The Sinister Secrets of the Deadly Summoner Page 7

  “You’d end up getting fished off of Rock Dundee,” Paisley said, “Or Lighthouse Point.”

  He turned serious eyes on Paisley. “You’re saying someone has been using this instrument without knowing how?”

  Paisley shrugged. Grace shrugged, too.

  “I saw a local man had died, from one of the families on the flats.”

  Neither Grace nor Paisley spoke.

  “Given my lack of knowledge about such a piece, and frankly, this is something not even I would deal in, I’m afraid the two of you are on your own. My only word of advice would be not to play it.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Grace said. “If we find it—when we find it—what should we do?”

  “Destroy it. Burn it, break it, fill it with lead so it can never play again.”

  Grace nodded and stood. Paisley gave her a sad look. But she stood when Jack did. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help. And thank you again for recovering such a valuable book.”

  Paisley’s eyes lit up. From somewhere, she produced a card. “I’m up for thanking. Any time, day or night.”

  Jack smiled. “Certainly. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chapter 18

  “He’ll keep it in mind, he’ll keep it in mind, he’ll keep it in mind!” Paisley danced around the Prius.

  Grace did her best to ignore her, trying to think. Gazing along the road that led to Antiques Alley, a thought occurred. She started walking.

  “He’ll keep it in mind, he’ll keep it in mind—where are you going?”

  The shops along the road stood open, hoping to attract tourists on holiday. She didn’t see any customers in any of them. It was partly the passing storm, partly the cancellation of Clam Fest events, she figured. A few of the owners glared at her.

  As an assessor, Grace always felt unwelcome in the local shops. She had a feeling they were worried she would walk in, look at a piece, and pronounce it worthless. Any number of times, a shop owner would make an appointment at Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques Appraisal that turned into a disappointment. Grace held advanced degrees in archaeology, specializing in Colonial America. More often than not, a piece of furniture or set of jewelry turned out to be copies of originals. To the dealers on the Alley, Grace was a necessary evil—but evil nonetheless.

  There was one shop owner who had helped her in the past, whom she had helped in turn. Sal Rabinowitz ran Sal’s Strings, and he dealt in collectible musical instruments. She should have gone to him first.

  Luckily, he was open. Grace pushed in, Paisley on her heels. Most of the stock was guitars, mostly acoustic, few actual antiques. They hung on the walls, wood glistening in the lighting. Cedar smells hung in the air, and the warm odor of aged wood.

  “Oh, this place is cool. What are we doing here?”

  “Sal’s a friend. Cartwright and Sons insures his stock,” Grace said.

  Paisley spotted an orchestral harp in an area full of odd instruments. She walked over to it, cracked her knuckles, and played the intro to “Smoke on the Water.”

  “Paize, stop it!”

  “I know. It needs tuning.”

  “Oh, hey, Grace. And hello, you Gothic angel.” Sal was Grace’s age, although his lush mane of shoulder-length hair had turned stark silver prematurely. He was average height with straight, bushy brows over intense green eyes, dressed in chinos and a bowling shirt. “Who’s your talented friend?”

  Paisley made heavenly runs on the harp. “I’m Paisley. Your G-four string is flat.”

  “I love that sweater. It’s wicked awesome. Are you in a band?”

  “Nope.

  “Well, go ahead and try anything you want. Most people are too afraid to play my instruments. Or they’re turd weasels who don’t know how, and that’s just irritating.” He moved to a heavily decorated harpsichord next to the harp and played a few bars of “The Addams Family Theme.” Paisley grinned and snapped her fingers.

  “What’s this thing?” Next to the harpsichord crouched an instrument that looked like an elongated glass teardrop attached to a spinning wheel. Paisley looked down at the treadle that powered the wheel.

  Sal pulled out the bench for her. “Try it out. It’s a Franklin Armonica. Peddle the treadle at the bottom. Then you wet your fingers and touch the discs—like playing a wine glass.”

  The bizarre instrument emitted a crystal, haunting tone. Paisley added notes until a chord formed. “Oh, that’s the creepiest sound I’ve ever heard. Love. It.”

