As the Crow Flies, page 18
A soft murmur of conversation came from a handful of people having lunch. The six stools at the short bar were empty, and Samantha got up on one. Through a glass door on her left she saw the Courtyard with its umbrella-covered tables, outdoor bar, and bustling crowd of diners. Beyond that she spotted two other barn-like structures, and judging from the vintage photographs hanging on the tavern’s walls, she presumed those buildings were renovated stables that once accommodated the carriage horses of weary travelers.
A distinguished gray-haired bartender in a black vest and bowtie emerged from a doorway, turning up the cuffs of his white shirt as he came to greet her. “Avoiding the heat or the crowd?” he asked, sliding a cocktail menu toward her.
“A little of both,” Samantha said, looking down at a list of this week’s Prohibition Era drinks. She trailed her finger down the curious cocktails until she stopped at a Bee’s Knees. “Hmm…lavender-infused honey with lemon and gin? I have to try this…but how does it relate to Prohibition?”
“Well, during Prohibition,” he said, pouring ingredients into a stainless-steel shaker, “speakeasies needed to mask the smell of bathtub gin in case the cops made a raid, so they’d add honey and lemon and sometimes herbs, like lavender.” A few shakes and he poured the purple-colored elixir into a frosted martini glass and smiled. “If you don’t like it I’ll make you something else.”
Samantha lifted it to her lips. It was cold, almost icy, and she smelled the lavender before she tasted it. “Very nice,” she said, letting her taste buds fully appreciate the sweet honey and lemon zest. “In fact, this is so good, I’m going to trouble you to make another one for my lunch date, who’ll be here any minute.”
While he complied and she had the bartender all to herself, Samantha took the opportunity to engage him in conversation about rumored hauntings at the inn. “Any ghosts around from the Prohibition Era?”
“Where do you think we get our recipes?”
Samantha laughed and quickly got him talking about the inn’s ghosts. He shared hearsay concerning hauntings and reports of paranormal activity—especially room 301, an apparent hot spot for spirits—until movement outside the glass door caught her eye, and she turned to see a tall, slim blonde in dark sunglasses walking up to the door through the Courtyard. She wore white cropped pants and a loose floral top, a large and most likely designer bag hanging from her shoulder. The sight of her was arresting. That this woman was here to meet her filled Samantha with pride and nervous anticipation.
Gwen removed her sunglasses as she came through the door, seeming to give her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light as she scanned the room and spotted Samantha at the bar.
Samantha slid off her stool at Gwen’s approach, feeling the dizzying effects of both the woman and the libation she’d started drinking on an empty stomach. “Hi,” she said, opening her arms.
“You know, Sam,” Gwen whispered, hugging and keeping Samantha in her embrace long enough to speak against her ear, “if it’s a ghost you want to see, you didn’t have to come here.”
“I know.”
Gwen let go and smiled at the lavender-colored cocktails on the bar. “Bee’s Knees? What a nice surprise.”
“You’ve had one before?”
“I have. They’re delicious.”
Samantha frowned. “I was hoping to turn you on to a new experience in Prohibition Era drinks.”
“Well, I’ve never had one with you, so it will be a new experience. Shall we sit?”
Once they’d taken their drinks and moved to a table, Samantha sighed with satisfaction. She couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather be with or any place she’d rather be, except maybe in bed, making love with Dr. Laraway.
“I hope I didn’t forget my glasses,” Gwen said. She set her bag on her lap, and as she dug through it, Samantha stole a moment to secretly admire her face.
Samantha was sure Gwen had been to a salon since she’d last seen her. Her blond hair had more highlights than it had last week and seemed a few inches shorter than Samantha remembered. What had fallen around her shoulders now barely touched them, and the shorter length gave her hair more waves.
Samantha squinted, closing her eyes just enough so that her vision blurred, erasing the years from Gwen’s face and allowing her a glimpse of what Gwen had looked like as a young woman in her thirties. And then she slowly opened them again, letting her eyes time-travel back to the precious present.
