I faced him in surprise.
He shrugged. “I read it someplace.”
“You read it in a poem by Wordsworth.” I’d read lots of poetry in college. It was rare to encounter anyone else who remembered those old lines. Interesting guy, I thought, as I shifted into reverse and returned to the highway.
The sky had cleared, allowing the afternoon sun to cast a pleasant light on the newly sprouted fields and colorful wildflowers along the side of the road. To make conversation, I asked Erik about his friend Billy who had driven him to Edindale.
“So, he just left you high and dry, huh? That doesn’t seem very nice.”
“Well, it wasn’t really his fault. He had to bail out our other friend, Viper.”
“Viper?”
Erik snickered. “It’s a nickname, based on his power animal. Lately, he’s been short on power, though. Viper is another victim of Denise’s curses—Denise is the ex-girlfriend I was telling you about. Viper was pulled over this morning for speeding, even though he swears his speedometer showed he wasn’t. It was his third strike. On top of that, he was busted for possession of weed.”
“Wait a minute. So, when you said Billy had to ‘bail out’ Viper, you meant that literally?”
“Yep.”
Nice friends. “So, Erik, how long have you known Mila?”
“Who?”
“Mila. Mila Douglas? Owner of Moonstone Treasures?”
“Oh, I didn’t know that was her name. I’ve been in the shop only a couple times.”
Suddenly I felt a strange sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, and my earlier warm feelings toward Erik rapidly cooled. Wasn’t he a friend of Mila’s? I could have sworn . . . If he wasn’t, then that meant I was giving a ride to a complete stranger. On a lonely country road. How could I have made such a dumb mistake? That was so unlike me. Usually I was much more cautious.
It was all Mila’s fault.
I trusted her like a sister. After all, she was a Wiccan High Priestess and natural-born psychic, not to mention a close friend. Of course, she was also friendly with everyone she met and always eager to be of service. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been so quick to assume the stranger in her shop was anything more than a pleasantly charming customer in need.
I peeked at Erik, who was drumming his fingers on the dashboard, oblivious to my sudden nervousness. Luckily, we were nearing the village. We passed a cluster of signs advertising Fynn Hollow’s attractions, which included a covered bridge, a dairy farm with an ice cream stand, a stable offering horseback riding lessons, a winery, and several churches. Another small sign informed us the population was 4,100.
“Which way?” I asked, as we stopped at a four-way intersection.
“Go on into town and take a left at the first stoplight. I’m going to have you drop me at Denise’s place. I want to pay her back as soon as possible, so she’ll lift the hex.”
I followed the directions he gave me and soon pulled up in front of a neat one-story ranch featuring bright purple shutters with crescent moon cutouts. The astronomy theme continued with the moon-and-stars wind chimes hanging on the front porch and the star-speckled purple forsythia twig wreath on the front door. The whole place had a whimsical air—in stark contrast to my image of Denise as a vengeful practitioner of the dark arts.
Once again, Erik turned to me in the front seat. “Do you mind coming in with me? I could use a buffer.”
I hesitated, torn between a sudden impatience to be rid of the likable-yet-pesky stranger—and my piqued curiosity about this woman who cursed people.
“It will only take a minute,” he promised. “Then I’ll walk home from here and you can get back to Edindale.” He flashed me another one of his engaging smiles.
I caved. “Okay. But just for a minute.”
I followed him to the front door and stood back as he rang the bell. When there was no answer, he rang it again and rapped on the door.
“Guess she’s not home,” I said, stating the obvious.
“All the better,” said Erik. He reached down, tipped up a flowerpot, and peeled off the key that was taped to the bottom. “I’ll leave her the money with a note.”
He unlocked the door, and we went inside. “Are you sure this is okay?” I looked around. The small entryway opened to a living room-dining room combo overstuffed with mismatched furniture, assorted knickknacks, and several unframed oil paintings leaning against the walls. “Is Denise an artist?”
“She dabbles.” Erik went into the kitchen and helped himself to a can of soda from the fridge. “Want a drink?”
