Stitches in Time (33 page)

Delicately, almost shrinkingly, Pat ran his fingers over the fabric. “Nasty,” he muttered. “Very nasty. The gloves help, though. Don't know why they should, but they do…Is this where you found the hair?”

Adam got out his specimens and indicated their original location. His disgust overcome by growing interest, Pat nodded. “She didn't miss much, did she? Let's get the rest of them out.”

“You think there are more?” Adam asked.

“Sure to be. The lady knew her stuff. Scissors.” He held out his hand, palm up, like a surgeon.

“This works better.” Rachel gave him the ripping tool. “Do you want me to do it?”

Pat glanced at her from under furrowed brows. “I think not. Show me how this gizmo works.”

Kara didn't join them. Vaguely Rachel was aware of the constant ringing of the shop bell. She felt she ought to join her beleaguered employer, but she couldn't bring herself to leave. Pat's big, clumsy-looking hands moved with a surgeon's skill and he found things the others might have missed. One was a fragment of rotting silk that had been used, instead of the usual cotton, to stuff the petal of a rose. The greenish-black worm coiled in the heart of the flower had not been visible until Pat removed the overlapping petals.

“She didn't miss a trick,” he said again, and there was something close to admiration coloring his voice. “I'd guess the silk came from some intimate garment, a nightgown or underwear. Worn next to the skin, it absorbed the owner's perspiration and personality.”

“That's unusual,” Rachel said. “I think Cheryl told me respectable women didn't wear silk underclothes at that period.”

“Is that right?” Pat looked up. “Maybe she wasn't a respectable woman. Maybe she was—”

“Get on with it,” Adam said shortly.

The deadly collection mounted up—bits of linen cloth that might have been clipped from handkerchiefs dampened with tears or sweat, more fingernail clippings and hair, and a length of knotted string that brought a crow of recognition from Pat.

“The witches' ladder. Oh, very nice. One, two, three…Seven knots. The number varies, but seven has magical properties.”

“A curse with each knot, I suppose.” Adam eyed the harmless-looking object askance.

“Or a prayer. To whatever gods or demons the witch worshiped.” Pat squinted nearsightedly at the string. “One method of removing the curse is to untie the knots, but these are so tight and the string is so rotted I doubt it could be done. I think that's everything, but we'd have to remove every piece of—what do you call it? Appliqué?—to be certain.”

“What would be the point?” Rachel demanded. Watching, she had felt as if she were witnessing the deliberate mutilation of a living thing. Evil, no doubt, but so beautiful…And oddly pathetic, in its ruined state.

“No point,” Pat agreed. He weighed the envelope with its bizarre contents in his hand. It was very light. “The fabric is permeated; whatever we do has to be done to the entire quilt, not just the bits and pieces. Oh, hell. It's getting late, I'd better head for home before Ruth comes gunning for me. Have you got any inert plastic?”

“Why, yes,” Rachel said. “Cheryl uses it for old textiles; regular plastic contains chemicals that may react with the cloth. What—”

“Do I have in mind? Very little,” Pat said wryly. “But it can't do any harm. Wrap it and seal it tight. We'll start working on it tomorrow. Talk to Rachel,” he added, anticipating Adam's question. “She knows as much about it as I do, and she has a pretty good collection of books on magic and superstition. Check the indexes under ‘curses, how to cancel them.'”

“What if there isn't—” Adam began.

“I was joking! Use your imagination and your common sense.” Pat looked thoughtful. “I wonder where I can lay my hands on some holy water. Me, that hasn't been to mass in fifty years.”

After the quilt had been sealed in plastic and the workroom locked, Rachel went to the shop, where she found Kara trying to cope with a pair of her regulars, middle-aged women who had nothing else to do that afternoon and had settled down for a comfortable chat.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Rachel said, “but there's a phone call for you, Kara. On the other line.”

Kara was quick to pick up the cue. “It must be Aunt Ruth. Oh, dear, I hope she's not worse. Excuse me.”

She went no farther than the hall, where she lurked until the customers, foiled of their prey, had departed. Returning, she dropped limply into a chair.

