Temple of Indra's Curse (Time-Traveling Bibliophile Book 2) Page 2

  “It recounts his family’s journey from Germany to Canada when he was fifteen. He talks a lot about his brother Velte. He was a troubled youth who died on the way over.”

  “Foulplay? Perhaps Eugene got his first taste of murder on that trip?” Leslie took a pen and wrote something down on her pad of paper. Then she paused and began pacing again. “How do we know he was the one who killed Zafira? Did someone see him do it? Did your Gigi tell you that her father killed her sister?”

  “No. My Gigi thought her father was a saint. She was in an orphanage at the time of her sister’s murder. Zafira was only released because she turned eighteen.”

  I picked up a sketch from the police file and handed it to her. “This is the man that the neighbors saw fleeing.” I picked up a family photo from my own keepsake box. “This is Zafira’s father—Eugene.”

  Leslie nodded. “Same man. Open and shut case.”

  “My Gigi’s husband was a private investigator. In his notebook, he talked about how Gigi never got over her family’s past so he began investigating the cold case without her knowledge to give her some peace of mind. He never told her what he found. That it was her own estranged father who’d killed her sister.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “There was an article talking about the prisoners in Kingston, and apparently Eugene’s name was featured in it.”

  I tried and failed to imagine Gigi’s father as a monster. Considering the stories Gigi had told me, it didn’t make sense that he could have done it.

  Leslie looked over the top of her glasses. “You say, ‘He was estranged’. Where was the girls’ mother?”

  I took a sip of my tea. The hot liquid singed my tongue.

  “Dead. Eugene’s parents also died that same year.” I paused for a second. “Eugene couldn’t deal with the loss of his family and had to be hospitalized. I think it was only supposed to be temporary, which is why the girls were sent to an orphanage as opposed to tracking down overseas relatives, only he went missing after he got out and so the girls were left behind.”

  Chapter Four

  It’s Your Party, Lie If You Want To

  Toronto Canada, May 1920

  Zafira and her father rode to the store in silence. Normally, riding in her father’s Model T Ford was a point of pride. But today she hadn’t wanted to be seen. She wished she were as invisible as the spirits in her dreams.

  Her dreams were hard to take. She’d tried to keep quiet about the premonitions—only sharing them with her little sister, Veronika—but alcohol had loosened her tongue. She should have known better than to go out with Florence and everyone after she’d had a dream about them. It had happened before with other friends who were no longer friendly. She’d tried to intervene to save someone from a horrible decision—and suddenly she was “the Breathour witch”.

  “Zafira,” her father said in his soft voice. “You’ve been so quiet all week. What really happened at the party, pet?”

  The party. It had been swell at first. She and Florence and Deborah in their new dresses—hers was an apricot chiffon bugle-bead dress, adorned with a long string of pearls wrapped twice around her neck. With painted red lips and dark-rimmed eyes, they were all jazzed up. Flo lent Zafira her spiffy head band that rested across her forehead.

  “To the best of friends and times,” Florence said and touched her glass to theirs with a satisfying chime. Everyone was drunk and happy. And then Elwood sauntered toward them and Deborah scooted over to make room, flirting right in front of Florence. It ticked Zafira off.

  Elwood was handsome and charming and if Elwood liked a girl, that girl got noticed. Zafira hated Elwood, especially when she was drinking. Elwood was recently engaged to her best friend Florence. Gag. He wasn’t in love with Florence—Zafira knew that but up until her dream she hadn’t suspected he was cheating. Sadly, her dreams were never wrong.

  “Did I tell you that I have a gift?” Zafira asked after her third drink.

  Elwood let out a loud, dramatic laugh, then shrugged. “The gift for gab.”

  “I am quite serious,” she slurred, too tipsy not to take his dare. “I can tell you things about your future.” There were polite chuckles around the table. Zafira fixed them with a defiant stare, her blue eyes glittering under heavily kohled lashes. “I am serious.”

  “You’re lit, is what you are, Zafira Breathour,” Florence shouted. “Let’s go dance.”

