I Buried a Witch

by Josh Lanyon

“Back? Oh. Er… Yesterday. Or no. No, it was Friday, I believe.” He smiled at me, blinking all the while like a mole dragged from its hole into scalding sunlight.

  “But where did you go?”

  “Go? Oh, you know. I was called out of town.”

  “Called…” I was literally dumbfounded. “I was afraid something happened to you.”

  “T-to me?”

  “Yes, to you. We were supposed to meet the night you came to my rehearsal dinner. For two weeks I’ve been imagining… I’m not even sure!”

  Oliver gave a nervous giggle. “No, no. Just a family emergency. I didn’t realize you believed we had made an actual appointment.”

  “But we did. We agreed to meet at the Creaky Attic and look for the—” I stopped even as Oliver put his hand on my arm in caution.

  He said, smiling that almost manic smile, “It’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Meeting his gaze, I said doubtfully, “Yes. I suppose it is.”

  Had I got it wrong all this time? I tried to think back to the night of the rehearsal dinner. So much had happened since then. And a lot of it that very evening. Not impossible to believe some of the details were fuzzy, and yet I vividly remembered standing in the stairwell at the City Club, arranging to meet Oliver at one o’clock that morning. I remembered the jewel-like glow of the colors in Diego Rivera’s fresco Allegory of California, the tall silhouettes of our shadows against the wall, and the sheen of perspiration on Oliver’s forehead.

  He had been scared to death.

  It occurred to me that he was still scared to death.

  I said slowly, “Well, Oliver, I’m very glad you’re all right, and the family too, I hope?”

  He looked blank for an instant and then gave another of those nervous titters. “Yes, yes! Everyone’s fine. No need to worry about the Sandhurst clan.”

  “Right. Well.”

  Since he wasn’t asking any questions about how it had gone the night I’d searched the Creaky Attic alone, presumably he knew how it had all turned out. Presumably that was what It’s all water under the bridge now meant. But how did he know?

  Oliver continued to gaze up at me with those glassy eyes.

  “Then it’s merry meet, merry part,” I said with forced lightness.

  “Merry meet again,” Oliver finished.

  I turned away and started down the steps. As I reached the little black-and-yellow wrought-iron gate, he called suddenly, “Cosmo?”

  I turned.

  “Take care, dear boy.” His gaze seemed oddly intense. “Do take care!”

  I nodded and turned away.

  * * * * *

  The best thing about a cocktail party is, in my humble opinion, the cocktails.

  Not that I mind wine. John was teaching me all kinds of appreciation for good wine—in fact, I now knew what good wine was. But for flavor and variety and quality of inebriation, you just can’t beat spirits poured over ice and shaken into submission.

  “I had no idea you were such a wizard with a cocktail shaker,” John commented as I practiced my warm-up routine that evening.

  I removed the lid from the shaker and poured out the frothy concoction of black vodka, cherry juice, orange juice, and maraschino-cherry syrup into a glass with a pinch of pearl dust.

  “Would you like one?”

  He shuddered. “God no. That thing’s half sugar.”

  “I can do something less sweet. Maybe something champagne-based. How about a classic Death in the Afternoon?”

  “What’s that have in it?”

  I smiled brightly. “Basically, champagne and absinthe.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  I shrugged.

  John’s brows knotted. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure.” I winked at him. Sipped from my martini glass. “Perfect.”

  I meant the drink, but John looked relieved.

  “You know, you really do look… amazing,” he said for the second time in half an hour. He said it a little helplessly, like he wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing there.

  “Thank you. Again,” I said.

  I was wearing a teal, tight-fitting Hugo suit. And my signet ring, bracelets, and amulet. I was pretty sure no one at John’s party—our party—well, no, really, John’s party—would look like me.

  But then no one at our party would be like me. Our guests were all John’s friends. Or rather, John’s colleagues and work relations. San Francisco’s movers and shakers. Bureaucrats. Mortals.

