Gemma dressed quickly, tossed her curls into a messy bun, slipped the skeleton key into the pocket of her jeans, and went downstairs. It was almost seven o’clock, and she knew Eric would be up soon, if he wasn’t already.

  Sure enough, the sofa was empty, the pile of blankets neatly folded and the pillows stacked on top. Her stomach knotted as she looked at the boarded-up window, a reminder of why Eric was there in the first place. Glancing out the window in the kitchen, she saw him on the ladder, fixing some shingles on one of the outbuildings.

  The coffee was already made, thanks to Eric. She poured herself a cup, added a splash of heavy cream, and walked out into the yard.

  “’Morning,” he called down to her from the top of the ladder.

  “Good morning. Did you get any sleep at all?” Gemma looked up toward Eric, shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

  “A little. I was too worked up to sleep much. I kept listening for sounds all night long,” he replied as he managed to sink the nail with just one hit of the hammer.

  “I’m sorry you’re caught up in the middle of my mess, Eric. Really.” She shook her head from side to side, anger and frustration churning inside. “This shouldn’t be your problem.”

  “Come on, Gemma, stop apologizing.” Eric climbed down the ladder and pulled her into a tight hug. “We’re going to figure this out together. I’d rather be with you than anywhere else on Earth, you know.”

  As he spoke, some small, distant memory surfaced. She’d heard that phrase before—last night in her dream. Sterling had said the same words to Pearl.

  Reaching into her pocket, Gemma pulled out the skeleton key.

  “Does this look familiar at all to you?” She held it up for Eric to see.

  He took it from her, placed it in his palm, and inspected it closely. “Hmmm. Should it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she hedged. “What would a key like that be used for?”

  “Could be anything, really. A door, maybe?”

  “Possibly.”

  “The old doors on the inside of the house used to have this kind of lock on them before they were replaced. Could be from that,” he offered, dropping the key back into her waiting palm. “Where did you find it?”

  “Upstairs,” she replied, purposely vague.

  “You should hang on to it. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  “I intend to,” she said as she dropped it back into her pocket.

  “So, what’s your plan for the day?” he inquired.

  “I’m going to head into town and go to the historical society. I’ve been wanting to see what information they have on Moonstone House. Today seems as good a day as any,” Gemma answered.

  “That’s a great plan. It will take your mind off what’s going on here. But just so you know, I intend to make myself a permanent fixture on your couch until we figure this mess out. As long as that’s all right with you, I mean.”

  “It’s fine with me that you’re here. I love having you around. But I really do wish you’d sleep in the guest room. I hate the thought of you on the sofa.”

  “We’ll see. For now, that’s the safest place for me to be until we find out if Becker has any more tricks up his sleeve. Besides, your couch is actually pretty comfortable.”

  “So is the bed upstairs. But I can see you’re set on this, so I won’t argue. For now,” she replied.

  “I just want to be sure nothing happens to you or Opal.” Eric shrugged. “I’d never forgive myself if it did.”

  “I know. And I appreciate it.” Gemma stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips lightly across his. “I’m off to town now.”

  She went inside, placed the skeleton key in her dresser drawer next to Pearl’s journal, grabbed her keys, then walked outside and slid into the car. Starting it up, she headed into town, pulling into the parking lot of the historical society less than ten minutes later.

  Twenty-Three

  “Can I help you, dear?” the kind-looking older woman asked as Gemma walked through the front door of the Beacon Shores Historical Society.

  “I hope so.” She smiled. “My name is Gemma Clayborn, and I live at Moonstone House. I’d love to try to find some information about it.”

  The woman nodded, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “Ah, I’m Agnes Daybell. And you must be one of the Jewels.”

  “The Jewels?” Gemma asked.

  “That’s what people around here call the women in your family. The Jewels. You know, because you’re all named after precious stones and gems and the like?” Agnes laughed.

  “Got it. I had no idea people referred to our family that way,” Gemma responded. “Very cool.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for information on Moonstone House, you’ve come to the right place. We have a lot of it. Follow me.”

  Agnes grabbed her cane and motioned for Gemma to follow her into the back. There was a table and a couple of wooden chairs in the center of the room. Agnes indicated that was where Gemma should work, so she placed her purse and keys on the surface.

  “Now, our old newspaper articles will all be on microfiche. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” Agnes asked.

  “Actually, I do. I’ve been a reporter for a very long time, so I know my way around the microfiche,” Gemma answered with a laugh.

  “A reporter. Nice. Well, I guess I don’t need to tell you how to conduct research, then, do I?” Agnes winked.

  “Not at all. If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’m pretty good at finding my way through documents and records.”

  Agnes gave Gemma a quick tour of where everything was kept, and then she returned to her desk.

  Gemma decided to start with the old newspaper articles, searching for any information she could find on Dogan Becker. She quickly discovered an abundance of material since the man had been mayor of Beacon Shores. Gemma found one article with a photo of him, and she examined it closely. Goose bumps erupted on her arms as her suspicions were confirmed—Dogan Becker was indeed the man she’d seen during her flashback moment on the porch.

