The stargazer perfume swirls around my head, enveloping me.
Which only proves I’ve officially lost it. Not only am I blathering alone in a cemetery in which I have no dead relatives, but I’m sensing imaginary flowers. I should probably leave before I start hearing voices.
I rise to my feet once again, determined to bolt though I’m not sure to where. The moment my flip-flops touch the ground, my soles tingle. With my luck it’s probably an allergic reaction to the kudzu I’ve been tromping through for the last four-and-a-half hours.
Making a beeline toward the path that leads out of the cemetery, my feet begin to itch. Stooping to scratch them, I don’t feel any welts or bug bites, so I pick up my pace. The cloying scent intensifies and seems to follow me as the itching intensifies to a burn. A strange urge implants itself in my brain. If I return to the cemetery to the cool, lush leaves of the kudzu, the stinging will relent. Which is crazy because that’s where it started in the first place. I break into a jog, but the urge turns into full-on longing and the burning ratchets so high I can barely stand the feel of my feet at the end of my legs.
Suddenly the King Center comes to mind, along with the sensations I felt when Maggie induced me to pick up the pirate’s dagger before we nabbed the ancestors’ mortar.
I stop short. The burning quiets, reducing to a low tingling that buzzes on the tender flesh of my feet. The stargazer scent infuses my clothes and hair. I’ve probably lost it, but it can’t hurt to test my theory.
“Maggie?” I call into the air. “Is that you?”
The wind blows past me, toward the cemetery. Maybe that’s a sign. Or maybe it’s not. I take another step down the path, away from the cemetery to be sure. The burning blasts back, singeing my feet.
I squeal. “Ah! Okay, okay. I get it.”
Backtracking toward the cemetery, I stop at the end of the path. “I have no idea where to go,” I call to no one, or maybe Maggie. The sweet perfume wafts under my nose then carries away on the breeze, deeper into the graveyard. Oh-kay. I guess I’ll follow it.
Chasing the scent, I make my way through the rows, past Missy’s plot and the crypt, to the most kudzu- chocked area of the graveyard. Somewhere in here is Cooper’s mother’s grave, though thanks to my dad’s freak- out, we never saw it. I stand on the cusp of the thick vegetation and look around, not sure where I should put my foot. Who knows what’s under the thick emerald carpet? For all I know there could be snakes lurking in there, waiting to bite anyone who passes over them. My flip-flops aren’t exactly built for hiking.
An electric shock prods my heels.
Exasperated, I look up into the sky and yell, “I don’t know what you want from me. If I climb through here, I’m liable to trip and break my neck.”
“Emma Guthrie. You are closer than you know.” Maggie’s voice, faint, but oh so very clear, carries on the breeze.
Okay. It’s official. I’m hearing the voice of a dead girl.
My legs tremble. “If this is some sort of a sick joke, I’m not laughing.”
Stargazer scent circles my body. “Emma Guthrie. Have faith. You are closer than you know.”
Tears flow and a cool, calm sensation rushes over my body. It is Maggie. And she wants me to trust her. I draw a deep breath. Why not?
Following the scent, I carefully step forward, lifting my flip-flops and placing them on the lush emerald vines as I pass a number of cloaked headstones. Another zap strikes my sole. “What? I’m walking like you wanted me to.” I take another step, but this time, the shock is stronger and shoots straight up my leg. I pull up, halting in place. The buzzing stops completely. I’m guessing I’m exactly where I should be. Right in front of a vine-covered headstone so completely cloaked in kudzu it looks like a topiary bush.
The breeze blows, rustling the bright green leaves clinging to the stone.
I’m closer than I know, huh? Stepping nearer, I reach over and claw at the dense vines, yanking them away. The thick strands are stubborn, seeming to cling harder as I pull. There’s no way I’ve come this far to be beaten by a plant. Wedging my foot against the marker for leverage, I lean back, gripping hard on the vine until it finally snaps. Repeating the motion several times, I break enough to make out the name on the marker.
