The abrupt silence told me he’d hung up. I stared at my phone, utterly paralyzed. Tears stung my eyes, but I couldn’t move to wipe them away. My chest was so tight, I had trouble breathing. What had just happened? After the high of the successful hearing, I now felt I’d been hurled into a bottomless well. Or maybe it did have a bottom, because I felt I’d landed with a thud and now huddled in the cold, pitiful darkness.
It was probably only a minute or two before I became aware of people walking nearby. Murmured voices mixed with twittering birdsong to pull me back into the present. With a concentrated effort, I pressed both palms into the tree trunk and forced myself to take in a slow, deep inhale.
Mother Earth, restore me.
Mighty Oak, give me strength.
Almost immediately, I felt a whoosh of energy rush through my hands, up my arms, and into my heart. I closed my eyes and sent my love and gratitude back into the tree, in a symbiotic exchange of energetic light and power.
“Are you okay, miss?”
Opening my eyes, I turned to see a young man dressed in nice slacks and an Oxford shirt. I figured him for a courthouse intern. Mustering up a smile, I reached for my purse, which was still on the ground. “Yes, thanks. I felt light-headed for a minute, but I’m okay now. Guess I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.”
His expression betrayed a mix of confusion and relief. “Yeah. Okay.”
I smiled again and took off, picking up speed as I went. When I reached my office, I hurried inside, logged onto my computer, and pulled up the website for the Edindale Gazette. The article I sought wasn’t the top story, but it didn’t take long to find. The headline said it all: BIDDING WAR FOR RED GATE HOLLOW? BUSINESS OWNER NEAL JAMESON PURPORTEDLY ‘VERY INTERESTED.’ I groaned. “Yep,” I said to myself. “It’s as bad as he said.”
After reading and rereading the article, I stood up and paced my office. What could I do? Now that I was past my initial shock and distress, I was able to think calmly about the whole situation. I knew I hadn’t breathed a word of Neal’s intentions to anyone, not a single soul. Therefore, he must have been the one who let it slip. Surely he would come around and see the truth. He had absolutely no basis for a malpractice lawsuit—let alone cause for the rude way he’d spoken to me. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I imagined I’d soon receive another phone call from the man. Once he came to his senses, I was sure he’d want to apologize—profusely. And I, being the gracious, high-minded person I was, would generously accept his apology.
I smiled ruefully at my fanciful daydreams. Misunderstanding or not, the whole thing was still very unfortunate. And it definitely cast a pall on the day. This was totally not in alignment with the newfound sense of abundance I was starting to create. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I had other work to do. Plus, I had to be at the university radio station by 4:00 P.M. for another one of my efforts to drum up positive publicity.
A few blessedly uneventful hours later, I walked over to the lush campus of South-Central Illinois University and made my way to the redbrick building that housed the college radio station. In addition to playing underground rock, avant-garde jazz, indie folk, and other anti-pop musical genres, the station hosted a number of talk-radio podcasts. One show, called “Ask An Expert,” drew in a broad array of listeners, from students exploring their career options to community members with questions for the experts. It was the latter group I hoped to impress most.
Of course, when I’d reached out to my contact at the university to pitch myself for a spot on the radio show, I had yet to be named in the college paper’s salacious murder story. I was a little nervous when I entered the building and headed to the Media Communications Department. I knocked on the door and crossed my fingers.
A young woman, presumably a student, answered the door and led me past walls of CDs, vinyl records, and music posters to the office of the program director. Two casually dressed men hopped up from their task chairs to shake my hand. They introduced themselves as Julien, the show’s producer, and Todd, the host. Both men appeared to be around my age, in their early thirties. Julien was tall and soft-spoken, while Todd, prematurely balding and ruddy-cheeked, was more gregarious. They both went out of their way to put me at ease. If they were aware of the article, they didn’t say so.
After several minutes of chitchat, Todd took me to the small on-air studio and invited me to have a seat across from him at the radio desk. We could see Julien through a glass wall, where he tested his equipment and prepared to accept incoming calls. After a minute, he gave us a thumbs-up sign.
