THE WITCH'S KEY (Detective Marcella Witch's Series. Book 3)

by Dana Donovan

  “This is some office you have here,” I said. “It’s kind of like a theme park, isn’t it?”

  She smiled up at me. “Yes. The owner is a huge fan of trains and railroads.”

  “I see.” I flashed my badge. “Is the owner in now? I’d like to ask him a few questions if you don’t mind, Miss….”

  “Gwendolyn,” she said, “and no. Mister Stevens is not in.”

  “That’s his Cadillac out front, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “But—”

  “But he’s not in.”

  I leaned over the counter. “Do you know when he’ll return?”

  She reeled in her welcoming smile and let it fade into something resembling remorse. “No, I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mister Stevens has taken leave. His return is not imminent. That’s all I can say.”

  “Oh? Then who’s running the business in his absence?”

  “I am.”

  “You?”

  She frowned lightly. “Do you find that surprising?”

  “No.” I backed off the counter. “I’m sorry. I guess I imagined that Mister Stevens had a partner or something. I’m sure you can run the business just fine.”

  “Mister…?”

  “Spinelli,” I said, relying on my Hope Hospice alias to avoid using my real name. “Detective Spinelli.”

  “Detective Spinelli, I have worked for Mister Stevens for over forty years. There is nothing about running a rail freight service that I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sure. Honest, I meant no disrespect.”

  Her expression softened to something akin to Lilith’s, you’re forgiven, but let’s not let it happen again, look. Still, that didn’t stop her from setting the record straight.

  “You know, Detective, it has been my experience over the years that men, especially in this business, regard women as incapable of understanding the mechanical nature of heavy machinery or the fundamental impact that mechanized commerce has had on the economics of a post modern industrial age. If not for rail freight, our industrial revolution may have stalled on the heels of emerging superpowers eager to exploit the vulnerabilities of a young and still susceptible nation.”

  “Wow!” I said, dumbfounded, and at loss for a more philosophical reply. “You don’t say?”

  “I grew up riding freight trains, Detective.”

  “You?”

  She seemed to blush at that. “Yes, of course that was a long time ago. Back in the depression it was not unheard of to see a girl catching out on a rattler with her bindlesquire.”

  “Her what?”

  “Oh, come now. It was no different in those days than now. People just didn’t talk about it then, or if they did, they referred to such girls as tramps or gypsies.”

  “Or Gitanas.”

  She laughed. “Touché.”

  I leaned in over the counter again and asked her, “Did anyone ever call you Gitana?”

  She turned away bashfully. “Mister Stevens may have.”

  “Yeah?”

  I watched her gaze drift away, perhaps to another time when the world was much simpler. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said confidentially, “but Mister Stevens and I were once an item.”

  “You loved him?”

  “Sure. Still do. But I realized that the rails were his second love and that he really had no room in his heart for a third. So I let him go.” She let her eyes come back to me for just a moment. “You know they say if you let someone go and they come back to you, then it’s true love.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  She sighed, and her gaze faded again. “Yes, well don’t believe it.”

  I looked at her curiously, suspecting for a moment that she was pulling my leg. But I could see her distant stare cutting through a fog of faded memories, and her only consolation may have been the years spent in the shadows of a man she loved but could not have. I wondered if my eyes would look the same when time caught up with me once more and I realized after years upon years that Lilith also had no room in her heart for me. I reached out instinctively to Gwendolyn and cupped her wrist gently.

  “What was his first?” I asked.

  She blinked out of the fog and looked at me with renewed focus. “Excuse me?”

  “Mister Stevens. You said the rails were his second love. What was his first?”

  “Why…Gypsy,” she said, “of course.”

  I pulled back. “What?”

  “Sure. He named the company after her.”

  “Gwendolyn, who is Gypsy?”

  She turned and pointed to a photograph on the wall behind her. “That’s her with Mister Stephens. How do you like that? For more than forty years I’ve had that sassy little tramp looking down over my shoulder.”

  I angled over the counter again and craned to view the faded black and white. In it, a beautiful, young woman in grease-stained jeans and a summer tee sat crossed-legged on the deck of a flatcar with a very young J.P. Stevens. He had his arm around Gypsy’s waist and she her hand on his lap. She squinted lightly, the same sun in her eyes also casting shadows on J.P. that made him look gaunt and just a little scared.

  With Gwendolyn’s permission, I came around the counter for a closer look. I saw that Gypsy’s hair was long, dark and pulled back in a ponytail, not unlike the way Lilith pulls her hair back on days when she cannot wash it. I leaned in closer still and saw how her smile gleamed, almost teasing the camera in that edgy way that Lilith smiles teasingly at me.

  “Whatever happened to her?” I asked.

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “I don’t know. That was before I came along. Mister Stevens doesn’t talk about her.”

  “You say that’s him in the photo?”

  She turned and looked up at the picture with me. “Yes, that’s him. Handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Sure,” I said, though frankly I didn’t see it. I studied the photo again, this time concentrating more on Stevens. “You know, he does look familiar. When was this picture taken?”

