Читать книгу Evil by the Sea - Kathleen Bridge - Страница 12

Chapter 1

“My daughter wrote the book on superstitions,” Dorian Starwood squeaked. Her long, almost waist-length lavender hair fell in waves around her attractive, albeit wrinkled face. Entwined in her hair were long glittery strands of metallic green, pink, and gold, like tinsel from a mid-century Christmas tree. “Amelia, lovely Liz,” Dorian addressed them, fear in her pale gray eyes. “I swear my dream was as vivid as this fine tea table in front of us. I stumbled; I tell you. I stumbled on the way to the altar and flopped smack to the ground. When I’d glanced behind me, I saw why. I’d grown a mermaid’s tail. It wasn’t a pretty tail with iridescent shades of aqua, blue, and violet. Instead of rose petals, brown scales fell in my wake as I slithered toward the altar. I knew I’d been out of the water too long, but I couldn’t decide whether to climb back into the sea or advance toward my true love?”

Liz and Aunt Amelia exchanged glances. Dorian Starwood had been Liz’s great-aunt’s psychic-on-call ever since Liz could remember. She’d always admired Dorian for her calm, grounded presence, even when she came across a murky crystal ball and had to deliver bad news. Liz wasn’t sure she was a believer, but Aunt Amelia had three notebooks filled with Dorian’s prophesizes that had come to fruition. Who was Liz to judge someone else’s spiritual journey? Especially her eighty-year-old great-aunt’s. She was still trying to find her own way since moving back to her family-run inn, the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel and Emporium, on a barrier island in Melbourne Beach, Florida.

Aunt Amelia opened her mouth to speak but before she could, Dorian cut her off. “It’s bad luck for the bride to stumble, especially at the sacred Litha Midsomer’s Eve altar my beloved is bringing all the way from his sanctuary at the Sunshine Wiccan Society.”

“Litha?” Liz asked.

“Litha is another name for the celebration of the Wiccan Sabbat or the summer solstice. I tell you, my dream was as clear as this gorgeous day. In my vision…”

“Was it a dream, dear Dorian, or a vision?” Aunt Amelia asked, reaching over and patting Dorian’s hand. “I would think in your case there would be a big difference.”

The nuptials between psychic Dorian Starwood and Wiccan leader, aka white warlock Julian Rhodes were scheduled for Sunday to coordinate with the Mystical Merfest and the summer solstice. Tomorrow would be the rehearsal dinner on the hotel’s sightseeing and ecotour boat captained by full-time hotel resident Captain Clyde B. Netherton.

“You’re right. I’m being a silly psychic.”

Liz watched Dorian’s hand tremble as she put her cup to her lips but didn’t drink. She quickly set the cup down. The clattering against the saucer was like an exclamation point to her distress. “That’s exactly the problem, my dears. I don’t know what it was! I was in a fugue state. Not here nor there. The Indialantic’s bell tower was ringing. I heard it echoing across the Atlantic—akin to a siren luring sailors to a rocky shore. A harbinger of doom, I tell you. The bell clanged to the tune of the wedding march.” She pointed a sparkly blue fingernail up at the Indialantic’s stucco bell tower visible from the hotel’s open Spanish style courtyard.

They looked up. Even Barnacle Bob, who minutes before had protested about being caged on such a magnificent June day, turned his featherless head up to the sky.

There had been a good reason for the macaw’s incarceration. The reason was wrapped around psychic of the rich and famous and the bride-to-be Dorian Starwood’s neck like one of the boas Aunt Amelia had worn on the set of the ’60s TV show The Wild Wild West. The same boas Liz and her best friend Kate used to play with as children.

“Pop goes the weasel,” Barnacle Bob sang, “Pop goes the weasel.” He raised his leg, aimed it at Dorian’s neck like he was holding a pistol, then squawked, “Bang. Bang. Pop goes the weasel.”

The ferret didn’t open a beady eye, just stretched and waved its tail in annoyance, causing Dorian to sneeze.

“Bless you!” Aunt Amelia and Liz said in unison.

Dorian laughed. “Farrah always knows how to get me out of one of my moods.” She looked down. “But that tickles, Farrah, and you know I can’t be tickled.”

As if listening with its little ferret ears, Farrah’s tail relaxed on top of Dorian’s right shoulder.

