“Jake,” Sam said, “what I’d like you to find out is if you can cross-reference members with people who have children in the school. We’ll be heading there tomorrow when the police go in to question the kids and drama department.”
“I’ll be on it. Should have more answers for you later in the day.”
When they hung up, Sam glanced around. “I wish he was my researcher.”
Jenna smiled. “Jake’s the best,” she said. Her mind, however, was reeling with what the researcher had told them. She didn’t want to share her suspicion yet, not until she had done a little sleuthing on her own. With Sam, despite the fact that he seemed to have accepted her and the others, she wanted facts. “So, Sam Hall, Esquire, where do we go from here?”
Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “I say it’s time to pay another visit to Madam Samantha. The clerk said that she was working during the Covington murder and the Smith family murders. I still want to talk to her again. Obviously she knows much more than she’s shared so far. We could try to catch up with the councilman, but it’s Sunday, and I bet Mrs. Yates won’t let him let any of us near him at this point. That leaves Madam Samantha.”
“I could go to church,” Angela suggested.
They all looked at her.
“Well,” she said. “No one knows me yet at the Old Meeting House. If it’s a fundamentalist group, I’m willing to bet that they meet all day.”
“I can go with Angela,” Jenna said. She didn’t really want to go, but she wanted to make sure that Sam didn’t rope her into going with him. She needed to do what she wanted to do on her own, at first. She had a hunch, and if her hunch was right, the crime-scene photos might prove it.
“No, too many people know that you’re working with me. None of the church members would have seen Angela yet, so she could go,” Sam said. “Except, of course, I think you’ve all had your pictures in national magazines at one time or another.”
“If they recognize me, they’ll kick me out,” Angela said.
“All right. Angela, you head to church,” Jackson said.
“What about Joshua Abbott?” Jenna asked. “He was one of the people wearing the horned god costume at the ball last night.”
“We’ll get to Joshua tomorrow at school,” Sam said.
“You could try to speak with him today—his mother never threatened you,” Jenna pointed out.
“Ouch!” Sam said. “All right, I can try to get that in today, too. If not, I’ll have John Alden make sure he breaks up the two—David Yates and Joshua Abbott—tomorrow. Even if we’re considering them cleared, they know something. Call it a hunch.”
“A hunch, huh?” Jackson said, smiling. “Just messing with you. I can do my part and try to get to the rest of the Abbott family.”
“I’d like to speak with Milton Sedge’s son,” Sam said. “But I don’t want to intrude so immediately on his grief, especially since none of us can do so now in an official capacity. This evening, maybe. John Alden isn’t going to give me any help with that. He’s convinced it was an accident that killed Milton Sedge. But I don’t want to sit around, either, and with what we know now, I think that Madam Samantha could answer a few more questions.” He looked at Jackson. “Madam Samantha definitely has a bold edge to her, and she seems to like to taunt men. Jackson, you and I will go to see if we can’t get in for more readings.” He grinned at Jenna. “No offense—you’re not her type.”
“No offense taken,” Jenna assured him, relieved. She hesitated.
“Madam Samantha, Joshua Abbott—and Sedge’s son,” Jackson said.
“Sam, do you have the police photos taken at all the murders?”
He shook his head. “Just the Smith family crime scene.”
“Then I think I’ll pay a visit to the police station. Can you call John Alden for me? At his level, he’s probably typically off on Sundays—probably rushing home after having been called in this morning.”
Sam groaned. “If you want the photos, I should go with you.”
“Maybe it’s best if I just go,” Jenna said. She smiled. “John Alden is a good guy, like you said. I think he’ll help me. You call, I’ll talk. I have a hunch. I just want to see something. I’ll go to the station, see the photos, and then I’ll just hang around on the street and watch Will’s form of magic. We can meet up there.”
* * *
The bored clerk still liked Sam. She probably knew exactly who he was by then, but she still seemed to like him.
And she still turned him down.
“You know, we’re in full swing here these days,” she noted. “Halloween is just two days away. You’ve got to understand. Madam Samantha is in the highest demand. She’s doubled her rates for these last few days, and we’re still turning people away. I can’t possible slip you in today.”