  “1941,” she said, without hesitation. “Back then, Jake was just a ramblin` Jersey boy without a care in the world.”

  I turned sharply, startling Gwendolyn almost out of her seat. “What did you say?”

  She palmed her chest above her heart. “Mister Spinelli, my goodness, you scared me.”

  “I’m sorry, but did you say his name is Jake?”

  “Yes, Jacob P. Stevens. We call him J.P. or Jake. Why?”

  “And he’s from New Jersey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever heard him called, Jersey Jake?”

  She eased back in her chair, smiling through a wave of nostalgia sweeping over her. “Ho, boy, Jersey Jake. I haven’t heard that moniker in a long time. He hasn’t been called that since…my, since his days on the rails.”

  I turned back to study the picture. It seemed so obvious to me now. The reason I thought he looked familiar was because I knew him. In hindsight, I realized how he had changed so little. Six and a half decades may weather a man’s face beyond the pale margins of his youth, but cannot change his eyes, his jaw line or the cleft in his chin. The years had taken their toll on old Jersey Jake, but not so much that I could not recognize him as the man at the hospice care, waiting on death’s doorstep to catch out one final time.

  “Gwendolyn,” I said, my voice softer, not wanting to pull her away from her memories entirely. “Jake’s not coming back, is he?”

  She looked up at me and shook her head slowly. Her eyes were welling, but not yet wetting her cheeks. I lifted the picture off the wall and held it to my chest. “Would you mind awfully if I borrow this?”

  “No,” she said. She reached out and patted my arm. “You can have it. To tell you the truth, I was going to burn it soon anyway.”

  I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Gwen.” I slipped back around the counter and headed for the door, but stopped before opening it t
o give her one last look. She smiled, as if anticipating something memorable. I just smiled back and waved. Funny how that memory will now be mine.

  I tore out of Gitana Freight Lines’ parking lot and headed back to New Castle in a fog, my deluged mind inciting a riot of emotions that drove me to the brink of tears. I had no idea what to do next. On the one hand, I had Lilith and a mounting pile of circumstantial evidence pointing to her culpability in a string of contentious deaths. Add to that my blinding affections for her that had likely already tainted my ability to remain objective regarding serious demonstrative arguments against her.

  On the other hand, I had Pops. First I believed he was my father, but later I learned he was not. Now, having gone full circle, I find that Pops not only could be my father, but is also the owner of Gitana Freight Lines. The very man at the heart of the mystery had been right under our noses from the beginning.

  I was barely aware that I had just passed my exit when Spinelli called me back. He sounded excited, but then that wasn’t anything new. Sometimes just getting through to me is enough to charge Spinelli’s batteries.

  “Tony, you’re not going to believe it! This is wild. I don’t know what made us think of it, but we did…well, Carlos did, but then I went along with it just to see—”

  “Whoa! Dominic, slow down.” I put my directional on to exit the next ramp for a U-turn. “Take a breath and start over.”

  I heard a heavy inhale and quick exhale in the mere span it took between two clicks of my blinkers. For Dominic, that was about all I could expect.

  “All right now. What won’t I believe? Did you and Carlos find another witch’s key at the suicide site?”

  “No, I mean yes, but that’s not it. We got back the lab results from the DNA tests.”

  “What, from the witch’s key?”

  “No, from the hair sample inside that locket we found. And guess what. We have a positive match.”

  “Great. So, what’s the verdict? Is it Lilith’s?”

  “No.”

  You can’t imagine the sense of relief that brought me. For the first time in the investigation I had a thread of hope to cling to that Lilith was not our only suspect. I finished banking a U-turn and merged with the flow of traffic heading back toward the New Castle exit.

  “All right, Dom, then whose hair is it?”

  “Tony.” He sounded much less excited now. “It’s yours.”

  “What!”

  “The hair in the locket. It’s a definite match to your DNA.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “It is. I’m sorry, but there’s no doubt about it.”

  He must have thought that my phone went dead; it took me that long to say anything more. But I did finally come back. “Dominic. Tell me how that could happen. How could my hair contaminate the sample in that locket?” Another long silence carried me nearly to my exit. “Spinelli? I’m waiting.”

  “Tony. There’s been no cross-contamination. You have to allow for the possibility that Lilith put your hair clippings into that locket and that she is the one that dropped it where we found it.”

  “It’s a joke.”

  “Come again?”

  “She’s playing a joke on us. Don’t you see? She planted that locket as a prank for us to find.”

  Another stretch of silence filled the quarter-mile. “You know, Tony, maybe we can talk about this when you get back to the office?”

  I wanted to tell him no, that there was nothing more to talk about. But inside, I knew we would have to, just as soon as I accepted the cogency of deductive reasoning. I know it sounds cliché, but as Carlos likes to say—if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck. In the meantime, I had some serious pride to swallow and a boatload of denial to reconcile.

  I came back on the line and told Dominic not to do anything with the DNA results until I returned. “Other than that, is there anything else I need to know?”

  “Yes, but nothing that can’t wait. How long before you’re back here?”

  I watched the exit sign sail past the passenger side window again. At the rate things were going I supposed I would not see Carlos and Spinelli much before nightfall.