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered was John.

  John was wearing navy Italian micro-plaid dress slacks that emphasized the taut, toned beauty of his ass, and a blue, rust, and white multiprint Robert Graham sport shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal his tanned, muscular forearms.

  He looked handsome, successful, rich, powerful—all the things he wanted to look. All the things he was.

  I offered, “You look amazing too. I wish…”

  I didn’t finish it, and he said, “What?”

  I shook my head.

  I was in a weird mood, no question. Between my encounter with Ralph, my encounter with Oliver, and, to be honest, my…encounter? with John the night before, I was not feeling my usual sanguine self.

  In fact, I was worried and afraid, and it was doubly troubling that I couldn’t talk to John about any of it. But I had promised him to stay out of it. All of it. Even without either of us knowing what it was.

  And that wasn’t John’s fault. It definitely wasn’t his fault that I couldn’t tell him what was really going on.

  I didn’t resent John, but I did resent the situation.

  John said suddenly, “Cos?”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I promise you, next weekend will be different. No going into the office, no parties, just you and me at home. We can hang pictures or sort our sock drawers or do whatever you want. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds great. Well, maybe not the sorting socks part.” I tossed back the rest of my drink. “I should help Bridget with the hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Isn’t that why we have Bridget?” John asked. “To take care of things like hors d’oeuvres?”

  I smiled, shook my head, and went to join Bridget in the kitchen, where it turned out she had everything under control without any help from me.

  I mean really. How sad was it that I’d rather hang out in the kitchen with my mother’s double agent than with my own husband?

  “Mr. Saville, you should leave that to me,” Bridget warned as I began to spoon caviar onto the tartlets. “You don’t want to be getting anything on that fine suit of yours.”

  “You must have a spe-home remedy for that.”

  She sniffed disapprovingly, ignoring the slip. “Besides, it’s too soon. Your guests aren’t here. These have to be served immediately.”

  I stepped back from the island counter and raised my hands in surrender. “All right. You win.”

  She sighed. “If you want to be of use, you can get the bread from the refrigerator.”

  I got the bread from the refrigerator, set it on the marble counter. “Bridget, how long have you known Nola—”

  The doorbell rang, and the microwave exploded.

  Yes. You read that right.

  I yelped and jumped away from the burning microwave.

  Bridget pointed at the blazing appliance. “Quae mando tibi ille ignis de.”

  The flames died. The microwave gave a final sullen crackle and went dark.

  Bridget and I stared at each other.

  So much for disguises.

  She directed a look of pure exasperation at me. “If you please, sir?”

  “It’s not my fault,” I protested.

  “Out,” Bridget said.

  “I’m going!”

  “What just happened?” John asked me, arriving in the doorway in time for us to do an awkward little dance.

  I said darkly, “Nothing Bridget can’t handle.”


  He spared a distracted glance over my shoulder. “Our guests are arriving.”

  I realized for the first time that he was a little on edge about the party. That he needed the evening to go well. That he was not used to throwing parties, not this kind of party. Not the kind of party where the mayor, the police chief, and all the assistant chiefs, deputy chiefs, and rank and file would be rubbing elbows and critiquing the onion dip. They were all an unknown quantity. I was an unknown quantity.

  I had never known John to be nervous, but he was nervous that night.

  And he was right to be.

  Chapter Nine

  Sergeant Pete Bergamasco didn’t like me.

  The sergeant was John’s aide-cum-one-man-protection-detail-cum-anything-else-John-needed. He was a no-nonsense fifty. Gray hair, gray eyes, gray outlook. Unmarried. In fact, from what I gathered, he had no personal life at all. The job was his life. John was his life.

  So maybe it was not a surprise that Bergamasco had not approved of me from the first moment we met. Despite my efforts to charm, greater familiarity had not warmed him to me.

  I’d asked John about it once, and John had said something vague about Bergamasco considering me a distraction.