“Calm yourself, Dorian,” Aunt Amelia said. “It’s just pre-wedding jitters. With the Mystical Merfest opening this weekend, I think we have a clue as to why you’re dreaming of mermaids. I’m sure as soon as Julian arrives, you’ll feel much better. We must get on with the finalizing of the wedding and rehearsal dinner. Lizzy dear, please show Dorian the menu her son sent for tomorrow’s dinner on Queen of the Seas.”

“I don’t think you understand what tripping down the aisle means for the bride. Per my daughter’s book, I’ll be an old maid for all time.” Dorian reached in her bag and pulled out a large hardcover book titled, Superstitions—Warnings from the Universe or Pure Bunk? You Decide. By Phoebe Starwood. Pictured on the cover was a ladder leaning against a house, the chalk outline of a body under the ladder, and a black cat perched on the ladder’s top rung with a Cheshire grin on its face.

Liz thought it prudent that Aunt Amelia only serve Dorian herbal, caffeine-free tea until the vows were exchanged. Trying to distract her, Liz handed over the menu, “I think your son’s menu is fabulous, Ms. Starwood. Just look at those appetizers; pesto-stuffed cherry tomatoes, smoked salmon in dilled crepes and curry chicken phyllo bundles. Yum. I’ve been to his restaurant and had the best meal. Was it your idea to have free tarot card readings?” Dorian’s son, Branson, was the owner of the restaurant The Soulful Sea in Vero Beach and would be supplying the food and beverages for the rehearsal dinner. The wedding food would be cooked by Chef Pierre and the Indialantic’s housekeeper Greta.

“Please call me Dorian, Lizzy. I’ve known your great-aunt for ages, and you since you were five years old. We’re family.”

Aunt Amelia smiled, and Liz said, “Of course, Dorian.” It had been eleven years since Liz had last seen Dorian Starwood. Ten of those years away she’d been living in Manhattan attending Columbia University, then pursuing her writing career. But when Liz was younger, she and her great-aunt would trek to Dorian’s home in Palm Beach for readings, sometimes staying the night at her palatial mansion. Also, Dorian was no stranger to staying at the Indialantic, even once bringing her children, Branson and Phoebe.

“Yes, having Phoebe read the tarot at her brother’s restaurant was my idea.” Her smile quickly turned to a frown. “Phoebe’s recently come back from France and seems a little lost since her father died. Cedric was my first husband. She’s not a psychic per se, but she does know how to read the cards. I just wish she and her brother got on better. I know things will turn out all right for the pair in time. That’s one vision that’s very clear to me.” She turned toward Liz. “Lizzy, I did try to testify on your behalf when Amelia told me about your defamation of character lawsuit last year. I had the jet waiting on the tarmac. Your lawyer wouldn’t take my offer seriously, even after I showed him proof I’d helped the Palm Beach PD locate a couple of lost children and find a buried body or two. That reminds me. I brought a first edition of your novel, Let the Wind Roar, for you to autograph. I can’t wait until An American in Cornwall comes out. I told your auntie many solstices ago, you’d be a prolific writer. Didn’t I, Amelia?”

“Yes, you did, Dorian. I even wrote it in my journal.”

“I appreciate your effort,” Liz said. “It turned out okay in the end.” She hadn’t needed a celebrity psychic to help her; all she’d needed was the truth and her father by her side. He hadn’t been her attorney because his license only encompassed Florida, not New York, but she couldn’t have done it without him. Liz traced the scar on her right cheek. It was caused by a shard of broken glass from a bottle of scotch she’d fallen on after being shoved to the floor by her ex-boyfriend; a Pulitzer-prize-winning author who had a terrible drinking problem. He’d sued Liz in a defamation of character lawsuit because Liz had called 911, which in his mind alerted the media and supposedly ruined his good name. She’d won the case. After her stay in the hospital, Liz sold her Soho loft, packed up, and moved home to the bosom of her eclectic family at the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel and Emporium.

“You’re correct, Lizzy. It’s all behind us,” Aunt Amelia said, blowing her great-niece a kiss. “Back to the rehearsal dinner. Remember, Dorian, if you need anything from our hotel chef or Pops at our emporium shop Deli-casies by the Sea, we’re more than ready to help. Even Liz, who, as you know, was classically trained by Chef Pierre.” She turned to Liz. “You wouldn’t mind assisting, would you, dear?”

