Spellbound Read online

  “I could have done that.”

  “I’m not using your telekinesis for chores.” He awkwardly maneuvered the painting to the settee then straightened to face the small safe hidden in the wall. “Leena Brodigan ran Brodigan’s Appraisals with her husband for a decade, until he passed from Spanish influenza four years ago. She closed the shop, put it up for sale, and went upstate to be close to her sister, a longtime resident of Hyde Gardens.”

  Arthur reached for the combination lock on the safe as Jade averted her eyes. No paranormal should know how to get in that safe, she insisted. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Brodigan’s sister, Lorna McCaffrey, had been battling consumption for years,” he said as he spun the dial. “She lost the battle only a few weeks after Mrs. Brodigan joined her.”

  “The poor dear, losing her husband and her sister so close,” Jade said, echoing Arthur’s own sympathy. “Why was her sister in an asylum?”

  He swung the heavy front of the safe wide to reveal its contents, a single small ring box. “Apparently Lorna McCaffrey thought she could see the future.”

  Jade’s eyebrow went up. “We’ve never met someone with that ability.”

  “Of course not. If we had, they’d be on my payroll.” He took the box from the safe, always heavier than it looked from the lead within. “But it’s a coincidence, isn’t it? One sister supposedly can see the future, the other accurately appraises antiques?”

  Jade made a contemplative hmm. “You’re thinking precognition and psychometry? One saw the future, the other sees the past?”

  “I’m thinking I’m going to find out.” Arthur brought the ring over to Jade as she rose to her feet. “Mrs. Brodigan still has debts from her husband’s illness. I set her with a test last night and a nice financial incentive to take it. If she fails, we’re back to square one.” He held out the box, small and unassuming in his palm. “But if she passes, maybe she can make something of this.”

  Jade furrowed her brow. “I don’t like you handling it. You haven’t got a speck of magic—”

  “Which is exactly why I do it and not you.” He offered her an honest smile. “But I am happy you’re back from Canada.” It had been too quiet the last few weeks. Then again, Arthur had gone from a big family into college into the army. Now he had an apartment all to himself, and despite the city’s constant commotion, the empty flat was always too quiet.

  “You could meet someone—”

  “Not in America,” he said immediately. “If I’m caught with a man abroad, at least I can lie about my name. With my luck, any handsome stranger I meet here will turn out to be a reporter or a blackmailer or an undercover bull, and then I will have single-handedly ruined John’s and my father’s political futures.”

  “They won their last elections—”

  “They’re not immune to scandal—”

  “But you’ve a right to be happy too,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” Arthur lied. “I have a radio and a phonograph and—” the air was split by a shrill ring in the parlor “—and a private telephone,” he finished pointedly. “So as you can see, I’ve plenty to keep me company while I’m stuck back on this side of the Atlantic.” The phone rang again. “Besides, what’s your rush for me to pair up again?” he called after her, as she went through the open pocket doors and into the adjoining parlor to answer the phone. “You didn’t even like Lord Fine.”

  “You didn’t even like Lord Fine.”

  Arthur made a face, but she wasn’t wrong. He locked the ring box into his briefcase and set about closing up the safe and rehanging the painting. He caught only snatches of Jade’s one-sided conversation on the telephone, yes, of course and perhaps a cafe and I’d be happy to relay that message.

  A moment later, she returned to the sitting room, a sly grin on her face. “Mrs. Brodigan doesn’t want you in her shop this morning.”

  “That’s odd.” Arthur straightened the painting, all evidence of the safe hidden. “Did she say why?”

  “Only that it was occupied. She’s willing to meet you at a restaurant on 49th.”

  “A public place?” He frowned. “I can’t take a relic around innocent people—”

  “That’s the soldier in you talking,” Jade said gently. “The ring doesn’t work. It’s an unloaded pistol, only dangerous to a subordinate paranormal—like Mrs. Brodigan may be, which is why we need her, and which is why you’re going to meet with her, whenever or wherever she chooses.”