“She must come out to breathe…. Maybe I could take her for lunch, coffee, drinks…something?” he asked hopefully.
“And I haven’t had a chance for a reading at all,” Jackson said.
“No. No, no and no—and I’m so, so sorry!” the girl said. “Look, I do readings too, you know.”
Sam was thinking quickly of something courteous and politic to say in return when a client in Gothic attire came out from behind the curtain. Madam Samantha followed, stopping dead when she saw Sam and Jackson.
“I was just telling them how busy you were,” the clerk said.
Madam Samantha smiled slowly. She pointed at Sam. “You. You, come with me.”
“Go get her, buddy,” Jackson whispered lightly to Sam. “I’ll talk to the charming clerk for a bit and see if I can’t still verify our tarot reader’s whereabouts, see if there was any way she might have slipped out during the murders.”
Sam followed the sultry “psychic” to the back. He was curious that she had decided to see him. She knew who he was, and she had to know he was trying to trip her up. What the hell was it that gave her so much confidence?
They went back to her curtained area. She took her seat behind her table with its crystal ball and tarot deck. She indicated the chair in front of the table.
“Getting tired of Red already?” she asked him.
“Maybe,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
She lifted her hands and offered him one of her overtly sexual smiles. “What’s to figure out, Mr. Hall? I’m an open book. You want to accuse me of murder because it’s always the sexually unabashed and brassy woman who turns out to be the murderer. Come now, Mr. Hall, you’re a renowned attorney! You know the world doesn’t work that way. I was here, right here. I have a dozen witnesses to testify that I was working when the Smith family was killed. What? Do you think you’re in Salem and you can use spectral evidence? My astral self went out and committed murder while I was here, in the flesh, with a dozen clients?”
“No,” Sam said. “I believe that you didn’t kill the Smith family.”
“Then?”
“I want to know about your partnership with Andy Yates.”
She lowered her eyes and smiled slowly. “Hmm. Yes, well, someone dug deep to find out about that.”
“Business agreements like that are public record,” Sam reminded her.
“Yes, but…never mind. We weren’t trying to hide assets from the government or anything. Yates just wanted it all…well, he’s a councilman.”
Sam leaned forward. “You’re the talent, I take it.”
“I think you know that.”
“And he’s the money.”
“He does do well,” she said.
“But you both tried to buy the Lexington House. Wasn’t that a conflict of interest?”
She shrugged. “One of us might have gotten it.”
Sam frowned, leaning back. “So why would Councilman Yates loan you money? Were you having an affair with him?”
She smiled. “Well, you see, that’s none of your business.” She rose, walking around the table and leaning against it so that her legs were pressed against him. “I
should just tell you to go to hell. I obviously am innocent of the Smith murders, and the police have a kid in custody who was covered in blood. But I do like you. I like your scent, and I like your size, and I even like your face, Mr. Hall. Still, I am getting bored of all this.” She leaned forward, hands on her knees, pressing her cleavage tight. “Next time you call me, it had better be to get laid, or I’m not going to talk to you again.”
She stood. “Now get out.”
Sam smiled and rose. “Madam Samantha, you’re right about one thing.”
“You really do want to get laid by someone who offers real excitement?” she asked.
“I’m a good attorney. I’ll find a way to bring you into the courtroom.”
“Really? But you don’t have a witness anymore, do you? Poor Mr. Sedge was found dead today in a pool of olive oil!”
“I can see your concern.”
“I’ve been here, working. You know that yourself.” Her anger had returned to her face with a vengeance.
“Before I was an attorney, in law school, I went and got my private investigator’s license, and I know a lot about breaking alibis,” he said pleasantly.
“Call me when you want to sleep with me, honey. You don’t even need to buy dinner,” she said, and winked.
“Oh, honestly, I don’t think that will be the case,” he said pleasantly, and he walked back out to the main shop room.