  Zafira looked in the direction of the dance floor where a crowd of pie-eyed girls were lost to the booze and the beat. Zafira wanted to be in the thick of it. To let herself have fun but she also wanted to teach Elwood a lesson.

  “I’ll prove it. I know someone in this room will be married to Elwood by the end of the year.”

  “It doesn’t exactly take a psychic to know that. We’re engaged.” Florence laughed.

  Zafira narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but it’s not you, Florence dear. I had a dream last night about it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t surprise me that you dream about Flo’s fiancé but maybe you shouldn’t embarrass yourself by announcing it, Zafira,” Deborah said, showing her teeth. Everyone laughed, and Zafira’s cheeks went hot.

  Zafira brushed her hair away from her face, but it sprang back into her eyes.

  “Fine,” Elwood said before things could get really heated. “Tell me, Madame Breathour, who am I to wed?”

  “Why, Deborah, of course!” Zafira commanded with a dramatic flair to her voice.

  Frowning, Elwood straightened and reached past Deb for Zafira’s arm. “All right. You’ve had your fun. Time for a little sobering up.”

  She wrenched it away.

  Everyone pressed closer, interested.

  Elwood laughed uncomfortably. “Time to go, Zafira.”

  Florence moved closer. “What’s this about, Elwood?”

  Elwood’s mouth was tight. “I’m sure I don’t know what she’s talking about. Zafira, Show’s over.”

  If Zafira were sober, she would have stopped. But the gin made her foolishly brave. She tsk-tsked him with her fingers. “You were barney-muggin’ Deborah, that’s why I had that premonition of the shot gun wedding, you bad boy.”

  “Deborah, is that true?” Florence looked hurt.

  Deborah’s face was red. “That’s enough, Zafira! This isn’t funny any longer.”

  “Elwood?” Florence questioned.

  “She’s lying, sweetheart,” Elwood said reassuringly.

  Florence walked away.

  Zafira stood to follow her. “I guess we’ll see in five months, huh.”

  Elwood stubbed out his cigarette. “Just a moment.” He grabbed Zafira by the wrist and dragged her into the ladies lounge, closing the door behind him and holding it shut. “How did you find out?” he growled.

  “I t-told you. I have a gift—”

  His hand tightened around her arm. “Stop fooling around and tell me how you know! Did Deborah tell you? That little witch. She told me she got rid of it. I demand a public apology to clear my name.”

  “G-go chase yourself, Elwood.”

  Florence pounded on the door from the other side. “Zafira? Elwood! I saw you take her in there. Open up!”

  Elwood let go of her arm. Zafira could feel a bruise starting. “This isn’t over, Zafira. Your father owes his business to my father. You might want to reconsider your little story.”

  “Zafira?” her father prompted now, bringing her back to the moment. The car had stopped and he’d walked around to the other side to open her door. “You know I believe you, right?”

  She rubbed her aching head. “I know, Papa. I shouldn’t have handled it like that. I’m sorry you caught hell for it.”

  She stepped from the car and went inside the store. He didn’t take her to task for saying hell. Eugene Breathour was a good father.

  So why did she keep dreaming that he was going to kill her.

  ***

  Four hours later, Eugene Breathour unlocked the jewellery case in his sto
re and pulled out a large blue velvet box. He was looking forward to surprising Marjorie with it tomorrow night.

  “Zafira, I have another job for you.”

  In the quiet of the store, he opened the jeweler’s box and brushed a finger across the purple sapphire featured in the necklace that was nestled into the dark velvet. There was also a bracelet and ring that featured chips from the same gemstone—a gift for their eighteenth wedding anniversary. He smiled, imagining Marjorie’s excited face as she opened the box. He could practically feel her sweet kiss on his lips. The note read: Jewels for my jewel.

  A sudden sound drew Eugene’s attention—footsteps. There’d been a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood lately. It wouldn’t hurt to double check the backdoor.

  He called out: “Zafira, is that you?”