“Have you ever done radio?” Todd asked, as he handed me a pair of headphones.
“No. This is the first time.”
“No sweat. Just relax and keep it conversational. We have some regular callers we can usually count on to keep things moving. If there are any lulls, I’ll ask you one of the basic questions you provided.”
“Sounds good.”
He swiveled a large microphone toward my face and asked me some test questions as he adjusted the sound levels. Then, before I knew it, he was counting down to showtime. A lighted red sign on the desk before me flashed on to warn MIC LIVE.
Upbeat music played through the headphones. As the music faded, Todd launched into his introduction. “Good evening and welcome to WEDN’s Ask-An-Expert call-in show, where every Monday local professionals answer questions that affect your everyday lives. I’m your host, Todd Wardelle, and today I’m pleased to welcome Edindale attorney Keli Milanni. A graduate of the SCIU School of Law, Keli was an associate, and then a partner, at the venerable firm Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty for eight years before hanging out her own shingle. She recently opened her own law practice, where she handles a wide variety of legal concerns for her clients, including family law issues, real estate matters, and trusts and estates.
“We’d like to remind our listeners that the answers today are informational only and do not constitute legal advice, a solicitation for legal business, or in any way the creation of an attorney-client relationship. Welcome to the show, Keli.”
“Thank you for having me, Todd.”
The interview started out well. Todd asked me a few softball openers that allowed me to showcase my legal expertise. I was feeling pretty good about the whole experience. Then he opened the phone line for questions.
The first call seemed promising at first. The caller was a third-year law student who hoped to open his own solo practice. I was gearing up to offer some helpful tips when he made an abrupt switch in direction.
“In my criminal justice course, we’re following the Fynn Hollow murder investigation, and we were wondering why the county took over the case. Is it because the investigation isn’t confined to the limits of the village?”
“Um, I couldn’t say for sure. I believe Fynn Hollow has a small police force.”
“Why hasn’t the medical examiner released the autopsy report? Is there some question about the cause of death?”
“I don’t know that either. I’m not involved—that is, criminal law is not my specialty. After law school, I went straight into private practice with a focus on family law.”
“Thanks for the call,” Todd interjected. “Let’s go on to the next one. Sheryl from Craneville, you’re on the air. What’s your question for our expert today?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m concerned about my mother-in-law, who lives in a nursing home. She can’t get around very well and I’m afraid she’s starting to lose her memory.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, as I mentally prepared myself for a question about powers of attorney or elder rights.
“Is it true that the murder in Fynn Hollow was a ritual killing?”
“I beg your pardon?” I glanced up at Todd, who shot a stern look at Julien in the booth. Julien appeared to be as surprised as we were.
“The murder victim was a witch, wasn’t she?” Sheryl continued. “When you found her body, was there writing on it? Were there black candles
and runic symbols?”
“Okay, caller,” said Todd, speaking over Sheryl’s voice. “I’m afraid we have to stay on topic. Keli, I have a question for you. I have a friend who knows he should prepare a will, but he never got around to it. What should he bring with him to his first meeting with a lawyer?”
“That’s a very good question, Todd,” I said, as I dabbed the sweat beading on my forehead. “There are a number of documents that can help your attorney prepare an estate plan for you.” I proceeded to rattle off a list of items, while Todd and Julien exchanged significant looks. When I finished, Todd cleared his throat.
“Excellent. That’s really good to know,” he said. “Well, the phones are all lit up, so let’s take another call. Hello to Dee from . . . Summerland? I don’t believe I’ve heard of that town. Is it in Edin County?”
“Keli Milanni knows where it is.” The low voice on the line sounded strange and disembodied, almost like a robot in an echo chamber. Clearly disguised, it was impossible to tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. I immediately felt my skin crawl. Summerland wasn’t a town in Edin County. It was the name most Wiccans ascribed to the afterlife.