Between the upcoming Mystical Merfest and reviewing the galley proofs she’d just received for her second novel; this weekend was going to be a busy one. The Mystical Merfest was Melbourne Beach’s celebration honoring Meribel the mermaid. Folklore said Meribel saved dozens of Spanish sailors by dragging them to shore after a hurricane destroyed their treasure-laden fleet. The 1715 shipwrecks were historical fact, as evidenced by the gold and silver still washing ashore today. Even if the story of Meribel was pure fantasy, everyone enjoyed dressing up once a year as mermaids, mermen, and pirates, tasting local island food, and visiting the town’s quaint seaside shops.

“Sure, my pleasure. I’m here if you need me, Dorian,” Liz answered her great-aunt with forced cheer. “No pro-blem-o.”

Dorian gave Liz one of her penetrating stares. Oops. Liz forgot she was sitting with a psychic.

“Your second book will have as many accolades as your first, my dear.” Dorian announced, then she waved her left hand in the air theatrically. On her ring finger was a huge peach-colored semitransparent stone. “No, it’s not a raw diamond or gem.” Dorian said to their questioning gazes. “Julian thought the best engagement stone for me would be a Himalayan salt rock. Wards off bad omens. Diamonds, I have plenty. The healing properties of salt are well proven.” She turned to Aunt Amelia. “Don’t you think it was such a kind and loving gesture?”

“Indeed,” was all that Aunt Amelia could come up with, then looked away, stifling a grin.

Liz didn’t need to be psychic to observe Dorian seemed to be talking herself into the merits of having a salty engagement ring. And why was she warding off anything? She wondered what would happen if Dorian got caught in the rain. Would it wash away? Would a deer come over to lick it?

With downcast eyes, Dorian mumbled, “As my fiancé has requested, it will be a small dinner and wedding. I’m sorry you can’t bring Ziggy, Amelia. Julian tends to be overprotective. Especially after… You know if it was just us girls planning this wedding, it would be a no holds barred, bigger-than-life affair. Instead of using your hotel’s sightseeing and ecotour boat we’d hire an entire Norwegian cruise liner for the rehearsal dinner.”

“Totally understood, Dorian. And indeed, we would.” Aunt Amelia’s emerald eyes lit up with the possibilities. “Isn’t it tradition to have the bride plan the wedding of her dreams?” Aunt Amelia fed a piece of kiwi to Barnacle Bob. A bribe to keep his beak shut.

Liz noticed that her great-aunt had missed the words, ‘especially after…’ that Dorian had just said then immediately segued into something else.

“It’s not that. This isn’t my first wedding, but it is Julian’s.” Her statement hung in the air for a few minutes.

“Even more of a reason to have a big wedding,” Aunt Amelia said.

After hearing Dorian say she would like a larger-than-life party, it seemed it was Julian, the groom to be, who wanted to keep things on the down-low. Liz couldn’t wait to meet him. “Even if it’s small, rest assured, Auntie will make it wonderful.”

Doubt clouded Dorian’s eyes. “Maybe it’s because of Julian’s and my age difference? What if he’s embarrassed to be twenty-five years younger than me?”

White warlock Julian Rhodes was only forty-five? Liz put her napkin to her mouth to hide her surprise. It seemed a little late for Dorian to be asking that question two days before her nuptials.

“Dorian, how long have you known Julian?” Liz asked, feeling protective of her great-aunt’s friend.

“We’ve known each other for six months. Enough time to know our union was written in the stars. Plus, my son Branson is the one who introduced us. So that’s enough for me. I know I’m being immature wishing we could have a larger celebration. It’s just I never had a big wedding for my first marriage,” Dorian explained. “My first was a quickie Paris affair. Orchestrated at the last minute because I had a brioche in the oven—my Branson.” She laughed, and Liz and Aunt Amelia joined in out of politeness. “Plus, Julian wants to keep it as small as possible. Especially after what’s been happening lately…” She clamped her hand over her mouth as if she’d said too much.

“What’s been happening, dear?” Aunt Amelia asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. He tends to be overprotective.”

“You’re not in danger, are you?” Aunt Amelia’s emerald eyes looked fierce. “You don’t have to worry about anyone here or at the emporium. We’re all like family.”

Dorian relaxed her small shoulders and Aunt Amelia didn’t question her further, just poured more of her Island Bliss tea into Dorian’s cup.

The Starwood-Rhodes wedding was small. Small meant less work for everyone, but Liz had a prickly feeling at the back of her neck that things might not turn out as planned. Anonymity, per Aunt Amelia, had been the couple’s top priority when choosing the Indialantic for their wedding. After Dorian’s previous comments, Liz was dying to know why.