She smiled to herself, decidedly enamored of the seasoned woman sitting across from her. She’d always been attracted to older women, although she herself was now as old as the older women she’d admired in her youth. There was something about character lines, signatures of life’s experiences…those visible accumulations of the many surprises that raise the brow, deep thoughts that furrow it…disappointments and sorrows that turn down the corners of the mouth, and the endless delights that turn them up again and crease the cheeks with laughter over life’s amusements and absurdities. And while many women would do anything to erase those character lines, Samantha found that they added an alluring depth to a woman of a certain age. On Gwen, those gentle lines lent a sensual maturity, a rich complexity and unapologetic confidence to her still-beautiful face.
Gwen pulled out her eyeglasses, hung her bag on the chair, and turned back as Samantha continued to smile at her. “What?” she said, her blue eyes catching the light of the old electrified gas lamps that hung on the wainscoting above their table.
“Nothing.” Samantha still smiled. “I was just thinking that you cut your hair.”
“I did. Do you like it?”
“I do. And your pink nail polish. You weren’t wearing any last time I saw you.”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Detective Crowley?”
“Not on you, I don’t.”
Gwen held her gaze, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I’m beginning to think you have a crush on me, Ms. Weller.”
“You have no idea, Professor.”
“Oh, I think I do.”
“Is that an admission of a reciprocal crush?”
Gwen only answered with a tentative, flirtatious smile and raised her glass. “Here’s to sunny days spent in haunted taverns with a mystery writer who has herself become an intriguing mystery.”
Their glasses touched, but before Samantha could take the conversation to a more personal level, Gwen steered it away, as she was adept at doing. “And speaking of mysteries,” she said, “I started your third book yesterday.”
“Really,” Samantha said, content to let Gwen take the lead for a while. Just knowing her feelings were reciprocated was enough to sustain her for now. “How far along are you?” she asked as the waitress brought menus and filled their water glasses.
“Not too far. The ailing Mr. Minerva, having discovered that Mrs. Minerva has secretly kept a mistress throughout their marriage, has just expired and in an act of vindictiveness is attending his own funeral in hopes of taking possession of Ms. Edwards, the town’s affluent Realtor and his widow’s long-time lover.”
“Just your average paranormal soap opera, isn’t it?” Samantha laughed. “However, the late Mr. Minerva isn’t taking possession of Ms. Edwards. He’s attempting an auric attachment.”
“Right, I read that, an auric attachment. I actually looked it up but couldn’t find anything on the subject. I take it to be a form of possession, no?”
“Not exactly. Possession would be the act of a spiritual entity entering the body of someone. In the case of auric attachments, the intrusive spirit remains outside the body, sort of piggybacking the aura of a vulnerable person and feeding off its energy.” Samantha opened her menu. “You’ll understand it as you read on.”
“Did you make that up?”
“Auric attachments? No,” Samantha said, her eyes immediately drawn to the day’s special—fresh crab cakes. “I stumbled upon the phenomenon while researching something else.” She looked over the top of her menu. “As far-fetched as it sounds, many paranormal researchers believe that certain medical conditions, such as Epstein-Barr syndrome and other energy-zapping afflictions, are often misdiagnosed cases of auric attachments.”
“Is that so?” Gwen put on her glasses and opened her own menu. “And how do they propose to establish a correlation, let alone a causal relationship?”
“Well, what’s interesting is that in one study, over five hundred patients were interviewed about their recent histories. Within two weeks prior to the onset of symptoms, it turns out that more than seventy percent had been in a funeral parlor, a cemetery, or a hospital—all likely places to encounter newly deceased souls who haven’t yet transitioned. And some of those souls, perhaps not yet knowing they’re dead, or not wanting to accept that they’re dead, look to attach and feed off the electromagnetic field of a susceptible person.”
“Now there’s a scary thought. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. So…in the case of Mr. Minerva’s ghost,” Gwen said, “by attaching itself to the aura of his wife’s mistress, he’s hoping for what, vicarious conjugal visits, a theoretical ménage à trois?”
