A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  She enjoyed her conversation with him, even when it ended sadly with him reminding her to be back for the memorial that night.

  “And take great care now, you hear, lass? The tor can be treacherous when the wind picks up, as it will do of a sudden. Shall I come back for ya, lass?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she promised him.

  He left her. She waved. And she looked high up the tor.

  The scenery was ruggedly beautiful. As she climbed, she noted how the trees stood back, almost as if bowing to the height. The trail was surrounded by deep grasses and purple flowers—the color spring. When she reached the crest, she saw that it was actually something of a plateau that looked out over the sea and the crashing waves below.

  The May Pole was set in the center of the plateau. Cloth streams whirled around it in the wind in a multitude of colors. It looked as bright and festive as possible, she thought.

  But then she saw it….

  The sun was already dipping low, but it seemed that the color of the sky changed instantly. Gray seemed to wrap around her and the May Pole disappeared in the haze. She thought that she felt pounding on the earth—and heard screams in the air.

  And then….

  She smelled the smoke and the horrible scent of burning flesh.

  She closed her eyes. She buckled over and fell to her knees. She saw in her mind’s eye the horror of people, wretched and broken, being dragged to the stake.

  Then, she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She opened her eyes, and the woman was there. “You see,” she whispered.

  “The past,” Angela agreed.

  “Don’t let it come again, please, don’t let it come again!”

  The wind shifted; the woman seemed to fade away.

  The air became fresh with the scent of flowers and spring.

  The sun was setting in the west and the tor was caught in a blood-red glow.

  Angela rose, felt the wind, and turned to hurry back down the path. She had left herself little choice but to walk back into the town center. It didn’t matter; she felt like the walk. It gave her time to think.

  And yet, as the thoughts spun through her mind, she just couldn’t figure what the horror of a witch burning centuries in the past might have to do with modern May Day celebrations.

  All that was the same was….

  May Day.

  ***

  Jackson had very little chance to talk with Angela alone once they met in town; Conar and he had left the sheriff’s office together and he’d encouraged Conar to talk about the town and the people.

  They’d only had one other murder in the village in the last twenty years and that occurred when Angus McCabe had pushed his wife off a ladder—he’d been drunk beyond all salvation and in his mind, she had willfully—and with malice—ruined his cable receiver so that he couldn’t watch the soccer playoffs.

  Angus had died of liver failure when he’d been in prison for less than a year. He’d never denied killing her—she had deserved it.

  “All our violence has been in the past,” Conar said. He shook his head over a pint of dark beer at McCready’s Pub, where Angela knew to join the two of them. “I spent years with British intelligence; I served in the RAF. I thought I was coming home to eventually start a family where life values were important and where evil seldom intruded. And now this…I’d expect this kind of thing in London—even Glasgow or Edinburgh. Just not here.”

  “Bad things can happen anywhere, Conar,” Jackson told him.

  Angela arrived then. She told them that she had taken a lift in a pony cart up to the tor and then walked back; she was casual. Jackson knew his wife; something had happened on the tor and he didn’t know what. She wouldn’t tell him with Conar there, he knew.

  But they had supper at the pub and headed out to the village green together. Much of the village had assembled, so it seemed. Jackson was pretty sure that several thousand people had come—some because they knew the victims, some because it was proper—and some because they were tourists and it was happening.

  A Catholic priest spoke as did a Presbyterian minister. Mayor McPherson rose to give a speech, lauding the young women they had lost, berating the killer—and congratulating Sheriff Conar Martin for bringing such a brutal monster to justice. He went on to speak about the fact that many had known Finley McConnaugh, and that they needed to remember to be vigilant of those around them.

  Listening, Conar wondered if the mayor himself believed that the man they had in custody was guilty; he seemed to be warning those around him.

  Candles were lit; songs were sung.

  He didn’t think that Conar had been scheduled to speak; Mayor McPherson appeared startled when he walked to the makeshift podium. But Conar took the microphone and reminded them that Finley McConnaugh had been accused but not convicted; all should remember to take care because, despite the goodness in the world and especially in the Village of Ravenscroft, there was also danger and evil.

  Angela sat at Jackson’s side; she listened to the speeches, but he also noted that he was looking at a group of young women who sat near the front. Elysse McKinley they knew; she sat with three young blond women and he assumed them to be Annie Fraser, Jane Gibson, and Deborah Gordon.

  At the end of the services, the four were the first to cast their single roses upon a cross wrought of fresh green twigs and flowers.

  Others were invited to do so as well. He knew from the sobbing and emotions displayed who had truly loved the girls.

  It was late when it was over; he and Angela split to speak with different people, watching them all. Angela tried to get close to each of the remaining girls of the May Court.

  It seemed they were all too swiftly swept away by parents, friends—or Mayor McPherson.

  When they returned to their suite at the castle, she turned to him and said, “Jackson, I’m seeing a ghost.”

  “Which girl?” he asked. “Did she know—“

  “Not one of the girls,” she told him. “The ghost of Mary MacIntosh, I believe.”

