Belle, Book and Candle: A Fantasy Novel by Nick Pollotta Page 2

  “Mother, it’s been over a month,” Rissa replied curtly, sliding on the backpack. “There has been a letter from Grandma Etta delivered every Friday since the day I was born. She was late only once, a year ago, and that was only because Grandpa died in that plane crash.”

  “He did love flying so much,” Elizabeth sighed.

  Adjusting a strap, Rissa tried not to shiver at those words. Flying was her worst nightmare. She hated heights. Vertigo was just a movie until it hit; then it became the dominating factor in your life, sort of like diabetes. Invisible, but always there, waiting to pounce.

  “Okay, I agree, something must be wrong,” David said, resting both arms on the wooden sill of the opening. “But you damn well know your grandmother was a nut about privacy. Always has been! There’s not even a return address on the envelopes, so how are you going to find her?”

  “All of the letters were postmarked Savannah,” Rissa muttered, buckling another strap across her stomach. “So that’s where I’ll start.”

  “Start ...” he muttered, dismissing the word with a curt wave.

  “Look, I’ve been planning this for years. So don’t act surprised now,” Rissa said, shrugging a few times to make the weight settle into a comfortable position. At long last, all of those awful Pilates were finally going to pay some dividends.

  “We could hire a private investigator,” Elizabeth hesitantly suggested, wiping her hands clean on a cooking apron.

  “Would if I could,” Rissa declared, trying not to think about her bank balance. “Grammy loved her secrets, but she also mentioned things that happened near her apartment. The church to the north that has a carnival every spring, the park to the south where a mugger got somebody, the new overpass that kept her awake for weeks until she bought earplugs.”

  Removing the contents of her purse, Rissa tucked them into various pockets. “I’ll find the right neighborhood, and then knock on every door and stop everybody on the street, showing her picture.”

  “Who are you, Angela Lansbury?” David demanded with a bemused scowl.

  Elizabeth snorted. “That was the actress, dear, not the name of her character.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Okay, then, Modesty Blaise.”

  “She was an adventuress, not a detective.”

  “Ellery Queen!”

  “He was a man.”

  “No ... really?”

  Slipping out of her work shoes, Rissa refused to be drawn into the ridiculous discussion. The only thing that retired librarians ever agreed upon was how wonderful old books smelled. Which they did.

  However, she also knew why they could turn on the argument at will, and guessed it was an attempt to distract her from the intended trip. Rissa loved them for the attempt, but refused to be sidetracked. She had to keep moving, or else inertia would settle in and she would agree to wait another week, then another after that, and eventually never go at all. Savannah was very far away, and a huge strain on her weakened finances. So it was now or never! Besides, there dimly echoed in her mind a line of dialogue from some old George Cukor movie, “The only immutable law of nature is that kin help kin; end of discussion.” Absolutely, Georgie-boy.

  Sliding into an old pair of comfortable sneakers, Rissa glanced at a wall mirror and tried to fluff her wild explosion of auburn curls into some semblance of order, then abandoned the effort as futile. Mirrors were the arch-enemy of every woman.

  Then she noticed that the pendant was outside her blouse again. Irritated, she started to tuck it away once more, then took it off and stuffed it into a pocket for safekeeping.

  “Honey, you’re not planning to pawn that, are you?” David asked with a worried expression.

  “Under no circumstances,” Rissa replied, buttoning her blouse up top the neck.

  “Such an ugly old thing,” Elizabeth sniffed in disdain. “I’m glad she didn’t give that ring to me.”

  “Pendant.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Funny how it looks exactly like their wedding rings, only much bigger,” David muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Must have been part of a set, I guess.”

  Putting her house keys into the bowl near the front door for safekeeping, Rissa scowled. A set of earrings and bracelets made sense, but bracelets and rings?

  Walking swiftly across the living room, Elizabeth pulled a small white envelope from her dress. “My bingo winnings for the year,” she said. “I’ve been saving them for a vacation to Florida, but ...” She left the sentence unfinished.