Samantha laughed. “Something like that, yes, unless Candice Crowley can detach him from Ms. Edwards’s aura and send him on his way.”
“Hmm.” Gwen was silent for a moment. “You know, there’s a new-age center here in the Berkshires that offers aura photography every so often. I went the summer before last and dragged Isabel along.”
“Really? I’ve always wanted to do that. How does it work?”
“I believe two photos are taken simultaneously and then superimposed—one of you and the other of your electromagnetic field. When we sat in front of the camera, we had to place our hands on electronic pads,” Gwen explained. “It’s a complicated process, I’m sure, but vibrations from the electrical charges are sent to the camera and translated into colors. I read somewhere that Tesla actually invented the aura camera at the turn of the last century, part of his research in robotics.”
“Tesla? Now that’s interesting. I wonder if he took pictures of pigeon auras.”
“Pigeons?” Gwen raised her brow. “All living things have auras…but why would he photograph a pigeon’s?”
“Tesla loved them. During the years he spent living in New York hotels he was known to take in injured pigeons he found in Central Park.” Samantha grinned at Gwen’s quizzical expression. “I only know this because my grandfather, a retired engineer, was a homing-pigeon hobbyist and fascinated by magnetoreception, nature’s GPS. When I was little and we still lived in Texas, he’d bring along a couple of birds on every family road trip. When we got to where we were going, sometimes a hundred miles or more from home, we’d release them. As they flew away he’d proudly say, ‘Those birds will be home before us.’ And they always were.”
“Amazing. I wonder what gives some birds that biological compass.”
“Magnetite. Possibly in the cells of the inner ear…and extra brain cells that store information on the earth’s magnetic field like a GPS stores maps.” Samantha closed her menu. “I’m having the crab cakes.”
“I’m going with the lobster roll,” Gwen said. “Should we share a salad?”
“Sure. You choose,” Samantha said as the waitress approached. She liked the idea of sharing anything with Gwen.
After they ordered, Samantha leaned back and folded her arms. “So tell me about your aura. What did it look like?”
“Well, mine was mostly green and orange, and above my head were five distinct balls of glowing light, a half circle of orbs, which I was told were spirits.” She paused to sip her lavender cocktail. “I was expecting the interpreter to say they were guardian angels, you know, spirits of people or animals I’d loved and lost and who were now watching over me. But he said they were ‘universal spirits’…spirits who knew me but whom I did not know personally.”
“Higher-level beings…unseen forces connecting you to them.” Samantha considered this information. “Maybe that connection is what gives some of us a consciousness of something greater than ourselves…while others don’t feel that connection and never give it a thought.”
“That’s exactly what I took it to mean. Some people never think beyond what they’re having for dinner, what movie they want to see, what plans they have for the weekend, while others always wonder where they fit into the larger scheme of things.”
Samantha finished her cocktail. “And what about the colors of your aura? Do they have a meaning?”
“Green was a sign of harmony and balance, I believe, a oneness with nature. The orange represented independence, playfulness, creativity…a sense of adventure. I’ll show you the photograph when we get back to the house. If I can find it.”
“Definitely. I’d love to see it. And next time you hear of it being offered, please let me know,” she said as their salad came. “And what was Isabel’s aura like?”
“A lot of yellow, but mostly bright red.”
“Red being what, anger?”
“Actually, no. They say kids and animals often have bright-red auras. It indicates a strong physical nature, an almost childlike awe and appreciation of the physical world. And that’s Isabel,” Gwen said as she took a fork and pushed half the salad onto Samantha’s plate. “If she can’t pet it, play with it, drive it, dance to it, climb or swim through it, it doesn’t exist. I told you that’s why I think she can’t see Alley. She’s spiritually blocked.”
Samantha speared a piece of arugula and feta cheese. “Why do you think?”