  “I’m certainly trying,” I’d joked, fluttering my eyelashes. At the time I hadn’t taken it seriously.

  “What can I get you, Sergeant?” I asked when Bergamasco wandered up to the bar that evening.

  By that point, the party was in full swing. I was pulling bartender duty so that John could work the room, and I made sure the drinks were strong and plentiful. Bridget, dressed in a snazzy gray pincord double-breasted housekeeping dress, was circulating with trays of scrumptious nibbles. We were making a good impression. People were impressed. I knew that because although Ella Fitzgerald was scat-singing in the background, it was not so loudly that I couldn’t listen in to the conversations flowing around me—which I did, shamelessly.

  “Scotch and soda,” Bergamasco said crisply, his gaze locked on John, who was courageously bearing up under what appeared to be the double-barreled flattery of both Mayor Stevens’s and Chief Morrisey’s wives.

  “Coming right up.” I poured a generous measure of Kilchoman Sauternes Cask Finish, splashed in a little soda, and slid the glass his way. “Have you opened that bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan yet?”

  John had also brought Scottish souvenirs back for his staff and friends, though his gifts had leaned heavily toward the liquid.

  Bergamasco gave me a dismissive look. “There’ll be time for that when we catch these so-called Witch Killers.”

  “Are you closing in, do you think?”

  Deputy Chief Danville, sitting on one of the barstools, cut in, “Then the ‘Satanic’ motive is still in play?”

  “Definitely,” the sergeant said. “Both crime scenes had photos, items, and physical evidence suggesting the victims practiced witchcraft.”

  I refreshed Danville’s Chivas Regal. These cops all had two speeds: beer or whisky. Plastered or sober. Boring. But it kept things simple.

  “The two aren’t necessarily connected,” I said.

  Danville and Bergamasco looked as blank as if John’s unicorn bottle holder had spoken up.

  Bergamasco said, “The department has an occult expert. Our expert says—”

  I cut in, “Right. John mentioned that. I’m wondering if this expert might be someone I know?”

  Danville looked taken aback. Bergamasco glanced at the silver bracelets I wore. His expression was unreadable, but I knew what he was thinking. Bergamasco was no fool.

  “Solomon Shimon,” he said.

  The name meant nothing to me. If I’m honest, I’d been expecting to hear “Ralph Grindlewood” or “Valenti Garibaldi.” A name to feed my growing conspiracy theories. Whoever this Shimon person was, he was unknown to me. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t the real deal, but I was pretty familiar with the Bay Area community of witches and Wiccans. It was hard to believe I’d not have at least heard of someone with enough of a rep to work for SFPD.

  “I don’t know the name.”

  Bergamasco brightened at that news. “Shimon works at SF State. He teaches a course on witchcraft and the occult every semester.”

  I said, “I see. Have you considered speaking to someone within the Wiccan community? An actual participating member of the community?”

  “That’s the last thing we’d want,” Danville said.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “That’s because you’re not a cop,” Bergamasco said.

  It was tempting to say what I was, but I was sure John wouldn’t appreciate that.

  “So true,” I said cheerfully, and began to put together a tray of cocktails.

  A few minutes later I made my way through the crowd, offering martini glasses brimming with “the house special.”

  “These are gorgeous,” Deputy Chief Danville’s wife said, holding one aloft to catch the light. “What are they called?”

  “Black Magic martinis.”

  “What makes them sparkle like that?”

  “Wilton Edible Pearl Dust.”

  “Cosmo, you have a lovely home,” another woman said. “I can’t believe how fast you two have settled in.”

  “I can’t believe how fast they got married,” Danville’s wife said.

  “We had to. I’m pregnant,” I said.

  We all laughed.

  “Have another drink,” I invited. They all had another drink.

  The conversation turned to the wedding, then back to John and mine’s whirlwind courtship, then to the antiques business, then back to John himself. By then the mayor’s wife had joined our circle.

