"Or didn't do it at all."
Added insight into the Macintosh personality. Clate let Tuck take him around the lush, old yard as he pointed out its many problems. Rotted trellises, bees' nests in inappropriate places, brick that needed replacing, cracked stone, washed-out spots along the foundation, a robust crop of poison ivy vying with grape vines off along the far edge of the yard. When they finished, they returned to the stone terrace, which was in danger, apparently, of eroding and washing down into the marsh.
O'Rourke shrugged his massive shoulders. "Sorry for all the bad news. I guess Mrs. Frye didn't keep up the place that well."
"Did she decide to sell because upkeep was getting out of hand?"
"I don't know. I just heard it had to do with one of her spells."
"One of her what?"
"Spells. She's a witch." He spoke in that blunt, Yankee manner, then grinned at Clate's mystified look and rubbed his short beard. "You didn't know, huh?"
"No, I didn't." Although the skull and crossbones in the enclosed herb garden should have been a tip-off, he supposed. "Well, that's her business. It has nothing to do with me."
Tuck shifted, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
Clate felt a twist of foreboding. "There's something I should know, isn't there?"
"It's just idle talk."
"I'll take it in that light, then. I've had experience with gossip and rumors."
Avoiding Clate's eye, O'Rourke mashed the toe of a work boot into a crack in the terrace. "I've heard Mrs. Frye put a spell on you."
Clate nearly choked. "On me?'
Tuck nodded.
"Why in hell would she do that?"
"Don't know. Some say because she thinks one of your ancestors is haunting the house."
"My family came to this country via Baltimore and headed south from there."
Tuck squirmed, and Clate could see that he was a taciturn man by nature. "I just hear things, you understand. Doesn't mean I believe them."
"Acknowledged. What else do people say about this supposed spell?"
"I guess some folks are saying the devil himself made Mrs. Frye put a spell on you to get you to come north, buy this place, and develop it."
Clate couldn't stop a grin. "The devil, eh?"
"Yeah." Tuck wasn't grinning back. His idea of witches seemed rooted in horror movies and popular stereotype, not contemporary understanding of witchcraft as one of the world's oldest religions. "I mean, I don't believe any of that."
"That's it, then? I'm here either because of ghosts or devils?"
"Or Piper," O'Rourke added almost inaudibly.
Clate didn't know why he wasn't surprised. "Mind elaborating?"
"There's talk—I know it's crazy—" He flushed, his cheeks red above his tawny beard. "There's talk Mrs. Frye's been working her magic to try and get a man up here for Piper, seeing how she hasn't had any luck with the guys around town."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's just crazy talk. Small town, you know?"
Witches, ghosts, devils, romance. Small-town talk indeed. Clate took a breath. No wonder Andrew Macintosh had made a point of introducing himself. If even a scrap of this crazy talk was accurate, his aunt was a lunatic. And his sister wasn't far behind if she was indulging the old woman.
"I suppose." He tried to sound good natured about the whole thing, but he hadn't considered the possibility of an eighty-seven-year-old woman casting spells on him when he'd tried to understand his impulse to buy property up north. "Thanks for stopping by. Let me know what you can and can't do around here and how much you'll charge, and we'll talk."
O'Rourke still was looking awkward and embarrassed. "I wouldn't worry about Mrs. Frye, really. I've been talking out of turn. I've known her all my life. She's harmless." He started off the terrace, apparently wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "I'll get you that bid by tomorrow."
"Thanks."
Clate waited until he heard Tuck O'Rourke's truck rattle off down the road before he headed back inside. If he were smart, he'd pay no attention to local gossip. An eighty-seven-year-old widow and her green-eyed, chestnut-haired niece living alone out on this road were bound to stir up imaginative talk, especially in a small town. Add him to the mix, and the talk could get interesting. It wasn't every day that a rich Tennessean bought a two-hundred-fifty-year-old house and thirty acres in Frye's Cove.
He checked his voice mail, his mind still on his bizarre conversation with Tuck O'Rourke. Most of his messages were routine.
But there was the one he'd expected, dreaded. His assistant, the young, smart Mabel Porter, delivered it in her polished eastern Tennessee accent.
"She's gone, Mr. Jackson. I'm sorry."
* * *
Chapter 4