by V. V. James
Twenty-Six
Maggie
It’s Harper I want, but in the meantime I’ve a million and one things to ask her mom. So where to begin?
The question I won’t be asking is the nagging one that Martineau’s appearance has pushed uppermost in my mind. Why, in just the few days I’ve been back in Sanctuary, I have assembled a full cast from that night six years ago: Abigail Whitman, Bridget Perelli-Lee, Julia Garcia—and now Sarah Fenn and Pierre Martineau. The only kid I saw that night was Daniel Whitman, but my report told me the others were there, too: Harper, Isobel, and Beatriz.
Coincidence?
Maybe not. But also not my priority right now.
I’ve never been in such close proximity to a witch. I’ve never used the services of one, and there weren’t any PMP kids at my school. As Fenn fetches us both a glass of water, I study her face and the way she moves, as if they might give me clues as to the abilities of her and her kind.
She’s tall, slender-waisted, and broad-hipped, feet wide apart as if they’re drawing strength up from the earth like tree roots. Her thick hair is dark chestnut, touched with henna to conceal threading gray.
I imagine generations of women like her: gathering herbs in the Scottish Highlands, chopping and grinding on stone blocks, scooping rainwater in silver bowls. I picture one woman, who maybe looked a lot like Sarah, rolling her precious charts in oiled goatskin and packing them into a chest. Shepherding her children day after day toward the coast and a ship bound for a new country.
Standing there, strained though she is from the events of this morning, Sarah Fenn possesses an inner stillness that feels a lot like power.
“At this early stage, I’m not making public any details of my inquiry,” I say. “But Sanctuary’s a small town. Would I be right in thinking that you’re aware your daughter’s name has been mentioned?”
I watch her closely. What will her face tell me that her words will not? Very little, as it turns out.
“Yes, I’m aware that Jake Bolt has accused Harper of killing Daniel by witchcraft.”
“I’m going to need to interview your daughter, Ms. Fenn. Formally. If I miss her here, can you make sure she comes to the station?”
“Of course.”
“She won’t be under arrest, but she can have you or a lawyer present.”
“I’m sure you’re aware that Moot research has shown how, for witch suspects, the presence of a lawyer creates the presumption of guilt in the minds of law-enforcement personnel,” Fenn says, a touch sharply.
“I assure you that’s not…”
“My daughter’s innocent, Detective. I understand she’s accused of killing Daniel by witchcraft. She couldn’t have done it that way, because Harper has no ability. And she couldn’t have done it any other way, given that she was on the other side of the room from him.”
“Okay, that’s clear. And you’re certain your daughter lacks ability? I thought that was unusual? That the gift is inherited?”
“There’s a reason it’s called a ‘gift.’ You accept what you’re given. My grandmother was a very capable witch, but my mother is giftless. I have ability; my daughter does not. It can be tough, but it’s better that way. Imagine if you could selectively breed for magic, like for strong hearts and lungs in racehorses. If two powerful witches produced even more powerful children, and so on, I think we know who’d be running the world right now.”
I did know that there are rare male witches—it made the news when the previous leader of the Moot became the first man in the post for more than a century. But two powerful witches having superpowered witch kiddies? I’d never thought of that, and the notion is chilling.
Then I remember Fenn’s jibe about presumptions of guilt and check myself. I steer the conversation on.
“Your daughter was dating Daniel Whitman at the time of his death. How long had they been together? Did it seem like a happy relationship?”
Fenn is vague on the details. I get the impression that witch parenting is a hands-off, find-your-own-way sort of thing. But the time frame she gives matches what Cheryl Lee told me. Then my attention is caught.
“Of course their relationship caused friction with Bea.”
“Beatriz Garcia?”
“Yes, she’d been infatuated with Dan for ages. She even asked me once if I could help her draw his attention. So when Dan and Harper got together, it caused a rift between the girls. We had a few mom summits trying to figure it out, before we decided we had to leave them to it. Then Bea started dating Freddie McConaughey, so it all worked out in the end.”
“Forgive me, Ms. Fenn, but were Harper and Daniel intimate?”
“I believe so. My community has an open-minded attitude toward the body’s desires, Officer. Boys of that age tend to want sex, and I never got any sense that Harper didn’t feel the same.”
“Did she seem happy with him?”
“What’s the relevance of these questions?” Fenn asks. “Trying to establish a motive? Look, I don’t know details of what went on between them, but if every teen girl who has a falling-out with her boyfriend murdered him for it, then America would be depopulated in a generation.”
Fenn smiles. A weak one, but it’s there. If she’s still capable of smiling, then she can’t know about the death penalty, so I end our conversation before it feels like I’m misleading her by not mentioning it. Scribbling down my phone number, I reiterate that I need to talk to Harper.
Outside, Pierre Martineau has finished cleaning the house front and is loading his van. He looks up as I walk past.
“Do I recognize you, Detective?”
Oh.
Maybe I’ll get some answers about that long-ago night after all.
Twenty-Seven
Maggie
“As it happens,” I tell Martineau, “I was posted in Sanctuary a while back. Maybe our paths crossed?”
