The Sinister Secrets of the Snake Mirror Read online

  Behind her, she heard the putter of a scooter die. A voice surprised her.

  “Hey, how about Dead Horse Beach? It’s probably closest.”

  Grace turned to find a safety-orange Vespa pull behind her Prius. The woman driving it wore a Roman Legionnaire helmet, the crest fuchsia. Green hair was revealed when the helmet was doffed. Paisley wore a black lace baby doll dress, torn fishnets and Doc Martens. An Egyptian ankh decorated a black leather choker. A drugstore’s worth of makeup decorated her eyelids.

  “’Course, you’d have to drive over Essex Bridge.” The pale girl shuddered and made a face.

  “Paisley, what the hell are you doing here?”

  The Goth's eyes were on the cemetery across the street. She stared for a moment. “Do you think they’re really buried there? The Salem witches?”

  “Legend has it,” Grace said. “Think about it. This is New Carfax, Carfax means ‘crossroads.’ Folk lore often relates the devil and evil things to the crossroads.”

  Accusing eyes met hers. “You think they were evil?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.” Grace threw her hands up. “Hell, there aren’t even any roads that actually cross around here. The major thoroughfares just kind of formed that irregular shape, the village made it a park, and it happens to look a lot like—why are we talking about this? I’m off the clock, Paisley. What do you want?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Paisley watched her own boot scuffing a line in the sidewalk. “That. See, the thing is…”

  The goth girl frowned, her heavy brows knitting. She looked from her shoes to the cemetery and back again. Grace’s internal temperature rose above the summer steam. Her morning quickly ticked away. How many early birds were arriving on the sand, sticking their toes in the water, setting up a blanket in the best spots, finding decent parking?

  “The thing is, The Old Lady said I need a mentor.”

  “You probably do,” Grace said. “So why don’t you go look for one while I go to the beach?”

  “No, it’s—The thing is, I do a lot of computer research for Cartwright and Sons right now, mostly social media, but a little bit of deep back grounding. I don’t really like computers.”

  Grace studied Paisley more closely. “I thought you were a temporary receptionist.”

  Paisley still couldn’t meet Grace’s gaze. “Just filling in where I’m needed. The thing is—”

  “Stop saying ‘the thing is’ and say what the thing is already.”

  “I want to do field work. I want to be an investigator,” Paisley blurted out.

  Grace took in the funerary clothing, the vampire makeup, the green hair. “Undercover, right?”

  “Please don’t make fun of me! This is wicked hard to ask. The Old Lady said if I want to do investigations for the company, an actual investigator has to take me under his wing, or, uh, her wing. And I was thinking, since this case isn’t for a company claim, that I could tag along. You know, that way I could gain some experience, but if I screwed up, neither one of us gets fired.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on. There isn’t a case, Paisley. I just talked to the lawyer. It’s pretty unlikely that there’s anything to the sisters’ claim. Prudence Myerscough was very old and she died in her bathroom of natural causes. I haven’t taken a fee.”

  “But—”

  She talked over Paisley, raising her voice. “So the thing to do is ask some of the other adjusters if you can tag along on one of their cases, legitimate business for the firm, you know, the real deal. Bob Lebowski is working a classic car fender bender, he has contacts with the police, and the claim just came in yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you the ropes.”

  “Bob Lebowski is a douche canoe,” Paisley frowned.

  “He’s—” Grace tripped over the words, pondered the descriptor, searching for meaning. The moniker seemed to fit, although she didn’t know why. “Okay, Dave Horowitz has an art forgery thing he’s been on for months. He probably needs someone to kick it around with. Get a fresh perspective.”

  “Dave’s a perv who only talks to my cleavage.”

  Sure, Dave had spoken to Grace’s own cleavage a number of times. Some men were just pervs. Or douche canoes. Or whatever. Grace showed her palms. “I give up. I’m going to the beach. You can’t shadow me on this case, because there is no case. Go home. Or, hey, go back to work and find an investigator working an actual claim. Good luck. I’ll see you next week.”

