The Storyteller's Muse

  To begin his research he moved into the library.

  Three hours later, Mrs Eddington was bringing him fresh coffee.

  ‘Is it that time already?’ Peter placed his book aside, happy to see her — especially when he saw the generous piece of carrot cake.

  ‘Making progress?’ She set the tray down on the coffee table, then set the coffee and the plate of cake down before him.

  ‘Not so much today, but in general, yes I am.’

  ‘Back into the art books I see?’

  ‘Yes.’ Which reminded him. ‘Thanks for finding that piece on Lord Pettigrew for me the other day.’

  Mrs Eddington appeared baffled. ‘Must have been a happy accident. While I was cleaning, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Peter, obviously she didn’t recall the favour. ‘I’ve just been trying to research his death, but I can’t really find much about it, only that he did die, in 1951.’

  ‘I can’t help you with that one.’ Mrs Eddington headed out with her tray. ‘But Miss Valdez is on her way up the drive with some research for you.’

  ‘Gabrielle?’ Peter was surprised, and moved to raise himself. ‘I thought she was working today?’

  ‘Mr Eddington will show her in.’ She urged him to stay put. ‘I’ll bring some tea and cake for your guest, unless you think she would prefer coffee.’

  ‘I think tea.’ Peter considered Gabrielle was hard enough to keep up with, without pumping her full of caffeine.

  Mrs Eddington left and a few moments later there was a knock on the library door and Mr Eddington showed Gabrielle in.

  ‘This is a surprise, aren’t you supposed to be working?’ Peter opened his arms to receive a hug and a kiss from her.

  ‘I took a few days off.’ She stepped away and grinned — all hyped up about something. ‘Penelope left me all that money, after all. So I thought I’d give you a hand with your research, and do something about some psychic protection for you.’

  ‘Oh really? I have been researching —’ Peter began.

  ‘Have you been down to the city council?’ she challenged.

  ‘Well no, I haven’t had the chance —’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I took the liberty of doing that for you. I have information on the history of the apartment and the occupants — well, some of them.’

  Peter couldn’t help but smile. ‘I really appreciate that, but did you read what I sent you this morning.’

  ‘I did . . .’ Her eyes parted wide in excitement. ‘Very interesting stuff. I trust you haven’t defaced your painting yet?’

  ‘No!’ Peter insisted he wouldn’t think of it, despite how tempting that thought actually was. ‘I shall pay a professional to do it.’

  ‘Initially, that may not be necessary to verify the story,’ Gabrielle advised. ‘I believe I’ve tracked down the copy of the Axis Magazine that featured a photograph of The Lovers before Emanuel painted over his name.’

  ‘Where the hell did you find it?’

  ‘Online. I’m having it posted to me.’

  ‘That’s rather brilliant of you.’ Peter had to admit he hadn’t thought of that. ‘You did all that this morning?’

  ‘And yesterday,’ she clarified. ‘You’ve got me intrigued, which must be a testament to your writing. I hope you don’t mind me just jumping in, I figured a lot of writers have researchers.’

  ‘No, it’s really great that you did as I’d rather be writing and not wasting time chasing clues,’ Peter realised. ‘But I doubt we’ll be able to see the signature on an old magazine photograph.’

  ‘Then perhaps we can have it digitally enhanced.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll check it out. But how great if we could confirm your story.’

  ‘Good day, Miss Valdez.’ Mrs Eddington entered with her tray.

  ‘Mrs Eddington, you are an angel, I am starving!’

  ‘Enjoy!’ She set the tray down and quickly departed.

  ‘You’re so spoilt!’ Gabrielle moved Peter out of her path and headed to the lounge to take a seat before the tray.

  ‘I truly am,’ Peter gloated.

  ‘Which brings me to my present.’ Gabrielle ate a forkful of cake and then reached into her handbag to pull out a smaller green velvet drawstring bag.

  ‘You brought me a present?’ Peter took a seat and accepted the gift from her.

  Opening it up, Peter pulled out a little statue of a seated skeleton. It was dressed in a green and gold robe, holding a scythe in one hand and justice scales in the other. It had a globe rested underfoot and an owl seated between its feet. Peter was lost for words; he would have been thrilled with it . . . when he was twelve.

