Gardez
Billionaire octogenarian Morgan Selleck sat in the back seat of his classic Bentley Continental, admiring the colonial architecture of the buildings they passed.
"What a quaint little New England town," he declared.
Carolyn, his wife, nearly forty years his junior, rolled her eyes and said, "Quaint? It's a bucolic hell hole. I don't know why you insisted on driving up here. They do sell antiques in New York, you know."
"Don't be like that. Massachusetts is beautiful in the fall. Just look at the foliage."
"If I wanted to see leaves, I'd have to go no farther than Central Park."
"Indulge me, sweetheart. It's only once a year."
What choice do I have? she asked herself. You hold the purse strings.
Carolyn sighed, knowing she would have to endure the next several days of what she thought of as Morgan's annual pilgrimage to senility, but she failed to understand why he insisted she accompany him.
"Ah, here we are!" the aged passenger announced when Caesar, his long-time chauffeur, pulled into the parking lot of the inn where they were to stay.
There was an elaborate wooden sign on the front lawn. A clipper ship in full sail was carved into it, and the lettering identified the establishment as the Sailor's Rest.
"Who built this place? Herman Melville?" Carolyn asked mockingly.
"Hardly. The building predates Melville's birth."
"It's bad enough we drove up here from New York. I don't know why we couldn't stay at the Four Seasons in Boston."
"What's wrong with Puritan Falls? I think it's a lovely little town."
You would.
She did not put that thought into words. When speaking to her husband, she tried not to direct her sarcasm at him too often. With an ironclad prenup hanging over her head, she had no desire to unnecessarily upset her meal ticket.
Caesar opened Morgan's door and helped him into his wheelchair. Carolyn followed behind as her husband was wheeled up the ramp and into the lobby.
"What a lovely old building you have here," the billionaire told Lorna Brierley, the middle-aged woman at the front desk.
"Thank you. We've got your room all ready for you, Mr. Selleck."
As Mrs. Brierley led the guests to the elevator, they passed by what was referred to as the inn's game room. There were no pinball or video game machines, no pool or ping pong tables. The games played in this room were Monopoly, cards, checkers and—to Morgan's great delight—chess.
"A chess set!" he cried with childlike joy. "Too bad neither my wife nor my chauffeur understands the game."
"If you'd like I could arrange for someone to stop by and play with you. Josiah Barnard, the proprietor of the Sons of Liberty Tavern, and Ezra Graves, owner of The Puritan Falls Gazette, both play occasionally."
"Splendid! I'd like that very much."
Given his advanced age, Morgan, who had inherited a substantial fortune from his father and managed to double it in size through his own astute business dealings, now possessed only two passions in life. One was a keen interest in history. The other was chess. Twice a month, he challenged players from all across the country, most of whom were retired like him. These virtual games were played via the Internet and lasted for days and sometimes weeks.
It was not only the act of playing the game that he enjoyed. He also devoted large sums of money to acquiring a collection of chess sets, many of which were on display in both his Manhattan apartment and his house in the Hamptons. In addition to the more traditional sets, he had several whose pieces represented literary or historical figures. There was an American Civil War set where Union soldiers led by Ulysses S. Grant battled the Confederates under Robert E. Lee. Another pitted the Lancastrians, all sporting red roses, against the white-rosed Yorkists. Similar sets featured the Christian Crusaders against the Muslims, the American Patriots against the British Redcoats and Custer's Seventh Cavalry against Sitting Bull's warriors. There were also sets that reflected popular culture: a Star Trek set of Federation forces against the Klingons, a Star Wars set of Rebels to take on Darth Vader and the Imperial forces and even one where the New York Yankees faced off against the Boston Red Sox.
Most of his sets were made of metal or plastic; but some were carved from ivory, ceramic or wood, often decorated with bits of semiprecious stones. In honor of his seventy-fifth birthday, he had even commissioned a one-of-a-kind set made of silver and gold chess pieces, which he kept locked away in a safe.