Snatching a cucumber, cream cheese, and cilantro finger sandwich from the pedestal dish, Aunt Amelia said, “Well, even if it’s a small affair Dorian, I guarantee we’ll make it as elegant as you deserve.”

“Cheers, to that!” Liz said, raising her teacup in the air.

Dorian, Aunt Amelia, and Liz clinked their teacups together. Again, Liz thought how similar the two women were. Dorian with her glitter hair and Aunt Amelia with her trademarked baby-blue sparkly eyeshadow and thick black liner that extended two inches from the corner of her eyes, not to mention her auburn stenciled eyebrows. This afternoon, her great-aunt’s long, bright red hair was coiled into soup-can-sized curls on top of her head.

“I know Julian’s right,” Dorian said, swiping a lemon-lime iced petit four from the platter in the center of the table. “As long as our stars are aligned, and I’m surrounded by loved ones, that’s all that’s required for a perfect karmic future.”

Farrah woke up, made a little squealing noise, glanced at Barnacle Bob, then slithered into the tapestry carpetbag at Dorian’s feet. The needlepointed design on the bag was of a white-bearded wizard holding up a wand, standing in front of a forest straight out of a King Arthur tale.

“Because I had a fitful night of sleep,” Dorian said, “I’m afraid, so did my precious Farrah.”

As if purposely trying to keep the ferret from napping, Barnacle Bob started ringing the bell on his cage and squawking in macaw.

“Behave yourself BB,” Aunt Amelia admonished. Justly chastened, he sheepishly bent his head and tucked in his tail feathers. At least that’s how it appeared to Aunt Amelia. As soon as she looked away, Liz saw BB turn around and shake those same feathers in Dorian’s pet’s direction, then began whistling the tune to “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

Dorian said, “I am so sorry the two of you aren’t invited on board for the rehearsal dinner. It was the only way I could get Julian to agree for us to leave the grounds before the wedding. It seems he thinks something might happen…”

“Tsk, tsk, not important,” Aunt Amelia said. “Plus, you know I will be involved in the Mystical Merfest Regatta. But if you or your intended change your mind, I’ll be there with bells on. Now on to the menu for the wedding brunch.”

Dorian was glancing up at the bell tower, frown lines wrinkling her already wrinkled forehead. A cloud covered the sun and she shuddered.

Aunt Amelia clicked her fingers. “Dorian? What do you think? Are you happy with the menu?”

No response.

“We plan on serving sea slugs in aspic. What do you think Dorian?”

Dorian closed her eyes. With her head still looking upward she began to chant something under her breath. Then started rocking back and forth in her chair.

“Dorian!” Aunt Amelia shouted. “What do you think? Sea slugs? Yes or no?”

She opened her eyes, looked down, and murmured, “Sea slugs…fine. Do you think it will storm tomorrow?”

“No, the weather will be beautiful the entire weekend. Not to worry.”

“I’m sorry, Amelia. I can’t concentrate. I’ll take the menus with me. I think I need a few moments alone in the enlightenment parlor. I feel a headache coming and I want to clear the cobwebs before Julian arrives. I keep trying to see a vision of our honeymoon in Bali but can’t. Everything’s so hazy.” She got up, grabbed her bag with Farrah inside, and headed toward the open doorway leading to the interior of the hotel.

Susannah, the hotel’s assistant manager came barreling through the doorway and into the courtyard. “Oh, Ms. Starwood. I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve brought my cousin Amy’s book, and marked all the passages for the proper etiquette for small weddings. I think you’ll find the passage on page fifty might help on what to do when you don’t have a best man in the picture.”

Dorian grabbed Susannah’s arm. She closed her eyes and swayed from left to right. Susannah went to pull away, but the psychic held tight. “I see light, love, and peace in your future as soon as you vanish past hurts. Until then, you cannot find the happiness you deserve. You need to free your spirit, loosen your hold on preconceived conventions. Your cousin Amy wants you to know there is no reason to be so rigid in the twenty-first century. She regrets that because of her words you’ve lived a life full of convention and meaningless rules, instead of freedom and spontaneity.” Dorian took the Complete Book of Etiquette—a Guide to Gracious Living from Susannah’s other hand and held it to her chest. “I will keep this safe. Let us try, for the next couple days while I am here, to let go of the past and really live in the present. Namaste.”

Susannah’s mouth dropped as Dorian swished past her in her long cotton tie-dye dress, leaving behind the scent of patchouli as she went through the doorway leading to the hotel’s lobby. Susannah glanced at Liz and Aunt Amelia, shrugged her shoulders, and turned, following behind Dorian. “Wait, Ms. Starwood…what does Namaste mean?”