  “After all the trouble we had with that thing, you still keep it in the shop?” Grace chided.

  Sal waved her away. “We know it’s not haunted or anything. Just disorienting.”

  Before she could argue further, her cell phone rang. Grace saw Barb Luna’s name and answered, walking into a quieter corner.

  “Are you mixed up in some kind of drug case?” Barb asked.

  Drug case? “What are you talking about?”

  “The Statie’s Narcotics Division got involved in Junior Polaski’s death and got the autopsy pushed through. Called the ME in on a holiday. And another body as well that was just discovered.”

  “Marc Branson?”

  “I knew you’d be mixed up in this!”

  Because it’s weird, Grace thought. “Did you determine a cause of death?”

  “Well, yes and no. Both men died from fluid in the lungs.”

  “Sure. They drowned.”

  “No, it was edema, from their own blood cells leaking into the lungs. There was little sea water, that’s why yes and no, they’re not sure how it happened, although it’s the kind of thing you see with deep water dives.”

  Grace thought it over. “So, not so weird then, if they were under water.”

  “IPE, immersion pulmonary edema, can occur at just about any depth, but given that fluid retention in the lungs was probably the cause, we’re talking fairly deep and pretty cold water,” Barb explained. “But that’s not the weird part.”

  She remembered what Barb said about Junior’s death. “Was there glowing goop on Marc as well?”

  “No. Weirder.”

  Barb’s tone was filled with gleeful schadenfreude and ghoulish teasing. Paisley played something that sounded like “Chasing Pavements.” Goosebumps crawled over Grace’s skin. “What?”

  “You aren’t going to believe—”

  “Barb, just tell me. Please.”

  “Sucker marks. All over the Branson kid’s body. Two and three inches across. Do you have any idea what has suckers that big?”

  Grace guessed. “Really big octopus?”

  “Colossal squid.”

  “How colossal?”

  “No, that’s what it’s called, a colossal squid. No one’s ever seen a living adult colossal squid. They live in the Antarctic.” Barb paused dramatically. “But Branson’s body is covered in colossal squid sucker marks, complete with the hooks and teeth marks that surround the suckers.”

  “You’re saying Marc Branson was killed by a squid that lives in the Antarctic?

  “He was killed by immersion pulmonary edema. But before he washed up on Rock Dundee, a colossal squid tried to make a meal of him. Which is more than freakin weird, it’s just about impossible.”

  Grace didn’t understand. “So what’s going on? How is this drug-related? I mean, I just talked to the guy yesterday. He didn’t take a trip to Antarctica and back. His body was pulled out of the water, but he didn’t drown?”

  “We don’t get it either, Grace. I was hoping you might have some insight. Make me look good for the boss.”

  Paisley played “Green Sleeves” on the Armonica, the tones raising the hairs on Grace’s neck. “If I figure something out, I’ll call you.” They disconnected. Paisley started playing a slow version of “Tubular Bells,” the theme from “The Exorcist.” “Enough with that thing!”

  “Sorry.” Paisley stopped pushing the treadle. “It’s fun. I should get one of these--” She looked at the price tag. “Holy moley!”

  “
It’s an original eighteenth century model, based off the Benjamin Franklin design, so it’s kinda pricey,” Sal said.

  Paisley lifted her hands and stood up. “Not breaking anything.”

  “Sorry we’re wasting your time, Sal.”

  He smiled at Paisley. “Oh, no, I’m having fun. What is it you came in here for anyway?”

  Grace flipped through her phone images, coming up with the picture of George Ryan’s walking stick-horn/flute. “I was hoping you might know something about this.” She flipped to the photo she’d taken of the illustration in Stoughton’s book.

  “Scrimshaw flute?” Sal gazed at the images. He then walked around the display case toward the cash register. “I don’t know a whole lot about it.”

  He bent down, rummaging behind the cases. The cameo on Grace’s neck sent a shock through her. The power of the necklace still eluded her, but it usually gave her a zap when she encountered something with mystical abilities. True to form, the cameo was right. Sal placed the walking stick on top of the counter.

