The first thing that caught my attention was Yasmine’s age. She had turned twenty in April, a little more than a month ago. Her adult life had barely begun. Approximate time of death was listed as Saturday, the day I arrived, sometime between one and three in the morning. Her weight, only ninety-three pounds. There were no external injuries discovered, except an abrasion on her right cheek. The internal exam showed severe dehydration. As expected, there was no cause of death listed. Final autopsy results, in uncomplicated cases, generally took weeks. Add in things like toxicology reports, as we had done, and it could take months.
Dr. Brody included a photo of an unusual tattoo over Yasmine’s heart. It looked like a lower case “y” with an extra-long straight tail, a horizontal line crossed the tail near the bottom. Directly below the line to the right of the tail was what looked like a lower case “m.” Beneath it all, a lower case “w.” Weird. Wonder what it stood for? Weirder still, Dr. Brody reported that the mark wasn’t a tattoo. In his opinion, it had been drawn on with magic marker, possibly within hours of her death.
Within hours of her death Yasmine had been too sick to do anything but puke. Someone had come to her tent and, for all intents and purposes, branded her? Had Yasmine known her killer?
I continued reading, searching for any mention of pending tests. The tox panel had been ordered, hadn’t it? I read the report again. Nothing. I closed the email and looked for another from the medical examiner’s office. Maybe correspondence regarding the tests came separately. Nothing. In fact, other than the preliminary report, there hadn’t been any email contact between Sheriff Brighton and Dr. Brody in the past week. None that Deputy Reed had been copied on, at least.
When I first mentioned the possibility of poisoning, I hadn’t taken into consideration that if the sheriff requested a standard toxicology workup, the medical examiner would only check for standard substances like amphetamines, cocaine, marijuana, and opioids. To find ricin in Yasmine’s system, they would need to test specifically for ricin. And unless the sheriff knew something he wasn’t sharing with me, he wouldn’t have known to request that.
I was about to reply to Dr. Brody’s email with a follow-up request when Tripp’s and Morgan’s pleas for me to be careful echoed in my ears. My first thought was to dismiss it, they were just protecting me. Very sweet. But Morgan had lived here her entire life. She knew how the locals watched out for each other. Was the sheriff protecting someone? Was that why after two weeks, he had nothing to offer Morgan in terms of a suspect for her break-in? Was that why he wasn’t really investigating Yasmine’s death? The two crimes had to be connected. Was he protecting the killer?
I couldn’t even guess the number of times I had been told, since my first day as a rookie cop, that I needed to trust my gut. My gut was whispering ‘cover-up.’ I hit reply on the email from the ME. Maybe the sheriff had ordered the tox panel, and Dr. Brody simply hadn’t mention it because there were no results yet. Or maybe the sheriff simply forgot. He did have a lot going on. There didn’t seem to be any harm in sending a follow-up reminder. With a note that he should also check for ricin.
Chapter 24
Tripp’s chicken was quite possibly the best I ever tasted. Perfectly seasoned, juicy, and crispy. He also added the two or three vegetables in my mini-fridge and a few spices from Gran’s kitchen to rice and made a savory pilaf.
“Why have I been cooking when you can come up with a meal like this?” I asked, enjoying every mouthful.
“You offered,” he said. “I enjoy eating other people’s food.”
“Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“One of the many jobs I had since leaving California was as a cook at a diner. All they served was simple, home-style food.”
“You learned well. This is really good. I vote that you take over making dinner every night.” I looked up from my plate to find him smirking at me. "What?”
“It’s cute how you assume we’ll be eating together every night.”
My face heated with embarrassment. “I didn’t . . . I meant—”
“I’m teasing you, Jayne. I like spending time with you. And having dinner together is certainly nicer than eating by myself.”
I stared out at the lake, into the fire pit, anywhere but at Tripp. I hadn’t felt so awkward since the night I met Jonah. I had spun away from the bar at a nightclub, full drink in hand, and directly into him. He had insisted the beer wouldn’t ruin his sweater and said if I danced with him all would be forgiven.