  She flipped through several more articles when the headline of a particular one, “Spiritualism in America,” caught her attention. Scanning the article quickly, she gasped when she saw the name Sterling E. Johnson. Leaning in closer, she read the article through twice. It was strange, but Gemma came to the conclusion that the man had to be Pearl’s Sterling. In her journal, Pearl had written that Sterling said he was a medium, and although Gemma had been skeptical, it seemed Pearl was telling the truth.

  It turned out that not only was Sterling a medium, but he was one of the most famous, well-paid ones in the country at that time. Sterling had traveled around the country, state to state, being wined and dined by the wealthiest, most elite members of American society. It seemed the rich upper echelon weren’t afraid to pay handsomely for a man like Sterling to connect them to their family members who had passed on to the other side.

  Sterling E. Johnson was quite famous, yet also a bit of a mystery. Gemma found more than one article where writers tried to solve the mystery of the man. People speculated that he was anything from a secret European prince to an outright angelic being, and everything in between. She discovered that he had been one of the most celebrated men in America. Gemma wondered about the circumstances that had sent him to Pearl’s doorstep, too sick to even walk.

  She scrolled through more newspaper articles, finally landing on one that talked about the fire that ravaged the town of Beacon Shores in 1899. She read that the town and nearly everything in it had gone up in flames that fall. Flipping forward a few years, she found another article detailing when it had burned again in 1905. Once again, it was nearly a complete loss.

  “That’s so odd. What’s the likelihood that the same town would burn twice in just a six-year span?” Gemma whispered to herself.

  As she dug deeper, she quickly learned she wasn’t the only one who found it odd. She ran across an opinion piece written by a woman named Margaret Becker, who just so happened to be the mayor’s wife. Gemma reread the final paragraph of the editorial two times, trying to fully absorb its impact.

  My fellow citizens, these mysterious circumstances are not so mysterious at all. Our town is at war, and our enemy is not made of flesh and blood. Our enemy is the Evil One and his followers. I beseech you, my friends, we must flush out this wickedness. Do it for yourselves and your children. Do it for the future of Beacon Shores.

  “It seems the Beckers have always been obsessed with hunting so-called evil,” Gemma said quietly.

  She finished reading the article, focusing on the final sentence. Her blood ran cold as she read the last words of Mrs. Becker’s opinion piece.

  As it says in the Good Book in Exodus 22:18, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  Twenty-Four

  Still unsettled after the disturbing things she’d uncovered at the historical society, Gemma drove toward Moonstone House. She’d learned a lot, but most of the information elicited more questions than answers. It seemed the town—more specifically, the Becker family—had been after the Jewels for generations. But for the life of her, Gemma had no clue why.

  Pulling into the driveway, she turned off the car. Tucking the stack of papers she’d copied into her bag, she went inside. She hadn’t seen Eric outside, and she wondered where he was. His truck was in the driveway, so he couldn’t be far. Depositing her bag and keys onto the kitchen table, she ran upstairs to change. The chilliness of the fall morning had been burned away by the uncharacteristic afternoon autumn sunshine. After she’d thrown on some leggings and a tank top, Gemma went downstairs.

  Looking out the kitchen window, she noticed Eric was back on the ladder, working on the shingles. She grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it with ice, and added some sweet tea with a slice of lemon. Then she made a thick ham sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise, just as Eric liked it. She put the sandwich on a plate, grabbed the glass of iced tea, and went outside.

  “The boss says it’s time for a break,” she said with a smile, motioning him toward the picnic table under the tree.

  “I’ll clock out and be right there.” He chuckled, climbing down the ladder.

  Gemma sat on the bench, and Eric slid onto the one on the opposite side.

  “This looks great. Thank you,” he said as he took a huge gulp of the tea.

  “You’re welcome. Since you slept here last night, I realized you didn’t bring any food with you today. Plus, it got really warm, and I figured you might be thirsty,” she replied.

  “Nothing for you?”

  “Nah, I’m not too hungry, and I just had an iced coffee in town,” Gemma answered.

  “How did it go? I assume you met Agnes Daybell if you went to the historical society?” Eric asked between bites.

  “Yeah, I did. She’s a sweet old lady. She told me the people in town refer to the women in my family as the Jewels.” She chuckled. “Did you know that?”

  “I did. Your grandmother thought it was hilarious, and she played into it whenever she could.” He laughed. “She was a character.”

  “Yeah, she was. I wish I had gotten to know her better.” Gemma sighed.

  “I know she wished that too,” Eric told her.

  “Anyway,” she said, shaking off the sudden melancholy, “what do you know about the fires in Beacon Shores?”

  “A bit.” He shrugged. “What did you find out?”

  “Well, I found out that Beacon Shores burned almost completely in 1899 and then again in 1905.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Don’t you find that odd? I mean, what are the chances of the same town burning down twice in just six years?” Gemma asked.