“Part of it might just be her practical nature, but I’m sure a lot of it has to do with losing her mother so suddenly and at such a young age. I think that acute physical absence taught her to cling to things that are substantial, solid, reliable. Things she can wrap her arms and her head around. But I’m hoping something will happen to open her up, and I have a hunch Liz will prove to be a catalyst.”
“Liz is making a trip to see her parents and do some antiquing this weekend. I think she might have asked Isabel to join her,” Samantha said, not sure how much she should say about Liz’s surprise plans for Isabel.
“I know,” Gwen said. “Liz called me yesterday.”
“She did?”
“Mm-hm. We had a nice conversation. She didn’t have to call. I mean, Isabel is twenty-eight years old. She certainly doesn’t need my consent. But I appreciate Liz asking if I was comfortable with her father arranging for…” Gwen frowned as she ate and shook her head in mock resignation. “…for Isabel to race a stock car!”
“Don’t worry. Craig won’t let Isabel do anything he doesn’t think she can handle. If worse comes to worst, he won’t let her drive at all, and she’ll get the thrill of going 140 miles per hour strapped in the passenger seat with a helmet on.”
“I certainly feel better knowing that. Do you know them, her parents?”
“Craig and Gina? Sure. They’re wonderful people. I drove up there with my brother, Jason, when he and Lisa were first engaged. We spent a night at the house and a couple of nights at their lakeside cabin. I suppose that’s where Liz and Isabel will be staying.”
“In the cabin?” Gwen gave a thoughtful nod, making room on the table as the rest of their food came.
“And before the wedding I spent a weekend with her parents at Jason and Lisa’s weekend place in the Hamptons. In fact, until a couple of weeks ago, I knew them better than I knew Liz.”
“Well, I’m glad you and Liz are making up for lost time. And I’m beyond thrilled that she and Isabel have connected. I just love Liz,” Gwen said.
Over lunch Samantha told Gwen about all the reading she was doing on American art pottery and about the Weller vase with foxes she’d won on eBay the other night when the house had felt so empty without Bertha and she couldn’t sleep.
After they’d finished eating and were waiting for coffee and a slice of key lime pie to share, Gwen said, “I know you can’t wait to see Bertha. I know she misses you.”
“I hope so, because I miss her, too. Something awful. You wouldn’t think the presence and personality of one little animal could fill so much space and leave such a void in its absence.”
“Oh, but they do. Every time I say your name, whether she’s sitting on the porch or in the tree with her smitten friend, she stops what she’s doing to look at the driveway and listen.”
“She knows the sound of my car. These past few nights I’ve been wishing she could transition into spirit form like she does in my stories and pay me spectral visits.”
“I do love how you have her character flying through portals so small she can only fit through them in spirit form.” She gave Samantha a sideways look and arched one eyebrow. “I detect a creative and clever fusion of Norse mythology and quantum physics.”
Samantha shook her head in wonderment. “How is it you have such immediate insights into my literary secrets?”
Gwen laughed. “It’s been years since I’ve read Norse mythology, but the earthbound Detective Crowley sending her crow up into the ether to locate and communicate with spirits reminds me of the god Odin. In human form, if I remember correctly, he saw out of only one eye and relied on his raven to see and tell him things.”
“Two ravens. Hugin and Munin, which translate to something along the lines of thought and memory. Odin also had two wolves to hunt and keep him nourished, but he sent out the ravens every morning to fly around the globe and report back with news on everything happening in the world.”
“Now we have the internet for that.”
“True.” Samantha laughed. “I suppose Odin’s ravens are obsolete.”
“But Detective Crowley’s crow isn’t. Odin’s ravens might have circled the world, but Bertha travels between dimensions to locate the dearly departed and help solve cases. And the microscopic portals she accesses resemble wormholes—those hypothetical shortcuts through the universe that connect parallel dimensions and might provide access to the past and future, if only we were small enough to fit through them.” Gwen gave a thoughtful smile. “I’m assuming you have a good understanding of physics to write what you write.”
