I rolled my eyes and ripped open the package. Reaching inside, I pulled out a plain white card that contained a one-line message written in flowing cursive script: Congratulations on your new law practice.
I turned it over, but there was nothing else. No signature. Reaching in a second time, I pulled out a small bundle of bubble wrap and tape. It took some doing, especially when I realized I didn’t have any scissors in the office, but when I finally removed all the wrapping, I gasped in delight. In the palm of my hand was a lovely little figurine—a delicate fairy reclining on a knotty, carved tree branch.
“How pretty,” I breathed.
I figured it must be from Mila. She was the most generous, thoughtful person I knew, and this was just the kind of thing she carried in her store. On the other hand, it wasn’t like her to be mysterious. She’d be more likely to write a sweet, personal note than send an anonymous package.
There was someone else in my life who used to send me mysterious letters, postcards, and gifts. But it couldn’t be from her. Aunt Josephine had died more than six months ago. Thinking of her now filled me with both fondness and sadness. I’d always felt a special connection to my aunt, even though I never really had a chance to get to know her.
Goose bumps prickled on my arms as an unlikely thought popped into my mind. Wouldn’t it be something if Josephine had somehow arranged to send me this gift before she passed away? Like one last message from beyond the veil?
But no. That was impossible. I hadn’t even decided to open my own law practice until after her death.
I stood up and carried the figurine to my office, where I placed it on a shelf near my desk. Whoever it was from, they had good taste.
After checking my messages one more time, and finding none, I decided to call it a day.
* * *
That evening over dinner I told Wes about my mysterious gift. He put his fork down and scowled.
“What’s the matter?”
“A present from a secret admirer? Don’t tell me it’s that Fynn Hollow guy again. Why did you have lunch with him anyway?”
“Erik? We were just comparing notes about the police investigation. The package couldn’t be from him. It was mailed before I even met him.”
“Hmph,” Wes grunted, evidently not convinced.
As we finished dinner, I pondered the possibilities. I had an old boyfriend who had once sent me some anonymous gifts in an effort to be cute and mysterious. But he lived in Virginia and, last I heard, had gotten married and started a family. The fairy gift had come with a local postmark. Oh, well. I decided it was probably from a colleague or client who had forgotten to sign their name, and put it out of my mind.
After we cleaned up, Wes settled in on the sofa in front of a baseball game, and I brought my laptop to the table. First I checked my email, then clicked over to the Witches’ Web. Without Catrina’s log-in information, I’d have to create my own account. I tapped my fingers on the table, then looked up as Wes came into the kitchen to get a drink from the refrigerator.
“What should I pick for my username? I want to make sure nobody can guess it’s me.”
He strolled over to look at the computer screen as he unscrewed a bottle of beer. “What are you signing up for?”
I told him about the social network site, and he wrinkled his forehead as if giving my question serious consideration. “I know! How about Hot Witch?” Seeing my look, he grinned. “What? Too descriptive?”
“Very funny. Let’s see. I’ve always been partial to Aphrodite.” The goddess of love and beauty evoked a fiery, passionate energy—useful for creating all kinds of magic. She also happened to be the goddess of fertility, which somehow seemed appropriate. Spring was in the air, after all.
I typed in FlightyAphrodite, which I hoped was sufficiently antithetical to my real personality, and found myself on the home page of the Witches’ Web. I scanned the list of trending topics and saw that the upcoming Beltane Festival was at the top.
“Huh. A week ago I’d never even heard of this event. Now everybody’s talking about it.”
“What’s that, babe?” asked Wes, who had drifted back to the living room.
“There’s a May Day festival happening somewhere out in the boonies in a couple weeks. Mila’s circle is leading the maypole dance.”
“You gonna go?”
“Are you kidding? A public ritual? My so-called broom closet door might be open a crack, but I’m not quite ready to step all the way out.”
Josie sauntered in and rubbed against my leg. I reached down to pet her head. “What do you think, kitty? Am I being paranoid? I know I’d be among friends, but still . . . I have my professional reputation to think of.”
I turned back to the computer and clicked on the discussion of Denise’s death. There were several new posts since this afternoon. Most were filled with the usual shock and dismay, with a few unhelpful speculations sprinkled throughout. Then I came to one that hit me with a whole new theory. Actually, it was a warning, posted by someone named MadMedusa: “Watch out, witches. The cops think it’s an inside job—a witch-on-witch crime. They’re questioning anyone even remotely connected to Paganism who might have had contact with DeeDee. So much for privacy.”
All I could think of was the gleam in Langham’s eyes when he talked about belladonna’s association with witches. Ugh.
Just then the house phone rang, and I remembered the weird call from the night before. “Could you get that?” I called to Wes.
I hurried into the living room and watched as he muted the TV and reached for the telephone on the end table. “Hello. Hello?” He waited a moment, then hung up. “Nobody there.”
“Did you hear any music?”
“What?”
“Like tinny, distant music?”
“No. Just silence, then a click. Must have been a wrong number. Why?”
