by Tyson, Wendy
“How about her father, Hank McBride? Did Hank and Arnie get along?”
“Hardly.” Sasha scowled. “Although frankly, they agreed on one thing. Their kids should stay away from each other. Far away.”
“Did Hank and Arnie have any other contact? Maybe business dealings?”
“My Arnie was a divorce attorney,” Sasha said in a tone that suggested that Allison was stupid for even asking. “The McBrides are married.”
“Golf? Country club?”
“You mean did they hang out socially?” Sasha shook her head. “They traveled along different paths, if you know what I mean. McBride thought he was too good for my Arnie.”
Allison heard a car pull into the driveway and said quickly, “Who was the other girl, Mrs. Feldman? The one Maggie sent the letter to. Do you remember?”
Sasha stood up and placed the shaking dog on the ground. It ran up to Allison, just out of her reach, and growled. In a high-pitched, baby-talk voice, Sasha said, “Now, now, Muffin, behave.”
“The other girl, Sasha? Do you know who she was?”
She looked up from the dog. “Of course. She and Ethan hung out for a while. She was here all the time.”
Patience, Al. “Can you tell me her name?”
With the same bored tone, Sasha said, “Sarah Moore.”
Why did that name sound familiar? With a sudden flash, Allison remembered being at the mall with Maggie during their first session together. Two girls and a mother. Rude teenagers, a mortified Maggie. Her reaction made sense now.
She said, “As in the daughter of Desiree Moore?”
“One and the same.” Sasha looked out the window. “If you’ll excuse me, my trainer is here. I have some serious work to do on my abs.”
Allison said, “Thanks for your time.”
Sasha twisted her lips into a smile. “Remember me when you write your next book.” She turned, gracing Allison with a side view, and flexed her bicep, which was toned and defined. “Maybe you could write about Main Line moms who stay in shape.”
Back in the car, Allison called Vaughn. She wanted to hear the results of his conversation with Brenda and wondered whether the ex-wife could shed some light on Ethan and Maggie’s involvement. But when she opened her phone, to her surprise, there was a text message from Maggie.
Things bad here. Luv 2 Brutus. U2. – Mags
Touched, all judgment out the window, Allison texted her back: Hang in there, kid. Brutus misses U2. She hoped it was good for a smile. Then she called Vaughn.
“The ex-wife refused to see me,” Vaughn said, frustrated.
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Slammed the door in my face. That count?”
Allison watched the young, built, and very male personal trainer as he talked with Sasha on the front step. The two disappeared inside the Feldman house. “Well, Ethan is her son. I imagine she’s not going to be too sympathetic to our problems. She’s got bigger fish flopping around in her pan.”
Vaughn muttered something that sounded like agreement. Then he said, “Mia!”
“Mia?”
“Let’s send Mia. We should have thought of that before.”
Catching on to his reasoning, Allison said, “Of course. Brenda was her client. And Mia can sympathize on a level that neither of us can. But do you think Brenda will talk to her? And will Mia agree to go?”
“Worth a shot.”
Allison started her car. Mia’s house was almost an hour away at this time of day, but Allison could use the time alone to clear her head. “I’ll drive out there. Can you shuffle my schedule?”
“Consider it done.” Vaughn cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting to tell me something?”
“You want to know about Sasha Feldman?”
“Be nice, seeing as how I just got a door slammed in my face and all. I hope you had more luck than I did.”
“I did, actually.” As she wove her way through the morning traffic, Allison relayed her conversation with Sasha. “Either she’s still in shock, or she’s one cold-hearted lady. My gut says the latter.”
“Drugs? Maybe tranquilizers?”
Allison thought about Sasha’s demeanor. “Not that I could tell.”
“Had she ever met the Moore parents?”
“I didn’t have a chance to ask.”
“So now that we know who Maggie wrote the letter to, one of us should pay a visit to the Moore household.”
Allison agreed. “I’ll do it.”
“Then let me do some research on the Moores so you have some background. And while you’re chatting with Mia, I’ll check in with my computer expert to see what he’s discovered about local covens.”
Twenty—Four
An hour later, Vaughn pushed open the door to his apartment and was met with a sobering, still darkness. For a moment, he felt a catch in his breath, the anxiety over the recent Main Line murders mingling with his ever-present fears for his brother. He forced himself to breathe. You’re losing it, man, he told himself.
