Penny
PROLOGUE
Some say I murdered my husband and hid his body.
Some say I harbor dangerous creatures.
Some say I’m magic.
But only some of them are right.
~ Penelope Diane Angel
I swiped a blanket of cobwebs off a shelf as my brother and I rummaged through his attic. The wind outside rattled the one window in the room as another violent storm pushed in from the ocean across Puget Sound. I dreaded the unmerciful winds from the north this time of year. Little did I know that these Pacific squalls brought more than wet and cold, they brought magic tempered with a hungry evil and seasoned with a witch’s greed.
With my back to the attic window, I didn’t notice the large branch outside until a harsh wind scraped it across the glass with a painful screech. I jumped like a surprised cat, my heart thumping against my chest.
Peter blew dust off the box in his hands and turned to look at me. “It’s just the wind.” He shook his head of wavy red hair that fell across his forehead. “Jeez, Penny, you’d think this place was haunted.”
“Haunted,” I snickered at the thought. I was a practical person; I didn’t believe in ghosts. Or goblins. Or things that went bump in the night. At least, not until the dreams started three months ago. Dreams that frantically urged me to find the key and unlock the door. A cryptic message followed by images of my mom’s books, photos, and her jewelry box.
The single light bulb dangling from a chain in the center of the room cast shadows that danced in the corners and across the walls. There was no color in the attic other than black, brown, and grey. I glanced at an old sewing form that loomed in the corner like a woman waiting for someone. Silent and lonely. Forgotten. For a moment I imagined myself standing there, remembering the emptiness that recently consumed me, my defeated sagging shoulders, the haunting memory of the day I left the courthouse. I was alone. The day shadows clouded my heart and left me afraid of what might come next.
Two weeks ago, I had looked around the courtroom, not as the prosecuting attorney that I usually was, but as the defendant. The jury found me innocent. The family found me guilty. I picked up what was left of my life and drove out of Los Angeles back home to Washington. And here I was in the attic of my brother’s home rummaging through the left-behind remnants of our mother’s life.
None of this stuff was familiar. I practically had a panic attack looking at all the boxes, furniture, and piles of stuff. How would I ever find whatever it was I was looking for?
“Ugh,” I shuddered and tried to cast off the heavy memory. But it lingered.
Remembering the accusing eyes of Jerry’s sister, the unsure expressions of the jury, and the displeasure of Judge Harrison, whom I’d dealt with on my own cases, were the things that haunted me still.
Peter moved a stack of boxes to get to a piece of furniture shoved up against the wall. An old wicker rocker, supporting a pile of old papers and a lamp I was sure didn’t work anymore, sat in one corner.
I’d moved away from the window at the front of the room, which was the only source of natural light. A fine layer of dust covered everything like a blanket of greyish snow.
It felt haunted.
Not haunted so much by restless spirits but by the past. Memories that didn’t want to let go. The fragrance of someone’s perfume that lingers after they’ve left the room, or the odor of nicotine that seeps into everything around it. The angst of hurtful words left hanging in the air.
Haunted.
I sneezed into the dust and cobwebs that claimed every surface. I glanced out the window. Rain streamed down the outside of the glass, blurring the view to the marina in the distance. It looked like the house was crying.
“Tell me again what we’re doing up here? What are we looking for?” He held up empty palms, waiting for an answer. “And why after all these years?”
“Because…” I didn’t have a real answer to why. The truth sounded so ridiculous I couldn’t say it out loud, especially to my brother. How could I admit that our mother’s ghost was talking to me in dreams? That she was telling me to find something of hers, or I might die a painful, awful death in the near future. “Huh,” I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know what to believe, and yet it was all I could think about.
Find it or die. Find what?
Even if I found something, what would I do with it? I knew myself too well. I was skeptical of everything until provided with sufficient evidence. After all, I was an attorney. I needed proof.
“Maybe a jewelry box, photo albums, or any old books of hers?”
I pulled a framed picture out of a wooden trunk. It was of Mom with me on her lap and Peter standing beside her. I must have been three or four in the photo. I brushed the dust off and looked at the faded image. I could now see my resemblance to my mom. Long red hair, pale green eyes, and an alabaster complexion. She was so beautiful. There was something about this photo I needed to examine. I set it aside to keep out.
“How about these?” Peter opened a box and pulled out some books.
“Let me see.” Novels and historical books. These were all generic, nothing to get overly excited about. I shook my head and handed them back. “No, these aren’t the right ones.” I was tired of this seemingly wild goose chase. I couldn’t shake the vision of Mom in my dreams, urging me to find it. But what was it? Hurry, she’d whisper in my ear. Come home. Time’s running out.
“Have you asked Belle? She’d probably know.” Peter shot me a sideways glance.
“Um, no.” I could feel the guilt crawling up my neck. “I haven’t been over to see her yet.”
“You know she knows you’re back. You need to go visit her.” Bossy big brother.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess.” I sighed. Belle was our godmother who raised us after our parents died.
Below the framed photo were faded quilts and linens, thin with age, and a stack of lacy doilies someone had crocheted. I think it was our grandmother. She died young too. Mom was thirty-eight when she died. I was ten at the time, and Peter was fourteen. My finger ran over the fine edges of the yarn, tracing the intricate crocheted design. My thoughts drifted back to the dreams and my mother’s messages. “You must unlock the door soon or you face the same end as me. You know where it is.” How could I know where it is, when I didn’t even know what it was? I held the doily up to my face, it smelled of mothballs. I closed the trunk and turned to look at my brother. Thunder rolled in the distance like a drummer’s solo performance. Strong, building up to a crescendo.