He gave me a puzzled look, as I stared at the phone waiting for it to ring again. When it didn’t, I shook myself. “Never mind. Scoot over. I’m done thinking about creepy things tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, first thing after breakfast, I went straight to Moonstone Treasures. I wanted to apologize to Mila for bailing on her the day before. As I might have predicted, she brushed away my concerns.
“Don’t be silly. You were already on your way out, and the deputy didn’t stay very long anyway.”
“So, was he here only to see if you sell any products containing belladonna?”
“No. Not exactly. He also wanted to confirm what time it was when you and Erik were in the shop on Saturday.”
“Oh. Of course.”
I followed Mila throughout the store as she straightened merchandise and arranged a new display of spring flowers surrounding a painted cauldron and faux deer antlers—feminine and masculine symbols of fertility. One of the central themes of Beltane was the coming together of the God and Goddess, whose sensual union brings life back to the earth. But Mila’s demeanor didn’t match the cheerfulness of the display. I could tell she was worried. “Is there more?” I asked.
“Well, he was very interested in the time. He said it was vital to get it right. He even asked if I had any sales receipts that would corroborate the exact time you were here. I told him I’d have to look and get back to him. Of course, I wouldn’t give him something like that without checking with you first. Though, I suppose he could come back with a warrant . . .” She trailed off, looking conflicted.
“It’s okay,” I said. “He already knows I shop here. At this point, it’s probably best to go ahead and give him the receipts.”
Mila nodded. “I agree. You have nothing to hide. Frankly, I don’t understand why he’s so interested in you. It’s ludicrous, when you think about it.”
“Uh, just how interested did he seem?”
“He wanted to know how you were acting that morning—and if I knew where you had been before you came to the store. It’s back to the time question, I guess. He told me the t
ime of death hadn’t been pegged yet, but it might have happened earlier than they thought at first.”
“Really?” I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t like where this was headed.
“I told him you most likely came from home and that your boyfriend could vouch for you. I mean, where else—” She broke off and peered into my eyes. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no. It’s fine.” I tried to erase the worried expression from my face. “Only, I didn’t come here straight from home that morning. I actually drove out to Briar Creek for a private early-morning ritual. The weather was so nice, and I hadn’t been out there in a while. It’s always so quiet and peaceful. And secluded.” Meaning, of course, that no one saw me.
The bell above the shop door jangled and a little girl came running toward us. Her shiny amber pigtails perfectly matched the loose ponytail on the woman who chased her inside. To my surprise, it was Carol Peters, harried and out of breath. “Slow down, Dorrie! And remember, don’t touch anything !”
“Mila! Mila!” cried Dorrie, ignoring her mama.
Mila leaned down and gave the little girl a great big hug. “Hello, Dorrie, love! How nice to see you. But shouldn’t you be in school?”
“No preschool today,” said Carol. “We’re on our way to a doctor’s appointment, a routine check-up. I told Dorrie she could wear my lucky pendant, but she insisted she should have her own. So, I told her we’d pop in here and take a look if we had time, and we do—just barely.”
“Smart girl,” I said with a smile. “Of course she should have her own lucky charm.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Mila. “Come with me, Dorrie. I’ll show you what we have. Do you like turtles?”
Mila took Dorrie’s hand and led her to a jewelry case near the checkout counter. Carol came up to me and furrowed her brow in concern.
“Keli,” she said softly, “I have to thank you again for meeting with me on Sunday. At the time, I had no idea what you’d been through the day before. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I said, somewhat startled. “I mean, it was dreadful finding the poor woman, and I feel sorry for her friends and family. But I didn’t know her myself.” Something about the doubt in Carol’s expression gave me pause. “I assume Mila told you I found that woman in Fynn Hollow?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear it from Mila. I read about it in the paper this morning.”
* * *
It was my worst nightmare come true: to be outed as a Wiccan in a public, and very negative, way. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
After leaving Moonstone, I hurried across the square toward my new office. Along the way, I passed several acquaintances, none of whom said hello. Everyone either pretended not to see me or quickly averted their eyes. One or two gave me curious stares from a safe distance away.
Or maybe it was all in my imagination.
I let myself into the quiet, old building, which appeared deserted as usual, and went straight to the computer. I needed to see the article for myself.
When Carol had told me the newspaper mentioned me by name, I was shocked. Wes worked as a photographer and web designer for the Edindale Gazette. Surely they would have given him the courtesy of a heads-up—not to mention reaching out to me for a comment. Then Carol clarified what she’d meant.
“It was in the college newspaper, the Daily Beat. Another waitress where I work goes to school at the university. She knows I’m Wiccan and wondered if I know you. In fact, she asked if I thought you’d be willing to speak to her prelaw class. I guess they’re closely following the case.”
I blanched at that suggestion. This was all too much.