“No, thanks.” I knew I should get going, but instead I kept looking around, trying to get a sense of Denise from her decorating choices and refrigerator magnets. What kind of a modern witch used magic to curse people? It was unethical, an abuse of the famous Wiccan moral code to “harm none.”
I picked up a painted skull to examine the intricate symbols drawn all over it. In the process, I accidentally knocked over a stack of books. “Darn it!” I replaced the skull and straightened the books, while Erik sat down on the sofa and took a pad of paper and pen from an end table drawer.
Suddenly, he looked up. “Do you smell that?”
As soon as he said it, I noticed a pungent odor in the air. “It smells like bleach,” I said. “Or ammonia. Or . . . both?”
Erik jumped up and raced down the hall, with me at his heels. He stopped short at a bathroom, which was dark and empty, then turned to look at a closed door on the other side of the hall.
“Is that her bedroom?”
“No. Her bedroom’s the next one. This is her workroom.” Erik opened the door. The acrid odor hit our senses like a bulldozer. We backed away, coughing. Then, Erik took a deep breath, pulled his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose, and rushed inside.
Through watering eyes, I peeked around the doorway. Erik was opening the windows as wide as they would go. A strong breeze billowed the curtains, helping to reduce the noxious fumes. I entered the room to see if I could help. In an instant, I took in the room’s disarray. Some of the clutter, such as the towering stacks of magazines, excessive floor pillows, and multicolored candles on every surface, seemed to be more evidence of Denise’s pack rat tendency. But the tipped-over ladder-back chair and spilled potion bottles indicated that something was amiss.
Then Erik cried out. “Denise!”
I looked to where he was staring and clapped my hand over my mouth. On the floor behind the table was the body of a young woman. She was curled up in a fetal position, her face frozen in a contorted mask of pain. Erik ran over and felt for a pulse, but I knew it was no use.
It was clear—Denise was dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Erik pushed back Denise’s purple-streaked dark hair and shook her gently, as if he could wake her up. I walked over and put my hand on his arm. “We need to get out of here and call the police.”
He looked up at me and nodded. Then he stood and started to lift the overturned chair.
“Leave it, Erik,” I said. “Don’t touch anything.”
Unfortunately, I had come across more than one crime scene in my time. While it was quite possible Denise’s death was an accident, something told me there was more here than met the eye. Maybe it was the position of the body, which made me think she must have ingested something that gave her a horrible stomach pain—rather than inhaled toxic fumes as I first assumed. Or maybe it was the fact that the tarot cards spread across the table faced away from Denise’s chair, as if there had been another person sitting across from her.
I reached for Erik’s hand to lead him out of the room. As I did, I took one more glimpse of the poor woman on the floor. That’s when I noticed that her hands weren’t empty. Clutched between her fingers was some sort of card. Carefully, I crouched down for a closer look. It appeared to be an oracle card, though not from any deck I had ever seen. The image on the card depicted a Viking. I made a mental note of the picture, then turned back to Erik
and nudged him out the door.
Once we were outside, Erik leaned over and put his hands on his knees. He took a few gulping breaths of air. I felt a little woozy myself.
“Let’s walk over there,” I said, pointing to a flowering redbud tree.
He nodded and followed me to the edge of the front yard. We both pulled out our phones. While Erik called 9-1-1, I turned my back and called my boyfriend. He didn’t pick up, so I had to leave a message.
“Wes, you’re not going to believe this. I had to run to Fynn Hollow, and I’m at this lady’s house, and she’s dead.” My words came out in a tangled rush. I knew Wes would have a million questions. I had quite a few myself. “Anyway, the cops are on the way, so I’ll probably be home late.”
I hung up and took a deep breath before making my next phone call, to a colleague at my old law firm. I winced as I punched in his number. “Crenshaw Davenport, the Third,” I said, under my breath, as the phone rang. “A suitable name for a guy who fancies himself a Regency gentleman—even though he’s as American as I am.”