Walking through the darkened living room, he became aware of the scents of cornbread and spices, the faint but comforting sounds of Mrs. T. in the kitchen. Here, at least, all was as it should be.
“Hello,” he called.
“In here, Christopher!” Unlike everyone else in his life, she refused to call him Vaughn. That’s no Christian name, she’d said, and you are a good Christian gentleman.
Yeah, right. He walked through the hall and into the small galley kitchen.
“No orange juice, no milk. How is a young man like yourself supposed to survive on coffee and peanut butter?”
Mrs. T didn’t even give him a chance to respond. He watched as she picked up a carton of Ensure and poured it into a glass for Jamie. Then she popped a flexible straw in the glass.
“You take care of your brother better than you care for yourself. Well, I won’t be a party to it, Christopher Darnell Vaughn. Uh-uh. I made you some chili, cornbread, and a nice, fresh salad. None of that store-bought stuff.” She poked Vaughn in the ribs with a thick finger. “You need to find a lady to fatten you up.”
“I don’t think any lady will want a part of my crazy world.” He smiled. “Anyway, I have you.”
Mrs. T made a face. “You just need to find the right lady. That brother of yours is special, workin’ legs or not, and don’t you ever go feelin’ sorry for yourself. God don’t make no waste. Jamie’s mind’s as sharp as my Granny’s sewing needle, and let me tell you, that’s sharp.” She rubbed her ample backside. “I’ve had Granny’s needle jabbed down where the sun don’t shine once or twice, so I would know.” She chuckled. “Sit down.”
“I’m only here for a minute, Mrs. T. I have to talk to Jamie.”
She frowned and jerked her head toward Jamie’s bedroom. “Go on, then. He’ll be happy for the company. Been working on that darn computer like a madman all afternoon.”
Vaughn turned to go but turned back to give Mrs. T a kiss on the cheek.
She grinned and waved him away. “Now, now, what was that for?”
Vaughn said, “Just ’cause.”
Vaughn found Jamie intently focused on the computer. The lights in his room were dim, but the small overhead lamp that Jamie could turn on via a thin cord that dangled by his head shined down on the keyboard.
“How did you make out, Jamie?”
Jamie took his mouth off the piece that allowed him to work the computer and smiled.
“That good, huh?”
Jamie manipulated the mouthpiece and Vaughn walked over to the large computer monitor. He read: YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED BY THE NUMBER OF WITCHES IN THE AREA. OKAY, MAYBE YOU WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED.
Vaughn smiled at Jamie’s attempt at humor. Vaughn wished he could treat th
is man on the bed the way he knew his brother wanted to be treated: like a man. But guilt always got in the way.
Jamie said: LANOMIA BELONGS TO A COVEN IN WAYNE. THE OTHER MEMBERS LIKED HER IN THE BEGINNING, BUT NO ONE REALLY SEEMS TO KNOW HER WELL.
Vaughn sat on the edge of the bed. “Why?”
Jamie’s response read: SHE NEVER ATTENDS CEREMONIES. MOST OF HER INVOLVEMENT IS OVER THE WEB. SHE LEARNED RITUALS, RECEIVED INFORMATION ABOUT THEIR CALENDAR, INCENSE. FOUND SUPPORT. THEY ONLY MET HER A FEW TIMES WHEN SHE FIRST JOINED.
“That makes sense. Her father had forbidden her to attend. She was doing this on the sly.” Vaughn considered what Jamie was saying. “How’d you learn all this?”
I PRETENDED TO BE A WITCH. ASKED AROUND ABOUT LANOMIA. AT FIRST, NO ONE WOULD TELL ME MUCH. BUT EVENTUALLY THEY OPENED UP. IT TOOK ME AN ENTIRE MORNING JUST TO LOCATE THE COVEN. YOU KNOW WOMEN. He caught Vaughn’s eye. THEY LIKE TO GOSSIP, WITCH OR NOT.
Vaughn laughed. “True enough, my brother.” He walked closer to the bed. “What else did you learn?”
