“It’s true,” she hisses. “A bunch of women over there meet and do seances and stuff like that. They hold ritual meetings in the light of the full moon. I even heard they sacrifice animals to their pagan gods.”
I prop one hand on my hip and spin around to fix her with a harsh look. “You can’t expect me to believe that. No way could anything like that be happening in this town.”
“It’s true. You ask anyone. They’re brazen about it. They don’t care who finds out. You can even ask Cheryl Whitfield. She’s their leader—their Grand High Vizier, or whatever you want to call it.”
I start to laugh out loud, but something in her face makes me check myself. “If that’s true, give me her address.”
Stacy gives a curt nod and pulls out her phone. A second later, a text comes through listing Cheryl’s address. She lives in the neighborhood on the other side of West End from me.
I study the screen. “Are you sure about this? I don’t think she’ll like me knocking on her door suggesting she had something to do with Jose’s death.”
“If that’s how you feel, don’t tell her you’re looking into Jose’s death. Tell her you’re interested in joining the group. She’ll love that.”
I put my phone back in my pocket. “Somehow I think she’ll still suspect this has something to do with Jose’s death. Everybody’s talking about it.”
“You bet they are,” Stacy returns. “I still can’t believe he was into all that stuff.”
“I don’t believe it at all. Someone is trying to trick us into thinking he was.”
Her eyes pop. “Really? Who would do something like that?”
“Someone who wanted to kill him and throw the police off their scent, that’s who. Now I don’t think I ought to be talking to you about the case anymore. I hope you understand.”
She leans in close and squeezes my arm. Her words rush out in a breathless whisper. “Of course! Of course not! Of course! Say no more. My lips are sealed.”
She turns her thumb and forefinger near her mouth like she’s turning a key in a lock. Then she races away.
I ought to laugh it off, but this case doesn’t make me feel like laughing. I keep taking out my phone and staring at the address for Cheryl Whitfield. Could a coven of witches really be holding secret meetings right here in West End?
My first instinct tells me to warn Zack. Then I change my mind. I don’t want to worry him. Even worse, I don’t want him to laugh at me for being concerned. That is the weirdest part. On the one hand, the case does concern me. Even if this so-called coven does exist, even if they do get together to cast magical spells or whatever, that doesn’t necessarily mean they had something to do with Jose’s death.
Even if one of their members did kill Jose, that doesn’t mean the rest of them are bad apples. They might just be your garden variety witches living in modern-American suburbia. What could be more normal than that?
This whole line of thinking does a number on my head. I don’t know what to think. I pass through the rest of the day in a daze, running around in circles from one idea to another. I can’t think straight.
At closing time, I lock up the store. I stop on the sidewalk to look both ways. David isn’t here to walk me home. So much for his and Zack’s grand plan to chaperone me on dark walks through the streets on cold, blustery autumn evenings. I’m on my own with no one to answer to.
I pull out my phone one more time and navigate to the maps page. I pull up directions to Cheryl’s house and hurry through the streets. I find myself checking over my shoulder for anyone following me. I’m getting paranoid like Stacy—like everyone else in this town.
Twenty minutes later, I find the house and jump up the steps. I pound on the knocker and shift from one foot to the other waiting for someone to reply. The door yanks open, and a tall, athletic blonde woman in her thirties gives me a serious inspection. “Can I help you?”
I muster all my courage in the hopes of sounding casual. “Hi! Are you Cheryl Whitfield?”
“Yes. Who wants to know?” she barks.
“I’m Margaret Nichols. I own the candy store in town.”
“Yeah?” she snaps in the most unfriendly way. “So?”
“I hear you’re in charge of a group of…well, someone told me it was a witches’ coven, but we all know that’s ridiculous, don’t we?” I hear myself babbling, but I can’t slow myself down. My voice squeaks. “I mean, witches don’t really exist, do they? Of course there couldn’t be a coven here in West End, but I thought I’d come and ask you about it just to make sure. I’m sure you’re all just….”
She sweeps back from the door. “We’re having a meeting right now. You can come in and see for yourself if you want.”
She turns on her heel and marches into a house lit up with electric lights and bubbling with voices. Kids run up and down the stairs and shoot water pistols at each other. A man passes through the hall going somewhere else. He holds a mobile phone to his ear and talks into it over the noise. “I told him twenty-five and he only sent fifteen. Tell him if it happens again, he’s out of a contract.”
I step into the hall and shut the door behind me. No one tells me to do it. I suppose I could leave it standing open, but the whole domestic atmosphere tells me to shut it like a good little girl.
I follow Cheryl into a living room packed with women. Kids and babies of all ages tumble and squall all over the place. A few women breastfeed on the couch. I walk in on one of them changing a baby’s diaper right there on the carpet.
Cheryl sits down, making no attempt to introduce me. A conversation already in progress continues unabated. “Why can’t we use your rumpus room, April?” one woman asked. “It worked last time.”
“Sam has his football club meeting there this week,” another replies. “We could use it any other night of the month, but not that one.”
