Fatal Charm Page 11

  One entire case held cookbooks. On a cookbook called Varmint Vittles there was a sketch of a squirrel and an opossum. I wondered if this was where Niles got his fish burger recipe.

  When I was around ten, I’d asked Mom to teach me how to cook. Her answer was to sign me up for a cooking class where I’d learned 101 ways to cook an egg—which could come in handy if I was ever stranded on a chicken farm. Fortunately Nona had stepped up and taught me some recipes. She’d offered to teach more, but with school and friends and everything, I put her off for another time … as if we had all the time in the world.

  “Recipes never age, only the cooks,” Nona had quoted once.

  Did she even remember that quote? Or was that piece of her memory gone? And what about her specialty recipes she’d never written down? Her spicy avocado dip and double delicious “Double Dip Chocolate Chip” cookies. Were these recipes already gone from her memory? Or did we still have time to save them … and Nona?

  I won’t give up, I vowed, even if it means digging up an entire cemetery in a snowstorm.

  There was a gentle touch on my shoulder.

  “Dominic?” I turned, but no one was there.

  The room was empty, except for an unusual aroma—a soft, flowery scent like lavender. Goose bumps rose on my arms. I wasn’t alone. The pressure of a hand on my shoulder remained. Not Opal, I could tell although I saw no one.

  Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply to concentrate and see beyond. A shape appeared, a misty cloud of a woman with a dark streak running through pale hair. Hair like mine! I realized with shock. She wasn’t much older than me either, and I recognized her face from the old photograph treasured among my great-great-great-grandmother’s possessions.

  “Agnes?” I called, hopefully.

  It was hard to keep her image in my head the way I could with Opal. Shadows and light danced, shifted, and faded away. Still I could sense her presence; energy rippled like waves in the air, tingling through me.

  “Agnes, it is you.” I wasn’t asking, I knew. “You came to help me?”

  I sensed her nod.

  The pressure from my shoulder vanished and moved to my hand. Her unseen fingers clasped mine, holding tight across centuries. The pressure increased and pulled me forward. I followed, moving across the room until I stopped at a glassed case with a plaque: Ledgers, Journals, and Diaries. Glancing down, I saw very old leather-and clothbound books.

  I bent closer, studying the dozen or so odd-sized books. There was a thin black leather ledger dated 1898, cloth journals with uneven stitching on the spines, and a row of very old diaries.

  Unseen fingers grabbed my hand and I watched in uneasy fascination as my second finger pointed to a plain, dark-brown diary, bound in soft, lined leather. There was tiny gold printing on the cover, and I bent low and squinted to read:

  Belonging to Agnes Jane Walker.

  Ohmygod! I’d found it!

  The remedy book.

  I shouted for Dominic.

  “Sabine!” He rushed through the open doorway, pushing strands of his sandy brown hair from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong! Everything’s right!”

  He wrinkled his brow as he stared at me. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s here!” I threw up my hands and twirled in celebration. This perfect moment deserved to be wrapped in glitzy bows and ribbons and a marching band trumpeting a parade. “I found it!”

  “Found what? You okay?”

  “I’m great! And Nona is going to be great, too!” I pointed to the plain brown book under glass. “Look at the thick brown book!”

  “A diary?” He tapped the glass case as he bent down for a closer look. When I heard his sharp intact of breath, I knew he’d read Agnes’s name.

  “I thought it was just another old diary until I saw Agnes’s name.”

  “Wow,” Dominic murmured.

  “Yeah, I feel the same way.”

  “After everything, it’s sitting here under glass. Unbelievable.”

  “Agnes led me to it. It’s like a miracle!”

  “Now we just need to open the case. I’ll get—” Dominic broke off, tilting his head as if he’d heard something.

  Then I heard it, too. Footsteps.

  Niles appeared in the doorway. His hands were on his hips as he regarded us with a stern look. “What’s the ruckus going on in here?” he demanded. “I left you in the artifact room.”

  “Sabine made a surprising discovery,” Dominic said.

  “She did?” The old man turned toward me. “What discovery?”

  “The book we told you about—it wasn’t in any of those boxes. But it’s here!” I pointed to the glassed case.

  “That’s the Walker diary.”

  “Agnes Walker was my great-great-great-grandmother.”

  “Well, I’ll be horse-whipped.” His gray brows knitted as he let out a low whistle. “Why didn’t you say Agnes Walker was your relation? All that talk about Katherine Trout, I assumed she was your ancestor.”

  “I have no idea who Katherine was. Her name was the clue,” I tried to explain, even though I was still making sense of everything myself. I wondered about Katherine and why Agnes had chosen her grave. Had they been friends? Or did Agnes pick that grave because it worked for the clues?

  “I could have brought you here if you’d asked for the Walker diary,” Niles said.

  “It’s not a diary,” I told Niles. “It’s a journal of herbal cures. If you look closely at the bottom of the cover there’s a faded word beginning with ‘Re.’ I’m sure it’s ‘Remedies.’”