“It's been like that all day. No, don't apologize, that's taboo, remember? Where are Pat and Adam?”

“Pat's gone home.” Rachel's lips twisted. “He found more—more things in the quilt. It's a total wreck.”

“It already was. Did he have any sensible suggestions?”

“Most people wouldn't call them sensible. The standard procedures involve fighting black magic with white, countering curses with prayer and religious symbols.”

“Crosses, holy water, exorcism?”

“Among others. Adam brought home two bags of magical doodads. He's probably planning his experiments right now.”

“You don't think those methods will be effective?”

Rachel shrugged. “I don't see how we can tell whether they are effective or not. It would be handy if squirting the quilt with holy water produced a cloud of evil-smelling black smoke or a demonic voice screaming ‘Okay, okay, I give up,' but I doubt anything that dramatic will occur.”

“It certainly hasn't produced any impressive special effects so far,” Kara agreed. “The only manifestations have been…”

The advent of another customer stopped her, but she looked as if she had already regretted what she had started to say. The only manifestations had been in Rachel's behavior. Rachel wondered whether the obvious corollary had occurred to Kara, as it had to her. How would she be affected by the countermeasures Pat proposed to use? And how would the others be affected—the disembodied minds, the wandering spirits, of the intended victims and the sorceress?

I don't care, Rachel thought. I should care, but I don't. I'm too tired.
It's been so long. I want to rest, I want it so bad, but I can't rest till I finish what I set out to do.

 

“Thank God that's over,” Kara said, locking the front door. “Don't bother straightening up, Rachel, we'll do it later.”

“I'll just finish this first. They certainly left things in a mess.” Rachel continued to fold lengths of lace and ribbon.

“Our customers aren't as bad as some. And they took a lot of things off our hands.” With weary satisfaction Kara studied the depleted sale racks, “I'm supposed to be good at spotting salable merchandise, but every now and then I goof. Every buyer does, I suppose. I thought this dress was charming, but even on sale nobody wanted it. Too demure, do you think?”

She held up a navy blue and white calico print with a
long skirt gathered tight to a fitted bodice. To its only trim, a collar and cuffs of Irish crochet, she had added a narrow navy ribbon belt.

“Too costumey,” Rachel said ungrammatically. “It looks like
Little Women
.”

“It's not that old. Women wore clothes like these clear up to the turn of the century and beyond; Paris and New York fashions never made it into the hinterlands, the farms, the small towns. Do you want to try it on?”

“What?” Rachel stared at her.

“This is one of those dresses that looks like nothing on a hanger, but on the right person it would be smashing. Trust me, I have an instinct for these things. Give you a good price.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am, as a matter of fact. I love picking out clothes for people. But I don't suppose you're in the mood right now.” She returned the hanger to the rack. “Some other time. Come on, I want a cup of tea.”

They found Adam busily making notes. A pile of books at his elbow bristled with markers, and the surface of the table was littered with a weird miscellany—piles of silver coins, a few cloves of garlic, white candles, packets of dried herbs, a handful of nails, a hammer, and two cats nosing curiously at the herbs.

“Are you planning to eat supper standing up?” Kara demanded.

“Is it that late?” Without interrupting his writing Adam pushed Figgin away from the packet he was sniffing.

“Not really. I was trying to make a little joke.”

Adam put the pen down and looked up. Brow furrowed, he said curtly, “Mark called. Wanted to know when you were coming home.”

“Oh, hell. I didn't expect him back till tomorrow.”

“Are you going home tonight?” Rachel asked. Her voice
was carefully neutral, but she awaited Kara's answer with an anxiety she would not have felt a few days ago. She had come to depend on the other woman's help, and on something else. Friendship, perhaps?

“What do you take me for?” Kara demanded. She sounded angry. “I'm not leaving until this business is settled.”

“Thanks.” Rachel didn't trust herself to say more. She turned away and busied herself with the tea kettle.

“What is this stuff?” Kara asked. “It's driving Figgin crazy.”