  “Yes, Papa. I’m back with the spare parts. ”

  “Good. Your mother’s gift is done. Could you polish it for me and take it home? It’s almost five. Hide it on the bookshelf, behind that H.G Wells book you bought for my birthday last year.”

  “Sure, Papa. When will you be home?”

  “I’m afraid I’m a little behind. Let your mother know I won’t be any later than half past six. Oh, and don’t forget you’re watching your sister tomorrow night for us while I take your mother to dinner, so don’t bother making any plans.”

  Chapter Five

  Resurrecting Love

  Dublin, Ireland, April 2015

  Cullen spotted me as I entered the restaurant with Leslie, but he was surrounded by a group of his rowdy cousins.

  The doorman took my coat and for a moment I felt almost naked. The smooth silk of the green dress flowed like water over my skin.

  I whispered to Leslie, “Do I look alright?”

  She paused for a moment and her face turned to mock horror.

  “What is it?” Had the dress ripped? Was it see-through? Could you see my nipples?

  “There is a hair out of place.” She pretended to smooth it.

  “You’re an ass. You know that?”

  “Sure do,” she said, with a smile. “But I’m your ass.”

  Cullen was only a couple of feet away now, making his way over to me with two glasses of champagne. He looked handsome in his sport jacket and tailored shirt. His hair, a coppery red with streaks of blond that looked almost golden in the sunlight, was slicked back.

  He made me over-the-moon happy.

  “Thirsty?” He asked, holding a glass out to me.

  Leslie leaned forward to kiss Cullen on the cheek. “Oh, Cullen, it’s like we were meant for each other.”

  Cullen’s brother, Liam with his dark whiskey-colored eyes and raven’s-wing hair roared with laughter from behind him. “I like her. She's great craic.”

  I took the other glass and laughed. “Yes. She’ll keep us entertained. That’s for sure.”

  Liam held out his arm and Leslie gave me a wink and wandered off with Cullen’s brother.

  “Looks like everyone is enjoying themselves,” I said, gazing about the restaurant. The walls were a rustic stone, a soft and whimsical Irish fiddle played in the background and there was a drink in every hand. “Seems an odd way to celebrate the crucifixion of Jesus.”

  Cullen laughed. “Aye, well, the real celebration begins tonight at Easter Vigil. No champagne there, I’m afraid. This dinner is more in honor of our one-year anniversary and I know Leslie spilled the beans. She already told me ye needled her so ye can drop the act. Ye’ve no talent for lyin’, I’m afraid.”

  Nice of Leslie to tell on me. I thought.

  “I can’t believe it’s been a year already.” Cullen said.

  “Sorry. Say that again. I was just plotting revenge on Leslie.”

  Cullen laughed.

  It wasn’t really our one-year anniversary, but it had been one year since we’d met. Since that ill-fated day on the Lerins Island, half a mile off shore from Cannes, when I’d rejected the marriage proposal of that egotistical lunatic Nicholas Bexx and endured his wrath. Lucky for me, Cullen had been looking up from the deck of his family’s yacht and had seen Nick push me off the cliff. Cullen dove in and pulled me to safety, and subsequently into his life.

  It was hard to believe that in a full year I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth: that the fall had sent me to another time and place and into the body of a nineteenth-century princess.

  “Sophia, ye all right?”

  “No,” I said automatically and pushed away the bothersome thoughts.

  “Gah. It’s the restaurant. It’s too fancy, isn’t it? I said so, but ye know Móraí.”

  “What? I love this place.” The room buzzed with mixed conversation. “I just didn’t hear what you said.” Poor Cullen. I had been drifting off into the memories of my past life a lot lately.

  “Where the tongue slips, it speaks the truth. I asked if ye were all right and ye said no.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just soaking in the atmosphere. It’s so romantic in here.”

  That was partially the truth. The place was intimate. A combination of comfortable leather and floral high-backed chairs surrounded the long table and almost all of them were now full with Cullen’s family.

  “It is getting loud in here. Will this place hold your entire family?”

  Cullen pretended to boot his cousin in the rear. “Like that’d matter. Loud-mouthed arses. Let’s skedaddle and we can celebrate alone.”