  He reached in his pocket and withdrew a pair of wire-framed glasses, squinted down at the case, then shrugged. “I can’t make it out. But if you say it says ‘Remedies,’ then it must be. This diary has always been a mystery around here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now that’s quite a story.” Niles’s old eyes twinkled. “That book’s been here since before I was born, when my uncle was the caretaker here. Uncle Zebron told me that a stray dog dug up a metal box after the Pig Fire. He found the diary inside—but there was no record of any grave for Agnes Walker. He checked records going back and found no one by that name in Horseshoe.”

  “But she must have lived here,” I said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. That’s the mystery.” He grinned, showing a gap where a back tooth was missing.

  “Have you read the book?”

  “Look around at all the books.” He threw back his grizzled head with a deep laugh. “If I lived a dozen lives, I’d never have time to read every document. We have over three hundred diaries, cookbooks, journals, etc. This book is the oldest we have on display. There are hundreds more stored in the records room.”

  Gazing at the overstuffed shelves and full cases, I was amazed we’d ever found the right book. I had Agnes to thank.

  I gestured to the lock on the glass case. “Can you open this, Niles?”

  “Sure. Now just a sec while I figure out which key … ”

  I could hardly stand still as I watched the old man withdraw a key chain from his pocket. He flipped through several keys before settling on a small brass key no bigger than my pinky. He fit it into the lock and there was a soft click.

  “Be careful,” Niles cautioned as he gently handed me the book. “The spine is cracked and the pages have some water damage.”

  I held my breath as my fingers touched the treasure I’d been seeking for months. I could hardly believe I was actually touching a book that my great-great-great-grandmother wrote in so many years ago. On the opening page was her name in loopy cursive that was similar to my mother’s writing: Agnes Jane Walker. I nearly gasped when I saw four drawings below her name: a cat, house, fish, and horseshoe.

  My fingers trembled with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to read every precious word, but that would take time. The book must have over three hundred pages, all brittle and penned in faded ink.

  Flipping a page, I read:
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  Scrape corn with sharp knife three times. First scrape corn to break off kernels. Second scrape remainder off corn halfway. Third scrape off rest of kernels off cob. Then use potatoe masher and mash all kernels until milk comes out …

  I skimmed over the long scribbles of instructions to a page where the word “warts” grabbed my attention.

  Cut a potatoe in half and rub both sides of potatoe on wart. Put the potatoe back together. Put in brown paper bag. Bury the bag in the ground someplace you will never return to. When the potatoe rots the wart will dry up and fall off.

  Too bad Agnes didn’t have a computer with spell check, I thought. Or maybe potato was spelled differently a long time ago. There were other odd spellings; some so peculiar I couldn’t figure them out. The old-fashioned language was like a puzzling code without any grammar breaks or chapter headings.

  There were entire pages with odd words I couldn’t understand. It would take days—and possibly the help of a linguist—to find the memory-loss remedy.

  I glanced up to find Niles and Dominic staring at me.

  “Find it?” Dominic asked hopefully.

  “Not even close.” I shook my head. “It’s harder than I expected.”

  “Take your time,” Niles told me with a kind smile. “I don’t usually allow visitors to handle old documents, but I’ll bend the rules for such a nice young lady.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped my dusty hands on my jeans.

  “Glad to help. When you’re finished, give me a holler so I can return the book and lock its case.”

  “Return it?” I asked, startled.

  “Of course. It’s property of the museum.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I stared at the old man in disbelief. “This book belongs to my family.”

  “History can’t belong to any one person, only protected for posterity. As curator, it’s my job to protect all property of the Horseshoe Museum.”

  “But this is mine. Agnes left instructions so her descendents could find it. She was my great-great-great-grandmother.”

  “So you say.” His voice sharpened. Instead of a kind old man, he reminded me of a formidable bear protecting its cubs.

  “It’s true!” I insisted. “Look at the drawings on this page. They’re of the same charms I showed you. That’s proof this is mine.”

  “Museum property is museum property.”

  “But who owns the museum?” Dominic countered.

  “Technically, I do. But I consider it a sacred trust for the community.”

  “What community?” I argued. “Horseshoe is a ghost town. This is the only building still standing around here. It’s all about Shrub Flats now. Besides, I’m related to Agnes Walker. That book rightly belongs to me.”

  “I believe you, but I’ll need to see official documents such as birth and death certificates or a will.”

  “I don’t have anything like that.”

  “Too bad. I can’t just let people walk off with museum property.”

  “Can’t I borrow it? I promise to bring it back as soon as I’m done with it.”

  He pursed his lips stubbornly. “The diary stays in this room.”

  “But you have hundreds of old diaries. You won’t miss this one, and we desperately need it to save my grandmother.”

  “I’ve never allowed even one piece of history to leave this building, and I will not start now.” He folded his arms across his chest. “But I sympathize with your problem, especially since you’ve obviously been searching for this for a long time. You have my permission to copy as much of the diary you want.”

  “Do you have a copy machine?” I asked.

  “No. I couldn’t allow you to photocopy it anyway. Pressing the book flat causes damage to the spine. It’s already cracked and might fall apart.” Niles shook his grizzled head. “I’ll loan you paper and pens.”

