“I didn’t.” My words had his head snapping up. “She found me. Apparently she walked down Main Street, saw that I wasn’t in the shop, and figured out to go around the back of the building. Then she climbed up the steps to my apartment door.”
“My god.” Matthew ran a shaking hand through his hair. “When I think what could have happened...I can’t believe the bus driver was so careless!”
“Don’t blame the bus driver,” I said. “Charlie can be quite persuasive. Surely you must know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that your daughter has gifts. Certain talents that you may not be aware of.”
“No, I had her tested,” he said, sounding tired and defeated. “She didn’t qualify for the academically gifted program.”
“No, no. I didn’t mean academically gifted.” I shook my head. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a collection of framed photos on the mantle and a struggling little plant. I studied the pictures and tactfully refrained from commenting on the lack of photos of his deceased wife.
“What do you mean?”
I didn’t answer him immediately. My attention was caught by a large group picture in an ornate silver frame. The group photo featured a younger Matthew, his sister and parents, with what had to be his aunt, uncle and cousin all gathered around an older couple—probably his grandparents. “Family portrait?” I asked, pointing at it.
Matthew scowled at me. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not, really.” I stood and went to the mantle. “Matthew, did Charlie’s mother have any genealogical links to the founding families of William’s Ford?”
His back stiffened. “No, her entire family was from the New York area.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, and picked up the droopy little potted plant. It was an African violet. How ironic, I thought.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “What does Veronica’s family have to do with this situation?”
“I’ve never asked you before, but what is your mother’s maiden name?”
“Abbott,” he said going very still. “Mom’s maiden name is Abbott.”
I recognized the name and struggled to keep my voice even. “And where did your mother’s family originate from?”
“Massachusetts. The Danvers area.”
Bingo, I thought, and ran my fingertips over the wilted, yet still fuzzy, leaves of the plant. “Matthew, have you ever noticed that when Charlie—”
“Charlotte,” he corrected.
“—gets angry,” I continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “That things fall over or break?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Does the radio go off station, do the channels change on the television spontaneously, or does your cell phone act up if Charlie’s in a temper?”
He shifted in his chair. “Yes it does.” His golden-brown eyes became intense as he thought it over. “How could you have possibly know that?”
“How long have these electronic disturbances been going on?”
“For the past few years,” he admitted. “Is something wrong?” His voice went up in alarm.
“No, not at all.” I tried to assure him. “Matthew, do you remember several years ago, when I told you about my family line, my legacy?”
He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yes. Your mother’s family had links to the Salem Witch trials. You used to dabble with Wicca or something...it didn’t bother me.”
Offended, I pulled my shoulders back. “I never dabbled with Wicca.” I met his eyes, and let him feel my resolve. “I am a Witch. That’s completely different.”
“Sure.” He spread his hands. “Whatever term is more politically correct these days.”
The slightly condescending air made me want to throw something at him. Instead I focused my attention on the poor, neglected plant in my hands. Silently, I sent it some healing energy.
“What does your interest in witchcraft have to do with anything?” he wanted to know.
“Do you remember what happened the last time we fought? That day I left?”
“The windows broke,” he said quietly. You didn’t slam the door, but the front windows cracked when you left.”
“What else?” I prodded.
“The flowers in the window boxes all suddenly withered and died.” He studied me intently. “I’d never seen anything like it.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. I was very careful and restrained around you.”
Matthew grinned. “Violet, you were many things but restrained wasn’t one of them.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not talking about sex, you idiot. I’m speaking of magick.” I held the plant up to eye level and considered it. The African violet had noticeably plumped up and was now vibrant and robust, where before it had been withered and dying. I tilted my head towards it. “I bet you’ve never seen anything like this before, either.”
“What in the world...” Matthew’s voice trailed off.
I smiled down at the plant. “You can do it,” I whispered. The plant quivered, and a little bud burst open revealing a ruffled white blossom. I shifted my attention from the plant to Matthew, gauging his reaction.
He blinked and his jaw dropped. “How...how’d you do that?” he stammered.
“Well I sure as hell didn’t do it by dabbling.”
Matthew jumped to his feet. “Oh my god!”
“Is it starting to sink in, Professor Bell?”
“I always thought the stories about the founding families of William’s Ford were simply old wives’ tales,” he said, turning a little pale.
I took a breath, and prayed for patience. “Aren’t you the one who used to say that there was often a kernel of truth in the old faery tales, myths and legends?”
“So what does all of this have to do with Charlotte?”
Gently, I slid the potted plant back on the mantle. “Magick, like other talents, can be hereditary. Sometimes it skips a generation and can pop up where you least expect it.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m betting Charlie’s gifts come from your mother’s family line. The Abbotts.”
“What gifts?” He demanded as a few beads of perspiration appeared on his upper lip.
“Matthew, in the simplest of terms Charlie can influence people—make them do what she wants. She can manipulate them both mentally and physically by using her natural abilities.”
“No she can’t!” Matthew snapped.
His reaction angered me. “How many nannies, babysitters and housekeepers have you gone through?” I asked on a hunch. “How many gave into Charlie,