  Chapter 19

  Paisley’s steps were slow as she moved for a better view. Grace stood stock still. “How did you get that?”

  “A guy brought it in for an assessment.”

  “Chunky guy, about six-two, blonde?” Grace described Junior Polaski.

  Sal shook his head.

  Paisley said, “Skinny guy with an Adam’s apple more like an Adam’s grapefruit?”

  Sal nodded. “That’s the guy. Marc. With a C. He said he found it at a flea market, but he seemed kinda shady. Is this thing stolen?”

  “Yes.” Grace still didn’t move. It was way too long for a walrus tooth, and too thick. Yet the smooth ivory at the surface compared to the marbled texture of the carving made walrus scrimshaw the most likely candidate. Waves, starfish, sea horses and coral decorated the gently curved length, the images rough but identifiable.

  Sal picked it up, showing Grace the top end. “I’m not sure if it’s played like a transverse flute, you know, like blowing a jug, or like a labrasone,” he blew a raspberry, “like a trumpet. From the size, the weight, and what complex chambering I can see, I’m guessing the sound is somewhere between a contrabassoon and a digeridoo.”

  “Maybe you should put that down,” Grace cautioned.

  But Sal went on. “This is a tri-tone instrument, two sound holes. You can hardly see them, they’re hidden by the breaking wave carvings.” He fingered the hidden holes. They were so far apart, he needed to use both hands.

  “I really think you should put it down.” Grace’s voice turned harder.

  Sal gave her a wide-eyed look. “Is this…?”

  Grace nodded. “An Objet de Puissance,” she whispered. Loosely translated, an object of power, items that her ancestors had much more familiarity than Grace had.

  “Like the jeweled lute?”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  It fell from his fingers, the report on the glass case making them all jump.

  “I thought I recognized that weird feeling.” Sal stared at Grace. “What do we do with it?”

  “For now, let’s just keep it under lock and key.”

  Fumbling, Sal picked up the walking stick and bent to put it back. Keys jingled. “Well, it’s after closing anyway. Maybe we can figure this out after the holiday?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Grace said, although she didn’t have anything in mind other than keeping it secure.

  She and Paisley walked to the front door. Sal stopped them. “Hang on. The alarm sets automatically. Otherwise I forget.”

  After he punched in the code, they said their goodbyes, Grace heading back toward the Prius.

  “What now?” Paisley asked. “We’re just going to leave it there?”

  “His shop is more secure than mine.”

  Even though her scooter was parked in the other direction, Paisley tagged along. “You’re going to leave a cursed object in that guy’s shop. Are you being serious right now?”

  “It’s not cursed,” Grace said. “It’s an Objet de Puissance. In other words, it was intentionally designed for the purpose of working supernatural forces. A cursed object is an ordinary object that has an otherworldly association.”

  Paisley gave her a side-eye. “It was made to drown people?”

  “I’m not sure exactly what its purpose is.”

  “Maybe it’s broken.”

  Grace shook her head. “Whatever it was meant to do, it’s doing it. I have the feeling that George Ryan got instructions when he obtained the stick. However, if you’re just fiddling around with it…” She trialed off.

  “I’ve heard about you Longstreets and your weirdness, but I have to admit, that big, ugly stick/horn is a disappointment. You know, I thought magic stuff would be magnificent, or wicked scary. Maybe I’ll see one that’s a better example someday.”

  Grace bit her tongue. Paisley had seen a better example. It was just her luck to be out of the picture when Grace confronted it. Five other people hadn’t been so lucky. Out of the five, three were dead, and the other two? Not knowing gave Grace nightmares.

  “Oh, wait, I have seen one. Duh. That necklace. It’s kinda pretty. Is that one?”

  She absently fingered the sardonyx cameo. “I’m not sure. It was my mother’s,” Grace said. “I think it protects me, warms me. But I’m not certain.”

  Paisley face went mournful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up your mom.”

  The memory of finding her mother hanging in the living room was sharp, even though her mother’s suicide happened when Grace was in high school. She dropped the cameo. “I guess I wouldn’t wear it if I didn’t want to think about her. Look, it’s been a day. Do you wanna grab some—”

  “No more clams already!”