  “Mary MacIntosh?”

  “The ‘witch’ burned at the stake. The love of Brian Montfort, who rode back to slay the ‘witchfinder.’ I’ve seen her twice now, Jackson. The second time she told me, ‘Don’t let it happen again.’”

  “Don’t let it happen again?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “But, there is no danger of a witch burning these days.”

  “No, but….”

  “But,” he said softly. “Jealousy and hatred and abuse of power will always exist.”

  “Yes. But…can you email Logan back at our office and ask him to do more research? Ask him to probe everything he can on Mayor Ragnor McPherson, Brendan Malone, Dr. Joseph McGregor, and….”

  “And?”

  “Conar. Conar Martin,” she told him.

  He nodded. Conar was his friend; he’d seen him work.

  But she was right; they had to find out what they could about Conar.

  Thirty minutes later they lay together in the dark. She turned to him and he stroked her hair, thinking about how much he loved, how precious life was because she slept beside him at night and woke with him in the morning.

  Stroking her hair became stroking her flesh. Stroking her flesh meant that she pressed against him, and then she was touching him….

  And stroking him.

  And they made love.

  And made love again.

  And then later, sated, they slept, and slept well.

  He didn’t believe that dreams, or ghosts of the past, came to either of them.

  Chapter 7

  “Since the wax museum is re-opening—and I’m coming to know that Brendan Malone is a pompous ass—I’m going to head that way,” Angela told Jackson in the morning. “Elysse McKinley will be at the reception; I’ll find a way to speak with her. They’re protecting the girls—it’s like there’s a little posse of people determined that no one speak to them.”

  “I’m going back
into the station and see what Conar has discovered. I know it’s the middle of the night in the states, but I’m sure that Logan went to work and is still working on research. I’m going to get a hold of him and see what he’s discovered.”

  They walked down into town together and parted at the square. The cross and memorials from the service the night before were gone.

  Tents were being set up for vendors, platforms were being raised for dancers and bands.

  Jackson turned and headed to the station.

  Angela headed to the museum. He kissed her lips and looked wryly at the preparations taking place.

  “Nothing stops May Day,” he said.

  “But, in a way, Jackson—no tragedy stops the fact that life goes on. And that seasons come and go. Things change, and then they don’t.”

  “Man doesn’t ever really change,” he said.

  She smiled. “Yes. Every decade welcomes the evil and depraved, the just plain selfish and greedy, psychopaths and saints. And very, very good men!”

  She rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips.

  “We’re heading to a Caribbean island next,” he promised her.

  She just smiled. If they headed to a Caribbean island, they might stumble upon a mad voodoo doctor.

  Neither of them said it; they both thought it.

  He pulled her to him and held her close and felt his heartbeat. To his surprise, he found himself thinking of Brian, Laird Montfort, hearing that his father had been executed already and that the love of his life was about to be burned at the stake. He imagined the horror and anguish that had gripped the man’s soul.

  He kissed her again, fervently this time. She stepped back, smiling.

  “As long as you’re with me, it doesn’t matter where I am,” she told him.

  ***

  The great wooden doors to the museum opened easily when Angela arrived; yes, indeed, they were open for business.

  And Elysse was at her position at the reception desk. She was reading a book. It was an etiquette book, Angela saw—How to Be a Princess; Proper Manners even in Today’s World.

  But aware that someone had come in, Elysse quickly set down the book. Seeing Angela, she smiled.

  “Hi. You love the museum, don’t you? Even with what has happened. I’m so glad. It’s really an excellent museum.” She paused. “The one area is still closed; they’ve created kind of a makeshift hallway. It just seemed in horrible taste, you know, for now, to show the place where Cindy…well, where you found Cindy.”

  “Of course,” Angela said. She reached for her wallet to pay.

  “Oh, no! I’d not take a payment in any way from you, Angela. You’re welcome here any time; Mr. Malone would have me hide if I were to charge you!”

  “I really came to speak with you, Elysse.”

  The girl’s eyes widened and seemed to water. “About my friends?” she whispered. “I was here—I was here when poor Brenda lay below, and I was sitting right here with Cindy not far away at all, and I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

  “I’m so sorry. But, I’m curious. Who chooses which girls are to be in the pageant? I know that one of you is crowned queen, but how are you all selected as finalists?”

  “It’s a great honor. We’re chosen by the judges. This year—“

  “Mr. Malone, the sheriff, the mayor, and the doctor, right?” Angela asked.

  Elysse nodded gravely.

  “Did any of them give you a bad time? I mean, did they ask you for sexual favors or any kind or maybe hint that you could win if you were to be especially nice to them?” Angela asked.

  “What?” Elysse asked.

  “Both the murdered girls were sexually involved before their deaths,” Angela said.

  “Oh, no. That’s not right. Cindy was seeing a local boy—and he’s across the pond, as they say, in your country.”

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  Elysse shook her head uncomfortably. “Mayor McPherson is really quite a lovely man—I think we’ve all had crushes on him at times. And Dr. McGregor—well, he’s seen us all in the natural, you know? Mr. Malone, he’s a monster at times—oh, no, no, I didn’t mean that way, it’s just that I work for the man….”