Every autumn when he journeyed to New England to take in the colorful foliage, he made his rounds of the antique shops, hoping to add to his collection. He hoped to acquire a World War II chess set featuring the Allied Forces against the Axis powers. Perhaps one of the antique shops he planned to visit on this trip would have one.
* * *
Carolyn was not impressed by the room, despite having been given the best the Sailor's Rest had to offer. She hated colonial décor: the four-poster bed with its carved posts, the claw feet on the dresser and armoire and—ugh!—the bonnet and finial on top of them.
"It looks like George Washington slept here," she declared, "and never left."
Ignoring his wife's criticism, Morgan wheeled his chair to the tall Queen Anne secretary in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer of the desk and found menus from several of the local eateries.
"This looks interesting."
"What's that?" his wife asked.
"It's a menu from the Sons of Liberty Tavern. All their entrees are named after Revolutionary War heroes and Founding Fathers: Patrick Henry, Samuel Adams, Paul Revere, Nathan Hale, Alexander Hamilton."
"Good God! This place just keeps getting worse."
Morgan continued to look through the menus until he found one he thought might interest his wife.
"Here's a place that might be more to your liking: Victoria's English Tea Shoppe. It says here that in addition to a wide range of teas and baked goods, they have cream teas and high teas."
"The last thing I need is fattening scones and clotted cream."
The old man tossed the menus aside. Sometimes there was just no pleasing his wife.
"The Sons of Liberty Tavern it is then," he announced.
After a pleasant dinner—the Thomas Jefferson chef salad for Carolyn and the Thomas Paine pot roast for her husband—they returned to the inn. Although in reasonably good health for a man in his eighties, Morgan was not given to late nights. He was usually in bed by ten.
Once her husband was asleep, Carolyn left a text message for Parker Keynes, the young man who she managed to see when she could get away from her husband: Here in hell. Can't take it much longer. When is he going to die already?
Such sentiments ought to have horrified any person, but Parker was of the same mind as his lover. Neither saw Morgan Selleck as a loving husband or generous philanthropist. Rather, to them, he was a winning lottery ticket and they could not wait to cash it in. Yet thirty-four-year-old Parker was willing to bide his time. Carolyn, however, who was in her forties, was getting impatient. A day never went by that she didn't yearn to be a rich widow.
The following morning, Caesar drove the couple to antique shops in Copperwell, Marblehead, Essex Green and Gloucester. Although disappointed that there were no unusual chess sets to be had, the billionaire collector did not give up hope.
"Tomorrow we'll go to Salem," he announced.
"Oh, great!" his wife groaned. "I heard everywhere you look they have witchy stuff, everything from kitschy T-shirts to ingredients needed to cast spells."
"Have you ever thought of doing a little hocus pocus?" he teased. "You can buy a supply of eye of newt and toe of frog."
"You're funny," Carolyn declared in a voice that clearly indicated she was not amused.
They were back in Puritan Falls by late afternoon.
"I'm not really hungry," Morgan announced. "I had that seafood sampler for lunch. Why don't we have something light for dinner tonight?"
"It makes no difference to me," his wife replied, bored by the entire trip. "Whatever you want."
Caesar drove the Bentley to Victoria's English Tea Shoppe and assisted his employer out of the car and into the restaurant. Once the couple was seated at a table, the chauffeur left to get himself a burger and fries at the mall.
"God this place is hideous!" Carolyn cried, looking aghast at the pink and floral design scheme. "It's like Laura Ashley meets Barbie!"
A somewhat plump, white-haired woman with a rosy complexion and cornflower blue eyes came from the back room.
"Welcome," she called cheerfully.
The female customer took one look at the frilly pink apron and snidely asked, "Who are you supposed to be? Barbie's grandmother?"
Victoria Broadbent's smile never faltered. It was as though she were oblivious to the younger woman's insults.