  Arthur huffed, but again, she wasn’t wrong. “I suppose you have a point,” he said grudgingly. “As you usually do. If she changed the plan, why are you smiling?”

  “Because she’s very cross with you.” Jade had a sparkle of hope in her eyes. “Almost as if she doesn’t appreciate a night spent taking a test.”

  Arthur broke into a matching grin as answering hope coursed through him. “Fingers crossed.”

  * * *

  The cafe turned out to be an Irish place, a rebranded Hell’s Kitchen pub that Arthur suspected had served a decent beer five years ago. It was about half-full that morning, patrons nursing weak coffees and gigantic plates of eggs and sausages, tomatoes, and baked beans. Tempting, but no amount of nostalgia for the other side of the Atlantic would ever make Arthur willing to call beans breakfast.

  He’d arrived early for the appointment and sat at an uncovered wood table alone, the ring secure in its box in the briefcase at his feet. He’d only seen it twice himself. Once in Spain, when they’d found it and Jade’s telekinesis hadn’t worked. And once six months ago, high in the Adirondacks and miles from the nearest town, where their new friend Zhang had confirmed the ring was a relic.

  An actual relic—and Arthur had brought it to a Hell’s Kitchen restaurant of innocent people. A ring that had fed for centuries on its own magic chains until whatever mysterious power it held grew to a titan, a smoking volcano—

  No. A dormant volcano. Zhang had been clear that the relic was unbound. Its creator was long dead and its magic was sealed. Manhattan was safe because the ring didn’t work and Arthur was determined to keep it that way, which was why he needed Leena Brodigan’s magic.

  A waitress walking past shot him an interested smile. He gave her one of his own, like he wasn’t hiding any kind of volcano in a sodding briefcase.

  If Mrs. Brodigan was truly psychometric, if she was able to scry objects’ histories—scry the ring’s history—

  He forced the hope down to a simmer. It was more likely she was just an appraiser who was good at her job. At any rate, he was about to find out, because she’d just walked in. She was wearing the same brown winter coat she’d worn the day before, with large pockets and fake fur on the collar and cuffs. A small brown felt hat was perched on top of her neat gray bun. But gone this morning was the smile she’d had for him yesterday, replaced by a flat mouth and suspicious eyes.

  Arthur’s pulse sped up. He got to his feet as the waiter led her to his table. “My dear Mrs. Brodigan—”

  “Good morning, Mr. Kenzie.”

  Interrupting the customer—oh, she was cross with him indeed. This was very promising. He stood for the waiter to seat her before retaking his own chair.

  The waiter pulled out a yellow pad from his apron. “Coffee? Breakfast?”

  “Only tea for me.” Mrs. Brodigan’s gaze stayed fixed on Arthur. “I haven’t decided how long I’m staying.”

  Excellent. As the waiter disappeared, Arthur gestured broadly to the menu. “Obviously my treat. Whatever you’d like—”

  “Some truth from you.”

  Arthur rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. “I am at your service.”

  She gave him a withering look. “You can save the charm and the big blue eyes for the younger ladies, dear.”

  She set his letter box in the center of the table. “You paid double for my time, so I daresay you’re entitled to waste it
, but I would like to know what you’re playing at.”

  She opened the carved lid, displaying the stack. “Twenty-one letters purported to be written by the abolitionist Frederick Douglass. Twenty-one forgeries by twenty-one New York forgers, some of them truly excellent.”

  Arthur held his breath.

  Mrs. Brodigan reached into her substantial handbag and withdrew an envelope, then laid it on the bare table. “One genuine letter, handwritten by Mr. Douglass to a Miss Hannah Fuller of the Skaneateles Ladies Anti-Slavery Society.” She folded her short arms and leveled an unamused stare across the table. There was an angry set to her jaw, defensive, almost protective. “There was a lot of sleep lost to find that single letter. What’s your game, Mr. Kenzie?”

  Arthur could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He picked up the genuine letter, tucking it away in his jacket and setting his briefcase on his lap. “I needed to know I could trust you.” He dialed the combination into the lock then withdrew the ring box from the briefcase, setting it on the table between them. “For what’s in this box, I had to be certain that you could do the job.”