  A buzzer sounded. Elysse excused herself and picked up the phone receiver on the desk before her.

  She spoke a few words and rose. “Please, go through the place, make yourself at home,” Elysse told her. “I’ve been summoned.”

  She walked over and set a “Back in Five!” sign outside the door before locking it. “You’re all right in here? I’ll only be a minute,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” Angela promised her.

  The minute Elysse disappeared, Angela stepped behind the reception desk. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—which was good. She didn’t find it as she shuffled through papers.

  Elysse hadn’t returned. Angela wandered into the museum, passing the Romans and Vikings, and moving down the hallway that had been erected to cover the scene where Cindy Sweeney’s body had been found.

  She entered next into a room with a display in the middle that had excellent figures portraying the men of the area through the ages. There were Romans and Vikings, Picts, Scotia, and any different tribes to display the people that now made up the British Isles and the area. The walls were filled with genealogy charts. She walked over and started to study them. She was standing there when she heard something behind her. She turned quickly.

  Brendan Malone was there. She instantly felt a sense of alarm and fingered her pocket for her phone.

  “Well, well. Mrs. Crow. Ah, not Mrs. Crow. Agent Hawkins.”

  It was Brendan Malone, pompous owner of the museum.

  And easily the killer.

  “Don’t take a step toward me, Mr. Malone. I am an agent—well trained,” she assured him quietly.

  He smiled. “I was about to do nothing but welcome you to the museum,” he said.

  It was odd that she saw the one chart on the wall right before he started to take a step toward her.

  But then, before he could actually make that move, she saw a blur of silver in the soft light of the museum.

  And to her horror, she heard a horrible thunking and crushing sound.

  A heavy ax fell right against his shoulders and neck from behind.

  The man never even managed to scream. He stared at her, stunned.

  Then he crashed to the floor.

  And she saw the killer behind him; saw what she should have seen much more clearly on the wall.

  ***

  Conar wasn’t in when Jackson arrived at his office. His sergeant, an affable constable named Gilly McFoy, was cordial and assured him that Conar had said for him to make use of his office—and that Gilly should help him in any way needed.

  Jackson decided that he’d first try to reach Logan Raintree.

  He managed to do so.

  Logan sounded tired. “I’ve been up all night on this,” he admitted. “But, I’ve found a fair amount of interesting material.”

  “Spill it out, if you will. We feel that bad things will keep happening here if we don’t get somewhere soon,” Jackson told him.

  “Your American girl—Cindy Sweeney—had a great-grandfather from Scotland. You’ll never guess where from.”

  “I’m going to say the Village of Ravenscroft.”

  “And you would be right. Going back, every girl chosen for the pageant had roots in the village—whether their ancestors strayed and went other places and returned, or if they’d been there forever. Brendan Malone, owner of the wax museum, had ancestors who were British. The mayor—Ragnor McPherson, had a relative who was burned at the stake way back for witchcraft. But, here’s what is really odd and probably coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Well, fate then, or destiny, because I’m sure she doesn’t know herself.”

  “Know what?”

  “Your wife, our own Angela, had an ancestor who was from Ravenscoft in S
cotland; he went by the name of William Crain and arrived in Virginia in 1608. There’s a journal written by one of the men that tells about a few Scots in their company that were suspected of running from persecution in the British Isles. One journal states that the men believed his real name was Mountfor or something similar. Hard to prove this—no DNA testing!—but Angela’s lineage dates back to the man.”

  Jackson found himself feeling acutely uncomfortable.

  Coincidence. It had to be. No one but Conar had known they would be here; Logan had dug in records for endless hours to discover what he had.

  But he had to go. He had to find Angela. His phone rang. Once. Hung up. He looked at it. Angela had called.

  But his phone had only rung one.

  He stood. “Logan, gotta go—want to find Angela.”

  “Wait; one second, Jackson. This is important.”

  “What is it?”

  “One man there can also trace his lineage back to the events; he is a descendent of a bastard son of Justin Stuart, the witch-finder.”

  “Who?” Jackson demanded.

  ***

  Angela wasn’t armed; Jackson carried his Glock—he’d been an agent forever and even coming across the seas, he had chosen to get the required permits. But they had come on vacation.

  She had her phone; she was trained, she was capable….

  But the killer hopped over the nearly decapitated body of Brendan Malone in a flying leap and she was sure that the ax was about to sever her head from her neck as well.

  But he dropped the ax. She prepared to fight.

  But a bloody fist came flying against her jaw and the next thing she knew, she was literally seeing stars.

  And then she saw no more.

  ***

  Jackson burst out of the office, roaring at Gilly to get everyone together that he could and to find Conar Martin, wherever the hell he was.

  He made it to the wax museum himself in less than a minute; the door was locked. He didn’t hesitate; he drew his Glock from the small holster beneath his jacket and fired at the centuries-old door. Then he rammed his shoulder against the splintered wood and burst in.