“Morgan asked for Veronica’s private phone number,” Patrick said.
“Did you give it to her?”
He looked askance. “No, that’s confidential.” He leaned forward and touched Natalie lightly on the arm. “But I described Veronica’s house on the east side of town. I didn’t say which street exactly, but it’s common knowledge, isn’t it? Veronica’s house has been written up in the Burning Lake Gazette.”
“Do you think Morgan went to see her?”
Patrick nodded. “Oh, yes. I suspect she did.”
23
Modern-day practitioners of pagan tradition didn’t typically dress in Goth gear or have tattoos and nose piercings. Rather, the real witches of Burning Lake looked like regular suburban moms who wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. You’d never guess they were witches. Most of the legitimate covens in town never advertised—it was strictly by invitation only, word of mouth. Members were mothers and working women, cashiers and teachers, grocery clerks and middle managers, farmers and business owners. Instead of a broomstick, they drove Nissans and pickup trucks and SUVs.
Veronica Manes lived in the historic Bell House at 8 Plymouth Street. Built in 1698, the two-story colonial had a five-bay façade with a central entry and a chimney on one end. Surrounding the house was an overgrown orchard. Thomas Bell, who’d sat in judgment of Victoriana Forsyth during the 1712 witch trials, had raised his six children here. His daughter married Minister William T. Manes, and it was only fitting that their great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter had become a witch, taking history full circle.
Natalie parked her car in the driveway and crossed the front lawn past a grove of spruce trees, stepping over a dense carpet of pine needles. The tumbledown house with its vine-softened walls and spidery, wrought iron gate had a spectral aura about it.
Veronica answered the door. The fiftysomething former author had long gray hair and wore informal, mismatched clothes—a blue turtleneck, a red cardigan, green stretch pants, beaded earrings, and white New Balance sneakers. “Hello, Detective. Welcome to my home.”
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not at all.” Veronica regarded her sadly. “I was about to brew a fresh pot of tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Love one.”
“Let’s go to the kitchen, then. It’s the heart of the house.” Her face was kind, with more than a hint of melancholy about it. She led Natalie down a colonial-narrow hallway into the cheerful, sun-filled kitchen, where it smelled of fresh strawberries and baked cinnamon apples.
“Would you like a piece of cake?” Veronica offered, pointing at the lopsided coconut cake under its plastic dome on the kitchen counter. “I made it myself.”
“Not today.”
“Dieting, are we?”
“Ha. Always.”
“Hmm. That’s the thing, you see. You’re perfectly perfect just the way you are. All women are.” Veronica took a seat at the kitchen table and poured two cups of steaming hot tea, then offered Natalie cream and sugar. “You wanted to know about Morgan Chambers. She came to see me last Thursday afternoon. Just dropped by. A lot of the tourists are craft curious, and some have figured out where I live. It’s not hard to do. There are scattered websites and articles pointing the way, like bread crumbs. Anyway, I try to be as informative as I can. The term ‘witch’ carries a lot of baggage.”
“I can imagine,” Natalie said, sipping her tea, which was strong and aromatic. “Mmm. What is this?”
“Essence of bergamot. Eye of newt,” Veronica said with a wink.
“Earl Grey.” Natalie smiled, looking at the tag, then settled her cup in its china saucer. “And what did Morgan want?”
“Well, we talked a little bit about the contest on Friday—which was the next day. She was one of the finalists who were scheduled to perform. I told her it wasn’t fair to discuss it with her, since I was also a judge in the contest. I have to remain objective.” Veronica rubbed her hands together and sighed. “She seemed quite troubled. She wanted more than anything to succeed with her music. She told me her story. Her parents were very restrictive. Stage mom, tyrannical father. Great expectations, reality bites. She asked about casting spells, and I had to warn her—white witchcraft only.” Veronica took an apple out of a bowl and held it in her tanned hand. “She wanted to join my coven, but of course we aren’t accepting any new members currently. That’s why we shut down our website. Too many people calling and begging to join.”