Jackson was leaning over the counter, smiling as he chatted with the clerk. He arched an eyebrow at Sam. Sam thanked the clerk and paid his bill for Madam Samantha’s time.
He and Jackson walked out of the shop.
“The place does have a back door,” Jackson informed him. “But Madam Samantha was fully booked with clients when the murders occurred at Lexington House.”
“And when Earnest Covington was killed?”
“Not quite as packed, but still here.”
As they stood on the street, he noted a couple walking by hand in hand. They were both dressed as vampires—she was beautiful, and he was handsome. They made a cute couple; the costumes were exactly alike, except that his had pants and hers had a long black skirt.
It struck him that many people loved masks and costumes because they were able to be different people by wearing them. And, in fact, people could be each other.
“Jackson, what if…what if there were two people involved?” Sam asked. “Such as two people who were having an affair? That would explain the costume. If the killer was seen in costume, and the plan was to commit several murders, it would be natural to suspect that it was the same person. A costume takes away an identity. That’s what we’ve been going on all along. But what if there were two people involved—maybe two people who were having an affair?”
* * *
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John Alden told Jenna. “I mean, I can’t believe it. You’re Sam’s friend, Jamie’s niece…and damned good-looking, but still, I can’t believe I’m doing this!” he said.
Jenna laughed. “You’re doing it because you’re a good officer of the law, John.”
“What do you think you’re going to get from the crime-scene photos? You’ve seen the blood spray, so you know the murders were vicious and horrible.”
Jenna nodded. “I know. I’ve never seen the victims in situ.”
“Tell Sam I don’t think I’m going to answer the phone anymore when he calls,” John said, sliding open a desk drawer.
“I will not, because it’s not true,” Jenna said.
John groaned. “I love Salem. I love my home. I love the Wiccans, the shops, the people who shake their heads at the Wiccans and still appreciate all the tourism they bring in. I love the historians, who also shake their heads at the Wiccans, except for those who are themselves Wiccans. I haven’t had my badge that long, and I’ve explained that the chief wants this investigated and properly so. I want this to be solved, and over.”
Jenna smiled at him. “See? And that’s why you’re helping me,” she assured him.
He laid out a number of folders, pulling the photos from them.
“I told you—they’re a gruesome sight.”
“Yes,” Jenna said. The photos depicted tremendous carnage. She had to study them carefully. And she thought that she found what she was looking for—even though she hadn’t actually known what she was looking for when she started out. But if all their suspects had an alibi for one of the murders, it seemed now that she might have discovered why.
“John, look at the ones of Peter Andres.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not as much overkill.”
“What are you talking about? He’s hacked to pieces.”
“Hacked—just to make sure he’s dead. Now, look at the photos of Earnest Covington.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s— Well, he’s far worse.”
“The killer was escalating. Isn’t that the kind of thing you all preach about at the FBI? Or in your behavioral units?”
“Yes, sometimes. But I don’t think that it’s true in this case.”
“You’re losing me completely.”
“I think we’re looking at two different killers,” Jenna said.
John’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Two killers,” he repeated. He nodded grimly. “People thought they saw old man Smith when Peter Andres was killed, but eyewitness accounts are remarkably unreliable. Everyone knew that Smith hated Peter Andres—Andres wanted Malachi taken away from his parents. Andres believed that living with Abraham Smith was like living with an abusive parent, even if Smith didn’t technically beat the kid.”
“I wasn’t really suggesting that Abraham Smith killed Peter Andres….” Jenna said.
“But it’s possible. He had motive. And he certainly owned an ax!”
“You didn’t find an ax at the murder scene, did you?”
John scowled. “You’d know if we had. Right, right, the bloody ax was at the Smith house. Andres was a scythe. Maybe Abraham Smith killed Peter Andres—and his son knew it and just went crazier and crazier because Peter Andres was his one hope, his one salvation…and his father had killed him.”
“As far as I understand, several witnesses saw Abraham Smith on the day Peter Andres was killed,” Jenna said. “And, as you said, and as I believe, people are basically decent. It’s the odd man out who usually causes death and mayhem. And if Malachi Smith was going crazy with fury against his father, why kill Earnest Covington first?”