  She hopped in the Prius, noting it was nearly noon by the clock on the dash. As she pulled from the curb, she didn’t glance back at Paisley. The last thing she needed was a silly kid getting under her feet. The first thing she needed was hot sand or rolling surf under her feet.

  Chapter 5

  She had to park eight blocks from Cove Park, the tiny inlet that happened to have a little sand at the edge of New Carfax. It was only a beach in the academic sense—a flat curve of land that met the ocean. But it was close. So close, in fact, that she would’ve gotten here sooner walking from her cottage. Supplies in hand, she trundled down the grassy embankment, over the boulders, and finally onto the flattish stretch. Dozens of families had taken the sandy spots. She set up her umbrella chair on rocky ground. New Carfax’ only beach kinda sucked.

  To the north, the land rose dramatically, stepping up to sheer cliffs. Atop these was the first neighborhood of New Carfax, The Cove. Historically, the terrible little beach acted as a landing for smugglers. But once the seafarers grew rich on their merchant spoils, they built their sentinel-like homes on the ridge above. Even now, they seemed to gaze down at Cove Park, ever watchful.

  A seagull cried, wheeling in the sky. Grace took her eyes from the cliffs. She rubbed sunblock on, especially on the tops of her feet which always burned first. The water bottle from her sack was slimy, a combination of lotion and condensation. As a figure walked along the waterline toward her, the bottle squelched out of her hand.

  The woman wore a black bonnet, black ribbon blowing in the breeze, a Victorian bathing dress with bold black and white horizontal stripes, black bloomers, and, of course, Doc Martens. It looked like neither her face, or arms or the real estate between bloomers and boots had ever seen the sun. Twirling a black parasol the size of a patio umbrella, Paisley waved and headed to Grace’s spot.

  “For goodness sake, Paisley, why do you keep following me?”

  Paisley planted her umbrella as if claiming the beach spot. “Maybe I’m not following you. Maybe I’m haunting you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Grace put on her shades and stretched out her long legs.

  “No, think about it. In all the time we’ve known each other, have you noticed that no one reacts to me? And the costume changes—how is it even possible that I would own so many outfits? It’s like the Sixth Sense. Except I’m Bruce Willis, but I know I’m a ghost and you’re the little kid, and you don’t know I’m a ghost. And I keep showing up out of the blue to help you. Think about it.”

  “More like Endora from Bewitched. Except you wear more eye shadow.” Grace sighed. “Besides, Lavinia Myerscough noticed you. She thought you were a clown.”

  Paisley frowned for a second, but quickly brightened up. “That’s because her mind is different. With her twisted perception, she can see the other side.”

  “But Linda didn’t growl or whine. Dogs can see the other side, too, right?”

  “Aw, shoot, that’s right.” Paisley unfolded a small portable chair. “I got nothing. Oh, wait, yes I do.”

  Grace closed her eyes to the sound of fumbling around, the sound of the surf not enough to mute the noises of Paisley pawing through her pack.

  “Here we go. A case for murder.”

  “If you are a ghost, is there some way to exorcise you?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Grace, I worked for half an hour on this. You could at least take a look.”

  Grace opened one eye behind her shades. Paisley held up her iPad, which showed Prudence Myerscough’s social media page.”

  “Here’s where
the triple indemnity policy came in. Look at this. Mountain biking, para-sailing, rock climbing, base jumping. Prudence was in really good shape. Check out those abs. I hope I look that good at seventy-five.”

  “You look like death warmed over now,” Grace murmured.

  “What was that?”

  In the back of her mind, anger flared like a fanned forge. Grace took off her sunglasses. Her other hand unconsciously strayed to the cameo. “Healthy-looking people die, Paisley. It happens all the time.”

  Grace’s mother had looked healthy, had appeared happy, but all of that was a deception. That deception was revealed to Grace in a life-altering instant. She was swept back in time, to a cozy room lit by the setting autumn sun, bars of light on the wall, and the shadow, so large, so impossible, so gently swinging. There was nothing you could have done, there was no way of knowing, she didn’t show any signs, it’s not your fault. Voices swirled in her head. How many years ago was it now? Dammit, why was her mother on her mind so much?

