“Third party?”
“A spirit or a god, notionally. In this case I haven’t been able to identify which type of curse it is, but everything I have read suggests the curse is pretty much impossible to break, unless we can locate the person who cast it in the first place.”
“Can I even assume that the woman Jamar met cast this thing?”
“I would think not. His description of events sounded more like someone trying to rid themselves of the ring, rather than a person with a specific grudge against him.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll keep asking around.”
“OK. Thanks. What about this stone? Any suggestions?”
“The fearstone? That’s more of a prank than anything else. Much easier.”
The process for neutralizing the spell on the ‘fearstone’ involved a bucket of hot tap water, salt, and some rubbing alcohol. Sounded like something I might have drank in college. I think it worked, but neither Kara nor Jamar would agree to a test. Since it didn’t seem to affect me, I agreed to keep it on hand, so by the end of my lunch hour the egg was resting in my pocket, next to the leper coin. At this rate, I was going to need a Batman utility belt.
Still, that left the mystery of who put it there, why, and how it ended up sitting in the Lost and Found room. Problem was, I already had a mystery on my hands — what to do about Niki the Bull. My solution? I exercised my powers of delegation, and pawned the new investigation off to Kara, who seemed pleased to take on the project.
I also asked her to check in on Hidden Pleasures, to make sure everything had turned out all right with Ted’s night on the door. The big guy still hadn’t called in, so I was getting a bit queasy contemplating the possibility that things had skewed sideways at some point.
I was getting that feeling a lot recently.
CHAPTER 13
It turned out my concerns about Ted were unwarranted. When I returned to the office that afternoon, Kara told me that Melodi Roberts had been delighted with the way things had gone the prior night, and was even considering taking on Ted for special events. Just goes to show you that as intelligent and level-headed as someone may seem, they can still make grievous errors in judgment.
Jamar, though, was still having a rough time. The news that Professor Irving had come up with no real suggestions for dealing with the ring had hit him hard. And now Jamar’s father had announced he had been dating a Ukrainian woman half his age. Online. Next up was a trip to Kiev to meet her face-to-face and try to convince her to return with him to Canada.
Jamar was despondent, and I felt like we had to try something. Which is why I told him I was going to spend my Saturday scouring cottage country for some crazy lady, even though he was going to be at an uncle’s birthday party and couldn’t make it.
As it happens, Kara noted we had a run up north that was in the neighborhood. I guess we had a two week window to make the delivery each quarter, and that window opened on Saturday. She was also able to get contact information on Crazy Lady from the Treasure Chest — the customer outside Orillia that Jamar had done the original delivery for. I had a name and address, and figured it was worth meeting with the scheming wench.
“By the way, I think I might have a lead on that fearstone thing.”
“Really?” That was quick.
“Well, it’ll sound silly, but I swear I have seen that jacket before. I checked with Clay, and he thought I might be right.”
“Okay. And…”
“Bindings. I think it belongs to the owner.”
Bindings. Interesting. Kara was going to look for some evidence to back up her suspicions. Then we would need to decide what to do about it.
The following day I picked up Arcane 1 from the office and headed out for a weekend drive. It was a beautiful sunny day, rolling emerald hills, bales of hay baking in open fields, and mile after mile of glorious quiet. That absence of sound that I love so much. No horns honking or engines revving, no voices shouting. Just quiet.
“Goddamn this is boring.”
Oh — one thing. When I told him about my trip north, Ted had insisted on riding along. I flipped on some music, in an attempt to humor him.
“C’mon. No traffic, just tunes…” Arctic Monkeys. Great band.
Ted snorted. “You can’t even understand the guy! Please tell me you’ve got some Southern Rock on that thing. Skynrd? Allmann Brothers?”
“Forget it. My van, my iPod, my tunes.”
The complaints continued for the next hour.
I spotted the sign for Anadale Corners as we swept out of a long swale in the road. Kinsmen, Shriners and Knights of Columbus seals. Pop. 2387. Est. 1833. Just ahead I could see our destination. Just this quick drop, then we were off to find Crazy Lady.
“Is that it?”
Ted tilted his head forward and opened his eyes.
“Looks like it.”
I slowed, checking my rearview mirror to make sure no one was watching. Then pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, careful not to wander too close to the ditch. The van crunched along, kicking up dust as I slowed to a stop in front of an old cemetery.
Seventeen headstones of various sizes and shapes, all arranged in a semicircle facing a wooden arch which bore the legend Founders’ Resting Place. A path lined with woodchips ran from the road through a wooden lych gate to a point in front of the centre headstone, which was also the tallest of the group — a speckled granite cross that stood three feet high. Interspersed among the headstones were a number of shrubs, as though nature felt it necessary to bring life to this testament of death.
The nearest building was a home a half mile back, and there wasn’t a person in sight. I stepped out of the van, and Ted joined me.
It was quiet. Peaceful. When they laid me down to rest, this would be a good choice. A red-winged blackbird hopped on the branches of a birch ten yards behind the graves, its scarlet red epaulets vivid against the white and grey background.
A sneeze shattered the stillness, thundering across the landscape.
“Gesundheit.” Ted had been sneezing in the van for the whole drive, no doubt infecting me with some lethal virus.
He sniffed, a Kleenex in his hand. His eyes were watering.
“Must be my allergies.”
I stared around the cemetery. Wild flowers, grass, ragweed. A witch’s brew of allergens. Ted was your classic outdoor allergy sufferer, so late Spring and late Summer were the worst for him. Still, he didn’t usually get much more than a runny nose. Must be a bad year.
“Got your Claritin?”
“Nah, forgot it at home. I’ll be alright, just the sniffles.”
The two of us walked in silence to the headstones, then drifted in either direction along the line of them, taking in the names and dates.
In Memory of Benjamin Pollock, died 12th August 1841, aged 30 years.
James Bain, son of Archibald and Ellen Bain, died 19th July 1841, aged 6 years.
Two stones side by side — In Memory of Archibald Bain, died 31st July 1841, aged 28 years; In Memory of Ellen Bain, died 28th August 1841, aged 23 years.
“Christ, are they all the same on your side?”
“July and August 1841?”
“I have one in June.”
Seventeen tombstones, five families, all dead in less than three months during the summer of 1841. Pollock. Bain. Davies. Bryson. Turnbull. Six children ranging in age from three months and four days to ten years. Nine adults. Four couples and Josiah Davies, husband of Charlotte, father to John and Alexander.
“Anything for Charlotte Davies or the kids?”
“No.”
“No one else made it?”
Presuming they were the only families in town at the time, it appeared so. Life had been tough for the early settlers.