  Completely flustered, Rissa tried to give the envelope back. “No, I can’t.”

  “In case of emergencies,” Elizabeth stated, stuffing it into a pocket of the blue jeans.

  Unable to find the right words, Rissa hugged her mother tight, trying to absorb the aroma of lilac, baby powder, frying bacon, and hairspray. It was the smell of home. She breathed it in deeply, charging her memory. “I love you,” Rissa whispered, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Me too, kitten. Just be careful.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rissa replied, trying to sound like Grandpa and give it a British accent.

  “Worst John Wayne impression I’ve ever heard,” David snorted, hitching up his pants. “Okay, got your cell phone?”

  “Always!”

  “Charged?”

  “Duh.”

  “Please speak English, dear.”

  “Gor’ blimey, gov’nor, there’s a lorry in the lift!”

  “Not quite that English, smartass.”

  “Sorry.”

  Elizabeth added, “Call us every hour.”

  “Paranoid.”

  David nodded. “That’s just another name for being a parent. When you become one, you’ll understand.”

  Unable to argue with that kind of logic, Rissa decided to take that as her cue to leave. Checking her belongings one last time to make sure the journal was safe, she smiled at her parents and headed out the door.

  Waiting at the kiosk on the corner, Rissa could see her parents standing patiently on the porch until the downtown bus came and whisked her away. Only then did Rissa realize that she had completely forgotten to tell them about the antiques dealer. She started to reach for her cell phone when the pendant around her neck snapped free and the dragon slipped down into her bra. Was ... wasn’t that just in my pocket?

  Flustered, Rissa turned toward the window for some privacy and quickly fished it out again. The clasp was unbroken; it had simply come loose somehow. Weird.

  Tucking the necklace back into a pocket, Rissa watched her old neighborhood flow past the dirty window and soon became lost in memories of times past.

  ***

  As the Metra bus rattled over some train tracks, a black limousine rolled silently around a corner and parked directly in front of her parents’ home. The windows were tinted so it was impossible to see who was inside, and the license plates were obscured with splatters of thick red mud, even though it had not rained in over a week.

  Nobody got out of the vehicle, and nothing happened. After a few minutes, the limo drove away once more and pulled into a dead-end street to vanish as if it had never really existed in the first place ...

  CHAPTER THREE

  Catching the southbound Metra bus, Rissa rode in silence among the jostling crowd of commuters until reaching downtown Chicago. At Union Station she changed platforms, and bought a ticket for Amthrax, as her mother jokingly called the company. The equipment used by Amtrak was so old and ramshackle that the trains bordered somewhere between transportation and the infectious disease anthrax.

  Still, anything is better than flying, Rissa noted sagely, storing her backpack in an overhead compartment, then dropping into a bedraggled seat whose ancient cloth was heavily patched with duct tape.

  Pulling an empty pillowcase from a pocket, she removed her jacket, neatly folded it into a square, then slid it inside. Tucking the makeshift pillow behind her head, Rissa got reasonably comfortable—only to remember that she had once again forgotten t
o tell her parents about the antiques dealer. Damn!

  Digging out her cell phone, Rissa quickly sent them a brief text message, then turned the phone off to forestall any attempt on their part to parlay the earlier incident into a reasonable excuse for her to come straight back home. Chicagoland was the last place Rissa wanted to be at the moment. A change of scenery was just what she needed to gather her thoughts and plan for the future, without the well-meaning but never-ending advice of her parents. Rissa loved them both dearly, but sometimes they had trouble understanding that she was no longer a small child and needed to make her own decisions.

  Whether they were right or wrong made no difference. One day, her parents would not be here to help, and then Rissa would be well and truly screwed without some real-world experience. There were just some things in life that could only be learned by doing them yourself.

  Plugging in the earbuds of her iPod, Rissa started listening to Leslie Caron and Louis Jourdan sing about the troubles of being French as the passenger train lurched away from the crumbling concrete platform and rolled out of Union Station. Under the floorboards, the wheels endlessly clacked in the ancient rhythm of steel on steel.