Clarissa Beaumont. Born: 1973, Died: 2002.
I do the math. The woman in this grave died when Cooper was just five years old. It’s his mother.
I clear the rest of the stone. It’s polished and looks practically brand new, as if it hasn’t been sitting here, exposed to the elements, for the last eleven years.
And there’s something else. Below her name and dates of birth and death, a silver heart-shaped pendant on a chain is embedded in the stone, encased in glass. It’s about two inches long and features a mother and child etched on the cover, with tiny ruby hearts embedded in each of their chests. The mother is gazing at the babe in her arms, a smile on her face. Below the glass case, the stone is inscribed, Beloved wife and mother.
For Cooper’s sake, I’m glad I found Clarissa’s grave, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this discovery. Why did Maggie lead me here? Is it too much to hope she’ll give up her cryptic messages and just tell me what she means?
“So now what?” I run my hand over the smooth, marble surface.
The stargazer smell hovers above the stone. I bet Maggie’s perched right here, laughing at me. “You know, you could give me a hint.”
The sun beams on the glass cover, making the tiny ruby shards sparkle.
My upper thigh heats. The Beaumont ruby shard is acting up again. I shove my hand into my pocket to adjust the stone digging into my flesh. An icy charge shoots up my fingers. Yanking my hand away, I peer at my bright red flesh. The gem is so cold it burned me.
Even I can’t ignore the fact that something strange is going on here. It can’t be a coincidence that the locket’s adorned with rubies and the Beaumont ruby is doing its weird temperature thing again. Maggie and my spirit guide must want me to do something. But exactly what, I’m not sure.
I squint at the locket behind the glass. The only way to see it up close is to break the glass and liberate it.
But I’ve done that sort of thing a couple times already this summer. And though stealing the ancestor’s mortar and pirate’s dagger gave us the clues we needed to break The Creep, it also led to trouble with Claude and could possibly end up with Miss Delia or us in jail. Breaking into Beau’s study helped us get the dagger back, but it also revealed that someone—though I’m still not sure who—was at the very least present when Missy died. Each larceny has had its consequences, so I’m hoping these bossy spirits will understand that I’m not exactly anxious to rush into another one.
Still, there must be a reason Maggie has brought me here. She is, after all, the one who led us to the treasure in the first place, igniting this whole summer’s events.
Running my fingers over the glass, I try to gauge its thickness. It doesn’t feel too substantial, though there’s really no way to tell from looking at just one side. My palm tingles, then itches. An irresistible urge takes over, willing me to find a rock and smash it against the pane until I free the locket encased within. But I’ve been through this before. That’s Maggie’s desire. Not mine. Resisting the compulsion, I try to think for myself. It’s one thing to decide to do it on my own; it’s another for her to force me.
The ruby chips twinkle in the sunlight, drawing my eye. The expression on the mother’s face is tender and filled with so much love, it softens my resolve. And then it hits me. This mother’s face is why I’m supposed to get this locket. It must have belonged to Clarissa and very likely dangled close to her heart.
I want the locket. I
I search for a rock or stick big enough to shatter the glass. But all I see is the endless green carpet of kudzu and the occasional corner of gravestone poking out from under the brush. Shoving my hands down into the leaves, I root around, fumbling for something that will break the compartment. Finally, my hand lands on something cold and hard. It’s a round, smooth stone, like one of the rocks that line some of the older graves. It’ll do.
Racing back to Clarissa’s grave, I hold the stone over my head, ready to strike. Realizing I’m about to desecrate her grave to some extent, I bite my bottom lip and offer a word of apology. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beaumont, but I’m pretty sure I need to do this.”
The rock crashes against the case and cracks the glass. I slam it twice more before it shatters. Carefully, I sift through the shards and lift out my quarry. The silver locket is in perfect condition. I pry it open. Inside are two small photos. One of Clarissa, the other of Cooper. Snapping it closed, I flip it over. The back is inscribed.
Your heart and mine