  Mrs. Brodigan glanced at it, then back at Arthur. “I told you to save the charm for the younger set. That means the jewelry too.”

  But despite her irritation, there was also interest now, as she looked at the tiny box. After a long moment, she pulled a pair of reading spectacles out of her handbag, balancing them on her nose. She then picked up the box without a flinch.

  “This is heavy,” she said, weighing it in her hand.

  “It is.” Arthur was impressed. Even Jade didn’t like to touch the box. Mrs. Brodigan’s control over her psychometry must be impeccable.

  “Hmm.” She turned it in her hand. “And are you wanting this box appraised too?”

  Arthur snorted. What a wonderful actress. She had to recognize the feel of the lead in the box’s lining and know her psychometry would be useless. But if she wanted to pretend, he’d play along. “You’re welcome to try,” he said dryly.

  “Hmmm.” She peered more closely at the box, and then reached for the lid.

  “Wait.” Arthur set his hand over hers, stopping her just in time. “You can’t open that here.” What a nightmare that would be—

  “Mr. Kenzie.” Her gaze was cold again. “I was very clear yesterday. We do not appraise weapons.”

  “It’s exactly what it looks like.” Arthur drew his hand away, relieved when she made no further move to open the box. “A ring.”

  She set the box back down on the table with a scoff. “Then why can’t I look at it?”

  “You most certainly can—and indeed, I’m rather fervently hoping you will—but not yet and not here.” He clasped his hands. “I will explain everything to you, but please believe me when I say that you will want more privacy when I do.”

  “Hmmm.” Her mouth was a thin line. “I suppose we might be able to use the shop later this morning—”

  “You Arthur Kenzie?” It was the waiter. “A Mr. Zhang just called our telephone. Had a message for you.”

  That was unusual for Zhang. “Is he still on the line?” Arthur asked.

  The waiter shook his head. “He wants you to come see him. Said it’s urgent.”

  Arthur’s stomach dropped. He swiped the ring off the table and stuffed it back into the small square in the padded briefcase, then shut the lid and locked the briefcase tight. He held out his hand to Mrs. Brodigan as he got to his feet. “My sincerest apologies.”

  “You’re leaving?” Mrs. Brodigan raised an eyebrow and ignored his hand. “Taking the job with you, I suppose?” She shook her head. “It’s just as well. I don’t think I trust you very much.”

  “Is that right?” She was slipping through his fingers. No one was looking their way, so Arthur quickly reached into his jacket and withdrew a fat envelope, which he set on the table. “For last night, including a tip. And if you’ll appraise that ring, I’ll pay triple.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He leaned forward. “You see, I trust you, Mrs. Brodigan. I trust you very much.”

  But she scoffed. “You don’t trust me. You won’t even let me see that ring.” She began to stand. “No, Mr. Kenzie. I believe our business is over.”

  Damnation. Without letting himself hesitate, Arthur set the briefcase on the table. “Keep it.”

  She went still.

  “As collateral, until we can meet again.” Every inch of him protested the thought of letting the relic out of his sight, but they couldn’t lose Mrs. Brodigan. They needed her.

  He leaned closer, and added quietly, “But my conditions, as your client, are that you keep it safe and you don’t try to open it until we can talk.” He swallowed. “I’m afraid I’m quite serious about this part. I’ll need your word.”

  She eyed him, weighing him with her bright green gaze. Finally, she nodded. “I suppose it’s not the strangest thing I’ve been asked to do.” She set a hand on the briefcase. “All right, Mr. Kenzie, I accept your terms. I’ll keep this safe and unopened. You have my word.”

  He breathed out a sigh of relief even as tension flooded his stomach. Unloaded pistol, he told himself. Dormant volcano. Jade was still going to kill him, but everything Arthur had learned about Mrs. Brodigan implied she was the steadiest, most forthright of souls. He hadn’t lied when he said he trusted her. “Can we meet at your shop this afternoon?”