  His eyes met mine, and it was just like that first day in the hospital after I’d awoken from the fall. He pulled me into an alcove around the corner that led to the washrooms. “I like your frock.”

  “I just bet you do. It is very low cut, Mr. O’Kelley—very Elvira Hancockesq.

  “Elvira who?”

  “You know, Michelle Pfeiffer’s character in Scarface.”

  “Never seen it.”

  “You’ve never seen Scarface? We have some serious old movie watching to do.”

  “I bet she doesn’t look as good in it as you do.”

  “That’s flattering, but Elvira is sexy—.”

  He leaned into me, pushing my back against the wall, his kisses cutting off my words before moving down the side of my neck. There was no denying the attraction and it wasn’t just pheromones. It was more like a deep-seated connection between us, like my soul recognized his, which was exactly why I needed to be honest about the curse. I was giving myself an ulcer and all for what? I knew he felt the same way. For heaven’s sake, I’d overheard him tell his brother of his dreams and they sounded suspiciously familiar. There were other clues: the fact that he shared a birthmark with Graf Viktor Ferdinand of Württemberg, who’d rescued me on three separate occasions when I was the princess; and, of course, his ancestor had been the one to sell the Purple Delhi Sapphire to my Opa.

  As his kisses got deeper and more fervent, one hand outlined the curve of my ear, lingering on my lobe before inching down my neck.

  Finally it joined his other hand, which was slowly working the zipper of my dress down my spine.

  “Cullen, do that zipper back up, right now!”

  From the look in his eye, I could tell he was tantalized by the decision before him: be a civil host or sneak me into the men’s bathroom like a teenage hooligan.

  “Cullen.” His mother’s voice rang out from the main dining room. Guess she made the decision for him.

  Chapter Six

  Trouble in the Tea Leaves

  Toronto, Canada, May 1920

  As Zafira passed the house on the corner of Roxborough and Chestnut Park, a middle-aged brunette bent forward, struggling with a bag full of groceries that had spilled on to the sidewalk.

  “Miss Alice, do you need help?” Zafira asked, remembering her manners.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so clumsy.” She was.

  Zafira picked up the heavy bag and tucked a few items back in.

  “Come in, come in, dear,” Miss Alice said. “So nice to have a visitor. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Oh,
please don’t go to any trouble,” Zafira said, but the woman was already in the kitchen. She hadn’t meant to get trapped in a conversation. That was the trouble with offering help to spinsters.

  “What a charming home you have,” Zafira managed to say, hoping that her grimace passed for a smile. The place was like nothing she’d seen before, books stacked all about, an ornate clock set to the wrong time, brass candelabras with black candles burned down to nubs, a framed painting of a dark old castle and, most troubling, a black raven that sat calmly in a cage.

  “Here’s your tea, dear. Do have a seat,” Miss Alice said.

  “Thank you,” Zafira responded, fiddling with the tight band around her finger. It was her mother’s present and she’d mistakenly gotten it stuck after polishing it.

  “My, my, you are getting so tall. Do you know I have lived in this neighborhood since you were born? What are you now, fifteen?” She frowned. “Or sixteen?”

  “Sixteen,” Zafira replied.

  “I see you going out sometimes with that Collin boy from next door. Are the two of you betrothed?”

  Zafira had to bite back her giggles. This lady sure was out of touch. “No. He’s a friend.” Zafira looked down and noticed a pair of men’s shoes at the door. What an odd thing for a spinster to own. “Miss Alice, have you seen a strange man hanging around the neighborhood lately?”

  Miss Alice pursed her lips, as if taken with thought. “I can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought I saw someone following me the other day. It looked like he disappeared into your house.”

  “Oh, how strange! I think I would have noticed a man hanging around. Not that I’d complain …” she said with a laugh. “It’s been a while since there’s been any testosterone in here.” She seemed to follow Zafira’s gaze. “I keep my father’s shoes out just to pretend at times.” Her bird rattled its cage and Alice hushed it. “Do you remember what he looked like, or anything about him? Maybe I should keep watch.”