Chapter One
It all started with the scent of brimstone.
Sharing a cup of coffee with my father on the front porch of our historic antebellum home, where we often enjoyed watching the sunrise, I was surprised that the acrid odor was what greeted my nostrils on this morning.
It easily overpowered the wisteria and beds of irises blooming since the onset of April.
“Do you smell that, Dad?” I asked tentatively.
My father, Georghe Radu sniffed the air, shaking his head. “Smell what? Is Harry at it again?” He laughed, both at my expression and the allusion to our incorrigible neighbor, who once burned his entire lawn by spreading a dump-truck load of horse waste upon it.
“You don’t smell something... off?”
“Like what?”
I sighed. “Okay, I smell brimstone.”
“Brimstone? Hmm... perhaps it’s a spirit thing.
” He paused to finish his coffee. “After all, you’re the only one in this household who can smell anything from that side of the veil.
With what you mentioned in the kitchen about Sheriff McCain being on his way over here, maybe the dead are reaching out to you, Gabriel? ”
“Maybe.”
Sheriff Billy McCain had said something on the phone about a pair of murders in our quaint town of Denmark, Tennessee. Killings that had somehow been kept out of the media… but something told me that was about to change.
As we sat, I tried to hone in on the crimes of which the sheriff spoke, allowing the soft gurgle from our nearby fountain to distract from the acrid and cindery smell, long enough for my mind to wander.
I often found myself drawn to the sculpture of the young girl thoughtfully holding a pitcher, from whence the water flowed.
And not just drawn. Sometimes I would sit out here and meditate, allowing the gurgling sounds and the serene expression on the girl’s face to help me find life’s answers.
Not this time… not with the overwhelming essence of Hell also present.
Uneasy, I stood. “I think I’ll wait inside for Billy.” The sheriff had advised that he’d stop by within the hour. “Are you staying out here on the porch, Dad?”
“Nah… I’ve got a roof to get up to.” He shot me a playful wink, while pointing to the large red brick home next to our antebellum.
The Beauregard place, built over a century ago, and by the son of the man who built the estate where we resided.
“The view of Denmark is always best there first thing in the morning!”
“Well, be careful.”
“I always am.”
Another wink, and then he was gone… leaving me with his cup, and to await an anxious lawman’s arrival. A lawman who had already advised that he needed help solving two gruesome deaths likely dealing with what I specialize in…
Magic.
***
I should’ve expected that Billy McCain would arrive earlier than he had advised on the phone.
Fortunately, I happened to catch a glimpse of his police cruiser pulling up beside the Victorian iron gate that marks the front entrance to our property.
After setting two empty coffee cups in the main sink, I returned to the foyer in time to catch the sheriff’s approach to the front door.
I had forgotten that our town’s most notoriously eccentric police officer has an aversion to our bronze maiden pouring water from a pitcher.
Silvia, my wife, once mentioned that it stems from the sheriff’s childhood and a ‘doll phobia’ he grew up with.
At the moment, Billy was navigating the walkway to avoid the fountain like a tree monkey trying to slip past the bloated belly of an anaconda.
“Good morning, Billy,” I said upon opening the door.
“Good morning to you, Gabe.”
“You’re ten minutes earlier than what usually counts as early for you, I see.” I smiled impishly as he stepped into the foyer. “This must be important.”
“It is. When you see the files, you’ll understand.”
He held out two manila file folders with reports and what appeared to be photographs peering out along one folder’s edges. I couldn’t help but note that the sheriff’s normally cheerful blue eyes were clearly troubled. Well, two murders will do that to you.
“Sounds interesting. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Just in case someone happens to come in, I’d rather do this in complete privacy… if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” I shrugged, and led the way to the office located across the foyer from the dining room, and just to the left of the kitchen’s formal entrance.
One of the first rooms to get the ‘Georghe Radu’ makeover seven years ago, after we moved our family south to Denmark from Chicago, my father had outfitted this spacious room to serve as both a library and a posh study.
Hand-crafted mahogany bookshelves that nearly grazed the room’s crown moldings, beneath the twelve-foot ceiling, featured my father’s prized collection of books, along with a few of my own treasured tomes from our time up north.
A double French door led out to a wraparound porch, which helped lighten the room, since my father had also added a coffered ceiling of burled walnut.
Dad’s most beloved centerpiece, though, is a genuine Louis XV antique desk, further adorned with a plush leather high-back chair on one side and a pair of smaller chairs of similar design and comfort on the other.
After closing the office door behind me, I motioned for Sheriff McCain to take one of the smaller chairs, and I moved around the desk to the high-back.
“Okay, Billy, tell me about the murders.”