Evil Turns

by Jane Tesh

  She hung up. “I will if I want to,” I told the phone. Childish, I know, but it made me feel better.

  My next phone call was from Joanie, also anxious for an update. “Madeline, what’s the latest news?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You have to have something by now.”

  Maybe Joanie would be more forthcoming about the local Witches Improvement Society. “It would help if you’d tell me what you know about Darkrose Coven.”

  I should have known better. There was a moment of tense silence. “I believe I told you that was none of your business.”

  “Was the baby yours?”

  “Baby? What baby?”

  “The baby that was never found. I know it’s a deep dark town secret, but it’s another unsolved murder, like the two we have right now.”

  “That’s crazy,” she said. “First of all, there was no baby. Second, what would this Levin guy have to do with it? And, third, everyone knows Amanda Price murdered Harold because he wouldn’t go along with her demented idea for an outdoor drama. I didn’t murder Harold, and you’d better prove I didn’t.”

  Blip. Joanie hung up. Hmm, either the coven’s pact was too strong, or the missing baby was Joanie’s. Let’s see what Lauren Garrett had to say. I called the church and was transferred to her office. “Good morning, Lauren, this is Madeline. I need to ask you about the original Darkrose Coven.”

  “I’m pretty sure I told you everything I know.”

  “You left out the baby.”

  Another tense silence, very similar to Joanie’s. “What baby?”

  “The baby whose body was never found. Isn’t it time for the coven members to come clean about this?”

  Her voice trembled, whether with anger or suppressed guilt, I couldn’t tell. “That’s a horrible story. Who told you that?”

  “I heard it from a reliable source.”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you’re all wrong. We goofed around and played a few silly games, but there wasn’t a baby. Why would you be interested in such a terrible rumor?”

  “Because if it’s true, I don’t want history to repeat itself. Did you know a group of young women in town have started their own Darkrose Coven?”

  “It’s from the Pagan Desires series. That’s all it is.”

  “I think one of those young women is pregnant.”

  This time the silence stretched for several minutes. “By young women, who exactly do you mean?”

  “Among others, Renee Hedley, Clover Comer, Annie Vernon, and your daughter.”

  “How dare you suggest—” Lauren’s voice cut off, and I imagined her staring at the picture of Jesus to give her patience. Sure enough, her voice was much calmer when she continued. “Madeline, I’ll thank you not to spread such libelous rumors about my daughter. She would never consider being a part of a coven. You are so wrong about all of this. I don’t think we have anything else to discuss.”

  She ended the call. Never consider being part of a coven, eh? Not even when mom was once a member? I was pretty sure that Britney had secretly decided to follow in Lauren’s supernatural footsteps. But if she was pregnant with an unwanted baby, would she also decide that the Darkrose way of taking care of the problem—which involved God-knows-what sort of procedure—was the only way?

  Then again, I could be wrong, and another member of the coven was struggling with ethics versus witchcraft.

  I needed to talk to Annie.

  ***

  Breakfast was still going strong at Deely’s, and the smells were too tempting to resist. I sat down at the counter, ordered a bacon biscuit and coffee from Annie, and settled in to listen. The Geezer Club was holding forth from their corner on the price of gasoline, the recent drought, and a suspicious fire that had destroyed a tobacco barn. A group of women in a booth by the door chatted about an upcoming rummage sale at the Methodist church. Two business men sat further down the counter. Both gave me a nod, and one said, “Anything on Harold’s murder?”

  “I’ve got a few leads,” I said.

  “That was a damn shame,” the other man said.

  “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Harold?”

  “Didn’t know him very well,” the first man said. “It’s pretty obvious Amanda Price is involved, though, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” When Annie came back with my order, I asked her if she had a few moments to spare.

  “I suppose,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s move to a booth.”

  There was an empty booth back in the corner. Annie sat down, her expression wary.

  “Jerry and I met Renee in Parkland yesterday. We talked with Shadow, a member of the Parkland Darkrose Coven. She said a couple of girls from Celosia had come by, asking advice about a baby.”

  Annie sat very still. “What did she tell them?”

  “She referred them to an abortion clinic. Do you know anything about this?” She didn’t answer. “Are you pregnant, Annie?”

  “No.”

  “Were you?”

  “No.”

  “Is Britney?”

  Annie looked away, deciding how to reply. Then she looked back at me. “I can’t believe she’d do something so stupid. We all agreed not to say anything.”

  “You made a pact.”

  “Yes, just like the others.”

  So Renee had lied when she said it was the first time she’d heard this news. “The first Darkrose Coven.”

  “Yes, Britney’s mother was a member. When Britney found out, she thought it would be cool if we formed our own coven. We were already into the Pagan Desires books, so at first, we met to discuss the books. But then she said we should try casting spells. That’s when I backed away.”

  “How did Britney find out about the first Darkrose Coven?”

  “She was looking through some stuff in her attic and found this old notebook of her mom’s. It had spells and chants and symbols in it. When she asked her mom, her mom told her it had been just for fun. That’s where she saw the black rose. It was so much like Lissa’s—you know, the heroine of Pagan Desires—Britney said we should all get one.”

