High Jinx Read online

  I scroll down and click a listing. A painting of a crying girl fills the screen.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  “That isn’t creepy,” Hope says. “It’s just depressing. You don’t want that one. Here, let me—”

  I smack her arm as she reaches across the keyboard. “You don’t recognize it?”

  “Uh, should I?”

  “Salvo Costa. Crying Girl. The most famous cursed painting. Well, one of them. It was part of a quartet. All cursed.”

  She frowns.

  “You never read Mom’s curse scrapbook, did you,” I say.

  “Just the pages on dolls.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Curse history lesson, just for you, baby sister. It’s the seventies. Guy paints a series of sad kids. Why? Because it’s the seventies, and people ate that shit up. Or that’s how it began. He only meant to paint one and have copies made. He holed up in his studio to do this painting—Crying Girl. When night comes, his wife brings him dinner, and he says to leave it outside the door. Doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t touch breakfast, either. For three days, he drinks nothing but coffee. Lots of coffee. When he emerges, he’s completed a series of four paintings, all of sad kids.”

  “Did anyone suggest therapy?”

  “No, but when his priest saw them, he suggested an exorcism.”

  She peers at the screen. “It’s just a crying kid.”

  “While they’re called the sad children, this is the only one who’s crying. There’s a boy about thirteen who looks eerily determined. Determined to do what? That is the question. Then an older girl who looks as if she’s lost her last friend in the world, and an older boy who looks as if he murdered that friend. A wee bit too demonic for the priest’s taste. As for Salvo Costa, all he wanted was to get the damned things out of his house.”

  “But he’d just finished painting them.”

  I shrug. “That’s the legend. He painted them and immediately wanted them gone. His art dealer took them and sold them. That’s when the crying started for real.”

  “Let me guess. They make people cry?”

  “No, they kill. Violent death and madness follow the paintings wherever they go.”

  “Ooh, now it gets good. It’s story time, yes? Please tell me it’s story time.”

  I lower my voice. “They say that Costa was possessed by the spirits of the four children. He and his wife had just moved into a new home. Little did they know that it harbored a dark secret.”

  My sister fairly vibrates with glee, and I have to bite my cheek to keep my expression suitably somber.

  “An entire family died in that house,” I say. “Parents and their four children. They perished in a fire. Except . . . that’s not the whole story.”

  Hope bounces, glowing as if she’s seven again, the two of us under her covers while I unspool a new ghost story.

  I continue, “They say the parents died first. And it wasn’t a fire. It was . . . the children.”

  I let that one hang for the required three seconds. “They say the oldest girl and oldest boy murdered their parents. Killed them in their sleep. For the next month, no one knew. The kids said their parents were busy, their parents were sick, their parents had just stepped out. All the while they were rotting in their beds. The youngest girl wouldn’t stop crying. She missed their parents and didn’t understand why she wasn’t allowed in their bedroom. Then came the fire.”

  “Did the little girl set it?”

  “That, my dear sister, is the question. Some say it was indeed the little girl. Some say it was the younger boy, the one who looks so determined in the painting, perhaps determined to punish his murderous siblings. Some say it was the older girl, and that explains her expression—she’s broken by guilt and remorse. Or it’s the older boy, who’d had enough of the crying and decided to stop it for good. There is another story, though. One where the youngest—the girl in this painting—escaped and ran to tell the neighbors. The neighbors came back . . . and set the house on fire. At the last minute, they pushed the little girl into the flames to perish. After all, she shared the same blood as the two who’d killed their own parents. A bad seed.”

  Hope gives a delicious shiver. “That’s a good one.”

  I lean back. “I think so. Anyway, that’s the origin story for the paintings, which this seller doesn’t even seem to know.”

  “Lousy marketing.”

  “Right?” I scroll through the listing. “They don’t seem to know there are other paintings, either.”

  “What about the deaths? Do the children come out of the paintings at night and kill the owners?”