“Better now?” Tripp teased when I finally looked at him again.
I nodded.
He told me about the progress on the house—“Tomorrow I’ll start on the kitchen and great room clean up.”—and asked about my wall.
“When I went in to get the chicken, I couldn’t help but notice the papers taped all over it. What’s that about?”
“Suspect wall,” I said and took a swig of milk. Couldn’t remember the last time I had milk without cookies to dunk in it. It paired well with chicken and pilaf. “I had to organize my thoughts. That’s how we do it . . . did it at the police station.”
“Morgan and Keko are on it.”
“I just talked to Morgan.” I laid my hand on top of the spell bag in my pocket. “I’m crossing her off the list. I need to ask Keko a few more questions. I’ll stop on my way to the village in the morning.”
Tripp shook his head. “I’m not even going to say it this time.”
“Morgan told me that Keko has a definite interest in casting negative magic.”
“Are you accepting witchcraft now?”
“There’s nothing magical about a bean being poisonous. If Keko knows about the ricin in castor beans, and since she wants to be a green witch or whatever it’s likely she does, she’s a prime suspect. She had more access to Yasmine than anyone.”
Tripp stared at me, silently admonishing my inability to stop investigating.
“Look,” I began then blew out a calming breath. “Sheriff Brighton is all but ignoring Yasmine’s death. I can’t let a possible murder fade into the background because it wasn’t assigned to me. I’m doing my snooping off the clock.”
“Okay.” Tripp raised his hands in surrender. “I appreciate your intensity. Really. I’m just worried about your safety. If you’re right and there is some kind of cover-up going on, you don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”
~~~
The sheriff decided he wanted me to patrol during the afternoon. Not much happened in the morning, usually just older people and families wandering the village. If trouble was going to happen, it would be later in the day. Deputy Reed pouted so much about me coming on board that Sheriff Brighton put him on call during the nighttime hours. That worked for me. Reed could deal with the drunks.
Still, I popped out of bed at seven the next morning, my mind spinning. There was no breathtaking sunrise like there had been the other days. Today was gloomy, not raining but gray and overcast. Still, starting my day here, sitting on the deck with a big mug of coffee and a scone from the assortment I’d picked up at Treat Me Sweetly, was something I’d already become used to. I thought of walking up to the campground to talk to Keko, but this early in the morning would be rude.
After I finished my coffee and got dressed, I returned to my suspect wall. I’d already filled the twelve sheets of paper I’d taped there with thoughts and research details, so I grabbed a few more pieces from the pack. The envelope with the coffee ring stains, the one that fell out of the cabinet in Gran’s office, had somehow gotten stuck in the ream of paper.
“I put you back in the cupboard,” I scolded the envelope. It must have fallen out again and gotten mixed up with the other things I’d taken.
I inspected the envelope more closely this time, and noticed my name printed very faintly beneath the coffee rings on the front. It looked like Gran had written it in pencil and then erased it. The envelope was sealed tight and when I held it up to the light, I could see something inside. T
earing off one edge, I found a sheet of printer paper inside. A single word was written at the top in Gran’s distinctive, curly but shaky cursive: Flavia.
Maybe she planned to write Flavia a letter and had only gotten as far as the greeting? No way to know the answer to that. As far as I could tell, Gran had been sharp right up to the end. Although, every now and then she came up with some head-shakers. Like the lake having moods.
“Jayne!”
From out on the sundeck, I saw Tripp standing by the garage.
“I need to show you something,” he called, waving me over.
I slipped on my flip flops and as I crossed the lawn, I made a mental note to go talk with Flavia. Off the clock. Not only was I curious about her relationship with Gran, no one in the village should be able to tell me more about Yasmine than Flavia. Maybe she knew of someone who had a beef with her niece.
“What’s going on?” I asked Tripp.
“I thought you might find this interesting.”