“Maybe Earnest saw the kid getting ready to kill his folks,” John suggested.
“No, that didn’t happen,” Jenna said, thinking about her experience in the Covington house.
John wagged a finger at her. “And how do you know that, Jenna? A ghost told you so?”
“John, be rational,” she said, not about to share the workings of her inner mind with him. John Alden certainly had to know something about her official work and their team, but she’d never tried to explain to him that she could see ghosts. “Covington couldn’t have possibly seen Malachi—or anyone—from inside that parlor of his. And if he’d been outside, Malachi would have attacked him there, right? Besides, Earnest Covington’s door was open. He had just gone back in his house and was killed while thinking about his son. The evidence shows that.”
“The evidence in your mind!” John said.
“We know that the costume worn by Peter Andres’s killer came from the drama department at the school,” Jenna reminded him.
“Abraham Smith could have gotten a hold of it.”
“I doubt it! He would have been reported at the school—he, as in any member of the Smith family. Malachi Smith was out of school then, and pretty much so despised,” Jenna reminded him.
“I’m not buying your explanation,” John said.
“Well, Abraham and Malachi as both being murderers doesn’t makes sense to me.” Jenna stood. “John, I know I’m pushing it, but could we get copies of these photos?”
“I’ll think about it,” he told her. �
�Sam has already been shown photos regarding the Smith family. Malachi hasn’t been charged in the other murders yet, and I don’t know if Sam will pursue warrants and subpoenas on the other murders yet—he doesn’t have an eyewitness to support him anymore.”
She leaned on the desk. “There’s the horned god costume, John. He’ll pursue the whole thing. I know he will.”
John groaned. “I’ll think about it—until a warrant comes or I decide! Damn, but you can tell you’re Jamie O’Neill’s relation—cuter, but a damned bulldog. Please, let me have the rest of my Sunday? God’s day of rest, you know?”
15
Angela Hawkins sat among a crowd of about one hundred at the Old Meeting House. Pastor Goodman Wilson was at the pulpit, preaching. She surveyed the congregation. The pastor’s flock looked like ordinary people, but, as a group, they were a bit different than most congregations she’d been a part of before. Here, the dress was conservative, down to the last person. There were no short skirts among the women, and certainly no plunging necklines. The men wore suits beneath their coats, button-down shirts and ties. Church wasn’t exactly formal, but it was conservative and proper.
The service had been going on for some time when she arrived, but an usher at the door, open and friendly, had guided her in.
Goodman Wilson was preaching about tolerance.
So far, nothing that she heard suggested anything ominous or particularly different from what she might hear in a sermon at a more commonplace church.
“My friends,” Goodman Wilson went on, “we are all here because we choose to be here. The world offers so many subversions. Satan does remain at the door. I say this, because Satan stands at the doors to our souls. We all know that he doesn’t really play out there in the woods, trying to seduce the unwary to dance naked with him!”
That brought about a spate of laughter, which, it seemed, the pastor had intended.
“Our community is facing a time of trial again. We are often ostracized because our devotion is so deep, and because we see perpetual invitations to sin in those things others often see as innocent. But, my friends, we stand fast in our faith. We do not consider that we rise above others. We only know in our hearts where we want to go. While we practice tolerance—patience with our fellow man, though our fellow man often has no patience for us—we must also realize that we are part of this community. Jesus Christ suffered the mockery and cruelty of others so that we might learn to live our lives with His help to free us from sin. I am asking all of you to open yourselves up to the mockery of others. A terrible injustice is being done now. Though it will open you up to the mockery of others, I’m asking that any who can help in the matter of the deaths of our brother Abraham Smith and his loved ones, look deep into your hearts, and open your hearts, souls and even your lives to those who are so desperately investigating the truth in this matter. My friends, my brothers, my sisters, I don’t ask that you act in haste—I ask that you search your own souls. I don’t believe that anyone in the Smith family was a murderer. I believe that those investigating the case can use all the help they can get.”
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