  I turned to another page, squinting at odd words like “alum,” “laudanum,” and “efficacious.” How could I read something when I didn’t understand half of the words? I felt like crying but had to hold myself together for Nona.

  “It’ll take hours to find the right remedy,” I pointed out.

  “In that case,” Niles said cheerfully, “I’ll put out two more plates for dinner.”

  He supplied us with paper and pens, then returned to the kitchen.

  “That stubborn old fool!” I was so angry my hands shook as I tossed the paper and pens to the floor. “I’ll tell him what he can do with his stinky fish dinner. This is so unfair!”

  “Totally,” Dominic said quietly.

  “We worked so hard to find this book and now we can’t keep it, even though Agnes wanted me to have it.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “You bet it is. Why can’t Niles understand?”

  “I’ll go talk with him.” Dominic’s gaze drifted to the door. “He has to see reason.”

  “Don’t bother. He won’t change his mind.” I scowled. “Let’s just find the remedy.”

  We couldn’t both look at the diary, so we took turns.

  I went first, struggling to make out words and phrases that seemed from another language. It wasn’t like any English I’d read before. I could pick out some words and phrases, but others had faded away to faint scribbles, impossible to decipher.

  After a dozen or so pages, I found the word “memory”—only to read further and discover it was a cure for hairballs for cats.

  Groaning, I set the diary down on top of a glass case.

  “Nothing makes sense,” I griped. “It’s impossible.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” Dominic offered.

  He took the book and I watched over his shoulder. I could tell he was having trouble understanding the words, too. He’d sigh and shake his head, flip to a new page, then shake his head again. Finally, he closed the book.

  “Damn,” he said. “You’d have to be a cryptologist to read this.”

  “A historian could probably do it.”

  “Like Niles?”

  “I didn’t see him offering to help. He only cares about rules.” I tightened my fists, the violence inside surprising me. “Nona would know what to do.”

  “If she’s having a good day,” Dominic pointed out.

  Nona’s good days had been fewer lately. I hoped Penny-Love was watching out for her like she promised, making sure Nona didn’t drive anywhere alone or leave stove burners on. Seeing my grandmother lose her memory was like watching her slowly bleed to death with my arms tied behind my back.

  The world outside through the windows looked cold and white. The predicted snowstorm was fulfilling its dire promise. Not a winter wonderland, but as empty as a blank sheet of paper.

  When Dominic and I had discussed the charms earlier, he’d joked that the cat and house could mean Agnes worked in a cathouse. I’d argued that she would never resort to something so disgusting. But Dominic had replied, “Desperate people will do anything when they’re desperate.”

  He was right.

  And I had run out of options.

  After a moment of soul-searching, I bent down to pick up the paper and a pen from the floor. I ripped out a sheet of paper. The storm raged outside while inside all seemed quiet.

  I put pen to paper, then folded the paper and placed it on a glass case.

  “What’s that for?” Dominic raised his dark brows.

  Shaking my head, I answered, “You don’t want to know.”

  I thought of Nona, who was so proud and strong, who would do anything for me. Losing her memory was a slow death. She’d taken me into her home and loved me unconditionally. I’d do anything for her, too.

  “We’ve run out of choices.” I summoned courage in a deep breath. When I blew it out, I felt a chilling calm. “There’s only one thing we can do.”

  Dominic eyed me uneasily. “What?”

  With the precious book secure inside my jacket, I reached for the door. “Get out of here.”

  Then I started running.

  Dominic’s
boots thudded behind me, but I didn’t slow, clutching the remedy book inside my jacket. I had no plan, only desperate impulse. Escape, my brain screamed. So I ran faster, racing down the hall, spinning around a corner and yanking open the back door, swept into a blustery snowstorm. Ducking underneath the hood of my jacket, snow stung my face and I struggled against brutal wind, slowing but never stopping.

  “Sabine, what are you doing?” Dominic caught up with me by his truck, grabbing my shoulder to spin me to face him.

  “What does it look like?”

  “Stealing?”

  I bent over slightly, gasping for breath and tasting snow. “It’s not stealing when it’s mine.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

  I laughed bitterly. “I can’t believe it either.”

  Remorse and guilt might hit me later, but in this wild moment I felt proud. Wrong, right, whatever—it depended how you looked at it. I’d done something wrong for the right reason, totally out of my comfort zone, something no one would ever expect from a “good girl.”

  “Your sisters look up to you,” Mom used to drill into me. “Forget all that ghost nonsense and set a good example.”

  Even Nona praised me for my honesty. “I can always trust you, Sabine,” she had said many times.

  Penny-Love had a different twist on it. “Sabine, you’re so goody-goody, you make me want to barf!”

  Watch this bad girl now, I thought.

  Dominic’s keys rattled as he opened the truck door. “Get inside before we freeze.”

  I pushed my damp hair from my eyes. “You aren’t going to make me go back?”

  “Hell, no! The book is yours. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Absolutely no freaking idea.”

  “I figured as much,” he said with a laugh.

  “You got any ideas?” I stretched my seat belt across my shoulder.

  “Nope—except getting out of here.” He twisted his key, the engine roaring to life. The windshield wipers flicked off snow in icy clumps. “Let’s hit the road.”