Gail Martin - Deadly Curiosities

“HAVE YOU EVER seen something you can’t explain?” The woman peered at me anxiously, looking to me for validation.

“Sure. Hasn’t everyone?” My answer was meant to put her at ease, but it was a dodge. If I answered her question directly, she definitely wouldn’t rest easy, now or maybe ever again.

I’m Cassidy Kincaide, owner of Trifles and Folly, an estate auction and antiques shop in historic – and haunted – Charleston, South Carolina. On the side, we’re also a high-end pawn shop. I inherited the shop, which has been in my family since 1670. Most people think we deal in antiques and valuable oddities, and we do. But our real job is getting dangerous supernatural objects off the market before anyone gets hurt. When we succeed, no one notices. When we don’t, the damage usually gets blamed on some sort of natural disaster.

It’s the perfect job for me since I’m not just a history geek, I’m also a psychometric. I read the strong emotions connected to objects, and often I get bits of memories, voices, and images. So when my customer asked if I’d ever seen anything I can’t explain, I was certain she didn’t really want to know the truth, because I had seen some very scary stuff.

“Maybe it’s the lenses,” the woman said, bringing me back to our conversation. “In the opera glasses.

When I look through them at home, or in my yard, they seem to be fine. But when I take them to a show, there are... shadows... and the images get blurry.”

I was willing to bet that there was more to it, but it didn’t take a psychic to see that my customer was being careful with what she said, worried I would think she was imagining things, or worse.

“That can happen in old pieces like this,” I said, allowing her to save face. “Lenses are delicate things. Over the years, if they get bumped or jostled too much, they can get out of alignment.”

In front of me on the counter lay a beautiful set of opera glasses, the kind refined ladies of a bygone era took to the theater for a better view of the stage. They were finely crafted, with mother-of-pearl inlay and brass trim, and I could imagine them being tucked into the beaded handbag of a well-to-do patron of the arts. Without even touching them, I could also sense that they were not entirely what they seemed.

“Are you interested in purchasing them?” The woman seemed antsy, like she was ready to be rid of the item and be gone.

I smiled at her. “They’re lovely,” I said. “We’d be happy to purchase them.” I paused. “Can you tell me a little about their history? Buyers love pieces that have a story to go with them.”

Now that the opera glasses were no longer her problem, the woman seemed to relax a little. She was dressed casually, but I knew enough about clothing to know that her silk t-shirt, designer slacks, and tasteful-yet-expensive shoes probably cost more than the current balance of my bank account, and that was without adding the real gold earrings, Swarovski crystal bangle bracelet, and elegant (and large) diamond wedding set. Although she obviously took good care of herself, I saw a few tell-tale clues that made me guess that she was older than I had originally guessed, probably in her early seventies.

“They belonged to my great-grandmother,” she said, giving the opera glasses a wary look. “She came from a well-to-do family up North, and moved to Charleston when she married my great-grandfather around the turn of the last century,” she added. “According to family legend, she was quite a patron of the theater. She saw all the greats of the day, actresses like Lillie Langtry and Sarah Bernhardt, and actors like the Barrymores and Eddie Foy, Sr.”

I nodded, and although the names sounded vaguely familiar from a long-ago college theater history class, I couldn’t remember any details.

“So early 1900s?” I asked, but the opera glasses had already given me the answer. From their materials, finish, and workmanship, I knew they came from a time when craftsmen took their work seriously.

The woman nodded. “Of course, I never met her. But the opera glasses have been handed down through the family, and when my aunt died, she left them to me because I always loved going to plays.”

She sounded wistful, and I followed her gaze to look at the beautiful glasses that had made her so wary.

It was a shame that whatever supernatural qualities they possessed had made her unable to enjoy the gift.

I looked over to the other counter where the register sat. “Teag will take care of you,” I said, catching the eye of Teag Logan, my assistant manager. I knew Teag read my look for what it really meant, and that he would be certain to get the name, address, and phone number of our visitor in case the object turned out to be more of a problem than it appeared.

I waited until Teag paid the woman and she had left the store before I ran my hand just above the opera glasses. Teag came over for a closer look. “Do we have a ‘spooky’ or a ‘sparkler’? He asked.

That was our short-hand way of describing the items that came into the store that had a supernatural element to them. ‘Mundanes’ were regular items that didn’t require special handling. ‘Sparklers’ had a little something extra about them, but nothing dangerous. ‘Spookies’ had a darker edge, maybe even a malevolence. They go into the back room until my silent partner, Sorren, can safely get rid of them.

“It’s got some kind of juju,” I said, “but I’m not sure what just yet.” I gave Teag a sidelong look. “I thought I’d wait until the customer left before I pick it up, just in case I put on a show.” I tucked a stray strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind my ear. Late spring in Charleston meant it was already hot and humid, and although I was twenty-six and possibly ready for a more ‘grown up’ hairstyle, most of the time I wrestled my hair into a ponytail and hoped for the best. With my green eyes and pale skin, I often felt light-headed from the Southern heat, even when I didn’t handle an item with a questionable supernatural past.

Teag chuckled, but it sounded forced. Sometimes, when I handle an object, the emotions and memories are overwhelming and I get pulled in to its energy. When that happens, I can end up flat on my back – or unconscious. Teag isn’t just my assistant store manager. He’s also my assistant auctioneer, archivist, and occasional bodyguard, with his own powerful magical gift.

“What do you make of it?” I asked Teag. I was stalling before touching the opera glasses, and both of us knew it.

“Without looking them up, I’d say mid- to late nineteenth century, possibly imported, definitely expensive,” Teag replied.

Once upon a time, Teag had been studying for his doctorate in history at the University of Charleston before Sorren and I recruited him to work at Trifles and Folly. The history and the mystery of what we do got him hooked, and now he’s ABD (All But Dissertation) and in no particular hurry to finish his degree.

He’s good looking, tall, and slender, with a skater boy mop of dark hair, and a wicked sense of humor.

And right now, he looked worried.

“Let’s see what I see,” I said, working up my nerve to pick up the glasses. Teag moved a little closer, the better to keep me from falling to the floor if things went wrong.

My fingers tingled when I picked up the opera glasses; a sure sign there was some supernatural juice flowing through them. I picked up a jumble of feelings: confusion, fear, sadness. Then I took a deep breath and held the glasses up to my eyes. It was like looking through a miniature pair of very ornate binoculars. I could see the other side of the store very clearly, and when I turned toward Teag, I could see the pores in his skin and the stubble from his morning shave. “Well?”