“Tell him to take his buddies to the bar in Peterborough,” another chimes in.
“I can’t,” April replies. “We made a deal, and now I can’t break it. He takes the kids when I come here and I take them on his football night. It’s the only night of the week I can get child-free.”
“He’s child-free every day when he goes to work,” Cheryl counters. “He can do his fair share.”
“He says that’s his full-time job and taking care of the kids is my full-time job,” April replies. “Whether I agree with it or not, it’s not worth a fight. We’ll just have to find someone else’s rumpus room for next Friday.”
“What about your garage, Felicia?” Cheryl asks across the circle.
“Are you kidding?” another woman retorts. “It costs me a hundred bucks to pay for childcare just to come to this meeting. I’m not doing it in my garage where one of the kids could walk in on us at any minute to ask for a cracker.”
The whole place erupts in laughter that devolves into aimless chatting. I look around the room in stunned shock. This is the big bad witches’ coven threatening to take over West End with its insidious influence?
I hover in the corner and listen to two dozen women complain about their lives, their work, their kids, their babysitters. From what I can gather, about half are married or in relationships. The rest are single and work their tails off to provide for their kids while maintaining a shred of sanity.
The discussion drifts back and forth between general chitchat and trying to organize a venue for their Friday night meeting, the nature of which eludes me. That must be the secret ritual Stacy tried to warn me about, but after an hour eavesdropping on their conversation, I no longer believe that.
Even if these women do dabble in magic and the occult, I can’t believe any of them could do anything seriously dangerous. Their lives revolve around their kids, their jobs, their houses.
Eventually, the meeting disintegrates into a social time where no one gives protocol a second thought. They talk and laugh and shout across the room to each other. After a few minutes, Cheryl goes into the kitchen and comes back with plates of snacks.<
br />
Kids start coming out of the woodwork the minute she puts the trays on the coffee table. They mob the food and stuff it into their faces as fast as they can. Little by little, the women get something to eat, too, before the meeting breaks up.
One after the other, they round up their kids and leave. The general trickle dies away until only Cheryl and I remain. She pitches into a La-Z-Boy and kicks up the footrest. She drapes her other leg over the chair arm and rocks back. “So there you have it. That’s our coven.”
“Is that it?” I ask. “Do you perform any rites or rituals at all, or do you just get together to talk?”
“It started out as a real coven.” Now that I get her alone in her own living room, she relaxes into a normal woman. “I started it with five others. We really wanted to practice magic and stuff, but it turned into this. We meet once a week, and all the meetings go like this one. We plan a ritual once a month, but only about eight to ten people show up. We’re not really a coven at all. We haven’t been one for years.”
I measure my next words with care. “A lot of people want to blame you and your friends for Jose Santiago’s death.”
“I’m sure they do,” she remarks. “Maybe whoever killed him wanted to make it look like we did it.”
“You could be right. There is also the chance that one of your members did it. Do you happen to know if any of them might have been in love with Jose?”
She raises her head and locks her startling blue eyes on me. “How could they? All our members have been living in West End for years, and he only moved here last week.”
My eyes fall out of my head. “My God! You’re right.”
She settles back in her chair and lolls her head to one side. She drawls out of the corner of her mouth in a casual, weary way. “So someone was in love with him? It must have been someone who knew him pretty well. It seems to me you should be looking wherever he moved here from instead of around West End.”
I stare at the top of her head. What in the name of all that was holy am I doing pretending to be a private investigator with people like her walking around the world? I’m nothing but a charlatan.
I lunge to my feet and grab her hand. “Thanks, Cheryl. It was a real pleasure meeting you and your friends.”
I race out of the house and all the way home without stopping once.
6
Saturday night finds me standing in front of my mirror. I hold up one dress after another in front of my body, only to discard them a second later. None of them satisfies me anymore.
I had forgotten how hard it is to dress up for a date, even with someone I have known as long as I have known David. The instant he invited me on a “real” date, I plummeted back into high school where my very existence depended on wearing exactly the right dress.
To my horror, I don’t have exactly the right dress in my closet. By seven-thirty, I’m forced to admit I’m not going to get exactly the right dress, either. I can’t run to the department store at this hour, and none of my dresses flatter me the way I want them to.
I want a dress that will turn me back into an eighteen-year-old with a perfect body. I want a dress that will erase the fact that I’d given birth and seen forty-five unforgiving years.
By seven-forty, I face the crushing truth that I’ll have to settle. I select a dress at random and put it on. I’m not eighteen anymore, and if that isn’t good enough for Detective David Graham, he won’t be able to handle anything else about me.
I do my hair and slip my feet into my shoes when I hear the knock. I start down the stairs. Zack’s voice floats to my ear. “Good evening, Detective. You look great. Oh, here she is.”
David appears in the doorway. His eyes light up when he sees me. I have to lower my eyelashes, I’m blushing so bad. He takes my hand. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
He kisses me on the cheek. “Shall we go?”
I nod, unable to speak. He grins at Zack. “See you later.”