  “Kill them or drive them mad. Everyone who has survived insists they saw the child in their painting come to life. My guess is that the curse is actually a hallucination, causing the owner to believe they see—”

  Hope sticks her fingers in her ears. “What’s that? You’re trying to explain away a cool story? La-la-la, I can’t hear you.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Fine. I’ll keep my theory to myself. The point is that, yes, it’s widely believed that the paintings are actually cursed and that the curse has killed people. Better?”

  “Much.”

  “And, since it’s a deadly curse on an item that is for sale, I am honor-bound to buy it and uncurse it.”

  “Then resell it, with the full story, for double what you paid.”

  “That’s the idea.” I sign into my account. “Looks like the bidding is at a hundred bucks. Let’s make it two.”

  Chapter Two

  I’ve lost hope. Three of them, in fact. One, I keep getting outbid on that damned painting. Two, I conceded defeat in the phone-checking battle, only to discover Connolly hasn’t read my message. Three, I’ve lost the actual Hope, who got a call from Ani needing her at home. Ani runs the family business: Unhex Me Here. As the name suggests, they uncurse whatever people need uncursed. Or, more often, whatever people believe they need uncursed. Ani needed Hope to handle a client trying Ani’s patience, which is honestly not hard to do.

  Business is brisk for a Tuesday. I’ve already sold three items, and I’m closing in on the sale of a doll. I may have told Hope that our clientele was mostly middle-aged antiquers, but her dolls—and my jewelry finds—pull in a different crowd: fifty percent Gen X former goths, twenty-five percent my fellow millennials and twenty-five percent Hope’s fellow Gen Zs. These two fall into the last category. Trust-fund babies who think that a cursed doll is exactly what their tony Boston apartment needs. So ironic! Can you believe people actually thought it was cursed?

  “So the curse has been removed,” the blond one says. “You can guarantee that?”

  “I can guarantee that the doll is not cursed.” Because it never was.

  “Is there a certificate or something?” Blond smirks at Brunette. “A certificate of de-cursing authentication?”

  A click behind me, as Hope must come in the back door. Both young women look over.

  “Well, hello,” Brunette murmurs. “Please tell me you’re for sale.”

  I presume she’s talking about my sister. Then Blond says, “Wait, wasn’t that Aiden Connolly?”

  I turn so fast my sneakers squeak. I don’t see Connolly. I do, however, see the storage room door swinging shut.

  “That was Aiden Connolly,” Blond says, her voice as breathy as if she just spotted a movie star. Which tells me two things. One, Connolly just walked in the back way and immediately turned tail and fled. Two, I was right about the background of these young women. When I called them trust-fund babies, I was kinda snarking. Seems I hit the bull’s-eye because Connolly isn’t a movie star . . . unless you’re a society girl who’s memorized Boston’s most eligible bachelor lists. Connolly is on those lists. Hell, he’s in the top three.

  Hope has shown me the lists. At first, I thought she was creating fake ones to tease me. Oh, I know Aiden Connolly is hot. I have eyes. Also, I know he’s rich. Son of a very wealthy, old-money family, and he has his own successful insurance company. But, well, he’s Connolly. A little straitlaced, a little standoffish, not exactly a charming playboy. I mean, the guy runs an insurance company. He geeks out over actuarial tables. Except that kind of ambitious stability is catnip to many of the women who pore over those lists. And if they prefer the “charming playboy,” well, there’s always his younger brother, Rian . . . who has been secretly dating Hope for the past month.

  “That was Aiden Connolly,” Blond says again. “I know it was.”

  Her friend curls her lip as she looks around. “Here? No way.”

  “Yes way. I heard he’s been slumming it with some . . .” Blond’s gaze turns to me. “Oh my God.”

  I fix on my most neutral expression and pause before speaking, as if they are engaged in a personal conversation, which I hate to interrupt.

  “We don’t have certificates of de-cursing authenticity,” I say. “However, I do offer a store guarantee. You may return the doll within three days, no questions asked.”

  “That was Aiden Connolly, wasn’t it?” Blond asks.