  For a few seconds, the goth girl blinked, her features downcast. Grace had struck a nerve with Paisley, even as Paisley had struck a nerve with Grace.

  “Yeah, I know,” Paisley whispered.

  Even beneath all that makeup, the depth of Paisley’s sudden sorrow was painfully clear. Grace recognized that haunting kind of grief. It was almost like looking in a mirror. For a moment, she thought she should reach out to the younger woman. But many people had reached out to Grace after her mother’s death. But grief was a private affair. Whatever the circumstance, Paisley would have to go it alone. Still, she couldn’t stand to see such crushing mournfulness on a face made up like a cartoon vampire.

  “Is that all you got?” Grace asked.

  Paisley seemed to come out of a trance. “Oh, no. That’s not all. I have motive.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Money.”

  Grace angled her head at the highlands of The Cove. “Really? These people already have more money than they know what to do with, Paize.”

  “Somewhat less than that,” Paisley ignored the houses on high. “The inheritor of the estate is the girls’ mother, Tabitha Myerscough. Sure, the girls have trust funds, but they don’t have control until they reach twenty-five. And she's still around these parts.”

  “I didn’t know Tibby Myerscough was still around.” Grace looked closer at the iPad.

  “Yep. And living on the estate. Here’s the thing, though. The life insurance pays out to the survivors equally. There’s no concession that the money goes into the girls’ trust fund. If the triple indemnity came into effect, that would leave each party with over three point three million dollars each. That buys a lot of freedom. If I were forced to live with my Aunt Vickie until I was twenty-five, I would definitely look for a way out.”

  Grace shook her head. “That doesn’t fly. The girls get an allowance from the trust.”

  “Well, yeah, and it’s sizable. Unless you want to maintain the lifestyle that they do. Rent or a mortgage, insurance, basic living needs, special care for Lavinia; all that would severely cut into your European vacation budget. And forget about the four month cruise to Australia.”

  Taking the iPad, Grace looked over the numbers. “How did you get this information? Cartwright and Sons only insures the luxury goods.”

  “I hacked a little. But not much—insurance companies talk to each other. But an allowance like that, it’s practically a prison sentence for a wealthy twenty-something.” Paisley shrugged. “That’s kinda why I want to become an adjuster. You guys make good money, you get bonuses. If I can get there, I can move out of Aunt Vickie’s place.”

  A horrible thought struck Grace. “Aunt Vickie—as in Victoria? As in Victoria Cartwright?”

  Paisley nodded. “My aunt is The Old Lady.”

  Chapter 6

  Dang it, Grace was now intrigued. Also, it seemed she was stuck with Paisley—at least for now. She packed up her beach gear. “If you’re right, it doesn’t just mean Prudence was a victim of foul play. It makes the girls who hired us the prime suspects.”

  “Or the mom.” Paisley lowered her brows as Grace furled her umbrella. “What, we’re investigating now? I just got changed. Do you know how long it takes me to change?”

  Grace pulled out her phone, searching the contacts for Barb Luna at the Essex County Medical Examiner’s Office. She put it on speaker as she folded her blanket, shaking out the sand. “Why don’t you background Tibby Myerscough?” She said to Paisley as she navigated the automated phone tree.

  “Tibby—that’s Tabitha? It sounds like you know her.”

  Shrugging, Grace put the phone on top of her bag. “Everyone in New Carfax knows Tibby Myerscough.”

  “Medical Examiner’s Office, how can I direct your call?”

  “Hey, Barb, it’s Grace.” They exchanged pleasantries as Grace continued packing. “So I’m on this thing for the Myerscough girls. What can you tell me about Prudence’s death?”

  “Nothing, frankly. There was a no-autopsy request.”

  “Really?” Grace was stunned. Carlotta said there was no autopsy, but not that an autopsy was denied. If anyone would want an autopsy, it was the Myerscough girls. Or perhaps they wouldn’t. “I have a cause of death as Ischemia in the brain, or to the brain, or however you say it. Can you determine that without a post mortem?”