"I'm Victoria. Would either of you like a cup of tea?"
"Why do you think we're here?" Carolyn asked.
"We have a wide selection of flavors," the proprietor said, pointing to the printed list that was placed on every table, next to the napkin dispenser.
"I don't suppose you have any with alcohol?"
"There's a raspberry champagne green tea."
"If you have nothing stronger, I'll take that."
"I'll have the same," Morgan said with a warm smile for Victoria. "And I'll try some of your strawberry scones."
"Would you like preserves and clotted cream with them?"
"Definitely."
"And you, mum?" the proprietor asked with a pronounced British accent. "Can I get you something to eat, too?"
"Just the tea. I'm sure everything else you serve is loaded with calories."
That one has a high opinion of herself, Victoria thought, her blue eyes twinkling mischievously. She obviously needs to be taken down a peg or two.
* * *
The next day the couple made the short journey to Salem. Morgan, whose love of history was only surpassed by his devotion to chess, insisted on visiting the various museums dedicated to the witchcraft trials. He did so accompanied only by his chauffeur since his wife had no desire to learn more about the tragic events of 1692.
"At least there are plenty of stores around here," he pointed out. "You can shop, and we'll meet up later for lunch."
"Maybe I'll go by myself a T-shirt," she snapped contemptuously.
Morgan did not bother replying. He was too eager to visit the Witch House to exchange barbs with his wife.
After buying herself a chai tea at the local coffee shop, Carolyn strolled along Derby Street. As she had expected, there were several souvenir shops selling coffee mugs, bumper stickers, postcards, shot glasses, magnets, key chains and, yes, T-shirts.
Who buys this junk, anyway? she wondered.
She considered purchasing a postcard and sending it to her lover as a joke, but she did not want to bother going to a post office to purchase a stamp.
As the morning wore on, the number of tourists continued to grow. Derby Street became more crowded as she neared Pickering Wharf, where there were additional souvenir shops and restaurants. She then headed north on Hawthorne Boulevard to Essex Street, passing even more stores selling T-shirts and witch-themed trinkets. It was surprising that so many places could stay in business, selling basically the same things.
At the pedestrian mall on Essex Street, Carolyn encountered a live performance of actors, pretending to accuse Bridget Bishop of witchcraft—a small taste of what customers would experience if they chose to attend the full performance of "Cry Innocent" at the Old Town Hall.
This is the type of nonsense my husband would appreciate, she thought with disgust. I wouldn't be surprised if the old fool comes out of the museum gift shop wearing a "Be Witched in Salem" T-shirt.
While she headed toward Washington Square and Salem Common, she indulged herself with her favorite daydream: the murder of her husband. For the past three years, she frequently thought about ways of getting rid of him, none of which she had the courage to act upon. However, if she believed the crime could not be traced back to her, she would not hesitate to kill him.
For the life of me, I can't understand why he wants to continue living. He's stuck in that wheelchair, and the only excitement he gets out of life is playing chess with his cronies. Hell! If I ever did murder him, I would be doing him a favor by putting him out of his misery.
To avoid a group of people taking selfies in front of the statue of Salem's founder, Roger Conant, she ducked down a side street, obviously one of Robert Frost's roads less traveled. It was a quiet, narrow thoroughfare with neither parked cars nor pedestrians to mar its pristine loneliness. To her surprise and delight, there were also no shops selling souvenirs. She was enjoying the temporary escape from Salem's tourists when a young woman with pale hair the color of cornsilk stepped out of a doorway and took her by surprise.
"I'm sorry," the pretty blonde apologized. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"I'm not afraid, just startled."
"Most people don't come down this street unless they're looking for something."
"I'm trying to avoid the crowds on Washington Square," Carolyn admitted.
"Not interested in sightseeing?"
"My husband's the tourist. I'm just killing time while he visits the museums."