After they left, Liz said, “Wow, could it be possible that Dorian will break Susannah’s attachment to her distant cousin Amy Vanderbilt’s rules for living?” Susannah claimed to be a distant relative to the first authority on etiquette, Amy Vanderbilt, who’d been a descendent of robber baron “Commodore” Cornelius Vanderbilt. It seemed Amy and Susannah shared a very diluted gene pool with American royalty, and she let everyone know it. Liz would bet that Susannah had memorized every word from her cousin’s etiquette bible. The only problem with that was, the autographed, seven hundred page copy Susannah owned was from 1958. Susannah was in her late seventies. Liz knew the rules for etiquette would be completely different in a modern-day version of the tome. Between Aunt Amelia and her mid-century television shows, and Susannah with her mid-century etiquette book, Liz felt like she lived in a time warp.

Aunt Amelia shook her head. “Let’s hope Dorian can get Susannah to leave all her rules behind. Maybe a good reading about a rosy future for Susannah might be the ticket. Although, I’ve seen such a change in her since your near-death experience last January. She dotes on you.”

A little too much, Liz thought, especially now that Susannah’s boyfriend was out of town. “I’m curious about the fact that Dorian’s fiancé hasn’t chosen a best man. Don’t you think that’s a little strange? And what did she mean when she said, ‘after what happened’?”

“I’ll have a chat with her. It’s too bad I can’t read her mind like she reads mine. I suppose Captain Netherton could fill in as best man?”

“Thought he got ordained online so he could perform the ceremony?”

“I forgot about that. Then your father would be perfect.”

“How about Dorian’s son? Branson? Wouldn’t he be the logical choice? Dorian just said he introduced Julian to her. I think this whole wedding weekend might turn into one big fiasco.”

“Reminds me of when I played a typist in Darren’s advertising office for the pilot of Bewitched,” Aunt Amelia glanced up at the sky, like she was looking into the past. “The episode where Samantha tells Darren she’s a witch. Dick York and Elizabeth Montgomery were such consummate, giving actors. Agnes Moorehead was also charming, but I thought her look was a little over the top, even for the 1960s.”

Liz nearly choked on her petit fours. In recent years, her great-aunt and the character Moorehead played, called Esmerelda, could have been twins; right down to their diaphanous jewel-toned caftans, beads, and bangles and hair color. She mused that Dorian’s fiancé must have been bewitched into marrying a woman twenty five years his senior. Or vice versa. Dorian was a very wealthy woman. She’d started out in the ’80s with a psychic talk line—a dollar a minute. Then when that went out of vogue, wrote bestselling books that sold in the millions. It was catty of Liz to question the white warlock’s motives, but after what had been happening at the Indialantic in the past year, as in a few murders, okay four, her family didn’t need any more bad press for the hotel and emporium.

Aunt Amelia was silent, staring at the bell tower like Dorian had done. It was rare that her great-aunt looked worried. Or was quiet. Liz didn’t like it. She’d caused enough worry for her great-aunt and father in the past couple of years and was determined to pay back all the love and support she’d received from them both. “While you’re at it, Auntie. Maybe you should ask Dorian why no one from her fiancé’s coven is showing up. From what you’ve told me, Julian’s society is based out of Jacksonville. It would only be a three hour trip.”

“I will, dear. I just hope, as their name says, the Sunshine Wiccan Society is full of sunshine and rainbows. I’m sure if there was anything evil going on, Dorian would sense it.” She put her hand over her mouth, realizing that Dorian had sensed it—as in her dream—or nightmare. “I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I’m worried about her, Lizzy. Never thought a bad dream could affect someone so much.” Aunt Amelia frowned, a rare facial expression, then removed the knitted cozy from the pot and poured more tea into her cup.

“You’re right, Auntie. I can relate to the power of bad dreams.” Occasionally, Liz had woken drenched in sweat, heart racing, and head pounding after a nightmare where she’d relived the night she’d been scarred. It was a blessing they’d been coming less frequently. It was thanks to all her family and loved ones at the Indialantic, including Ryan Stone. Time didn’t heal all wounds, but it sure as heck made them sting less.

Blowing on her steaming cup of tea, Aunt Amelia said, “She’ll be fine as soon as her fiancé arrives, but I’m worried about their future together.”

The aroma of mint and orange wafted toward Liz. “Just hope whatever happens, it doesn’t happen here.”

Famous last words…