“Be home by midnight,” Zack calls after us.
David shuts the door in his face and leads me to his car. In a few minutes, I find myself rumbling down the highway toward Peterborough.
I survey the dark fields sliding past the window. I haven’t been outside West End at night since I first moved here. Now I’m going out on a “real” date with this kind, intelligent, dashing man.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he interrupts.
I smile over at him and put out my hand to take his. “I’m just thinking how nice it is to be out with you like this without a murder investigation to discuss.”
He grins sideways at me. “We could discuss the investigation if you want to.”
“No!” I fire back. “Definitely not. I forbid it for the duration of the evening.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His smile fades. “We don’t have to discuss the case, but I want to tell you I’m not trying to dissuade you from becoming a PI if that’s what you really want to do. I’m just concerned about your safety, that’s all. If you really want to become a PI, you won’t get any argument from me. You’re really good at these cases. I’ll be the first to admit that.”
“I appreciate that. I really do,” I reply. “You have helped me more than anyone when it came to solving these cases. I never thought you were trying to thwart me or anything.”
He cocks his head to study me in between watching the road. “So…do you want to become a PI?”
I sigh. “I have no idea. That’s the God’s honest truth. I like investigating these cases. I really do, but sometimes I wonder if I would enjoy investigating them as much without you to help me.”
His face cracks open with a huge grin. “Aw, shucks. I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Don’t make a joke out of it,” I tell him. “Half the fun is being able to talk to you and bounce ideas off you. You said we wouldn’t be able to do that if I became a professional. I don’t know if it’s worth giving that up. It would take all the fun out of it. It would become a job like any other.”
“Yes, it would. That’s basically the situation I’m in. Before I met you, I never had anyone to talk to about my cases. It does take all the fun out of it.”
“Are you saying you don’t want me to become a PI, either?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he exclaims. “If you really want to, go right ahead. I say more power to you. Heaven knows you’re stubborn and independent enough to do it no matter what I say.”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if that was the case.”
He crushes my fingers in his big, warm hand. “All I’m saying is I wouldn’t want you to get into a dangerous situation. You mean more to me than my precious professional ego. I can share the glory of solving murder cases with you. It’s you I care about, and not just your safety. I care about your happiness. If becoming a PI will make you happy, I’m right behind you.”
I nestle back in the seat. “Thank you. That means the world to me.”
He shoots me another sidelong glance and goes back to looking at the road.
“Now what is it?” I ask. “Spill the beans.”
“I was just thinking….”
“What? You better tell me, or we’re going to have a very unpleasant date,” I joke, smirking.
He rocks my hand in the space between our seats. “I was just thinking that, if you became a PI, our relationship couldn’t develop, and I would hate that. I would hate for anything to come between us now.”
My gaze drifts back to the darkness outside the car. I hear my own voice coming from far away. “I would hate that, too.”
Just then, the lights of Peterborough come into view. We drive along the city streets and David parks in front of the restaurant. It turns out to be a lot nicer than I expected. He opens the car door for me and offers me his arm. He escorts me into the light and tumult of a busy restaurant. Now I feel really underdressed.
The meal passes in a whirlwind of candlelight and sound. The menu befuddles me so David order
s for both of us. I drink wine and cut my filet mignon with the utmost care. I refuse to look at the other diners. I would go crazy if I did.
After David pays, he leads me back to the car and we drive to another location across town. I have no idea where I am until a huge sign all in lights illuminating the night sky. Cabaret.
My heart hammers in my throat and my blood races in my veins. Am I really going in there? David opens the door for me and I slip my hand through his elbow. We take ten steps up the footpath when he freezes.
“What is it?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”
“The chief of police,” he hisses. “He’s right over there.”
I look all around, but I don’t see anybody in uniform. Tuxedos, suits, and evening dresses surround me on all sides. People smile to each other in friendly greeting.
“We should go,” he murmurs in my ear. “I don’t want him to see us together.”
“You said it didn’t count if I wasn’t getting paid for the case.”
“I know what I said,” he replies. “I just don’t want to jeopardize my job for a stage show. I’m sorry. Maybe we can come back another time. Do you hate me? Are you really disappointed?”
I turn to face him. All at once, I don’t give a stuff about any stage show. “I’m not disappointed at all. It’s been a wonderful evening, and I don’t want you to jeopardize your job for a stage show, either. Come on. Let’s go home.”
We get back in the car and head for West End. David broods all the way there. He parks in front of my house and throws the car into Park a lot harder than he should.
“Thank you for a lovely date,” I tell him. “It was a real treat.”
“I’m just pissed at myself,” he growls. “I wish….”
I cut him off. “Don’t. It was perfect the way it was. Maybe we can do something else next time.”
His head whips around. “Next time?”
“Yeah. You know? Next time?”
He blushes and lowers his eyes. “Yeah. Next time.”
“I’m really glad you invited me.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m also really glad we got through the whole evening without discussing the case once. I call that a successful date.”
The Sweets of Doom Page 4