“What’s your question for our expert?” Todd asked.
“My question for Keli Milanni, the expert Keli Milanni, is this: How is it working out for you, Keli Milanni?”
“I’m sorry—you mean my new law practice? It’s been great—”
“That’s not what I mean, Keli Milanni. I mean the curse. How is the curse working?”
I glanced at Todd, but he had removed his headphones and turned to retrieve a water bottle from a table behind him. Julien waved his arms in the booth, then helplessly shook his head.
“Live by the curse, die by the curse, Keli Milanni. You better stop playing with fire. If you don’t, then what happened to the ‘Witch of Fynn Hollow’ will happen to you.”
Todd replaced his headphones in time to hear the call disconnect. “Thanks for that. Next caller? Pete from Fynn Hollow, you’re on the air.”
* * *
I walked home from the university, grateful for the darkness. I wished it could swallow me whole. I was so flustered after the creepy call, I had trouble answering what few legitimate questions came in afterward. It was just as well that most people wanted to talk about the murder—it forced Todd to cut the show short. He filled the remaining minutes by playing “I Fought the Law,” by the Clash. It was his attempt at humor, I guessed.
Julien apologized before I left, but I was so embarrassed it didn’t matter. I said a hasty good-bye and bolted. I should have known it was a mistake to go ahead with the live radio show. The timing was terrible.
I took a well-lit path home, but it was still dark in the shadows. The clouds overhead blotted the stars and moon. As I left the main thoroughfare and entered a quiet, residential street, the words of the creepy caller came back to me: How is the curse working out for you?
What was that supposed to mean? Was the implication that I had cast a curse? And how about that name—“Dee” from Summerland. Was I supposed to believe it was Denise Crowley placing a phone call from beyond the grave? As if.
Suddenly I remembered the spell book I’d bought from T.C. at the charity bazaar. I hadn’t had a chance to pore over it any further, but I was positive it had belonged to Denise. At first it seemed disconcerting that Erik would sell a book that had belonged to his ex-girlfriend—especially when the sale money was meant to repay his debt to her. But then I realized she surely must have given it to him. It was probably a book she didn’t want anymore. After all, half the spells apparently hadn’t worked out for her. I snickered to myself as I recalled the funny comments she’d written in the margins.
Yeah, I thought. The Denise I was getting to know—in a manner of speaking—had a playful, almost sassy way about her. With her whimsical style and quirky friends, she didn’t strike me as someone who would say things like “Live by the curse, die by the curse.”
On the other hand, there were other clues that pointed to a very troubled individual. People talked about how moody and unstable Denise could be. And something seemed to be weighing on her in her last days.
I stopped in my tracks as a thought occurred to me. What if Denise had been getting creepy, anonymous phone calls, too? Could someone have been harassing her? Threatening her to “stop playing with fire”? Stalky incidents like that would be enough to set a person on edge. I should know.
Then I had another disturbing thought. As I tried to figure out what had happened to Denise, was I walking in her footsteps? Would I retrace her steps all the way to the same grisly end, like something out of a bad horror movie?
I shuddered—and jogged the rest of the way home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I couldn’t bring myself to go into the office on Tuesday. Actually, I might have gone in, except the one client on my schedule had called to cancel. Again. Why had my abundance spell stopped working?
Wes left for work, so I cleaned up the kitchen, then headed to the backyard. It was a chilly morning, so I pulled on a long-sleeved flannel top with old blue jeans. First, I tended the flower bed, pulling weeds, planting bulbs, and deadheading daffodils. Then I moved to the vegetable garden and sowed a row of spinach and one of lettuce. Once that was finished, I rested on the hoe and contemplated the spot where I’d planted the sunflower seeds. It appeared untouched, just a bare patch of soil beneath the glass-and-metal garden stakes. Of course it was too soon to see any sprouts, but I knew the magic was working underground. I supposed I ought to be patient—and not just for the sunflowers.