  “Goodbye, Columbus!” she misquoted in a whisper.

  Quickly leaving the suburbs, the train began passing thumping factories, garbage dumps, riveted bridges, and smoky refineries. An hour later, the rusty buckle of the Bible Belt flowed past her window in an endless parade of abandoned civilization. It was a sad sight, but a necessary part of the cycle of life. Even the dirt occasionally needed to lie fallow to restore lost vigor. To everything, turn, turn, turn, and all that jazz.

  When Louis finally proposed to Leslie, Rissa switched to Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn singing about the problems of being very British, indeed. Supposedly, the musical was a love story, but the end of their stormy romance was clearly open to various interpretations.

  Personally, Rissa would have kicked the professor to the curb and married the colonel. She always preferred a gentleman to an egotistical lout. Now, true, Pickering was much older than Higgins, but these days just a couple of little blue pills would make all of the difference.

  Experience and stamina combined, Rissa mentally sighed, trying not to think about her last boyfriend. That sure would be nice for a change!

  Turning her attention to the landscape outside the window, Rissa soon saw the spreading farmlands of the vast midwestern plains. As the train streaked over the state border, she turned off the lilting music to thumb another short message to her parents and Melissa. (Have crossed into Indiana. All OK. Looking at wheat. Thank god for Lerner & Lowe! Love, Rissa. XXOO)

  (Don’t talk to strangers!) David sent back.

  (Come home!) Elizabeth added.

  (This time,,, ssteal the bastrds w2alllet and gte a name!) Melissa fumbled, sacrificing speed for accuracy.

  (Trust me!) Rissa sent to all of them, then turned the phone off again and returned to Rex and Audrey and the infamous rain in Spain. After a while, she drifted off to sleep, then awoke to use the lavatory, get something to eat, and return to her music. Ten hours later, the train reached Savannah.

  ***

  A huge crowd of well-dressed people filled the main ballroom of the Excalibur Hotel. Some of them were eating, a few were dancing, most were drinking, and absolutely everybody was talking and laughing, the mishmash of conversations combining into a low roar of jubilation that formed a palpable presence in the atmosphere.

  For this very special occasion, the elite of Atlanta had condescended to socially mingle with the common clave, ordinary folks; multinational business executives, the nouveau riche, world famous athletes, and movie stars.

  Wild explosions of colorful imported orchids festooned every table and tanned wrist and the entire London Philharmonic orchestra was on a tiered stage and playing something classical from the Swing era while a hundred liveried servers diligently maintained the flow of a steady stream of exotic snacks and highly flammable cocktails to the mingling guests. Smoking was forbidden at the gala event, not because of some stodgy health law, but purely as a matter of self-preservation.

  Standing with his back to the marble wall, Emile Coltier watched the waiters smoothly move among the tables with the grace of professional dancers. Which, he supposed, they actually were. Part dancer, part juggler, and part diplomat. Colt had served tables instead of going to college and had never expected it to be such hard work. Pouring concrete and digging ditches had been a delight in comparison to dealing with drunks and screaming children, many of them old enough for Social Security.

  Maintaining a politely forced smile, Colt wondered how long it would be before he could leave and get something to eat. He was beyond starving, but escargot, pâté de foie gras, and Beluga caviar were about as far away from real food as it was possible to get without an assist from NASA. Fried. He wanted something fried, with a lot of salt, and a beer. Make that a six-pack.

  “Still thinking about hot dogs?” Laura Stone asked, appearing out of the happy crowd. She had a martini glass in each hand and a black clutch tucked under a bare arm.

  A staggeringly beautiful woman, she stood with the innate assurance of that well-known fact, surrounded by a nearly tangible cloud of complete indifference. Her emerald green taffeta ball gown fit her slim form perfectly, the color complementing her deeply tanned skin. Normally worn in a tight bun, tonight her fiery red hair was a wild cascade pouring down her shoulders to brush against the purely decorative bow tied around her trim waist. Her slingback Manolo Blahnik shoes cost more than the silk gown, and were hidden completely out of sight underneath, but never out of mind. They hurt, of course, but beauty knew no pain.