  I pause, again so politely that Ani would be proud. Then I fix on my blank shop-clerk look, the one that says I know my clients aren’t addressing me.

  “Hello?” Brunette says, waving her hand in front of my eyes. “We asked if that was Aiden Connolly who just came in your back door.”

  I glance toward the back door and frown. “Someone just dropped off a delivery. Is your friend a courier?”

  I check my watch. “Oh, would you look at the time. I’m sorry, ladies. I have a video sales appointment in a few minutes. Perhaps you’d like to think on the doll a little longer?”

  I raise my voice loud enough to be heard in the storage room. “Or perhaps, if that delivery guy really was your friend, you can slip out the back door and catch him.”

  The young women must not know Connolly personally because they don’t take me up on my offer. Nor do they leave nearly fast enough, instead flouncing and whinging because I have the nerve to turn down a sale.

  The pair finally leave after shooting back that if I were really selling uncursed objects, I’d offer a certificate of authenticity.

  I return to my desk. Less than ten seconds later, the storage room door creaks open before swinging wide as Connolly strides in.

  “That was you,” I say, gaze on my phone as I check the cursed-painting bid.

  “Yes,” he says. “I left my phone in the car.”

  A perfectly valid excuse if you’re me. If you’re Connolly, it’s like saying you left your right arm behind.

  There’s no reason for him to lie. He could admit he heard the young women recognize him and retreated because it made him uncomfortable, which is true. Plenty of guys campaign to get on those lists. To Connolly, it’s like topping the list of prize breeding bulls. Or, more accurately, top investment opportunities.

  He sets something in front of me. The smell of fresh bread wafts out, and I glance up to see a picnic basket, complete with a bottle of wine.

  “My apology for this weekend,” he says. “I’m hoping you’ll have time for a picnic, but if you don’t, consider this a delivery service.”

  I slowly lift my gaze over the basket, which is a mistake. I said Connolly was hot. I suspect he’d find that adjective as uncomfortable as being on those lists. That doesn’t mean he hides his light under a barrel. I’ve been told that Connolly dresses extremely well. Maybe I should have realized that myself, but male fashion isn’t my thing. Hell, female fashion isn’t really my thing, as evidenced by the fact that I’m working in a T‑shirt and sneakers.

  Connolly dresses as if he’s heading to a GQ magazine shoot. Today, that’s an ivory shirt tailored for his lean body, paired with a tie that I’m sure cost more than I’ll make this week. He’s on the other side of the counter, so I can’t see the rest, but I’m sure it’s not jeans and cowboy boots. He looks freshly shaven. Gorgeous green eyes. The exact right number of freckles scattered over his nose, as if his creator counted them out one by one.

  When anyone finds fault with Connolly, it’s always his hair. Not the style, which is impeccable, between fashionable and corporate, with just enough wave for flair. It’s the color that puts some people off. I happen to have a thing for redheads, so yep, even this is a point in his favor.

  He reaches into the basket and pulls out a tin. “I brought brownies.”

  When I still don’t answer, he shifts, almost imperceptibly. I’m usually the one who’ll swing in, basket in hand, to tease him with sweets, a temptation he avoids.

  “I am sorry about the weekend,” he says.

  “Ah.” I count two beats. “I didn’t get that impression.” I take out my phone, flip to the texts and read his. “‘I need to cancel this weekend. Something came up.’ Nope, nothing apologetic there.”

  His brows knit. “Are you sure? I could have sworn I said more.” He shakes his head. “My phone has been misbehaving all week. I knew I should have held off on the software upgrade.”

  “Ah.”

  Here is the quagmire of a new friendship, especially one with the potential to become romantic. If I demand an explanation, am I being needy? Scaring him off?

  I hate the “scaring him off” part. It makes me sound desperate. I like Connolly because there’s an amazing natural level of comfort between us. This is the opposite of that.

  Screw it. If Connolly is having second thoughts—if he’s feeling pressure for “slumming it” as those girls said—that isn’t my problem. I don’t want a friend who can be scared away by the expectation of common courtesy.