It was hard. This whole curse business was really getting to me. I couldn’t shake a feeling of foreboding. I felt as if a black cloud hovered over me.
The instant I thought it, a breeze rattled nearby branches and rolling clouds darkened the sky. I looked up and laughed. Signs from the Goddess never ceased to amaze me. “All right, I get it! My thoughts are creating my reality. Is that what this is?”
But that wasn’t all. I wasn’t fully in control here. Outside forces were messing with my life, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit.
Well, what good is being a witch, if I can’t take charge of my own life?
I went back to the flower bed and cut three white tulips. Then I put away my garden tools and went inside. I arranged the tulips in a mason jar with some water and took them to my altar room. Josie followed me and bounded onto the spare bed, where she settled serenely among the multitude of decorative pillows scattered on the white and blue quilt. What a pretty picture. Chuckling, I grabbed my phone and snapped a photo.
“If only I had your sense of calm, Miss Kitty.”
I turned to the altar and dusted off the candles and figurines. Then I placed the tulips in a prominent place in the sunlight and thought about the flowers’ meaning. Tulips were well-known to symbolize perfect love. It seemed an apt choice to elevate my mood. Love conquers evil, right? Leaning down, I inhaled the delicate scent of the flowers. I wasn’t sure why I’d selected three. “One for me,” I murmured. “One for Wes. And one . . . to represent our union?”
We had been a couple for more than two years now. In fact, it would be three years this summer. Yet we rarely talked about the future. On the contrary, Wes frequently commented about how great our relationship is and how lucky we are—as if he’s perfectly content with the status quo. Why mess with a good thing?
I reached for my favorite deck of tarot cards from a nearby shelf and held them between my hands. What does the future hold? I could ask the cards. More accurately, I could use the cards to ask the Goddess. I could ask her for a sign.
Or I could just ask Wes.
I heard a stir behind me and turned to see Josie jump off the bed. Apparently, she had developed a curiosity about the shopping bag on the floor by the door. She batted the paper handle, making it crinkle. I watched for a moment, until I remembered what was in the bag. It was the oracle deck Mila had given me: the Tarot of the Va
lkyries.
“Are you trying to tell me something, Josie?” I put away my cards and retrieved the deck from the bag. Then I settled myself on top of the bed.
I opened the box, removed the cards, and spread them out before me. The illustrations were beautiful. I admired the vivid colors and the artist’s attention to detail. While I didn’t have a particularly strong connection with Norse mythology, I appreciated the symbolism and decided I wouldn’t mind learning more.
Josie nudged her way onto my lap. “Girl, you’re everywhere today. What’s the deal?”
After duly scratching her head and neck, I reached over her to gather the cards into a stack and turn them over one by one. The Seer, the Elf, the Troll. The god Odin, the Goddess Frigg, their son, Balder.
I remembered BalderBoy from the Witches’ Web. He had to be Billy. In his messages, he came across as nervous, but kindhearted.
I turned over another card and found myself face-to-face with the Viking card. It was the one in Denise’s hand when she died.
I studied the card closely. Take away the beard and the flowing mane, and he reminded me a little bit of Erik, especially with the blond hair and blue eyes. But in the fantasy tabletop game, Billy was the one who played the Viking. In fact, Billy seemed to have a strong connection with the whole Norse pantheon. The game was his, after all.
My eyes slid to the stylized V in the corner of the card. V for . . . Viper?
Was this card a message at all? Or was it nothing more than an accident? Something Denise clutched onto as she fell to the floor.
What had happened that morning? I conjured the scene in my mind’s eye. Denise had invited someone into her home—and, beyond that, into her personal workroom. Therefore, it was most likely not a stranger. It must have been a friend or client. Denise was fully dressed, not in her pajamas, so perhaps she was expecting the person. Based on the cups the police had found in the sink, Denise had made tea for two. And this person—the killer—knew there would be tea. They came prepared to put a hefty amount of belladonna into Denise’s cup. Did the person slip it in when Denise’s back was turned? Or did the killer—
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