"Killing time," the young woman said with an enigmatic smile. "That's an odd phrase. Why don't you come inside my shop? I can help you pass the time by reading your cards."
It was only then that Carolyn noticed the discreet sign above the door: Caïssa's Charms, Amulets and Magic Gems.
"I don't think so," she said with unconcealed derision.
"No? I might have exactly what you're looking for ... Mrs. Selleck."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know many things."
Carolyn stared at the young woman's face. Although she had never seen the blonde before, there was something eerily familiar about her hypnotic blue eyes.
"For instance, I know all about you and Parker."
Convinced the woman was a clever con artist who wanted only to extort money from her, the haughty New Yorker turned and took several steps back in the direction of Washington Square.
"You want to be rid of Morgan. Right? I have something that can help."
Carolyn stopped.
What if she's not a fraud? What if she is some kind of witch?
"Help? How?"
"Do you think you're the only woman who ever wanted to do away with her husband? Believe me. Ridding the world of undesirable people is part of my stock and trade."
Seeing the hesitation on the older woman's face, the blonde continued her sales pitch.
"You can come inside and check out my wares. Or, if you prefer, you can always go to one of the souvenir shops and browse through the T-shirts while your husband visits the House of the Seven Gables."
The smile that slowly spread across Carolyn's face gave a hint of the stunningly attractive woman she had been before time started to rob her of her beauty.
* * *
Despite her husband's passion for the game, Carolyn knew nothing about chess, nor did she want to learn anything about it. Why grown men (and women) would want to spend hours, days and sometimes weeks moving pieces around a checkered board was beyond her. There seemed to be so many more interesting and productive ways to spend one's time. Yet even though she never bothered to learn the moves of the game, she understood some of the terminology used in its play. As she waited on the Common for Caesar and Morgan to meet up with her, she applied a few of them to her own situation, although they were not necessarily used correctly.
I'm tired of this "stalemate" of a marriage. I'll use the potion Caïssa sold me on Morgan in order to "queen" myself. His death will be my "gambit," a sacrifice I must make for a better life. In the "endgame," when he's in a state of "zugzwang," I'll "checkmate" him!
Carolyn smiled at what she thought was a clever means of expression. She briefly thought to text Parker Keynes and tell him of her plans, but she had seen enough crime dramas to know that detectives had ways of accessing people's text messages. She did not want to risk incriminating herself. What good would all that money do her in prison?
"Is that all you bought?" her husband asked when he saw a single, small bag in her hand.
"Most of what they sell in these stores is cheap souvenirs."
"I didn't think so. I bought several books on the trials. It'll give me something to read on those cold winter nights in front of our fireplace."
If Caïssa's potion works, you won't be alive by winter to read anything.
"Do you want to eat dinner here in Salem or would you prefer to return to Puritan Falls?" she asked before her husband had the opportunity to bore her with what he had learned at the museums.
"If it's all the same with you, I'd just as soon go back to the Sailor's Rest and order something brought to our room. All this sightseeing has tired me out."
The prospect of spending the entire evening in that eighteenth-century-styled room depressed her, but she offered no objection. It would be best that for their remaining time together she appear to be the loving, dutiful wife.
"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Selleck!" Lorna Brierley greeted them when they returned to the inn. "Did you have a nice time in Salem?"
"Yes, we did," Morgan replied. "Unfortunately, because of my wheelchair, I was unable to see the inside of the House of the Seven Gables, but they let me on the grounds, so I was at least able to see the outside of the house."
Caesar, who in addition to being a chauffeur doubled as a male nurse, helped his employer bathe and then drove to Chez Pierre and brought back dinner for the Sellecks.
"That will be all for this evening, Caesar," Morgan declared gratefully. "Thank you."
"I'm going to a place called the Green Man Pub. They've got an Irish band playing there tonight. If you should need me for anything, I'll keep my cell phone turned on."
"I'll be fine. You just go and enjoy yourself."