  “Nope,” Barb said. “Best guess. They found her in a locked bathroom, tub overflowing. Prudence was at the window, apparently trying to get out. There were nail marks in the paint of the sill, around the lock. Like she really wanted to get out of that third floor window above a hundred-foot cliff. Based on the behavior, we called it a stroke.”

  Grace looked up at the cliff in question. She thought about the social media photos of Prudence gleefully scaling Half Dome in Yosemite. “There was no medical history that would indicate a stroke, was there?”

  “Well, no, actually, but erratic behavior suggested a lack of blood flow to the brain. There are many ways it could have happened. But the Myerscough estate reported Prudence’s last wishes precluded an examination. Given Prudence’s age, her reputation and the situation, the Chief decided to let it slide.” Barb paused. “I’m getting my usual fee for this, right?”

  “Fisherman’s Platter at the Clam Box,” Grace confirmed.

  “See you in Ipswich on Saturday afternoon.” Barb hung up.

  Paisley gave her an inquisitive look.

  Grace thought out loud. “Why would Prudence not want an autopsy?”

  “Might’ve been a policy stipulation.” Paisley bobbed her head back and forth. “Goes hand-in-hand with the triple indemnity. The company probably wanted no doubt that the death was accidental. Obvious cause of death, in other words. Especially with a ten million dollar payout.”

  “Maybe.” Grace’s eyes surveyed the calm Atlantic. The chill of the water beckoned. “What did you find out about Tibby?”

  “She’s got a criminal record. It’ll take a few calls to track that down. Looks like a few Section 35s. Maybe ever a Section 12. That’s protected information. It’ll take a little longer.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Section 35 is state law, where a court commits you to rehab for drugs or alcohol.”

  “That sounds like Tibby,” Grace said. “What’s a Section 12?”

  Paisley’s words grew softer, less sure. She folded her chair and stuffed it in her bag. “It’s, um, involuntary commitment for psychiatric issues. Uh, mental health.”

  “That sounds like cop talk.” Grace gave the younger woman an assessing glance. “You know cops?”

  Paisley jammed her iPad into a side pocket of her bag. “I was one, for about six months.”

  “What happened?”

  She shuddered with an exaggerated frown. “Couldn’t take that uniform. Blue is not my color. My brother used to be a cop, too.”

  Grace picked up her beach bag. “What’s he do now?”

  Paisley blinked
a few times. Then, without a word, she slung her bag over one shoulder, the parasol over the other, and headed up the beach.

  “Paize?”

  The goth continued on as if she hadn’t heard Grace.

  “Paisley? You okay?”

  A few moments later, Grace heard the purr of a Vespa, and saw a flash of safety orange on the street above. What the hell had Grace said? Following, she found a huge black parasol leaning against the boathouse near the outdoor showers. How the hell had Paisley get the thing here on her scooter? She picked it up. Maybe she was a ghost after all.

  With both hands full, it took some effort to scale the boulders that blocked the street. Standing atop one, Grace gazed uphill at The Cove and the mansions secluded behind the trees. Those cliffs would be nothing to someone who had ascended Half Dome. If Prudence was trying to get out the window, it seemed likely that she could actually get away.

  But away from what?

  Perhaps the old woman’s behavior was less out of character than the medical examiner was led to believe. Instead of a lack of blood to the brain, she could have been prompted by self-preservation. Could Prudence have been running away from someone, or something?

  A lot of the old money types up on The Cove had collected sinister objects during their ventures at sea. Family curses were the norm. She had heard a lot of stories from her father. Grace herself had uncovered baubles and jewelry that had wreaked havoc and misery.

  She needed to pay a visit to the Myerscough sisters—and the place where Prudence died. A lot of things weren’t adding up. Both Carlotta and the attorney, Marlborough, mentioned Grace’s unique skills. Neither of them mentioned the official request for no autopsy to be performed.

  Grace dropped her beach bag in the trunk. She had to situate the parasol between the front seats to fit it in her little car. It was late in the day, probably not too late to visit The Cove, but she was tired, hot, and smeared with sunscreen.