PROLOGUE
When Ben and Helen Lundrum were selecting a name for their baby girl, they wanted one that represented the women who had influenced their lives the most, namely, Helen’s great aunts Abigail and Mathilda Culpeper. Some combinations, such as Abilda and Matigail, weren’t very appealing, until they finally decided upon the perfect name, Gilda.
Now, at twelve years of age, Gilda Mae Lundrum was beginning to dream of far away places, any place far, far away from her stepfather and her family’s tiny apartment at 29 Main Street East. She soon blossomed into a girl with lofty aspirations. Her great aunts Abigail and Mathilda planted every one of those seeds.
ONE
The package arrived Monday morning. With one hand resting on his mailbag and a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, Carlton Humphreys stood on the porch and rapped on the glass panels of the farmhouse door. His bicycle, tailored with snow tires and Par Avion stamps stuck along the cross bar and front fender, waited patiently beside the driveway, its bulging saddle bags distributed evenly across the rack on the back fender.
Gilda was just on her way to her Aunt Mathilda’s car, fondly referred to as Frankie, for her ride to school after a weekend’s stay in the country with her two favourite aunts. She exchanged an especially cheerful greeting with Mr. Humphreys as soon as she noticed the parcel in his hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Humphreys. How are you today?”
“Fine, Miss Gilda, jus’ thankful to be’s on this side of the grave marker,” he answered.
“Oh, that graveyard humour of yours, Mr. Humphreys,” Mathilda replied. “Please, come in.”
In addition to his day job with Canada Post, Mr. Humphreys worked at Ridgeville Memorial Gardens as the grounds keeper.
“Can’t stays long, though.” The toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other with one sweep of his tongue. An extra “s” followed verbs, nouns and even pronouns, giving his words a chance to slither from one to the next. “Pastor Simmons needs the last of these here invites for December’s Spaghetti Dinner,” he said in his most business-like voice, “and delivered by three, or else theres won’t be enough time to place the orders for Mrs. Marchese’s famous meatballs. Needs a good month or so to prepares ‘em. They’s the reasons everyone in Ridgeville comes out, you know.”
He shook the snow of his boots on the front mat, stepped further into the front hallway under the globe-shaped ceiling fixture for better light, and thumbed over the stack of rubber-banded envelopes in the large inner pocket of his bag before closing the storm door behind him.
“Oh, and this fancy parcel’s addressed to you, little lady.” Mr. Humphreys’ long, wrinkled digits poked out of his knitted finger mittens to present a perfectly square box to Gilda. The eau-d’ Export A wafting from his blue uniform explained the yellow stains on his teeth and the middle finger on his left hand. He pointed out the box’s red stamps and stickers. “Says fragile, so yous gotta be extra careful op’nin’ it. Bein’ an experienced mail carrier and all, I’s knows alls about safely deliverin’ precious parcels.” He stood with his hazy blue eyes fixed on the box.
“Thank you, Mr.Humphreys.” Gilda looked at her watch. Mr. Humphreys did not blink. He didn’t even seem to be breathing save for the two stray white nose hairs that stirred every three seconds. He was not in a hurry to leave, at least not before he witnessed the contents of that box. No news got past the postman, not in Ridgeville.
Gilda looked to Mathilda. Mathilda checked the pendant watch hanging flatly against her chest on its thick gold chain.
“We’ve got time, Gilda,” she said. “Open it up!” She couldn’t stand the suspense, either. Her eyes were glued to the box. She could never keep a secret, nor could she stand having one kept from her. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked. With Mathilda’s poor hearing she couldn’t hear the sweeping sound of Abigail’s suede moccasins across the hardwood floor, but she sensed her sister’s presence, and moved closer to the box as if it was her secret, too.
“A parcel for Gilda?” Abigail rubbed her hands together. “Fine dandy. Who could that be from, I wonder?” Her eyes shifted from Mathilda to Mr. Humphreys and back again. “I don’t remember you orderin’ anything, Tilly. I know I didn’t,” she said. An inquisitive look appeared on Gilda’s face, while a satisfying grin crossed Abigail’s lips.
Gilda studied the box for clues of its origins, slid her thumbnail across the layers of clear tape along its seams and unfolded the cardboard flaps. A black and red-edged leaflet with
thick black lettering sat atop the many layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap protecting the contents within.
“Thomas J. Lipton Ltd?” she read aloud. The name of the popular tea company meant nothing to her as she skimmed over the ten-page booklet with little interest.
“I’ll hold it for you, Gildy,” Mathilda offered, while Gilda carried on with the box. Once she’d peeled away all the wrapping, she looped her forefinger though the handle of the object, and held it up as though making a toast.
“It’s a … teacup,” Gilda replied without much enthusiasm. “Uh, I don’t get it. Who would send me a teacup?” From the outside it looked like an ordinary teacup with hand-painted wild briar roses on the front and back. Decorating the inside was an entire deck of miniature playing cards, filling the bowl in a scattered fifty-two pick-up sort of style. The words, The Cup of Knowledge, were inscribed in old English text along the lip.
“Ho-ley mo-ley, Miss Gilda,” Mr. Humphreys replied as the corners of his eyes and lips began to twitch. “Do you knows what thats is?” He snatched the cup from Gilda’s finger before she had time to answer. “Now wha’s would a good girl like you needs with a thing like that? I’s seen Cassandra Hotchkiss with one of those. Donts needs to says much else now, does I?” Mr. Humphreys may not have been highly educated in English conjugation, but he certainly knew a great deal about the language of witchcraft, especially when that business involved Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. “You knows whats the “S” stands for, donts you?”
“Yes, Mr. Humphreys,” Abigail answered, rolling her eyes. “We know all about Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. You mention her name every time you’ve delivered an intriguing parcel to her door.”
Mathilda disguised her voice to sound as though her throat was full of cigarette smoke.
“It’s Madame Sorceress to you,” she sniggered.
Gilda provided an involuntary snort to further illustrate the absurdity of the claim.
“Oops, pardon me,” she giggled.
“It’s no’s laughin’ matter.” Mr. Humphreys’s facial tics became more pronounced. “Remember whens we learnt about all the happenings. On’y things left on her last client’s saucer was those tea leaves in the shapes of a snake. ” Abigail glared at Mathilda while Mathilda’s eyes shifted from Abigail to Gilda and back again. Gilda’s head played monkey in the middle between her two aunts, trying to understand their silent dialogue.
“What’s the matter?” Gilda asked. “What does that mean? A snake at the bottom of a tea cup? Why are you looking at me that way?” Gilda opened her hands for Mr. Humphreys to return her tea cup. Abigail cleared her throat.
“We can talk about this later, Gilda. You’re going to be late for school.”
“There’s still time, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda replied. She wasn’t leaving this juicy conversation. “Who was Cassandra Hotchkiss’s last client, Mr. Humphreys?” Gilda asked impatiently.
Mr. Humphreys paused, turned his head towards the window on the storm door behind him and scanned both ends of the porch. He shifted his mailbag forward and then closed the heavy wooden door behind him. His eyes caught the attention of Abigail and Mathilda who seemed to be holding their respective breaths.
“Her lasts client, I’ms afraid to say, Miss Gilda, was yours stepdaddy, Charles Khurser.”
Without making eye contact with anyone, Gilda politely excused herself from the hallway, handed the tea cup to Abigail, and headed towards the second floor staircase. Mathilda made a bee-line for the kitchen as Abigail placed the teacup on the coffee table in the front room and made her way to the telephone.
“Would you excuse me, Mr. Humphreys? I think I’d better make a call.”
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