  “I was going to say fair food before the vendors close down.” And then some fried clams, she didn’t add.

  The Goth lit up. “Maybe they’ll have fried jellybeans like at the Big E.”

  Grace tried to control her gag reflex. Like jellybeans weren’t gross enough. She hadn’t been to the Eastern States Exhibition, the Big E, in years, apparently New England’s biggest fair had turned for the worse. But whatever. “Let’s go see.”

  They drove to the town square and found parking quickly, which was unusual for an event like Clam Fest. But the streets were practically empty. With the bands canceled due to the threat of lightning and the clam bake due to rain, there wasn’t much of a draw.

  As they got out, an arguing couple nearly ran into Grace. The skeletal man wore a D.A.R.E. T-shirt, board shorts and socks-with-sandals. His scant beard could not cover a receding chin. His pony tail didn’t move when he walked. “I ain’t paying twenty bucks for a wallet.”

  “It’s a good price!” His companion wore a three-wolves-howling-at-the-moon T-shirt, pants under a skirt, and Crocks. Slit eyes surveyed her man. “You need a new wallet.”

  “If I spend that kinda money, I’d have nothing to put in my wallet.” They continued up the street leaving a wake of patchouli and body odor.

  “I don’t think he dared to resist drugs,” Paisley commented.

  Most of the vendors had already cleared out of their white shelter tents. Grace found some food vendors on the street in front of Your Corner Drug. She haggled over a seven dollar bag of caramel corn. Paisley wandered back, a gingham basket of what looked like little jelly donuts in hand. The other hand waved before her open mouth. “Hhhhot!”

  They walked past booths offering hand-made candles, soap, essential oils, garden décor, leather goods, jewelry and wind chimes. “I swear, these are the same vendors I see at Haunted Biz Baz and Essex Street every year,” Paisley said over a mouth full of scalding fried dough and molten jellybeans.

  The air filled with the gong of a church bell. Grace whirled at the sound, staring at the New Church. Actually, the building had stood for more than a century, but because the Unified Church of Christ had purchased the church from the First Presbyterian congregation sometime bef
ore Grace’s birth, it remained known as the New Church locally.

  The funeral service for her mother had taken place there. The last time Grace attended church. Even now, the sound of the bell sent a wave of emotion churning through her. But the fervor of sadness and anger and abandonment washed away. At her neck, the cameo tingled.

  Her vision narrowed, down to a tight tunnel. She focused on the bell tower. Then, she was inside the narrow belfry, bell pull in her hand, heaving up and down in a panic.

  Just as suddenly, the vision faded, leaving her panting, the cold stone gripped in her hand. Around her, the vendors all packed up. She felt Paisley’s hand on her arm.

  “You sick?”

  It took a moment to get words out. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look ready to cry. Or puke. Maybe both. Bad caramel corn?” Paisley squinted at the hand clutching the cameo.

  Grace had no idea what the vision meant. But a strong thought occurred. “I’m going to stake out Sal’s shop tonight. See if anything happens.”

  “Savage! Can I come?”

  Thoughts still whirling, Grace took a while deciding. “Okay. I guess so. Let’s stop at Judy’s.”

  “Get some of that good coffee.”

  Grace nodded. “And clams.”

  Chapter 21

  “This. Is. So. Borrr-rring.”

  They’d been sitting outside Sal’s Strings for less than an hour. So far, they’d seen a cat run down the alley.

  Grace eyed Paisley. “Why did you think this would be exciting?”

  “Can I put on the radio?”

  Grace keyed the car a notch. Grace pushed buttons until she found 100.7, WZLX, Boston’s Classic Rock. “Crazy Train” faded out.

  “What ever happened to classic rock?” Paisley asked. “I’ve been listening to the same songs my whole life. Where’s the new classic rock?”

  “If it was new, it wouldn’t be classic,” Grace said.

  “Okay. So where’s the neo-classic rock station? I hate all these songs about happy days and sunshine and never having to be alone. But I’ve heard ‘Crazy Train’ about seventy-seven bazillion times already.”