  ‘You brought me a skeleton figurine?’

  ‘It’s not a skeleton,’ she corrected, pouring her tea. ‘It’s a consecrated effigy of Señora de las Sombras, the Lady of the Shadows, Santa Muerte.’

  ‘This is a lady?’ Peter couldn’t tell.

  ‘Never mock her, she is very powerful,’ Gabrielle warned.

  ‘Okay.’ Peter put the statue down on the table.

  ‘In Mexico, Santa Muerte is considered a powerful ally. She is the patron saint of those who have confronted death and lived, and to those who must confront deadly situations every day.’

  ‘Which I don’t.’

  ‘She is a spirit of second chances who avenges those who have been cheated unjustly and punishes evil-doers.’

  Peter nodded, beginning to see her line of reasoning.

  ‘She is a benevolent benefactor, a performer of miracles, a spiritual mother and a source of unconditional love and protection.’

  ‘That incident the other night really freaked you out, huh?’ This was the only conclusion Peter could draw.

  ‘In the sense that I have not heard from my grandmother since you dreamt of her.’

  ‘But you said it wasn’t unusual for her not to come when you called?’ Peter was far from convinced that was cause for alarm; her grandmother was dead, after all.

  ‘But I was in danger and she didn’t check in with me.’ Gabrielle sounded genuinely concerned. ‘She would usually have been there to comfort me after something like that. There is definitely something amiss there. So, I constructed an altar to Santa Muerte and consecrated this item by praying her rosary to invoke her protection for you and her assistance for Em. Santa Muerte is also seen as a protector of homosexual, bisexual and transgender communities, or anyone discriminated against and outcast by society.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, considering Em tried to suffocate you —’

  ‘No . . .’ Gabrielle said, and then shied away from saying more.

  Clearly neither of them wished to openly disclose the fact that they suspected another ghost may have been involved. ‘Well, I’m no expert on Voodoo, but I must say this lady seems to fit the bill of our cause rather well.’ Peter changed the subject. ‘Although she looks rather more like the grim reaper.’

  ‘Her skeletal form reminds us of the need for muerte santa, or a holy death, fully confessed of sins,’ Gabrielle concluded. ‘And as someone in your story is telling fibs, I thought that might also prove helpful.’

  ‘So what am I to do with it?’ Peter gazed down at the little figurine.

  Gabrielle picked it up and placed it back in the pouch. ‘Just carry it with you like a lucky charm, leave it on your desk while you work or by your bed when you sleep. She basically wards off evil.’ She set the bag back down before him.

  ‘Well, that’s a lovely thought.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘But I think you are the one who needs protecting.’

  ‘I have one.’ Gabrielle pulled a pendant out from the front of her blouse and when she showed Peter the locket, he couldn’t help but be amused by the cameo portrait of a skull in a veil.

  ‘It looks like a portrait of your grandma taken after —’

  Gabrielle thumped Peter’s shoulder. ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘It’s very Guns N’ Roses,’ he allowed, his grin causing his face to ache, as he struggled to repress
his urge to laugh. ‘I feel like we just joined a drug cartel.’

  ‘Well, marijuana is used instead of incense, to purify the air on her feast day,’ Gabrielle informed him. ‘And yes, she is the patron saint of drug runners, as they too are fringe dwellers in society.’

  ‘So I’m fringe now, am I?’ Peter reclined into the lounge with his coffee, and watched Gabrielle delight in her cake.

  ‘You’re certainly getting there.’ She scrunched her nose, and had another forkful of her morning tea.

  ‘Well, as you have your mouth full, I’ll tell you about my research, shall I?’

  ‘Do that,’ she urged, between mouthfuls.

  ‘I was looking for some information about Lady Margret Pettigrew, you know —’

  ‘Alice,’ she concurred.

  ‘I couldn’t find any mention of Lord Pettigrew marrying, and thus no mention of his wife, which rather checks out with Henry and Emanuel’s account.’ Peter made an on-the-spot decision not to tell her everything he’d dug up as that would spoil the story for her. ‘I did establish that Pettigrew was credited with being Em Jewel right from that very first exhibition. Even the gallery owner, Miss Manning, later attested to this, but it was the only exhibition of Em Jewel’s that the Manning gallery ever held. Em Jewel got himself a new agent-cum-gallery owner for his second and third exhibitions, before he died in 1951.’