  “Your husband is so sexy,” she informed me. “In a totally intimidating way. I always wonder what’s going on behind those dark, magnetic eyes.”

  “Talking about me?” the mayor chimed in, which sent everyone into peals of merriment. Never underestimate the power of Black Magic martinis.

  I said, “I’m just hoping these awful Witch Killers are caught soon, so I can spend the occasional evening with him again.”

  That sobered them up, in a manner of speaking. “Don’t we all,” the mayor said, shaking his head.

  “Has anyone thought of trying to enlist the help of the local Wiccan community?” I suggested.

  “Obviously people are being questioned,” Mayor Stevens said.

  “Right. Of course. I don’t know how these things work. But what about approaching members as resources rather than suspects? Has anyone thought about that?”

  That raised a few eyebrows, though mostly people were looking at each other and nodding in approval.

  “Obviously, I’m not privy to the details of the investigation. The department has its own expert.”

  “Naturally. The thing is, one woman was a newly anointed High Priestess and the other was an active member of the same coven.”

  “How would you know that?” Mayor Stevens asked.

  “I have friends within the Wiccan community.”

  A woman—Danville’s wife perhaps?—peered at me and gave a little squeal. “Oh my God. I get it now. Are you a witch?”

  “I don’t think that’s allowed,” I joked.

  “No, that’s not allowed,” John said, joining our group. He was smiling, but his eyes met mine, unamused.

  Everyone else was amused, though. Everyone else thought this was all in good fun.

  “It’s warlock for men,” Mrs. Morrisey informed them, and they all nodded in knowing agreement.

  The mayor said, “John, your husband is starting to think like a cop.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” John said.

  I chose to ignore the warning in his eyes. I said, “The thing I’m starting to wonder about is whether there could be a connection between these murders and the Seamus Reitherman slaying.”

  “A connection? How could there be a connection?”

  That was Chief Morrisey, who had also now joined our lit
tle enclave.

  “Oh my God, Harold,” Mrs. Morrisey said. “Cosmo is a warlock. It’s so cute.”

  “Well, think about it,” I said, staring straight into John’s forbidding gaze. “Three occult-related murders within the span of a month. If they’re not related, that’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “It is,” Mrs. Stevens agreed, and Mrs. Morrisey concurred. The chief, looking completely taken aback, turned to John.

  John smiled a Big Bad Wolf sort of smile. “Someone’s sure enjoying the cocktails,” he said.

  “We’re all enjoying the cocktails,” Mrs. Danville replied, reaching for another.

  “You’re the one who told me there are no such things as coincidences in police work,” I said.

  “That’s not true,” Bergamasco replied. Because, yes, now pretty much everyone in the room was paying attention to this conversation. “Coincidences have to be ruled out, but they do occur. Of course they do.”

  “It can’t hurt to double-check, though, right?”

  “But the Reitherman case is airtight, isn’t it?” the mayor asked the police chief.

  “Of course,” the chief responded. “It was a domestic dispute that got out of hand. It’s a slam dunk.”

  “I knew both Seamus and Ciara,” I said. “It’s very hard to believe she’d have anything to do with his death.”

  “Everybody says that in a murder investigation,” the mayor said kindly.

  John’s sigh was long-suffering. “Nowadays everyone thinks they’re a detective. Including my husband.”

  “It’s the TV. Ann is just the same,” Chief Morrisey said.

  “Hey,” Mrs. Morrisey protested.

  John looped an arm around the chief’s shoulders, said, “We brought back a peated single malt you have to try…” and led him off.

  And that was that.

  Except it wasn’t.

  It was after eleven when at last the party wound down.

  Bridget had already departed, leaving the kitchen spic and span—and how could John not notice, how could he not realize how impossible that was? But of course, John’s attention was elsewhere.

  He saw out our final guests—one of the assistant chiefs and his wife—closed the door, locked it, and turned to me.