  “You’ve seen this notebook?”

  “Yeah, she brought it to a meeting once.”

  I took a napkin and drew the intersecting U’s. “Did any of the symbols look like this?”

  Annie took a look. “Yeah, I’ve seen that one.”

  “And the spells. Did any of them include recipes for making poison?”

  “They did. Britney wanted to try them out, but we all said no.”

  “When’s your next meeting?” When she hesitated, I said, “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. This symbol and the fact that your group knew how to make poisons could very easily tie you in with Eric Levin’s murder.”

  She looked alarmed. “We didn’t have anything to do with that!”

  “Can you speak for Britney? Or Clover? Or any of the others? Let me know when your next meeting is, and I’ll come talk to everyone.”

  “I’ll see.”

  A customer called to her, and grateful for the interruption, Annie hurried off to another booth.

  Jerry came around from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Need another biscuit?”

  “They’re delicious, but no thanks.”

  “Annie looked upset. What did you say to her?”

  “That someone in her book club slash coven could’ve killed Eric Levin. I’ve shaken up everyone today. Joanie, Lauren. No one wants to talk about the missing baby. So I’m hoping Annie will tell me when their next meeting is. I do not want anyone to lose another baby.”

  He took Annie’s place in the booth across from me. “I’ve got a little news. Earlier this morning, three membe
rs of the Improvement Society, including Constance Tate, came in for breakfast. The place was crowded, so they sat at the counter, and while I was refilling the juice machine, I could hear them. One was concerned that if Amanda was found guilty of Harold’s murder and sent to jail, then Flower of the South would fall through. The other said that even with the grant the whole enterprise was way too expensive, and Constance was going to lose all the money she’s already paid in.”

  “So Constance is bankrolling the show.”

  “Yep. Constance said they didn’t need to concern themselves with that. Then I asked if any of them could tell me why the outdoor drama was so important to Amanda. Was this her special dream? Had she always wanted to be an actress? And none of them had an answer. One woman said she didn’t think the project had caught on the way Amanda expected. I mentioned to Constance she could always withdraw her support if she didn’t think the show would fly. She told me—in her frostiest voice, mind you—that that was not a problem. Then she changed the subject to Harold’s murder and said it had to be Joanie.”

  “Any reason?”

  “The other women agreed with her. They said Joanie had always been incredibly jealous of Amanda, and if she knew ahead of time Amanda was going to play Emmaline, she’d be mad enough to kill.”

  “But why kill Harold?”

  “I asked that, too. They said he was against the show and Joanie’s big chance to play Emmaline, so naturally, he had to die. They all seemed determined to pin the murder on Joanie.”

  “That’s a pitiful reason to kill someone.”

  “Sounds like Amanda’s got them squarely in her camp. Oh, and speaking of money, I’ve still got that check Constance gave me.”

  “She wrote that check without a word of protest. That’s what makes me still think Amanda has something on her.”

  He got up. “Back to work. Who are you going to shake up next?”

  “Megan Underwood, if I can find her.”

  “Let’s ask the Celosia grapevine. Grapevine, get it? I’m keeping with the theme here.” He raised his voice. “Has anyone seen Megan Underwood?”

  A member of the Geezer Club came through with a useful answer. “I saw her out by Richardson’s Goat Farm yesterday. That’s over toward Westberry, about five miles from here.”

  “Thanks.” I gave Jerry a kiss. “Keep an eye on Nathan today. I’m on my way to Richardson’s Goat Farm.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ride out to Westberry, like all drives in the countryside around Celosia, was along winding roads lined with fields and wildflowers, cattle farms, the occasional rusty mobile home, little grocery stores with one or two gas pumps, and dusty dirt side roads that led off into the woods with only a dented mailbox or faded sign to indicate anyone lived there.

  Richardson’s Goat Farm was easy to find. There were goats all over the pastures, snoozing in piles, munching on the grass, the younger ones butting each other and standing on top of whatever they could find, including the older goats. I turned down a winding gravel road and parked near a barn beside a battered white pickup truck. A man carrying a bucket waved and came over to me. He was tall and rangy, his jeans torn and frayed. Both his navy blue tee shirt and cap were decorated with a jumping goat and “Richardson’s Goat Farm” in bright green.

  “Morning. What can I do for you?”

  “Good morning,” I said. “I’m Madeline Maclin. I’m working on a case, and I’m looking for Megan Underwood. I was told she might be here.”

  “Well, she was. I think she’s left. Come on, we’ll see.”

  I followed him along the fence. The goats, alerted by the bucket, perked up and hurried over making all kinds of strange noises. I always thought goats made a baahing sound like sheep, and a few of these did, but there was also an array of snorts, burps, and a curious “what-what-what” from a spotted goat with one horn. The man tossed carrots over the fence. There was a mad scramble for the treats.

  “She came out earlier to give ’em some crackers. They love crackers. Don’t see her now, though. She must’ve gone.”

