Chapter Eighteen
‘How do you feel about breakfast to go?’ I ask Callum as he pulls on his boots. ‘Louise Garlick from the Witch Study Center called. There’s someone she thinks we should speak to. A local who might have some personal insight into the Western family history.’
‘Sounds good.’ He grabs his jacket. ‘Tell me on the way.’
As we walk to the car, I fill Callum in on what Louise told me. She’d been speaking with her grandmother, who had reminded her about a woman named Martha Parish. ‘She’s in her eighties,’ Louise said, ‘but she has a fine memory.’
‘Apparently, the Parish family have lived in the East Mill area nearly as long as the Westerns, and Louise thinks Martha might bring a personal historical perspective to our research.’
‘A different angle sounds great, and personal stories always make interesting content,’ Callum says as he slides into my car.
‘One more thing. Martha likes candy. The soft kind.’
‘Soft candy. Got it. So, coffee, food, candy, Martha. In that order.’
I nod. ‘Oh, and I meant to tell you. I had a quick look at the stuff you forwarded to me from Rosing. There were two photos of Brendin Western, one of which we’ve already seen, plus a few scanned articles about the house itself.
But no photos of Margaret? No photos of any other family members. No list of staff.’
‘Well, the Westerns are reclusive, don’t forget.’
‘Still. Can you poke him again? If we had a photo of Margaret, we might be able to see if she matches descriptions of the ghost seen in the house. She died in 1908, there must be something.’
‘I’ll ask again. Did you get a vibe from any of the photos?’
I flick him a frown. ‘No vibes. But I noticed the numbers on the email attachments jumped from four to six. Did you miss sending me one?’
He shrugs and says, ‘Nope,’ as he plugs Martha’s address into his phone.
‘I just can’t believe the family can be that photophobic. Maybe Ola can help. Nothing from her yet?’
‘I’ll check in with her again too.’ He looks up. ‘At the end of Main Street, take a left. There’s a sweet store not far out of town. Apparently, it’s famous. We can stop there.’
The Sweet Spot is an old-fashioned candy store, the kind with jar after jar of coloured gumballs and trays of delicate chocolates. I watch on in amusement as Callum takes his time choosing each individual piece of confectionary, while flirting shamelessly with the middle-aged woman serving him.
‘So, this one is lemon?’ he asks, leaning on the glass countertop and gazing up at the woman from under his long dark lashes. ‘But is it sweet or sour?’
‘Very sweet.’ A blush colours the woman’s cheeks.
‘And soft?’
‘Melt-in-your-mouth soft.’ Her eyes drift to the pout of Callum’s lips. ‘Would you like to try one?’
‘I’d love to, thanks…?’
‘Betty.’ She gives him a none-too-subtle wink.
‘Callum,’ he says in return, and I stifle a laugh when he winks back.
With a tiny pair of silver tongs, Betty places a deep yellow square into the palm of his hand. He pops it into his mouth and chews, rolling it around on his tongue with overly noisy, exaggerated enjoyment.
‘This is delicious, Betty. But then, I’m sure everything in here is delicious. Am I right?’ He cocks a conspiratorial eyebrow, then smiles so bright it lights up the room.
Betty and I both sigh.
‘You really are shameless,’ I say, once we’re back in the car.
‘What did I do this time?’ he asks, with a confused expression.
‘I’m sure everything in here is delicious. Callum! You and your flirting.’
He leans sideways and bumps his shoulder against mine. ‘I love it when you get jealous.’
I roll my eyes.
‘Anyway, Betty was lovely,’ he says, ‘and every woman deserves to be made to feel beautiful. If I can help with that, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.’ He rests his head back against the seat. ‘Besides, she threw in a few extras for us.’
Martha Parish lives in a grand house that stands at the end of a long driveway, perched above a windswept beach. Trellises covered in pink roses dot the perfectly manicured lawn, and three welcoming Adirondack chairs sit under a spectacular oak tree.
The sounds of crashing waves and gulls squawking overhead greet us as we step from the car.
The beaming sunlight throws dappled shadows across the lush green of the grass, and the air is so salty you can almost see it.
It reminds me of days at the beach before my mother died.
Of Dad carrying me on his shoulders through the surf as I giggled hysterically.
Of me and Maggie building sandcastles together.
Of collecting shells along the shore with Mom.
When things were good. Before the ghosts.
Callum whistles his approval, cradling a small white box tied with a pink ribbon almost delicately in his large hands. As we make our way up the path, he holds the box of candy out before him like an offering.
‘I’m glad I went with the pink ribbon,’ he says. ‘Pink’s obviously her colour.’ He nods towards the roses.
