style="font-size:15px;"> “I’ve heard something about that from Fiona.”
“Yeah, I guess I did, too. She’s like a walking Golden Bough. The unabridged edition, of course.”
“Speaking of Fiona and pixie food handouts, did you dowse the kids’ Halloween candy?”
“Huh! I did better than that. I dumped it out in the trash and substituted good stuff. I don’t think they ever knew the difference. This poison thing has me freaked.”
“You can’t be too careful,” I agreed. “You’ve heard about the Peacedale windfall? What’s your take on it?”
“It could be that old Mrs. Craig was a target, but, then, the poisonings just keep right on happening. That woman at the senior center had a close call.”
“Patty’s the one who saved the seniors. Took one look at those brownies and smelled a rat.”
“Bizarre coincidence, isn’t it. Here I am making brownie dolls and someone else in town is making poisoned brownies.”
“But not necessarily someone who lives in town. When did you begin this new project?”
“Just before Halloween. I got to thinking about trick-or-treating, which reminded me of the Picts, or brownies, in their nightly foraging expeditions. Hey, do you think that was a clairvoyant thing?”
“Very likely. Because your particular magic is so often expressed by handicrafts. So, my dear, if you get any new inspirations, we ought to give them serious attention.”
Deidre looked at her hands and smiled. “Well, what do you know. Clairvoyant fingers—there ought to be a special name for that.”
“If there isn’t, we’ll make one up. Maybe it’s a form of psychometry, though. That’s, like, when you put your hand on an old brooch and suddenly ‘see’ the history of the person who wore it.”
“I’ll stay out of the antique business, then. Might be overwhelming.”
“Oh, yes, the Picts,” Fiona said. Intrigued for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, I’d stopped in the Black Hill Branch Library to inquire after books referencing the Picts. “Supposedly they went to earth, literally, when the Romans invaded, hiding in burrows like prairie dogs. Not only were they smaller in stature, with darker skins, than the Celts, they probably emerged covered with dirt—hence the name ‘brownies.’ Some scholars insist that the Picts and Celts were one and the same, but I favor the theory that the Picts predated the Celts in Briton and were a truly aboriginal people. There’s some evidence that they spoke a different language. It was said that the Irish saint Columba needed an interpreter when he spoke to the king of the Picts on the banks of Loch Ness.”
“Loch Ness?” I was getting confused.
“The Picts were the original inhabitants of Scotland—I’ve always thought my tiny Aunt Gwenny MacDonald must have been a Pict throwback. Sharp little bird eyes, never missed a trick. Stood no higher than my shoulder. A true pixie. Taught me just about everything I know.”
“Which is just about everything there is to know,” I commented, still looking through the disappointing history section. Branch libraries are pretty poor pickings. I’d have done better at Fiona’s cottage, which was crammed with esoteric references that rivaled the collection at the New England Center for Physical Research.
While I grumbled over the shelves, Fiona busied herself making tea for the two of us. This was her kingdom, a minimalist library housed on the first floor of a cozy twenties’ bungalow. It was owned by the Plymouth Women’s Cooperative for Folk Arts, who still had a quilting room in the cellar. Furnished with warm, aged oak, it would have seemed like a step back in time except for the computer buzzing and gurgling on Fiona’s desk.
“Strange coincidences,” I said, giving up on the Black Hill reference books. “Someone is poisoning people with homemade brownies. I make an offhand comment about brownies sneaking in at night to help Deidre finish her dolls, and I find out she’s creating prototypes for a line of brownie dolls to sell on the Internet. What do you make of all these ‘brownies’ popping up?”
Fiona poured fragrant ginger tea into two thistle-decorated mugs, handed one to me, and opened a tin of shortbread. Immediately, Omar Khayyám wafted in from mouse patrol in the stacks and jumped gracefully onto her desk. “Never be surprised that synchronicity is woven into our lives. Everything is interconnected in spirit, my dear. The ultimate oneness of the universe is the basis of all magic. And healing.” She gave Omar a shortbread crumb and passed me the tin. “So when you perceive the pattern underlying these ideas and events that seem weird coincidences to you now, you’ll solve the mysterious poisonings.” She turned to the computer, punched a few keys, and clicked on a search item. After starting the printer, she turned back to her tea.
“I expected to do that with a vision. You mean I’m going to have to puzzle this out?” I wondered what she was printing.
“A little of one, a little of the other is my guess. I’m printing out a little essay on the Picts and the pixie-brownie connection for you to take home with you. That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it? I have some things at home, too, that I’ll set aside for you to read. Maybe something there will strike a spark in your psyche. That’s all it will take, my dear. But I wonder, don’t you, who the next target will be?”
Chapter Seven
A note on the table informed me that my bridegroom had gone shopping at Home Warehouse again. What worrisome home improvement was he planning now? My little house didn’t offer all that much scope for remodeling. I felt guilty that Joe hadn’t had the Wagoneer for transport, but relieved that I’d missed having to go with him to that big, drafty, barnlike place filled with the scent of raw pine, bins of dull, utilitarian tools, and toilets lined up like theater seats.
Scruffy had seized the opportunity for a nap on my white chenille bedspread. “Off, off, off!” I commanded. He sprang down instantly and trotted into the kitchen for a long drink of water, as dogs do when they’re embarrassed. What’s the fuss? No one else was using the big bed.
After booting the dog outdoors, I booted up my computer and was pleased to see a note from Freddie, my former protégée who now worked for a computer firm in Atlanta—an entry-level job at Iconomics, Inc. that she’d wheedled out of my son, who was a resident whiz at that firm.
From: witch freddie [email protected]
To: witch cass [email protected]
Subject: what’s up?
hi, cass. it’s me, don’t have to email from the library thanx to adam generously donating his old computer when he upgraded.
job’s going great. haven’t screwed up the works yet, so i got another mini-raise and a shot at fem management training (so iconomics gets to keep their government contracts.)
things are not so great, tho, at my apartment building. first it was the frizzling of the laundry room, for which i got blamed (hey, i do my best to keep control, but every time i was a wee bit late getting my stuff out of the dryer, someone dumped my undies all over the floor. third time it happened, i was major p.o.’d and the dryers blew up. quelle surprise! as the french say.) then there’s this thing with all the buzzers ringing every time i come in or go out. well, you get the picture. i am renter