  ‘On the subject of Pettigrew’s death . . .’ Gabrielle set aside her fork to pull a file out of her bag. ‘He was the owner, and was living in the apartment at the time of his death.’

  ‘I know how that came to be, Henry wrote of it in his last journal entry that I have yet to let play out on paper,’ Peter advised, as Gabrielle was frowning in question.

  ‘So you knew that already?’ She seemed disappointed not to have surprised him. ‘Well, hurry up and get writing, I want to know!’ Gabrielle didn’t appreciate the tease. ‘Anyway, as Pettigrew died with no heir, it was Pettigrew’s younger brother who inherited and leased the apartment to Penelope, Isabelle, Fabian and Billy, and when they moved out, it was leased briefly a few times before being put on the market. For the last fifty years it’s been passed from one developer to another, who have all abandoned development plans in favour of selling it on.’

  ‘It’s waiting for us,’ Peter fancied. ‘And maybe not in a good way.’ He placed his coffee cup on the table.

  ‘You scared?’ Gabrielle challenged.

  ‘Hell no, I have my protection charm.’ Peter took up her gift and kissed it for good luck. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

  ‘You end up with no ending for your story,’ Gabrielle replied.

  ‘I don’t want to have to speculate,’ Peter agreed, ‘but Henry’s last journal entry was the day before the first exhibition in 1947. Emanuel’s last letter to his sister was a few days afterwards that same year. Meaning, I have but one more instalment to extract clues from, before I’m left to my own devices to draw a conclusion.’

  ‘Well, the next place I’ll hit is births, deaths and marriages, and see how much about the characters I can get verified there.’

  ‘Good plan.’ Peter held up a hand, and as Gabrielle served him a high-five he grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. ‘What are your immediate plans?’

  ‘To get out of your face and let you write.’ Gabrielle sat back up to finish off the last of her tea. ‘This visit was strictly business. Have you checked your posts from this morning?’

  ‘No?’ Peter was curious as to why she’d ask.

  ‘Food Slayer and Spooky Burns were offering to come over and help you un-gag your muse.’ Gabrielle grinned, no doubt guessing how blown away he’d be by that information.’

  ‘What? Really?’ Peter was on his feet and turning circles trying to locate his phone.

  Gabrielle left a file on the table, and spotting Peter’s phone, grabbed it up along with her bag.

  She distracted Peter from his frantic search to hand him what he was looking for. ‘Have fun.’ She kissed his cheek and kept going.

  ‘Wait? You don’t want to come to my lucid dreaming session?’ Peter thought she would, as anything supernatural was right up her alley.

  ‘Nah,’ she waved off the offer. ‘You’re protected now, so you can’t get in too much trouble. What day are we seeing the site?’

  ‘Thursday, about ten. I’ll pick you up on the way.’

  Gabrielle gave the plan a thumbs-up. ‘See you then. I’ll just email through any info I dig up in the interim.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Peter was torn between seeing Gabrielle out and verifying her story on his phone. ‘Thank you.’ He found the post he was searching for as he caught her up, and seeing that she wasn’t pulling his leg about the offer of help from esteemed authors, he kissed his girl for the heads-up. ‘You’re a champion!’

  ‘Now, you be a champion, and get writing.’ She pulled away and let herself out the front door.

  Emanuel wasn’t too sure what to make of Margret, but he did enjoy painting a living subject for a change, not just a memory, a reflection or a photograph.

  Margret was slouched on a lounge beneath one of the large warehouse windows and sunlight was pouring down on her. Her long, straight hair was draped loosely about her. One leg was bent up and that foot was firmly planted on a large padded footrest before her, the other leg was stretched out and resting on the foot stool.

  ‘You’re frowning.’ Margret watched him roughing out the picture.

  ‘It’s not as balanced as my usual work,’ Emanuel warned. ‘Your Yang side is overpowering your Yin at present.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that!’ Margret insisted, in a playful fashion. ‘How do we address this imbalance?’