  She shook her head. “I have a driving lesson.”

  “A driving lesson?”

  “It’s part of a payment for sorting out a watch. My patrons can be a bit eccentric.” She gave him a pointed look. “Tomorrow morning?”

  That was much longer than Arthur had wanted to wait. But he supposed when they’d been waiting months, one more night couldn’t hurt. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

  He dropped another bill on the table to pay their tab and rushed to catch a cab to Chinatown.

  Chapter Three

  “—we’d be delighted to look at your brooch, but I’m afraid the pistol is out of the question. As you can see by our sign, it’s strict store policy, absolutely no weapon appraisals—”

  “—surely you could make an exception—”

  “—I’m sorry, sir, but if it was created to cause pain, we don’t appraise it, and that isn’t up for negotiation—”

  Rory cracked an eye. He ached all over, his skin still prickly from a night scrying, his muscles sore from too little sleep and in a chair at that. He felt around on the side table until his hand landed on his new glasses. He slid them on and rested his temple against the chair’s wingback side as he listened to Mrs. Brodigan haggle with a potential customer.

  “—but it’s not a very large pistol—”

  “—I daresay I might have misspoke earlier; it’s looking like we won’t have time to appraise the brooch either—”

  “—wait, wait! All right, just the brooch, I’ll take the pistol somewhere else—”

  Rory slouched deeper, feet propped on the battered footstool. He only half listened as Mrs. Brodigan took down the customer’s details, then finally the bell jingled as the front door of the shop swung shut. A moment later, Mrs. Brodigan popped her head in the office doorway. “I thought I heard you stirring.”

  He yawned. “Weren’t you meeting what’s-his-name this morning, the high hat rush job?”

  “We went to the restaurant on 49th. You deserved some sleep, so I told him the shop wasn’t available.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I trust him yet and I certainly don’t think he ever needs to know about you.”

  His tired brain managed some gratitude, mixed in with the persistent irritation that Kenzie had given them such an impossible job. “And did you tell him off for being a colossal time-wasting prick?”

  “Language, dear. And yes, I was very cross with him.” She hesitated. “At first.”

 
“At first?”

  “How about I make us a cup of tea?” She was already on her way out of the office.

  “What bad news do you have if you’ve got to butter me up with tea?” he called after her.

  “So suspicious!”

  Not a denial. Rory reluctantly pushed up to his feet and made his way out of the office. Mrs. Brodigan was puttering behind the cash register counter, turning it into a makeshift kitchen with her hotplate and kettle. She set a new tin of Mrs. Meyers’s apricot hamantaschen cookies next to the register, and Rory helped himself while she made up tea and passed him a mug.

  “So,” said Rory, savoring the warmth of the mug against his cold, still prickly hands, “what does at first mean?”

  “He admitted the task was a test.” Mrs. Brodigan took a breath. “Because he has another job.”

  Rory snorted. “And I’ll do it for him,” he said, lifting the mug to his lips, “in another lifetime.”

  “He paid for last night, with a tip. And for the new job, he’s offering triple.”

  Triple. Rory cursed into his tea, because now he was listening. “And what does he want for triple? Me in a maid’s uniform, scrying all the china in his Fifth Avenue mansion?”

  “He lives on the Upper West Side and he gave me a ring.”

  A ring? Rory wrinkled his nose as Mrs. Brodigan set her mug down by the cash register. She bent behind the counter and a moment later set a briefcase on top.

  Rory nodded at it. “Let’s see it.”

  But she shook her head. “We can’t look at the ring until he can explain things. I gave my word.”

  He put his own mug on the counter and ran a finger over the supple leather. Two small gold locks flanked the handle at the top, each with three dials of numbers. “Locked,” he pointed out. “We supposed to appraise the case too?”

  “I only asked about the box the ring is in. He said I was ‘welcome to try.’”

  This Kenzie fella was so weird. Then again, this was an antiques shop. Plenty of their customers were quirky and a fella who saw visions wasn’t exactly in a place to judge. “Did he say what he wants it all for?”