Around seven o'clock, as Morgan was thumbing through one of the books he purchased in Salem and his wife was watching a movie on television, there was a knock on the door.
"Who can that be?" Carolyn wondered and crossed the room to open it.
"Good evening, Mrs. Selleck," Lorna Brierley said. "Is your husband still awake?"
"Yes, he's right here."
"What can I do for you?" Morgan asked as he wheeled his chair to the door.
"I was wondering if you wanted that game of chess tonight. I found someone to play with you."
In spite of what to him had been a tiring day, his spirits picked up at the mention of chess.
"Great! I'll be right down."
When the old man entered the inn's game room, he was surprised to see Victoria Broadbent, the white-haired owner of the tea shoppe, sitting at the table.
"You play chess?" he asked with surprise.
"I'm a woman of many secret talents," she laughed. "Chess is just one of them."
Morgan then noticed a white cardboard box tied with red string on the table beside her.
"What's that?"
"I took the liberty of bringing along some fresh-baked goods. I hope you're not too full from your dinner."
The sight of the pastel-colored macarons made his mouth water. He sampled one as Victoria set up the pieces on the chessboard. An hour later the wealthy New Yorker was on his fifth macaron, pondering his next move, when he thought he heard his opponent utter something beneath her breath.
"What was that you said?" he asked.
"I didn't say anything," Victoria replied.
"I could have sworn I heard you. It sounded like you said gardez."
It was a word familiar to chess players, a warning to an opponent that his queen was in immediate danger of being captured.
Why would I say that? Your queen is perfectly safe. It is YOU who are in danger.
Those words seemed to bypass his ears and go straight to his brain. Clearly, Victoria had not spoken them since her lips never moved. Yet, it was her voice he had heard.
"I must be hearing things," Morgan said, laughing uneasily. "I hope that's not a sign that I'm getting Alzheimer's."
Although his statement was made in jest, the old man did harbor a fear that the dreaded disease might eventually rob him of his faculties.
"There's nothing at all wrong with your brain," the teashop owner said with complete confidence, as though she possessed supernatural knowledge of the future.
"Is fortunetelling another one of your hidden talents?"
"A lady never reveals her secrets."
* * *
After a week of staying in New England, the Sellecks returned to New York. They were home only two days when Carolyn introduced a new element into their lives: afternoon tea.
"What's this?" Morgan asked the first time his wife rolled the tea service into the living room where he was admiring the latest addition to his collection: a Lord of the Rings chess set he had purchased in Mystic, Connecticut, on their way home from Massachusetts.
"I thought you'd like something hot to drink. It's nearly November. The weather has gotten quite cold."
"That's very thoughtful of you, my dear. Thank you."
For the next two weeks, the mid-afternoon tea became part of their daily routine. During that time, Carolyn kept a close eye on her husband, watching for signs that Caïssa's potion was working. She saw nothing. No sniffles, no body aches, no tiredness. He remained disgustingly healthy!
Did I really think that con woman was a witch just because she lived in Salem and she knew details about my life? I suppose I got exactly what I deserved for my stupidity.
The following day she put the last few drops of the potion into her husband's teacup. Again, it appeared to have no effect on him. She had paid Caïssa five thousand dollars for that small bottle, hoping it would kill Morgan in his sleep, and nothing had happened.
She scammed me! But what can I do about it? I can't very well go to the police or the Better Business Bureau and tell them the potion she sold me to kill my husband didn't work.
Still, Carolyn was not about to let the so-called witch get away with conning her. When Morgan went to his bedroom for an afternoon nap, she went to his office and turned on his computer to do an Internet search for Caïssa's phone number—only to discover there was no listing for her shop. When she googled the name Caïssa, the only results she got back were those describing a Thracian dryad who was credited as being the patron saint of chess.
"Chess?" she mumbled under her breath. "What the hell is going on?"