Crenshaw and I had made partner together—a role that suited him well but only gave me heartburn. I had tried to tell myself it was because he had no social life—unless you counted business dinners and networking events. Crenshaw lived and breathed work, whether it was his law practice or his amateur acting gigs. I, on the other hand, had found life as a partner oppressive and stifling. Too often I was frazzled and crunched for time.
Kind of like now. There was no way I was going to make it back to Edindale in time to go home, change clothes, and arrive at the civic center before 7:00.
Crenshaw’s resonant voice cut into my worried thoughts. “Ms. Milanni. To what do I owe this pleasure on a Saturday afternoon?” Whether he was being genuine or snarky, I had no idea. Sometimes I wondered if he even knew himself.
“Hello, Crenshaw. I need to ask you a really big favor.” Without giving him the specifics, I told him I was tied up handling an out-of-town emergency. I had just finished explaining the details of my lecture when a police car zoomed down the street and screeched to a halt right behind my car.
“Is that a police siren I hear?” Crenshaw asked. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes,” I said quickly. “Everything’s fine. Just a little matter I need to attend to. Thanks for covering for me tonight. I owe you one.”
I hung up and wrung my hands as I watched Erik lead two cops into Denise’s house. “How do I get myself into these situations?” I muttered. I hugged my arms against the wind, which had suddenly turned chilly.
“This can’t be good,” said a voice behind me. I spun around to see a pale woman with raven hair and heavy eyeliner. She appeared to be a few years older than me, maybe just shy of forty, and wore a black leather jacket and artfully torn blue jeans.
“No,” I said, agreeing with her. “It’s not.”
Just then, the coroner arrived, so identified by a placard on the side of his brown sedan. I was grateful. This saved me from having to break the news of Denise’s death to the black-haired woman—or to any of the other neighbors who had started trickling out of their homes up and down the street.
But the woman didn’t appear terribly upset. “How did it happen?” she asked.
“I don’t know. We found her on the floor.”
“So, she finally went too far,” the woman commented philosophically. She stared at the gaping front door the coroner had just entered. “I’m not surprised. It’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people call it karma. What goes around comes around. It’s the threefold law: what you put out comes back to you times three—if you’re not careful, that is. Denise messed around with some dark energies. Obviously, it came back to bite her.”
“Did you know her well?” I asked, thinking it seemed mighty callous to speak of the recently departed in that way.
She tilted her head. “Well enough. We’ve been neighbors for a couple years.” The woman turned to face me and stretched her mouth into a grim smile. “I’m Thorna, by the way.”
“Keli,” I responded. “I’m . . . with Erik.”
Thorna gazed at me with a curious look and might have said more, if she wasn’t distracted by the appearance of an agitated young woman hurrying up the sidewalk. The girl wore a bright yellow slicker and polka-dot galoshes. Her strawberry-blond hair was pulled into a messy ponytail at the top of her head.
“What’s all this?” asked the newcomer in a loud, high-pitched voice. “Has Denise been revealed as the fraud she is? Did someone press charges?”
Just then another police car arrived. The officer who stepped out, a burly man with a thick mustache, was buttoning up his jacket as if he had put it on only moments ago. He went into the house, then came out a minute later and went back to his car where he opened his trunk and retrieved a megaphone and a clipboard. After blowing into the megaphone a couple times, he spoke at full volume. “Okay, people! Everybody, and I mean everybody, line up over here. Be ready with your I.D. if you have it on you. Otherwise, give me your name and address.”
So, the police must also think the death is suspicious.
Before I could take a single step, a dozen people had lined up to speak with the officer. First in line was the brightly clad woman who had called Denise a fraud. From what I could tell, she seemed to be asking more questions than answering them. Suddenly, she let out a wail and dropped to her knees. The officer patted her shoulder awkwardly.
“Poor Poppy,” said Thorna. “I better go help console her.”
Thorna left me standing alone under the tree. I made a move to join the crowd on the sidewalk, when I noticed a rusty old Camaro rolling slowly up the street. The two men in the front seat stared at the scene in front of Denise’s house. Then the car pulled into an adjacent driveway, turned around, and left. As I stared after them, I noticed the man in the passenger seat had his arm crooked out of the open window. Coiled around his forearm was a vivid green snake tattoo.