Natalie took out the Halloween brochure she’d found in Morgan’s room at the Sunflower Inn and asked, “Is this the coven’s phone number, by chance?”
Veronica glanced at it. Nodded. “Used to be. We had to shut everything down. It became overwhelming. There are, after all, only two legitimate covens in Burning Lake, as you know, Detective … and unfortunately, we attract a lot of … I don’t want to be unkind. Let’s just say, we attract a lot of people who tend to project their fantasies onto us. I told Morgan there were plenty of unofficial covens in Burning Lake that are open to new members. I advised her to ask around. There are also plenty of small covens across the country, and thousands of solitary witches who communicate with each other online.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She shifted gears a little and asked about specific spells for increasing success,” Veronica said. “Spells relating to music and spells to boost your luck. I told her, you must use spells very carefully—especially if you’re inexperienced. It’s like putting surgical instruments into the hands of a child.”
“Did you give her any other advice?”
Veronica shook her head. “I could tell she was troubled, and that can be a disaster when it comes to the craft. I advised her to read up on Wicca first. Study it. Start from scratch. It’s more akin to a religious practice.”
“What did she say?”
“She wasn’t happy about it,” Veronica said softly, putting the apple back in the bowl. “Like many young people, she was searching for easy answers. She pressured me for something … anything. I told her I don’t do palm readings or hawk my kitschy wares. I told her she should stroll around downtown and visit the shops on Sarah Hutchins Drive, where she’d find plenty of willing advocates. She asked me—where do I start? I advised her to get her own sigil—you know, something she could create herself out of a desire to change her life and make things happen. It’s a form of wishful thinking, but it’s also an affirmation of a person’s desire for growth.”
Natalie took out her phone and showed Veronica the screen image of Morgan’s tattoo. “A sigil. You mean, like this one? Do you know what it means?”
She shook her head. “No idea. Each one is as unique as a snowflake.”
Natalie put away her phone and took out her notebook. “I understand you’re on the committee that selected the participants for the Monster Mash contest. Who were the other judges?”
“Mayor Arnie Bryden, Owen Linkhorn, Hollis Jones, and Russ Swinton.”
“Dr. Swinton?” Natalie repeated, a little surprised; she knew he enjoyed listening to classical music but didn’t realize he was interested enough to participate in the annual Halloween contest.
“Quite the VIP lineup.” Veronica nodded. “It was a good group this year. They all brought something to the table. Have you seen Hollis perform? He’s a fiddler for Psilocybin in the Rye, a local folk band. They’re very good. And Owen Linkhorn owns Pentagram Records, an independent label based in New York City.”
“So, Pentagram Records … meaning that he’s into Wicca?”
“No, he’s just a smart capitalist who has a flare for drama.”
“How many finalists were there?”
“Ten. All exceptionally talented, dedicated, and ambitious. Morgan coming to see me before the contest was against the rules, but I felt sorry for her.”
“Did it factor into your final vote?”
“If anything, it worked against her, but I tried to be impartial. It just so happens that
the winner took us all by storm.”
“Why did Morgan lose exactly?”
“Technically she’s very good. And she gave a passionate performance, but we were there to be entertained. I don’t think she understood the concept of the contest. She was too serious, too caught up in the music. She gave what some might call an awkward performance. She played with such grim intensity that her performance was scarier than the piece itself. In short, she didn’t bowl us over.”
“What about the other contestants?”
“It was the usual blend of classical and popular theme songs. You know, Michael Myers came out and played the Halloween theme song. A string quartet dressed as sharks played John Williams’s Jaws. Wednesday and Pugsley performed the Addams Family theme song. Of course, there were ever-popular classical pieces, such as Danse Macabre and Berlioz’s ‘Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath.’ Jerry Goldsmith’s Twilight Zone … typical Monster Mash fare. The audience ate it up.”
“But I heard the shower scene from Psycho blew everyone away?”
“It was magnificent. Talk about your star performances.”