“Sure I woulda remembered if they did.” That broad grin breaks out, and I see he’s got a gap between his upper teeth. “Looks like your colleague took your wheels to get back to the station. Do you need a ride into town?”
I’d told Chester I’d walk. The “kitchenette” in my rental is a kettle and a microwave, and I’m getting too fond of takeout for my waistline’s good. Besides, fresh air and the outdoors help me think.
But Martineau is the final name from that callout log. He could be the piece that makes all the others fit.
Plus, there’s that gappy smile. My ex had a smile like that. And the ex before him.
“That’s very kind,” I say, and clamber in.
Martineau offers to take me by the “scenic route” so I can refresh my memories. It’s a good opportunity to sit back and let him talk and forget that I’m a cop.
“It’s no trouble,” he says, his wrists resting on the steering wheel. “I’m Sanctuary born and bred and proud of this place. All this area is the Cobb, the historic part of town—we’ve some of the oldest buildings in the state. That’s why Sarah lives here. Witches dig their history.”
There’s a rattle as our wheels roll over cobbles, and things bounce in the back of the van. The roads and alleys are narrow and crooked. You can tell you’re in a street plan dating from before asphalt and traffic lights, or any vehicles save horse and cart.
“Lil’ clock there marks what used to be the town square. And see that, looks like a crumbly bit of sidewalk? That’s one edge of the old salt-evaporating pan.”
Martineau points to a low line of stones laid on edge. Next to it is an information board titled: Black Hill becomes Sanctuary. I crane my neck as we drive past and make out an old engraving that’s been reproduced, showing a hunched dark figure fleeing before an angry mob.
“Black Hill?” I ask. “It wasn’t always Sanctuary, then?”
“Nope. Got its name from expelling the witches. While Salem was cutting up t
wo hundred miles thataway”—he stabs a finger eastward—“here they whipped the women out of town and strung up their familiars from trees if they took too long going. Then the abandoned houses were burned and the ashes salted. Needed so much salt that the evaporating pan got made specially for the job.
“When they were through, Black Hill’s elders claimed it was the colonies’ first settlement to eradicate witches, so they renamed this place ‘Sanctuary.’”
I shudder. Why on earth would Sarah Fenn want to live here, amid all these reminders of what was done to her kind? No wonder she’s the only witch in town.
Or at least, the only registered witch.
The Cobb may have been the original settlement, but it’s peripheral in Sanctuary today. From the look of its cutesy cafés and boutiques with names like Crafty Lizzie and At the Black Cat, I imagine it’s visited mostly by tourists. I spot one speakeasy calling itself a “potions bar.”
Soon, though, we reach one of the channels of the Accontic River that splits Sanctuary into fragments like a dropped plate. We roll over a low iron bridge out of the Cobb, the bowl of a football stadium to our right, and suddenly we’re amid Subways and CVS pharmacies just like in any other town. The streets become lines and angles. Main Street is around here, and I ask Martineau to turn down it. I want to check that Fenn’s shop hasn’t been targeted like her house.
I know this central street. We pass what’s surely the only struggling Starbucks in the entire United States. Sanctuary’s kids prefer a vegan café in the trendy area of the precinct. Martineau points out a statue of the town elder who renamed Black Hill. It’s covered in seagull shit, and someone’s stuck an orange safety cone on his head—like a witch’s hat, or maybe a dunce’s cap. I figure Fenn would approve either way.
Just beyond the statue is the witch’s little booth. Martineau pulls to the curb.
“Everything’s in order there,” he says happily. “I built that place for Sarah. Always like to see it looking tidy.”
The shop’s neat exterior, blinds down, is sandwiched between swanky opticians and one of Bridget Perelli’s grooming salons. Perelli’s Pet Pampering! proclaims the candy-pink awning.
It’s a good moment for my question.
“I think I’ve figured out why I seemed familiar to you,” I say. “Back when you and Bridget Perelli were together, I think I was called to your house once. Some kind of false alarm. Did I crash a dinner party?”
The mood in the van’s cab changes instantly.
“That was you?” says Martineau, turning to me. His face has closed up with suspicion.
Damn. Not the reaction I was hoping for.
“Did you know from the minute you got in my van? You did, didn’t you? That’s why you accepted the ride in the first place.” He sounds angry. “You know what? The police station’s only a few blocks from here and the weather’s nice, so…”
He reaches across me and opens the van door.
Jeez. Poorly played, Mags.
“You make sure your white-coat boys do their job, ’cause I don’t want to be cleaning any more crap off my friend’s house, you hear?”
Martineau releases my seat belt with a clunk as loud as gunshot.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say feebly. And climb out wondering what the hell that was all about.
Twenty-Eight
Abigail
“Thank you for graciously letting us into your lovely home, Mrs. Whitman,” coos Beryl Varley. “And for offering us this interview at such a painful time. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The Sentinel’s news editor huffs her way over the threshold. She pauses in the hallway, mopping her brow and staring around greedily.
I can hardly bear to have her in my house. I suspect hers was the voice on the telephone asking about the party that unspeakable first morning. But today, I have a use for her.