“Get it away from him.” Adam made a dive for the cat. Packet in mouth, Figgin eluded him, but was captured by Kara. “It's vervain, otherwise known as Witchwort. I need it.”

“I always suspected this animal was in league with the Devil,” Kara muttered. “Give it back, Figgin. Ouch.” She handed the packet, more or less intact, to Adam. “Put it in the cupboard. I presume this junk has some bearing on your research, but do you have to clutter the table with it?”

“I guess not.” Adam tossed the packages into a drawer. “According to the books, all these herbs are used in unhexing, or uncrossing, as it is sometimes called. Vervain, St. John's wort, frankincense and myrrh, belladonna, foxglove—”

“Those aren't herbs, they're poisons,” Kara exclaimed.

“I'm not going to leave them lying around.”

Which was precisely what he had done; but after glancing at his dour face Kara decided not to press the point. She accepted the cup of tea Rachel handed her with a nod of thanks and then asked, “What are these other things?”

“Are you going to call Mark?”

“Soon. I'm asking for enlightenment, Adam. With all due humility and respect.”

After a moment his forehead smoothed out and he smiled faintly. “Sorry. I'm getting frustrated; the informa
tion is so vague. All these objects are used in protective spells. Silver is supposed to be deadly to supernatural forces—you've heard about werewolves and silver bullets? Same for garlic. The white candles occur in one of the Wicca books, but you need a lucky rabbit's foot for that particular spell, and I don't have one.”

“The nails are Ozark magic, aren't they?” Rachel asked.

“Also West African and old English,” Adam said. “Iron is anathema to supernatural beings, and horseshoes keep witches away. One source suggested driving three nails—three is a potent magical number, it represents the Trinity—in a triangle over each door.” A sweep of his arm cleared the table, pushing candles, nails, and the other objects into a shopping bag. Rachel realized the abrupt movement was another demonstration of his frustration.

“I'm not questioning your methods,” Kara said. “But—correct me if I'm wrong—none of this deals directly with the source of the contamination. You can't shoot the quilt with a silver bullet, or drive nails into it.”

Words and tone had been conciliatory, but Adam glared wildly at her. “Don't bet on it, lady. Some of the ideas I've considered are even loonier than those. Ah, hell. You're right, of course. I found a number of unhexing spells, but they all depend on something we don't have and can't get.”

Opening one of the books, he read aloud. “Take a piece of bloodroot and throw it on the doorstep of the person who hexed you.' Or this one: ‘Get a photograph or draw a picture of the witch who has put the curse on you, fasten it to a tree, and drive a nail into it.' Another possibility is to make a doll, incorporating some part of the witch's body, give it the name of the witch, and stick pins into it.”

He tossed the book aside with a grunt of disgust. Rachel picked it up and began reading as the others continued to talk.

“I see what you mean,” Kara said. “We don't know what she looked like, or even her name.”

Rachel read, “Press the hair, the fingernail parings, or whatever other body part can be obtained, into a small ball of beeswax. Bore a hole in an oak tree, insert the beeswax, and drive a wooden peg into the hole…”

They didn't know what she looked like, or even her name. But they had something even more effective. Pat hadn't observed it, Adam hadn't noticed it.

Rachel closed the book. “I'll set the table,” she said.

 

Kara went to her room to make the call to Mark. When she came back, flushed and tight-lipped, she was carrying Alexander.

“He smells worse than usual,” said Adam, hurrying to the door.

“He had a little accident,” Kara said coldly. “It was my fault. I should have taken him out earlier.”

Alexander didn't appear to be overcome by remorse. He started squirming, and both dogs hastily retreated into the pantry.

Adam opened the door and then stood staring open-mouthed into the darkness—a wet, warm, windy darkness. “It's raining!”

“Oh, hell,” Kara said. “Hand me that umbrella.”

“It's raining,” Adam repeated stupidly.

“So give me the umbrella.”

She went out. Adam remained by the open door, muttering. “It's warm. When did it get warm? Goddammit, I thought it was going to snow.”

“The newspaper said something about a warm front,” Rachel said. “What are you raving about? I thought you hated cold weather.”