  “It’s definitely strange, but it happened,” Eric replied with a shrug.

  “Did they ever discover where the fires originated?”

  “Not that I know of. But I don’t really think it was ever investigated, at least not the way it would be now.”

  “Why wouldn’t they have investigated it?”

  “Probably because the townspeople had their own ideas about the fires, and they weren’t interested in anything else.”

  “Their own ideas? What do you mean by that?”

  “Emerald and I talked about this very same topic right before she passed away. She seemed to know you were going to ask this question, and she wanted to be sure she told me what she knew about it,” Eric said.

  “That’s odd. How could she possibly know I’d ask the question?” Gemma chuckled.

  “That’s your grandmother for you, Gemma.”

  “Okay. Well, tell me what she said, then,” she encouraged.

  “Emerald told me that the real problems started in the winter of 1898,” Eric began.

  “What happened then?”

  “It seemed that most of the people in Beacon Shores grew very ill. Emerald didn’t know what sickness was being spread, but she said Pearl and her daughters were pretty much the only ones in town who didn’t get sick,” he said.

  “That’s odd, isn’t it?” Gemma asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It honestly could have been anything. Maybe it was something Pearl and her daughters were already exposed and immune to. Who knows? But the people of Beacon Shores decided Pearl had caused the sickness.”

  Gemma scoffed. “Why would they think that? It’s ridiculous.”

  “Pearl was well known as a healer. Most of the townspeople came to her on a regular basis for anything from gout and the common cold to childbirth and everything in between. She basically acted as the town’s doctor, even though they already had one. People trusted her.”

  “So how did she go from being a beloved member of the community to the reason the town was sick?”

  “I honestly don’t know the answer to that, and neither did Emerald. All she knew was the people who had trusted Pearl and came to her for healing turned on her. They blamed her when the sickness hit the town. Probably because Pearl and her family didn’t become ill. People weren’t always rational back then, and they very rarely focused on science or facts,” Eric explained.

  “So, what happened then? What does this have to do with the fires?” Gemma questioned, trying to connect the pieces in her mind.

  “Well, the good citizens of Beacon Shores decided then and there that Pearl was responsible, and therefore, she shouldn’t be trusted.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Crazy or not, that’s the way it was. The town cut them off. They shunned Pearl and her daughters. They stopped coming to her for healing, they quit buying her tinctures, and the store stopped carrying her vegetables and jams. Pearl and her daughters became pariahs.”

  “That’s terrible. They were all alone. I’m sure they depended on that income to survive,” Gemma surmised. “What happened then?”

  “Needless to say, it didn’t go over well. Pearl was apparently an opinionated woman, and she didn’t go down quietly.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Rumor has it that she went into the town square and gave the good citizens a piece of her mind.” Eric smirked.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that Pearl Muller-Ackermann supposedly cursed the town of Beacon Shores.”

  “Cursed it?”

  “Yep. She cursed it. So, when the town caught fire and burned just a few months later, you can probably guess who was to blame.” Eric shrugged.

  “Pearl.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Wow.” Gemma sighed. “That’s sort of a lot to digest, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And I truly have no idea how much fact there is to any of it. It’s just the story your grandma Emerald told me.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me. It seems that each new piece of information I discover brings up about a thousand new questions that need answering.” She laughed.

  “You’ll figure it out.” He squeezed her hand. “I have no doubt that you’ll piece this puzzle together eventually.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Anyway, I need to get back to work,” Eric said, standing. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you need any help with those shingles?”

  “Nope. You need to get your cute little self up to your room and work on your book,” he answered with a laugh.

  “No pressure, right?” She rolled her eyes as she grabbed the plate and cup and planted a quick kiss on Eric’s cheek.

  “No pressure at all, sweetheart.” He smiled. “You’ve got this.”

  Twenty-Five

  Gemma sat on the bed, her laptop, Pearl’s journal, and the skeleton key spread out in front of her. She scrolled through the file she’d been working on, smiling when she saw the word count—over sixty thousand words—and realized her book was becoming a reality. In fact, it was nearly finished. Once she’d settled in on telling a fictionalized version of Pearl’s story, the words had practically poured out of her.

  Opening the journal, she flipped toward the end of it, noticing the date of the entry was December of 1898.

  It’s winter, and the cold dampness has settled in all around. The rain pours down on us, and the roar of the ocean howls just outside our back door. A strange sickness is spreading like wildfire through the town, my neighbors succumbing to it one by one. I don’t know what’s making them sick, but thanks be to God, my daughters and I seem to be immune. I believe it’s because we live out here on our own, so far away from others. The people of Beacon Shores have their own ideas.

  The mayor’s wife paid me a visit today. It seems she believes that I’m to blame for the strange disease ravaging the town. She said my daughters and I will be on our own from now on. No one will visit us. No one will buy our wares. No one will seek me out for healing. We are not welcome to come into town. They believe I’ve caused this sickness, bringing it to life and spreading it through my supposed association with the Evil One. If only they understood that my heart is true. I serve God and God only.

 

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