  “I understand things come up,” I say evenly. “But we did have a weekend planned, and I had to scramble to make alternate arrangements. That deserved more than a five-word text.”

  He flushes, and I struggle not to be charmed by that. Fair skin means the guy blushes easily, and it is charming. It’s also proof that he saw my point even before I brought it up.

  “I am sorry,” he says. “If I didn’t text more, it’s because I got caught up in the situation I was resolving. That’s no excuse. I should have called.”

  “Would you like me to stop texting you, Aiden?” I ask. “If so, just say that, please.”

  He frowns.

  “You aren’t reading my texts,” I say.

  “But I am. They come to my watch.” He holds up his wrist. It’s a gold watch with an analog face. When I arch a brow, one corner of his mouth lifts, and he taps the face to reveal a digital version.

  “Fancy,” I say.

  “Yes, well.” He clears his throat and then injects a too-bright note with, “You have told me I fuss with my phone in the car too much.”

  “You do.”

  “So I was receiving your texts, but as I planned this surprise visit, I decided not to respond until I saw you.”

  Maybe this should make me squirm. But it wasn’t as if I was sending a dozen texts a day and freaking out when he didn’t answer. It was our usual daily check-in, which he had started last month, texting me over his morning coffee each day and turning that “Good morning” into a twenty-message thread, casual back and forth as we got ready for our days, which turned into another dozen over the course of the day, more of them instigated by him than me.

  I’m not being needy. I’m not being demanding. He’s changing the rules to a game he started, and I don’t know why.

  He taps the basket. “Do you have time for a picnic lunch?”

  “I have an appointment in thirty minutes. Also, I lost Hope, so I need to eat inside.”

  He waves at the showroom. “Let’s pull up a seat then.”

  My phone dings. I glance down at it and sigh. Then I swipe it open, explaining with, “Bidding war.”

  He takes the basket to a dining table, and before I can say we can’t risk scratching that, he whips a tablecloth from the basket. A white linen tablecloth. With matching napkins.

  I’m still entering my bid as he sets out lunch.

  “May I ask what you’re buying?” he says. “If it’s for the business, that is, and not personal.”

  “Cursed painting,” I say.

  “A painting you believe is cursed? Or one advertised as such?”

  “Both. Salvo Costa’s Crying Girl.”

  He pauses while dishing out salad. His head tilts as if accessing an inner data bank. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that one.”

  “Because it’s kitschy.”

  I show him the photo, and he struggles against a moue of distaste that makes my lips twitch in a smile. Another ongoing mock battle of ours. His impeccable taste versus my predilection for, well, kitsch.

  “Even I wouldn’t hang this in my house,” I say. “Sad-eyed waifs are not my thing. Now, if it was a sad-eyed puppy . . .” I catch his look. “Kidding. No sad-eyed anything. But this is part of a quartet of infamous cursed paintings.” My smile fades. “Dangerously cursed.”

  “Fatalities?”

  “Yep, which is why I’m trying to buy it. Uncurse it if I can, and if I can’t, then I’ll get rid of it. Safely.”

  I’m putting my phone down when it dings again.

  “Seriously?” I mutter. “Sorry about this.”

  “Cancelling a weekend at the last minute is a cause for apology,” he says. “Trying to remove a cursed object from the world is not.”

  I shift on the chair, hoping I don’t look too uncomfortable. I want to be angry with him. Annoyed, at least. He’s not making that easy.

  I open the bidding app and let out a profanity that has his brows shooting up. He sets down his sandwich as I show him the screen.

  “Some guy just doubled my bid.”

  It was already double what I wanted to pay. I don’t say that. Even the current bid would be pocket change for Connolly.

  I turn over my phone and set it down. “I’ll figure that out later. The auction doesn’t close for another couple of days.”

  “Tell me about the painting.”

  I shrug. “Definitely cursed. Definitely lethal. Not much to say beyond that.”