Natalie scratched her chin. “Do you think Morgan participated in any Wiccan rituals while she was here?”
“I have no idea,” Veronica said. “But it was clear to me by her questions that she was ready to embrace the possibility of magic and its positive influence on her music. And I did see her talking to Cody Dugway after the contest was over. Maybe they discussed her sigil tattoo, the one you just showed me.”
24
Natalie drove back to town with the windows rolled down, letting in a rush of crisp autumn air, and found a parking spot in front of Cody’s Ink. It looked like an auto body shop inside, very masculine, with suck-it-up retro designs adorning the walls—skull and crossbones, sexy witches, snarling werewolves shouldering Uzis at fire-spitting dragons.
The place was messy and cluttered. No customers this morning. There were four vacant tattoo stations, and each station had its own privacy curtain, hydraulic chair, and leather tattoo stool. A sign on the wall said, “Don’t Forget to Tip Your Artist.”
“Detective Lockhart, hey,” Cody said as he stepped out of the back room. He had a crude L-O-V-E tattooed on the knuckles of one hand, and H-A-T-E tattooed on the other. He followed her eye line and flexed his fingers. “You know what movie these are from? Robert Mitchum’s Night of the Hunter.” He picked up his ink gun. “I was a cocky kid who couldn’t wait to start inking on human skin, you know? They make you practice on orange peels and pig ears first. Finally, my teacher said I was good enough to ink myself. There’s a learning curve, you see. I’m right-handed. So the ‘love’ on my left hand is almost perfect. But the ‘hate’ on my right hand’s messed up. I learned from experience, and now I’m ambidextrous.” He tossed the ink gun from hand to hand, then set it down again. “How can I help you?”
“You’ve heard about the victim we found yesterday?”
“Terrible thing,” he said, stroking the nape of his neck. “Wow. Very sad. We’ve never had anything like this happen before on Halloween, have we? I mean, people overdose or get drunk and try to punch each other and such. But this is creepy.”
“You were seen talking to her after the Monster Mash contest.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He scratched the back of his head. “Isabel and I were hanging out after the contest, when she just walked over to Isabel and asked her where she got her cool tattoos, and Isabel pointed at me, so we talked for a bit. The next morning she came into my shop, and we did it all in one sitting. She paid cash. I have the receipt somewhere…”
“Is this the tattoo?” She showed him a photograph of the body art on Morgan’s upper left arm.
He studied the image, then looked up. “Yeah, I did that. She came in with a vision and a dream, and I made it happen.”
“Do you know what it stands for?”
“It’s a sigil. Black and white. You know what a sigil is?”
“Sort of like a wish,” Natalie said.
“Right, it’s a desire for change. You state your wish as if it’s already happened. Here, let me show you.” He found a notepad and pencil and began to draw. “For example, let’s say I wanted my sigil to state the intent of … ‘I want to be protected.’ Okay? But first, we shorten it. ‘I want to be protected’ becomes ‘I am protected.’ You make an affirmative statement. Proactive. I want, I am, I will. Next, you cross out all the vowels and any repeating consonants, like this … ‘I am protected’ becomes MPRTCD. Are you with me so far?”
She nodded, intensely interested in what Morgan’s wish was.
“So these are your magic letters. MPRTCD. Next, you twist them around until they no longer resemble letters. You play with them and reshape them, like a work of art. See?” He drew an elaborate design. “Once you’re happy with the results, you stop manipulating the letters. Then you draw a circle around the entire thing. And voilà, there’s your sigil. Unique to you. As individual as a fingerprint.”
Natalie pointed at the photograph. “And what does Morgan’s sigil stand for?”
“‘I want to be a famous violin soloist.’ First we translated that into, ‘I am a famous violin soloist.’ Which is reduced down to MFSVLNT. See? Like this. M-F-S-V-L-N-T. Twist them, turn them. Then draw a circle around it, and … voilà.” His sketch was similar to the tattoo on Morgan’s shoulder.