SOUNDS LIKE HER PERSONALITY CHANGED. HER EMAILS SEEMED ANGRY SOME OF THE TIME. SHE’D WAFFLE BETWEEN BEING A MODEL WICCAN AND TALKING ABOUT BLACK MAGIC. THEN, ABOUT A MONTH AGO, THERE WAS DISCUSSION ABOUT KICKING HER OUT OF THE COVEN. FOR ASKING ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE FORBIDDEN BY THE WICCAN RELIGION.
“Like what?”
EVIL SPELLS. BLACK MAGIC. SATAN-WORSHIPPING.
This was going from bad to horrible real quick. Poor Allison. She really believed in this kid. “So what the police are saying makes sense that Maggie’s interest in the occult led to something darker?”
Jamie leaned his head back on the pillow and took a deep breath.
“If it’s too much right now, Jamie, we can talk about this later.”
Jamie opened his mouth, and then closed it again, as though stretching his jaw muscles. He took the controller back in his mouth and said: SOMETHING DOESN’T ADD UP. THE TIMELINE. IMPORTANT.
Vaughn stood up. This was tiring Jamie out, and he should make his brother stop. But Jamie’s eyes glowed with an enthusiasm he hadn’t seen in years.
“What is it, Jamie?”
Jamie closed his eyes. Vaughn could hear the clatter of Mrs. T cooking in the kitchen. She was humming something to herself, loudly. A cinnamon candle burned on the bedside table, blending with the earthy scent of cumin and the faint, stale aroma of sickbed.
Jamie opened his eyes again and grabbed hold of the mouthpiece with his teeth.
MAGGIE DID MOST OF HER INTERACTING ON THE WEB. THE OTHER MEMBERS SAID HER PERSONALITY WAS INCONSISTENT. THIS COULD MEAN MAGGIE CHANGED.
“That’s not good. It could fit with the police’s theory.”
TRUE. Jamie paused. OR IT COULD MEAN THERE WAS MORE THAN ONE MAGGIE.
“An impersonator?”
THERE IS NO REAL PRIVACY ON THE WEB. ALL YOU NEED IS THE RIGHT ADDRESSES, HER WICCAN NAME. THESE WITCHES TALKED TO ME, A FREAKING CRIPPLE. WHO KNOWS WHO ELSE INFILTRATED THEIR COVEN.
Vaughn flinched at the word cripple. But Jamie was right. In a matter of a few hours and the right code name, he had been able to get this much info on Maggie.
Jamie cleared his throat so Vaughn would look at the screen. It read:
DO YOU SEE? IT’S POSSIBLE SOMEONE PRETENDED TO BE LANOMIA. SOMEONE WHO WANTED TO FRAME MAGGIE MCBRIDE.
Twenty—Five
It felt like a scene from Little House on the Prairie. Allison drove up the long driveway, along nearly a mile of fenced-in fields, past terraced gardens, a small flock of sheep, and a few wandering goats. Goats. She tried to picture the old Mia raising livestock, but couldn’t do it. Not even a dog.
Closer to the house, Allison made out what looked like a chicken coop next to the old barn, which had been given a fresh coat of red paint. The small house had also been painted. It was now a pleasant white, with dark green trim. Stone steps wound their way from the driveway to the house, leading up to a porch door. Mia had planted flower beds everywhere: around the barn, near the house, along the drive. The whole thing was quaint. Lovely, really.
But not what she expected.
When Mia had first purchased the place, it seemed remote, removed from the events that had transpired in Mia’s life. Allison understood that. But she guessed she’d expected Mia to wave her magic wand over the property and make the old house, the crumbling old barn, disappear—to recreate her old life out here in the country. Instead, Mia had simply restored everything to some semblance of yesteryear.
Allison pulled alongside a stone wall and clicked the car into park. A brown and white dog ran up to the Volvo to greet her, his rear end swaying back and forth from the frantic movement of his tail.
From the house, Mia called, “Buddy!” The front door opened, and Mia emerged. She wore jeans and a gray fisherman’s sweater and was waving a blue checkered dishtowel at the dog. “Buddy! Enough!”
When she saw it was Allison, Mia smiled. Then, suddenly, her smile disappeared. “Everything okay?” she said as she neared the car.