“Okay, so you spent all day up here yesterday and didn’t find anything. What makes you sure whatever you’re looking for is even here?”
“Peter,” I huffed. I tightened my jaw at the irrational reason in my head. Because of the frigging dreams that wouldn’t let me have a decent night’s sleep. I grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and screamed! I kicked a box that shot across the wood floor and knocked over a chair. “Because I’m either seeing ghosts or I need to be locked up in a mental ward!”
“I would say those were one and the same.” He stepped over and put his hands on my shoulders. My whole body trembled with rage.
“There has to be something. There. Has. To. Be!” My voice rose an octave with each word. Otherwise, why was I even there?
“Okay, then if there’s something you’re meant to find, we’ll find it.” He flashed me a crooked smile and leaned over to pick up the chair.
“Wait,” I stepped over and pulled a grey sheet off a pile behind where the chair had been. “I didn’t see this stack yesterday.” But it wasn’t a stack of boxes under the sheet, it was an old wooden desk.
My mind drifted away from the sounds of the oncoming storm outside, to a familiar scent that appeared to be coming from the desk. I sniffed then moved in closer, sniffed again. I bent down to the wood and sniffed once more.
“What are you, a bloodhound now?” Peter scoffed at me.
“Don’t you smell it?” I got down on my knees where the fragrance washed over my face. It was as if a bottle of perfume was pouring out from the underneath side of her desk. “It smells like Mom.”
“How do you know what Mom smelled like? She died like, twenty-seven years ago. I don’t remember what she smelled like.”
Obsessed with finding something that would bring me answers, I waved his comment off and dug as if my life depended on it. According to my crazy dreams, I felt as if my life did depend on it. What did she mean? What was time running out on? Me?
Was the wood soaked with perfume? Had a bottle spilled inside a drawer? I poked my head underneath the desk, closed my eyes, and inhaled the sweet fragrance. Mom. This was her. The smell reminded me of the nights she tucked me into bed and read me stories. It was her. I opened my eyes and that’s when I saw it.
Underneath the desk.
“Peter, hand me your flashlight.” I held out a hand. “There’s something taped to the underside of Mom’s desk.”
“What’d you find?” The cold handle of the flashlight slid into my hand.
Was this what I’d been dreaming about? Is this what she wanted me to find?
“It’s a small box, or…a book.” Could this be the book? The hair on the back of my neck stood up and prickled my skin. Three months of dreams and I was finally getting somewhere. I pulled at the cracked tape, dry with age. I coughed as particles fell into my face. A wave of energy surged through my hand and up my arm as I grabbed the book. “Help me up.”
Peter took the flashlight out of my hand and pulled me up. I sat down on the closed trunk and brushed all the dust and cobwebs out of my hair and sputtered to clear my mouth.
“What is it?” He directed the beam of his light onto the small book in my hands.
“It looks like a diary.” I tugged at the flap that held the front to the back, but it was locked. “It won’t budge.”
“Is it yours?” I could hear the anticipation in Peter’s voice.
“No!”
“Is there a key somewhere?” Peter moved around me and searched through the desk drawers. He bent down with his flashlight looking underneath and inside everywhere he could get to. He finally stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. “Nothing,” he huffed and pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. “But I have a key.” He fidgeted with the clasp but it wouldn’t give. “Scoot over.” Peter sat beside me on the trunk to put his full weight and focus on the lock.
Twice while he pushed the knife into the keyhole, the whole diary slipped out of his hands and fell on the floor.
“It doesn’t want you to open it,” I said raising an eyebrow at him. A small voice whispered in my ear, “The book holds the key. You must open the door.” I jumped and gasped, almost knocking Peter off the trunk. My heart pounded and my fingers tingled with a cold chill.
We weren’t alone in the attic.
“There’s more than one way in,” Peter turned the knife sideways and cut the flap that held the front to the locked part. Even still, it seemed to be made of something so sturdy, his knife had trouble cutting through it.
“Ha!” Peter jumped to his feet holding the diary above his head in triumph. “I did it.”
“Give it here,” I demanded as he sat back down.
Taking the diary back, I took in a ragged sigh as I touched the cover to open it. This was more than just a young woman’s memories. This was my mother’s secrets. Secrets she wanted me to discover. I carefully lifted up the faded cover and almost dropped it at the sound of a woman’s voice. “Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?”
“When I opened it. It sounded like…” I could see the skepticism on his face.
“All I heard was the wind outside.” He gave me his usual whatyoutalkinbout look. The one he’d been giving me since we were kids.
“Never mind.” But I heard it, the gasp of air a swimmer makes after coming up out of the water.
The pages were yellowed with age, uneven with ragged edges, and stiff with something smeared on many of them. I looked closer. There were dark brown smudges. Dried blood? I shivered. My fingers trembled.
As I read over the hand-written entries, Peter stood and pulled another box off a pile to search through. “Hey,” his eyes were wide with excitement as he pulled out a faded neatly folded American flag. “Dad’s flag from his memorial service. I always wondered where this went to.”
“What are you going to do with that?” I had very few memories of our dad. He’d died while in the Army, even before Mom passed. Most of my memories were of Mom being sad. Then she was gone too.
“I’m going to clean it up and put it in one of those framed boxes you know, so I can mount it in the living room.” He continued digging through the box and I directed my attention back to the diary.
After reading the first two pages I started to flip to the next page but the paper was stuck. I ran my fingernail down the whole edge of the page, but it was glued tight. I tugged and tugged at the paper and finally, the edge ripped and the page came up.
I was stunned at what I saw on page three.