Her next thought was to hire a private detective. It was either that or drive up to Salem herself to confront the blond-haired, blue-eyed fraudster. The latter was out of the question. What excuse would she give Morgan for the trip?
Carolyn was scanning through a list of private detectives in Manhattan when the buzzer on the intercom sounded.
"Yes?" she asked with annoyance at the interruption.
"This is the front desk, Mrs. Selleck," the not-too-bright man in the lobby said. (The introduction was unnecessary since the intercom was a direct line from the front desk to the penthouse apartment.) "FedEx just dropped off a package for your husband, Ma'am."
"Just send it up. Will you?"
The man is an absolute moron! she thought.
"Right away, Mrs. Selleck."
When she saw that the box was marked PERISHABLE, her curiosity got the better of her. Unable to walk, her husband frequently ordered things online, mostly books and magazines. Although some packages were considered "time-sensitive materials," they were never deemed perishable. Still standing in the foyer, she tore open the brown cardboard shipping carton and found a white box tied with red string inside. There was a handwritten note on pink paper taped to the top of the box.
"Gardez," it said, and it was signed "Victoria."
Gardez? Isn't that a word in chess that means the queen is in danger? What is it supposed to mean? And who the hell is Victoria?
Even more curious than before, she cut the red string and opened the box. Inside was an assortment of macarons. The sight of the French delicacies stirred a memory of their recent trip to Puritan Falls.
That's who Victoria is: the old lady in the teashop. But why is she sending macarons to Morgan? Did he order them?
Although not normally a person who enjoyed sweets, the pastel-colored treats looked too good to pass up. Surely, just one wouldn't hurt. Rather than pink, she chose a pale blue one, similar in color to Victoria's eyes.
Carolyn took a bite.
Mmmm! she thought, savoring the delicious taste of raspberry. Victoria may very well look like Barbie's grandmother, but she sure can bake!
When she was finished with the blue macaron, she eyed the yellow one, wondering if it was banana-flavored or lemon.
Should I? she wondered, feeling the tug of temptation.
As she reached into the box for a second macaron, however, she felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her.
"Gardez."
"Who said that?" Carolyn demanded to know, but she was alone in the room.
"Gardez."
The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Was it Victoria's? No. It sounded much younger.
"Gardez."
Her head spinning, Carolyn leaned against the door for support. If she could just make it to her cell phone to call 911. Her back rubbing along the wall, she inched her way toward the living room. However, she did not get far. As she fought off a wave of nausea, the front door seemed to grow. So, too, did the coatrack beside it and the painting on the wall.
They're not growing, she realized with terror. I'm getting smaller!
The floor of the foyer, a checkered pattern of black and white ceramic tiles, grew ever nearer as she shrunk in size. Suddenly, she felt herself falling forward. Before her head hit the floor, she lost consciousness.
"Gardez."
The unknown voice called to her, bringing her out of a stupor. Carolyn tried to move, but neither her arms nor her legs would respond. With difficulty, she opened her eyes. She saw black and white checkered tiles, but this was not the floor of her foyer. This was a chessboard.
A figure approached, gliding on the smooth surface of the board. Like her, it had no arms or legs. It was just a head and a neck—a living, breathing chess piece.
"Who are you?" Carolyn cried.
She could not tell the color of the woman's hair because it was hidden behind an old-fashioned wimple. But the coloring of the opposing queen's complexion suggested that it might be blond or possibly white. The eyes, as well, cornflower blue in color, would indicate fair-colored hair.
I've seen those eyes before, Carolyn thought.
"Victoria! No ... Caïssa!"
It could be either one—or both. But the white queen's identity did not matter, for this was the endgame for Carolyn. With a smile of triumph and a mischievous twinkle in her cornflower blue eyes, the other chess piece vanished from the board, leaving the doomed queen to her lonely fate.
Salem played chess with a group of witch's familiars. He wanted to be king, but they made him a bishop instead.