Must be Billy and Viper, I guessed. Once again I marveled at what shady friends Erik seemed to have. And he seemed so nice and normal himself. I looked at my watch. Speaking of friends, I was supposed to check in on one of my own at some point today. Farrah Anderson, my fun-loving, adventure-seeking BFF, broke her ankle in a skiing accident during a recent trip she took up north. She had been hobbling around on crutches for the past two weeks, so I promised I’d go grocery shopping for her this weekend. Instead, here I was in a stranger’s front yard waiting for my turn to give a witness statement to one of Fynn Hollow’s finest.
Erik came out of the house and called me over. “The cops want to talk to you inside.”
I sighed and nodded. Returning to the dead woman’s house gave me the heebie-jeebies. Still, I was anxious to give my statement and be done with the whole mess.
* * *
It was nearly dark when I turned onto Springfield Lane and parked my car along the curb. I grabbed my briefcase and purse from the backseat and headed toward my cozy two-story brick town house. I paused on the sidewalk and breathed in the fresh, damp air, laden with the sweet scent of the honeysuckle taking over my neighbor’s shrubbery. After the afternoon I’d had, the peace and quiet of my neighborhood was comforting, even with the distant cheers and yells from a baseball game over at Fieldstone Park.
My mood improved even more at the sight of my sexy, dark-haired boyfriend standing in the open doorway. He wore indigo jeans and a faded button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His black eyebrows narrowed in a slight frown.
“You would not believe the day I had,” I said, kicking off my shoes. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of iced tea, then turned to Wes with a hopeful, slightly nervous smile.
“Your text was pretty vague,” he said. “You gave some guy a ride to Fynn Hollow and ended up finding a dead body? Who was this guy? And what about your talk at the civic center?” He looked pointedly at the digital clock on
the microwave, which ticked over to 7:20.
“I got Crenshaw to cover for me.” I set down my glass and approached Wes. He leaned against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. “Look, please don’t give me a hard time. I feel bad enough as it is. I didn’t want to miss that talk. I would have much rather answered questions about trusts and estates than about finding a dead woman on the floor of her house. It was awful.”
He immediately softened and pulled me into his arms. He held me close and rubbed my back. Now that’s more like it.
After a moment, he pulled back and searched my face. “Who was she, the woman who died?” he asked. “How did it happen that you found her? Were you . . . led to her? Like, in a supernatural way?”
“Hmm. I hadn’t really thought of that. She was a Witch, though I don’t know if she was Wiccan. It was really kind of a bizarre turn of events that led me there.”
We sat down at the kitchen table for a dinner of reheated leftovers, and I told him everything. The muscles in his face twitched when I explained about the second time I agreed to give Erik a ride. And when I got to the part about following Erik inside an empty house by myself, Wes clenched his jaw so hard I was afraid he would break a tooth.
To his credit, he didn’t scold me. He didn’t have to. I knew I had been reckless. I wondered if all the extra hours I was putting in at my new job were beginning to take their toll. Was I overdoing it so much that my judgment was impaired?
I pushed back from the table and took my plate to the sink. “I’m going to take a bath and then go to my room for a bit.”
Wes looked over at me and nodded. “Yeah, all right.” He knew what I meant when I said “my room.” While the bedroom—like the rest of the house—was ours to share, the spare room had become my personal haven. It was where I kept my altar and Wiccan supplies—and where I cast my most private, indoor spells. I was itching to cast one now.
First, however, I retreated to the bathroom where I lit some candles and drew a warm bath. Then I gathered some items from beneath the sink: a square of cheesecloth, a piece of twine, and assorted dried herbs. In a few practiced motions, I fashioned an herbal sachet to infuse the water with magical properties. Lavender, chamomile, and calendula were all good for relaxation, healing, and cleansing—both physically and psychically. After what I’d seen today, I needed a good psychic cleansing.
May Day Murder Page 2