  “I don’t know,” I said, sure that any guess at my arrival would be premature. “But if you’re hungry for lunch, don’t wait up.”

  Spinelli’s reply seemed to come on the heels of a short discussion he had with Carlos; his answer damn well confirmed it. “All right, if you insist. We’ll see you after lunch.”

  “Roger that.” I knew this next part would kill them. “Tell Carlos I’m sorry to miss it. I was going to buy.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  A measured pause followed. “Wait. Carlos wants to talk to you.”

  “Goodbye,” I said, and hung up. When the phone rang again just moments later, I turned it off. Sometimes it’s the little things that bring a smile to my face.

  My desire to know about Lilith’s possible involvement in the deaths of ten transients burned like fire in the pit of my stomach. Burning greater in my heart, was the need to know the absolute truth about Pops, AKA Jersey Jake—my father.

  The care center was practically on the way back to the justice building, but even if it were not, divine intervention could hardly have kept me from stopping there to see him again.

  Rain began falling through broken clouds just as I arrived. I was not terribly worried about it, but with the wind picking up and the distant sky looking more ominous, I suspected things might get worse by the time I left. So after parking the car, I turned around and began fishing through the clutter on the back seat for an umbrella. I needed only to move an old Mackinaw blanket to find it, and with it, the surprise of a lifetime.

  Fifteen

  Melissa greeted me kindly enough when I walked in, but her guarded demeanor left little doubt about her reservations for letting me in beyond the lobby.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Lilith isn’t with me.”

  “She isn’t?” Her smile brightened.

  “Uh-uh. So, is it all right if I go up and see Mister Marcella?”

  “Oh, I don’t see why not.” She picked up the phone and dialed a three-number extension. “Let me just clear it with India, okay?”

  I gave up a thin smile and a nod. “Sure.”

  “India?” she said. “Detective Spitelli is here to see Mister Marcella. Is it okay to send him up?”

  I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but I could guessed with reasonable certainty how it went. After Melissa told her I was there, India came back with, “Is he alone?”

  To which Melissa answered simply, “A-huh.”

  “Does he have anything with him?”

  “Just an umbrella.”

  “No flowers or anything like that?”

  Melissa craned her neck slightly to peer up over the top of the counter. “No.”

  “How’s he dressed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jeans or dress slacks?”

  This time she had to stand, but I give her credit for making it look like she was only stretching. “The first one.”

  “Did he ask to see me first, or did he want to go right up to the room?”

  “The second one.”

  “Oh, come now,” I said, not knowing how long that game might have gone on before she would finally give me permission to go upstairs. But at the risk of blowing it, I leaned over the counter and shouted, “India, please. I’ll do anything.”

  I could only imagine the surprised look on her face then. I watched Melissa cup the phone’s mouthpiece and turn a high shoulder to me. After a brief whisper session, she hung up and said, “If you have a moment, Detective, India will be down shortly.”

  I took a seat in the lobby and waited. I suspect India must have gone to the little girl’s room to freshen up before seeing me. It had taken her more than fifteen minutes to come downstairs, but when she finally showed up, she did look amazing. She h
ad somehow managed to transform her usual neoconservative work clothes into something I could only describe as postmodern chic essential. Though the prerequisite of her dress might technically have conformed to a code befitting the nature of her workplace, she had taken considerable liberties to stretch the boundaries that defined those conditions.

  Her blouse, likely buttoned up to her neck when she came to work that morning, now splayed open enough for me to see the lace along the top of her brassiere. And her skirt, which I guessed, like Melissa’s, should have hung somewhere below the knees, rode easily midway between her kneecaps and hips. Her hair, normally pulled back or gathered in a bun, fell in layered waves, parted evenly so that it blanketed both the front and backside of her shoulders.

  I stood and offered my hand as she approached.

  “India, thank you for your understanding. I’m awfully sorry about the last time—”

  “Say no more, Detective. It’s water under the bridge. So, you would like to see Mister Marcella again?”

  “If that’s all right. Is he up?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s been up since sunrise.” She checked her watch. “Let’s see, it’s just now noon.”

  “Lunch,” I said.

  She smiled out of surprise. “Well, what a splendid idea. Thank you.”

  “No, I mean, I was speculating that maybe I’ve come in the middle of his lunchtime. If so, I could come back later.”

  Her smile evaporated. “I see. Of course, you’re busy. I shouldn’t have presumed....”

  “Oh, it’s okay. We can do lunch another time, maybe. I’d love that.”

  “Yes. Another time.” She faded back a step, probably unaware that she was buttoning her blouse as she spoke. “I’ll check my calendar.” I watched her toss her hair off her shoulders with twin flips. “Maybe if you leave your number with Melissa—”

  “I will. I promise. So, you think I wouldn’t be intruding on Mister Marcella’s lunch hour if I went up now?”

  She cast an empty gaze to the floor, but then returned to me in solemn order. “Actually, Detective—”

  “Please. Call me, Dominic.”

  Her cheeks dimpled. “Okay, Dominic. You see, Mister Marcella hasn’t been eating much lately.”