  ‘May I adjust your attire?’ Emanuel suggested.

  ‘By all means,’ she granted.

  ‘If you would be so kind?’ Emanuel urged her to stand.

  He dispensed with her coat altogether, unbuttoned her vest, pulled her shirt out of her trousers and slackened her tie. When he began unbuttoning her shirt, Margret caught her breath but did not protest. Once the shirt was unbuttoned all the way down, Emanuel stepped away from her.

  ‘Now sit, as you were before.’

  ‘Oh.’ Margret sounded a little dejected, but did as instructed and resumed her pose. ‘How’s this? Better?’ Her shirt slid off both sides of her body, leaving her scant breasts barely covered, and her tie fell down the middle of the exposed part of her torso.

  Emanuel smiled as he observed her. ‘Spectacular. Now you appear in perfect balance.’

  ‘Like your sister?’ Margret suggested. ‘Perhaps that’s why she never needed anyone, as there was no mystery to either sex for her?’

  Emanuel felt he knew what was coming. ‘You’re going to ask me if I am like her, a hermaphrodite?’

  ‘No,’ Margret assured him. ‘I already know that you are her.’

  ‘What would make you think that?’

  ‘Chester,’ she concluded definitively, appearing sorry to expose the masquerade. ‘He would never have left her Ladyship to find her own way, with war coming, especially considering her secret.’ Margret raised herself from the chair to standing as Emanuel stared her down. ‘That’s why you insisted I stay.’ She ventured closer. ‘Because you are still trying to protect me, even after what I did.’

  ‘You are mistaken.’ Emanuel held his ground.

  ‘This may be the only chance I shall ever have to express to you my devotion.’ Margret removed the shirt and vest altogether. ‘Please love me, as I have fancied you once did.’

  ‘I told you, you were mistaken.’ His words only confused her.

  ‘I know you have no cause to trust me,’ Margret allowed. ‘Love me and then kill me to ensure your secret is kept.’

  ‘No.’ Emanuel thought her words insane, and he picked up her clothes, attempting to cover her naked torso.

  ‘I would rather die in your arms than return to his bed.’

  Her appeal thrust a dagger through
his heart. ‘Hopefully, you shall have to do neither.’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  ‘No.’ He left her to dress.

  ‘Is it because you’ve never let anyone in?’ Margret asked frankly.

  Emanuel paused from his retreat and looked back to her. ‘You’re a married woman, Lady Pettigrew.’

  ‘He never married me,’ she admitted. ‘He just stuck a ring on my finger for appearances and dragged me around everywhere with him, hoping to lure her Ladyship out of hiding.’

  ‘Is that not exactly what you are hoping to do?’ Emanuel asked. ‘You must understand that, considering your history with Pettigrew and what happened to my sister, I couldn’t trust you, even if I wanted to.’

  ‘What can I say, what can I do, to prove my loyalty?’ She appeared and sounded desperate. ‘I’d kill myself right here and now, only my Lord would pin my murder on you.’

  ‘You were wrong about why I asked you to stay,’ Emanuel said coolly. ‘Go home. Forget we ever met.’

  ‘Even I cannot guarantee I will say nothing to Pettigrew.’ Margret cooled also. ‘Torture works that way.’

  Emanuel drew a deep breath. ‘Do you know what my sister used to call you in her letters to me? “Our dear, sweet Alice.” If she could only have seen what a deceptive little creature you are. I’m sure, like me, she would be completely bemused as to why you would go to such lengths to do her harm when she was so very kind to you?’

  Margret’s tears had begun to fall right on cue.

  ‘If you love her, as you say you do, why seek her out knowing that is exactly what your “husband” has been waiting for you to do?’

  ‘Because I am weary of carrying this guilt!’ She sank to the floor. ‘I want to come home to the only place that was ever sanctuary for me. Perhaps together we can deal with my Lord?’

  ‘I am not my sister,’ Emanuel repeated for the umpteenth time. ‘I don’t want to deal with Pettigrew, or anyone else for that matter! If you have problems with your lover that is no concern of mine.’

  ‘Please,’ Margret appealed. ‘Let me right my wrong, so that I might be forgiven.’