Now I tried to remain calm as I pulled up the website for the student-run newspaper. I was immediately struck by the sensational headline: FYNN HOLLOW MURDER TIED TO WITCHCRAFT. I skimmed the article, looking for my name. I found it in the second paragraph:
The victim was a self-described witch, who dabbled in potion-making and other “dark arts.” But her death was no accident. Sources say the cause of death was poisoning by a deadly drug found in the belladonna plant. According to folklore, witches would coat their broomsticks with belladonna salve to make them fly. It isn’t known if Ms. Crowley was that kind of witch, but she did consort with a number of individuals who claim to practice modern witchcraft, also known as Wicca. This includes the victim’s ex-boyfriend, Erik Grayson, a member of a secret society of nature worshippers called the Order of the Celtic Druids. It was Mr. Grayson and another friend, Edindale attorney Keli Milanni, who found Ms. Crowley’s body.
I was torn between irritation and worry. I was irritated by the tasteless sensationalism and subtly patronizing tone of the article, as well as the factual errors in the piece—strictly speaking, Wicca was not another name for modern witchcraft. But I was more worried about the way the article used my name. It implied I was one of the other witches with whom Denise “consorted.” Didn’t it?
I reread the article. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. It didn’t actually come right out and say I’m a Wiccan. At worst, it only implied I was a friend of Denise’s—a claim that was just plain untrue.
“Oh, who reads college newspapers anyway?” I said aloud. I closed the screen and straightened my desk. I needed to stop dwelling on matters outside my control and focus on drumming up new business.
Five minutes later my phone rang. It was Everett Macy, the client I had scheduled for the following afternoon. He was a referral from Crenshaw, who had said he was too busy to prepare an estate plan on Mr. Macy’s short timetable. I wasn’t sure if that was true, or if Crenshaw was just being nice by throwing me a bone—while also managing to brag about how busy he was. Either way, I was more than happy to meet with Mr. Macy as soon as he liked.
“Hello, Mr. Macy,” I said, after he’d identified himself. “I’m all set for tomorrow. Do you have any questions about the new client questionnaire?”
“Er, no. That’s not why I’m calling. Unfortunately, something has come up and I have to call off the appointment.”
“Oh, that’s no problem. I’m happy to reschedule. When would you like to come in?”
There was a long pause, as the truth sank in. He wasn’t calling to reschedule. He was calling to cancel. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. “I know how eager you are to have your estate plan updated, and you should be commended for that. That’s very responsible of you. I’ll tell you what—I do sometimes make house calls. I can come by your home anytime you’d like, day or evening. How does that sound?”
He cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ve decided to go with someone else. Thanks anyway.” With that, he hung up.
“Dang it.” I deleted the appointment from my calendar, then stood up and paced my office. “I have to do something,” I muttered. As long as the murder remained unsolved, there was the likelihood of more articles like the one in the Daily Beat. There would be more questions, more speculation, and more bad press for witchcraft. And no matter how many times I professed my innocence, in the back of some peoples’ minds, I’d still be guilty by association.
I picked up the phone again and called Farrah. She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, lady! I’m glad you called. I am bored out of my mind.”
“Things aren’t exactly hopping here either,” I said ruefully. “Except my mind is on overdrive. I need you to tell me I’m overreacting.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“I mean after I tell you the latest.” I filled her in on all that happened since we’d last spoken, including Langham’s insinuations, the newspaper article, and my client cancellation. “Do you think I’m being too sensitive?”
She hesitated half a second, then spoke with care. “I think things probably aren’t as bad as you imagine—though I don’t blame you one bit for being upset. I’m sure I’d feel the same. Hey, can’t you cast a curse on Langham? Give him the evil eye or something to make him stay away from
you?”
I had to laugh. “Don’t say ‘curse’!”
“Too soon?”
“Yeah. Though I can’t say I haven’t been thinking about casting some kind of spell to help with the whole situation. If only the murderer would be caught . . .” I trailed off, but Farrah jumped on the idea.
“We need to do some poking around. Is there going to be a funeral or anything? Some occasion to see all Denise’s friends in one place?”
“I haven’t heard anything about a funeral yet, but I do know where some of them will be tonight.” I told Farrah about my invitation to Billy’s game night.
“We have to go!”
“‘We’?” I echoed. “You’re not exactly mobile right now.”
“I can get around well enough. I can certainly sit at a game table and watch for suspicious behavior.”
“Are you sure?” I had to admit, the prospect of engaging in a little light snooping with Farrah at my side was starting to cheer me up. At least it was better than doing nothing at all.
“I’m positive. Now, what should we wear?”
CHAPTER NINE
Farrah and I stood at the foot of the steep, wooden porch stairs and squinted up at Billy’s front door. There were probably eight or nine steps between us and the entrance to his apartment, but they might as well have been the rocky crags of Mount Everest.
I turned to Farrah and sighed. “This was a mistake.”
She lifted one crutch and tapped it on the bottom step as if to test it out. “Yeah. I gotta say I’m not especially eager to break my other leg, too. Darn it.”
“Maybe the back door—”
Before I could finish the thought, the front door swung open and two men clambered down the stairs to meet us. It was Billy and Viper.
“Oh, man!” said Billy. “I’m sorry about this. I wish I had a ramp or something. What can we do? Can I offer you my arm?”
Farrah smiled doubtfully. I was about to bow out from game night, when Viper took matters into his own hands. Literally.
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