“May I take this?” she asked.
“Sure.” He ripped out the page and handed it to her.
“Did she say anything about her stay here in Burning Lake? Was she upset about losing the contest? Anything you can tell me would be helpful, Cody.”
“She mostly asked if getting a tattoo hurt, stuff like that. She seemed to enjoy the process, though, once it started. I play classical music. That helps people relax.”
“Hey, babe,” someone said from the back room.
Cody’s left eyebrow arched. “Speak of the devil.” He grinned. “We have company, sweet cheeks,” he called out.
“They were out of your cigs,” Isabel Miller said, breezing into the shop wearing jeans, ankle boots, and a Bart Simpson T-shirt. She had warm brown, wary eyes. “Oh, hello. Detective Lockhart, right?” She shook Natalie’s hand. Her long strawberry-blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and the morning light danced across her healthy skin. “Thanks for not arresting Cody the other night.”
“No problem. What exactly happened back there?” Natalie asked.
“We were both invited to the party, but Cody was late, as usual. So I called and told him to get his butt over there, but I didn’t think he’d bring his stupid friends along.”
“I thought I could sneak them in the back door,” Cody said with a mischievous giggle.
Isabel wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Everything’s fine. I apologized to Mr. Rose for the commotion, and I got to keep my necklace.” She showed Natalie a silver necklace, pulling it out from under the collar of her T-shirt, then tucking it back in and pouring herself a cup of coffee from the station near the register.
“Can I see that again?” Natalie asked.
Isabel produced the necklace again. “Pretty, huh? All the women at the party got one. Instead of a hand stamp or a gift bag, you got this. Classy. Real silver.”
“Morgan Chambers had a necklace like this one,” Natalie said.
Isabel’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, we met her after the concert. Did you tell her, Cody? She was so nice. I told her how much I loved her performance, and it almost made her cry. She was at the party, too. I saw her there. She was dressed as Wonder Woman. Did you notice how many Wonder Womans we had this year? Or is it Wonder Women?” Isabel furrowed her brow.
Natalie tensed a little. “Did she come alone, or was she with someone?”
Isabel blanched a little. “Uh, Batman, I think. It was all a blur. I got wasted. I met a lot of vampires and Death Eaters and Zemos … and they were all very nice … but I wouldn’t recognize them if I bumped into them on the str
eet. Everyone was in costume, hiding their identities behind their masks.”
“I hope I was helpful about the sigil,” Cody told Natalie. “Are we about done here? I’ve got a ton of paperwork to catch up on. Busy October.”
“What a great season, huh?” Isabel said brightly.
“One of the best, babe,” Cody said.
“Except for how it ended.” She looked at Natalie and shuddered.
“Did you talk to her at the party?” Natalie asked Isabel.
“Not for very long, but yeah. She said she flubbed the contest and was thinking about giving up completely and becoming a fiddler in a band, even though that was against her principles. She wasn’t in the greatest shape. She was slurring her words and stumbling a little bit … I told her to go easy on the margaritas, but she said, hey, Halloween only comes once a year. She looked like she was having fun.”
“Did you see her leave the party?”
Isabel shook her head. “No, I split before she did.”
“I’ll get you a copy of that receipt,” Cody said, opening the cash register and sorting through the receipts. “It’s in here somewhere.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t find it right now. Got a number where I can send it to you, Detective?”
Natalie passed him her card. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem.” Cody winked at her.
Natalie handed Isabel her card as well. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
Isabel nodded, then said, “Mr. Rose mentioned you.”
Natalie took a mental step back. “Mr. Rose? He did?”
“He called you very brave. He said with all the superhero costumes, there should’ve been a Natalie Lockhart Halloween costume. He’s funny. I like him.”
“He’s a fucking capitalist pig,” Cody muttered.
“So are we, babe. What do you think this shop is? Charity?”
“Thanks again, Detective,” Cody said, ushering her out. “I’ll email you that receipt as soon as I find it.”
The Wicked Hour Page 14