grand Storehouse. And, for that matter, who are these people?"

  "Does that matter?"

  "I think it does. Walter said that in a few days no one would be able to stop them. You have to be curious about his plans and why we won't be able to stop him after that."

  With his curiosity bubbling over, I decided that telling him about Beatrice and Albert would just fan the flames. He'd see them as a lead, and what he needed now was rest, not more adventure. If he wouldn't take care of himself, I needed to talk him down. "Uncle Mason is dead, Clarence. I was chasing these things to make the shop right again—for him, for Uncle Mason. Now that he's gone it's over for me."