  “Hot dogs? Don’t be foolish,” Colt growled, tugging on the sleeves of his tuxedo. “I want real food. We’re talking fried chicken and cold beer.”

  Even expert tailors had a difficult time making cloth conform to the contours of his massive frame. Before inheriting his uncle’s vast business enterprise, Colt had been a stonemason, and the years of brutally hard labor had left him with a physique that no amount of check writing and paper pushing could ever completely dispel.

  “Ah, wings and beer, the breakfast of champions,” Laura said, taking a sip from one of the glasses.

  “Is the other for me?” Colt asked, eyeing the martinis with the distrust normally reserved for swamp gators and tourists from Manhattan.

  “Good heavens, no!” Laura laughed. “These are for me. I’d rather offer you poison than a cocktail.”

  “Well, I like the ones with little umbrellas.”

  “Of course you do,” Laura chuckled softly. “We’re just antsy because you want to go home and start those renovations.”

  “Naturally! Converting a 1980 hunting lodge into an 1880 Victorian version— what’s more fun than that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know ... everything?”

  “You have no soul, Ms. Stone.”

  “That possibility has been raised before,” she laughed. “Just hang in there, chief. Only a couple of hours more, and this will all be over.”

  “Or I could simply jump out the window and escape in a taxicab.”

  “We’re on the twenty-third floor.”

  “Which is the only flaw in an otherwise damn fine plan.”

  “Next time, bring a parachute,” Laura said, dismissing an approaching news reporter with a curt handwave.

  His elation fading, the reporter paused uncertainly for a moment. Then he saw the grim look on her face. He gallantly turned to stroll away and find another victim. Laura Stone was an adamantine wall around her employer, and the last reporter who tried to climb over got fired. Then the bank called in his mortgage, his dog disappeared, his car exploded, and after that his girlfriend was offered an incredibly well-paying job in northern Siberia. The sledgehammer-subtle message was quickly received, loud and clear, by every reporter and journalist across the state. It was infinitely smarter to stick your head into a working microwave oven than mess with Ms.
L. Stone, esquire.

  “God, you look miserable,” Laura said, switching glasses.

  “I hate these things,” Colt muttered, crossing his arms. “For the same cost as this party, the hospital board could have built another cancer wing.”

  “Your math stinks, sir,” Laura said, smiling to a passing senator and his mistress. “This party roughly cost a hundred grand, while the new children’s wing cost thirty-seven million ... most of which came from you.”

  “Details, details. Never cloud the issue with facts.”

  “Okay. Would you rather they canceled the reception and simply gave you the cash?” she asked, waving to a friend.

  “Sure! Well ... no, of course not,” Colt said, brushing back his midnight-black hair. “Look, I know food is out of the question; just the thought of grease makes socialites ignite into flames. But is there any chance you might be able to scrounge me a beer?”

  “In the main ballroom of the Excelsior?” Laura asked with a pretend gasp, a hand fluttering to her throat. Then she grinned. “Sure, I have a six-pack cooling in a tub of ice in the coatroom.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  “Please remember that the next time I want a raise,” Laura said, striding away, the gown swirling around her like a ruffled mist.

  Watching her swaying departure, Colt briefly toyed with some inappropriate thoughts, then shrugged them away in quiet dismissal. Laura was gorgeous, there was no denying that. Sexy and gorgeous, to tell the truth. But there was absolutely no chemistry between them, none whatsoever, and never had been. Aside from her great sense of humor, Laura was coldly beautiful in an odd sort of manner that he could not quite describe ...

  Just then, something incandescent launched itself out of the nearby crowd and flung both arms tightly around his neck.

  “Darling!” she crooned into his cheek, bestowing a loud kiss.

  “Hi, Colette,” Colt muttered, extracting a stiff curl of platinum-blonde hair from his mouth. “Pft, nice to see you again.”