“Bad night” he said. “Guess I’ll hit the sack.”
“Good night, Jake,” Tretheway said.
Jake opened the sliding doors and stopped. He looked back at his boss. “This witchcraft business,” he started.
“Hm?” Tretheway put down his paper.
“You don’t really believe Zoë Plunkitt’s a witch?” Jake paused. Tretheway’s expression didn’t change. “I mean, everything that they say — about casting spells, brewing up a storm, withering crops, making milk sour, turning into animals, flying across the sky. That’s all Wizard of Oz kid stuff. Old wives’ tales. B movie scripts. Right?”
A hint of a smile crossed Tretheway’s face. “Jake. You, Jonathan Small, B.A., man of letters, honours grad. You’re asking me? A simple traffic policeman. About the secrets of the mystic universe? Really.”
“Yeh. I know.” Jake looked sheepish. “It was a dumb question.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” Tretheway smiled. “We’ll all sleep tight.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t step on any spiders.”
Jake’s frown returned as he slid the doors shut.
Tretheway grinned broadly. He leaned back in his big chair and quietly blew smoke rings for a while. Finally he pushed himself up and tossed the wet cigar butt into the dying fire. He nudged the cat’s stomach with his foot. Fat Rollo opened one eye and hissed.
Tretheway drank a quick quart of ale while making his rounds on the ground floor. He left the empty beside the ice box on his way upstairs. Just before climbing into bed he automatically checked his desk clock. Both hands pointed at twelve. He pulled the blind up on his tall bedroom window and opened the sash. The bracing November air whisked into the room. Tretheway looked into the night. Enough leaves still clung to the hard maple trees to rustle pleasantly but not enough to obscure the pale yellow orb of a full moon. An owl hooted distinctly three times.
Murder on the Thirteenth (Albert J Tretheway Series) Page 14