Sarah hasn’t spoken to me since I went to her house and demanded that she bring Dan back. I need to make her understand what’s at stake. Freddie and the team made the first move with their hit on her house. Today is my next step.
Varley’s eyes fall on the family portrait I commissioned to mark Dan’s sixteenth birthday. That was the year he got as tall as his father. Michael’s pride wouldn’t want to see himself eternally dwarfed by his younger, handsomer son, so it was the ideal moment to have it painted.
The artist got Daniel just right. His is the best likeness of the three of us. Several times I’ve stood here, torn between never stopping looking at it, and shredding it with a knife for being a lifeless copy of a boy who was so full of life.
As for me, I’ve become one with my oil-and-canvas image. Each morning I dress in her clothes and paint her smiling face onto my grieving one.
“How handsome,” says Varley. “No wonder he was so loved. I wasn’t at the stadium tribute, but our sports editor told me it was incredible. Maybe when our photographer comes by later…perhaps you, posed by it?”
“Of course. Now do come through. I’ve refreshments for us, and someone else I’d like you to meet.”
“Someone else?”
Varley’s beady eyes shine with curiosity as I lead her to the living room. As expected, she nearly bit off my hand at the prospect of an exclusive interview with me. Nothing moves papers like human-interest stories. But I have something bigger than she can dream of lined up for her today.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” says Jake, rising to his feet.
“Jacob Bolt,” I say. “The chief’s son and Daniel’s very dear friend.”
“It’s good of you to keep Mrs. Whitman company this afternoon, Jacob.”
“He’ll be doing more than that, Ms. Varley. But please, sit down and let me pour for you. Iced tea? Lemonade? And a little something to nibble?”
Varley makes short work of a cupcake, then rummages in a grubby book-bag for her recorder. She starts with questions about Dan—what sort of boy he was. His activities and achievements. I could talk all day, of course, and at one point find myself noisily crying. But I hold it together.
“And Dan volunteered as a coach at the Sports on the Shore club, is that right? The junior girls’ soccer team?”
I sniff. “He was devoted to the team. Loved building their confidence. He was so disappointed when his own athletics commitments meant he wasn’t able to continue.”
“Such community spirit.” Varley pouts with approval and reaches for another cupcake. “There must be so many who feel Daniel’s loss deeply. This tragic accident…”
“If I may, Ms. Varley, I’d like to bring in Jacob here. I think you know that the Sanctuary Police Department has an investigation into the apparent accident that cost my son his life.”
Varley catches my insinuation.
“Apparent, Mrs. Whitman? Does that mean that you believe that…?”
“That Dan’s death wasn’t an accident,” says Jake.
He’s said it. The relief is overwhelming. I’ve been desperately hoping that Jake won’t back out of what I asked. This is what I got Beryl Varley here to listen to.
And Varley is so rapt she even forgets about the cakes, as Jake lays it all out—the crime of Harper Fenn.
There’s only one way for Sarah to save her daughter now.
Twenty-Nine
From The Sanctuary Sentinel
WAS SPORTS STAR’S DEATH FOUL PLAY?
By Beryl Varley, News Editor
As Sanctuary still mourns the tragic death of Daniel Whitman, who perished last week, shocking new claims have emerged about how—and why—he died.
The Sanctuary Sentinel has spoken exclusively to an eyewitness and close friend of the deceased and his family. Their version of events looks set to rock our community and turn the police investigation upside down.
They allege that:
1. Whitman’s death was the result of an intentiona
l act.
2. The fire that destroyed Sailaway Villa, endangering the other partygoers and potentially preventing lifesaving emergency assistance from reaching Whitman, was started deliberately.
3. Witchcraft was used in both cases.
According to the witness, the alleged perpetrator was a former intimate of Whitman’s, “with a grudge”: “I was standing on the stairwell when [they] did it. Right next to [them]. [They] were absolutely furious—raging. Any kid at school can tell you why.”
The eyewitness—who comes from a leading Sanctuary family—says that both he and the alleged perpetrator were some distance from Whitman when he died. Cause of death is currently believed to be a fatal injury sustained in a fall from the upper landing of the villa’s stairwell.
“That’s how I know it had to be witchcraft. [They] looked right at Dan, made magical gestures with [their] hands, and that instant he fell.”
The events were caught on cell-phone footage, which has now been passed to the police.
Sanctuary’s only known witch is Sarah Fenn, whose booth has been a Main Street fixture for more than twenty years. Fenn is a fully licensed magical practitioner and lifelong resident of Sanctuary. Her daughter, Harper Fenn, is believed to have formerly been romantically involved with Daniel Whitman.
When contacted by the Sentinel about whether anyone close to Sarah Fenn was a person of interest, the lead investigating officer, Det. Maggie Knight of the Connecticut State Police, responded that she was unable to comment at this stage.
No charges have yet been brought.
Also inside
News
Page 2—A mother’s grief: Exclusive interview with Abigail Whitman
Opinion
Page 12—Is “look-at-me” culture warping our kids?
Sports
Page 36—Stadium of tears: Major-league star in the making remembered in touching tribute
Thirty
Maggie
“With all due respect, Chief: What the fuck?”