Allison had rolled down her window, reluctant to get out of the car. She recognized the dog’s rapid tail movements as a sign of canine-happiness, but she wasn’t sure if the dog was happy to have her company or happy to have the chance to eat her, and she wasn’t taking any chances. Finally, thinking again of Brutus, she climbed out of the vehicle but kept a wary eye on the mutt.
“Everything is fine, Mia.” She clutched her purse to her chest, back against the Volvo, and tried not to look Buddy in the eye. It was no use. The more she avoided him, the more excited he was to see her. He pressed his side against her legs and gave a sharp bark.
“He’s friendly,” Mia said.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Allison patted his head, which Buddy reacted to with increased pressure on her hand and even stronger gyrations. Allison laughed. “Some watchdog.”
Mia grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him toward the house. “He just sort of showed up here about a year ago. What could I do?” she shrugged. “Come on inside.”
Allison followed Mia, curious, despite her sense of urgency, to see the inside.
“I’d give you a tour, but it would last about ten seconds.”
They walked through a small, utilitarian kitchen and into a hallway lined with pictures of Bridget and Jason. From there, they entered a spacious living room with a wall-length mantel and a deep stone fireplace at one end and a bank of windows on the other. Mia had placed simple brown plaid couches, facing each other, and an oversized cocoa-colored chair in the center, atop a patterned wool rug. Books, gardening magazines, and newspapers littered the wooden chest that doubled as a table in the center of everything. Allison sank into the couch, which was as comfortable as it looked.
“A little different from my old house, aye?”
“Just a bit.”
Mia laughed. She wore her hair loose today, and curls framed her face. Even without make-up, her skin looked fresh and well-scrubbed. Next to her, Allison felt fussy and overdressed in a black pants suit, silk blouse and red sling backs.
“This place. It’s beautiful,” Allison said.
“I think you mean that.” Mia tilted her head and jutted her chin out in a gesture that made her look almost girlish. “I’m not as crazy as Edward made me out to be?”
“I never thought you were crazy.”
Mia stretched, her posture as impeccable as ever, and smiled warmly. “I figure you have an agenda, Allison. So out with it.”
Allison swallowed, unsure where to start.
Mia gave her an encouraging nod. “You didn’t come all the way out here to talk about me. I’m guessing it has to do with the McBride girl and the Feldman murder? Based on our previous conversation, it sounds like you’ve traded in your tape measure and three-by-five cards for a magnifying glass and a pipe.”
Allison laughed. “Something like that.” She brought Mia up to speed on Sasha Feldman, on Maggie’s text message, on Brenda’s refusal to speak with Vaughn.
“So you want me to talk to Brenda?”
Relieved that Mia had beat her to the punch, Allison nodded. “Will you?”
Mia was silent for a moment. She seemed far away, as though she was thinking about something else altogether. The wind outside rattled the bank of windows, a cacophony of sound in the quiet of Mia’s home. Mia didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ll do it, Allison,” she said. “Under one condition.”
Allison nodded for her to continue.
“You’re playing with fire, but I don’t see that you have much choice, frankly. If the police nail Maggie for this, her father will make sure you suffer, too. He’s a spiteful bastard. I saw that newspaper article. It was a warning.”
“Agreed.”
“If I speak with Brenda, I want you to be careful. Keep Vaughn involved. And you,” she said, pointing at Allison, “you should never have texted Maggie. You’ve let yourself get attached to that girl. No more contact, understand? You need me, Allison. If for no other reason than to be the voice of reason.”
Allison recognized the truth in Mia’s words. But Maggie needed her. She would be damned if another young woman was going to have her life ruined on her watch. If this was the only way to get Mia’s help, so be it. Reluctantly, she said, “Deal.”
Mia stood. “I’ll go see Brenda. I’ll try to get out there today.”
Allison followed back toward the kitchen. Mia stopped short in front of a room off the small hall, near the living room.
“Your office?” Allison asked.
“My bedroom. Want to see it?”
“Sure.”
Mia led her into a small room. Bed neatly made and covered with a handmade patchwork quilt and coordinating pillows. Full-length, wrought-iron mirror. Two Shaker-style dressers. A matching bedside table. The room was painted celadon. Cheerful green, blue, and butter-colored curtains hung from the windows. Like the rest of the house, the room looked understated, warm, and immaculately clean.