  Two billy goats fought over the last piece of carrot. Their horns clacked as they knocked heads.

  “How well do you know her?”

  He set the bucket down and leaned on the top rail of the fence. “Hadn’t seen her in a while. She comes out here to get goat cheese to sell at the market in town. She ain’t got much money, so we work out a deal with her. She tends to the goats for us, makes sure they have water, takes them up to the vet when they get sick, goes and gets more feed from the store, cleans out the pens every now and then if they need it, gets their heads out of the fence. They like to stick their heads through to get to the grass on the other side, and they get their horns stuck when they pull back.” The goats gathered under him, hoping for more carrots. “Go on, now. That’s all.”

  One fat brown goat pushed her head through the fence. I patted her head. Her weirdly slanted pupils gave her a sinister look. “Does Megan walk from town?”

  “I guess. She just shows up.”

  Maybe I could catch her on the road. “Did you know that at one time she was engaged to Harold Stover?”

  “Harold Stover. Wasn’t he murdered? Seems I heard about that on the news.”

  “I’m investigating his murder.”

  “He came out here one time wanting to make sure the animals was treated properly. Nice fella. You say he and Megan used to be engaged? Can’t see her settling down. She’s all about free love. Told me that was the way she was raised. Like goats. That little mama goat you’re petting there? Reason she’s so fat is because she’s pregnant. Again.” He gestured to the herd. “The daddy could be any one of those billy goats out there. Free love. Only way to do it.” He’d amused himself. “Saves a lot of trouble. Anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

  I gave him one of my cards. “If you see Megan, please tell her I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Sure thing.”

  A few goats followed us back to the barn and watched as I got in my car.

  “Sorry,” I told them. “No free goat love here.”

  ***

  I drove down the road to the next little town ironically called Big Pond and then all the way back to Celosia. No sign of Megan. She must have cut through the woods and fields, or perhaps ridden her broomstick home.

  I went back to the house, rooted in the fridge for an apple, and sat on the porch to eat and think. Jerry called to say camp was going great, but Megan had not returned to her hideaway across the lake.

  “I hope you’ve solved the crime because Nathan’s about to drive me crazy.”

  “There was a Megan-sighting at Richardson’s Goat Farm. That’s all I’ve got.”

  Someone must have asked him a question because he said, “Sure. Be right there. Gotta go, Mac. See you later.”

  I went into the house for more tea, and when I returned to the porch, a strange silver car chugged up the drive. The driver parked and got out. It was Jerry’s friend, Double-Dealing Derek.

  “Mrs. Fairweather, hello.”

  I was not happy to see him. “Hello.”

  Instead of jeans and a tee-shirt, he had on a rumpled, sweat-stained light gray suit and a white shirt with a frayed collar. He sat down on the porch steps and fanned himself with his hat. “Whew! It’s a hot one today.”

  “Come sit in a rocking chair.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine right here.”

  “Want some tea?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  So I wondered what the trouble was. I brought him a glass of tea and he thanked me.

  “Jerry around?”

  “He’ll be home at four.”

  “Mind if I wait?”

  Actually, I did. “Not at all.”

  Derek took a drink and looked out across the meadow. “He’s a lu
cky man. Nice big house. Beautiful wife.”

  “Thanks.”

  He set his glass aside. “You know, most of us have to rely on playing a character, but not Jerry. He’s got one of those faces you like right away. Like and trust. Nice open, honest face. Worth a fortune. It’s a shame he’s quit the game, I mean, I’m sure you’re glad he’s gone straight. Don’t suppose you’d let him have one more go?”

  I knew this man was up to something. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Never hurts to try.”

  “No. No more cons.”

  He grinned as if he expected that answer. “Actually, I’ve got a little info for him. That woman he was asking about, Megan Underwood? I think he’ll be surprised by what I’ve found. Got something on that Darkrose Coven, too.”

  Did he really? “You can surprise me. It’s my case.”

  “Think I’ll hang onto it till Jerry gets home.”

  Oh, I could see where this was going. Whatever info Derek had, if it could help the case in any way, he wanted payment. He wanted Jerry’s help with something, something that I was sure would be amazingly illegal.

  I didn’t want Derek sitting on my porch all afternoon, especially if the kids came over. He must have sensed my disapproval. He heaved himself up. “Why don’t I check out the town and come back around four?”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  He grinned again, but his eyes were cold. “Thanks for the tea.”

  I watched him drive away. Jerry’s friends. Good lord, where to begin? For about three years after we graduated from college, I lost track of Jerry. During that time, he was attending Big Mike’s Con School and running around with all sorts of swindlers, including Rick, Del, and Honor. Del was always a gentleman, and I could handle Rick’s foolishness. Honor had realized Jerry wanted to live a different life and have a family, and she agreed to leave him alone. But this man who called himself Derek—he set off all my alarms. Did he really have information? Why drive all the way to Celosia when he could’ve phoned Jerry with the news? Why not share it with me? What did he really want?

  I was still standing on the porch, frowning, when Nell drove up in her white van.