‘Callum, you’re freaking me out a bit.’
‘Why? I’m just making sure we get off to a good start. You’re the one who said she likes to be bribed with candy.’
‘I don’t think I said bribed.’
We step onto a wide porch crowded with white wicker furniture and large pink floral cushions.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘my aunt loved candy. I’d often swing past this little store in our old neighbourhood and pick some out for her. She really liked the chewy ones.’ He smiles at the memory. ‘I always got her a blue ribbon, though,’ he adds. ‘She loved blue.’
The doorbell rings with a musical chime, and an immaculately presented woman in a pale grey dress and sensible shoes answers the door.
‘Ms Daniels?’ she asks in a clipped English accent.
‘Yes, and this is Callum Jefferies.’
She nods, and ushers us in. ‘I’m Iris Winters, Ms Parish’s housekeeper. And by housekeeper, I mean I take care of her affairs, not clean her toilets.’ She looks at us sternly.
Callum and I nod politely. When she looks away, we turn to each other and smirk like schoolchildren.
Mrs Winters leads us through the house, along an antique-filled hallway and past a formal living area full of dark wood furniture and uncomfortable-looking chairs.
‘Ms Parish is in the conservatorium,’ she says.
She motions us forward into the room. I almost feel I need to curtsy.
‘Ms Parish, this is Ms Daniels and her colleague, Mr Jefferies. They are the people Louise Garlick contacted us about. They want to discuss some local history?’
‘Yes, Iris, I remember. I’m not quite senile yet,’ Ms Parish says.
Iris draws a deep breath through her nose. I have a feeling her boss tests her patience.
‘Please excuse me if I don’t get up,’ the old woman says. ‘The sound of my joints creaking may send you screaming from the room. Iris, would you mind organising some iced tea for our guests, and some of that nice fruit cake you bought yesterday?’
Iris nods.
‘And don’t forget the lemon this time.’
‘Of course,’ Iris answers curtly as she leaves the room.
Martha Parish is a refined woman, who is aging with elegance.
Her white hair is rolled into a neat chignon, and she wears a pale pink sweater with crisp white pants and a slick of vibrant pink lipstick that matches the colour on her nails.
Silver-rimmed glasses balance precariously on her nose, and she has a half-completed embroidery lying across her lap.
Martha carefully rolls up her embroidery, places it in a basket on the small table beside her, and takes off her glasses, letting them hang loosely on a chain around her neck. With a noticeable twinkle, she eyes Callum and asks, ‘What have you got there, young man? Is that for me?’
Callum steps forward. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Ms Parish, but I took the liberty of selecting some candy for you. I hope that wasn’t too forward of me?’ He hands her the box.
‘Not at all, Mr Jefferies. And tied with a pink bow! How did you know that was my favourite colour?’ She looks up at him, an almost sly grin making her cheeks crinkle.
He grins back. ‘I just had a feeling you’d be a pink gal,’ he says.
Martha casts her sharp gaze over him. ‘You, Mr Jefferies, are all charm and trouble, I can tell. I’ll have to keep my eye on you.’ She waves her hand towards a cane lounge. ‘Please, sit.’
Iris returns with iced tea and cake and arranges them on a table in the centre of the room. Callum pours a glass of tea for Martha, then puts a slice of fruitcake on a plate with a pink napkin and hands it to her.
‘You have excellent manners,’ she says to Callum.
‘I had an aunt who insisted on good manners, Ms Parish.’ He turns and holds the jug towards me. ‘Tea?’
‘Sure,’ I say. We smile at each other, enjoying the scene.
Martha waits until Callum is settled with a piece of cake before saying, ‘Now, how can I help you two?’
‘We were wondering if you could elaborate on some local history,’ I say. ‘The kind that’s passed down through families rather than found in books.’
I give Martha a quick overview of the history we already know, briefly touching on Callum’s engagement by Edward Western, whose name, I note, makes Martha frown.
‘We’d like some local input,’ Callum says. ‘We understand your family was one of the original families in East Mill.’
‘We settled here about fifteen years after the first settlers. About five years after the Westerns. That’s who you want to know about, correct? And the rumours that swirl around them.’
Callum and I glance at each other.
‘That’s it, in a nutshell,’ he says.
Martha nods again. ‘I can tell you the stories I grew up with, which you won’t find in any books, and you can make up your own mind about them.’
She shares the tale her grandfather told her about Alistair and Garrett Western fleeing England in 1654, chased out by the locals under suspicion of murder and religious views not seen as strictly Christian. Rumours that they came to their wealth via unnatural means.
Callum frowns. ‘Unnatural? What exactly did that involve?’