He led me through the garage to a stairway at the far side. I’d never been into the loft. Gramps’ workshop was up there, and our mother told Rosalyn and I to stay out because of the dangerous tools. But as Tripp and I climbed those stairs, that sense of déjà vu struck again with full force.
“I told you there were lots of things in the house that didn’t get broken or damaged,” Tripp said, interrupting the vision trying to form in my mind. “I figured I’d put it all somewhere while I’m working to keep it safe from construction debris. I started in the attic in the house, but it’s full of furniture.”
“Not surprising. My grandparents were world travelers. Gran had a weakness for antiques.”
“It’s great old stuff.”
I knew what he was thinking, that it would work well in a bed-and-breakfast. Couldn’t argue with that.
“Anyway,” he continued, “basements tend to be damp, so I checked here over the garage. I thought you’d want to see this.”
He stepped further into the loft and held out a hand for me to come in. This was not a workshop. At the far end, by a large picture window that overlooked the lake, there was a table. A Triple Moon Goddess symbol was burned into the front edge of the six-inch thick table top. It reminded me a lot of the one in Morgan’s hidden room. As we stepped closer, the items on top of the four-foot high table became clear. A blue cloth with a silver pentagram embroidered in the center covered the top. One purple and one silver taper candle stood in simple silver holders at the back, a white pillar candle and a silver goblet between them. Scattered around the pentacle were a small black cauldron like the one I found in Gran’s office, a stick that resembled a magic wand, a dagger, and an incense burner. This wasn’t a table. It was an altar.
At that moment, the déjà vu memory that had been playing at the edge of my mind for two days struck me like a gust of wind off the lake.
Rosalyn and I are climbing the stairs to Gramps’ workshop. There has to be something really good up there. Why else would Mom tell us so many times to stay out? About half way up I see shadows flickering on the walls. It must be moonlight bouncing off the lake. The moon is full and super-bright tonight.
At the top of the stairs, I see Gran standing by a big window. Must be the one I see when I’m in the backyard. The flickering shadows are coming from three burning candles. Gran has on a cloak. It’s the same color blue as the lake on a sunny day. One of those sun, moon, and stars symbols, like on that big welcome sign by the road, is on the back by her neck right below the hood. The cloak is so pretty. I want one.
Gran turns and sees us standing there. I’m sure she’s going to be angry, but instead she smiles and tells us to come closer.
“What are you doing?” Rosalyn asks.
“I’m honoring Hecate,” Gran answers.
“Who’s Hecate?” I ask.
“She’s a moon goddess.” Gran sounds excited, like my friends when they talk about a cute movie star boy. I wonder if a goddess is the same thing as a princess.
Gran shows us a big circle drawn on the floor and places us on a spot just inside the circle. She tells us to stand right there and to be very quiet. She pours something from a bottle into a small bowl and holds it up into the light from the full moon. She says, “Bless this oil,” but I don’t know who she’s talking to. The moon? The princess in the moon? Gran says more words that I can’t hear and then comes over to Rosalyn and me. I want to reach out and touch her cloak, but she dips her thumb into the little bowl and places a tiny bit of the oil on our foreheads.
“Hecate, I ask that you bless my granddaughters.”
We stand and watch while Gran goes back to the table and says more words we can’t hear. I feel special to be blessed by a moon princess. When Gran is all done, she makes us promise to keep what we’d seen a secret.
“What you saw tonight is very special. For your eyes only.”
“I promise,” we say at the same time.
But the next morning, Rosalyn tells Mom everything. Mom gets really mad and stomps upstairs. She packs all of our things, and we barely have time to finish our breakfast before we leave Gran’s and Gramps’ house.
“It looks to me like this has been here for a while.” Tripp’s words yanked me from the memory.
That was the day the feud between my parents and grandparents started. Because Rosalyn and I saw Gran performing a ritual? My dad seemed to have shrugged it off. As far as I knew, he didn’t follow Wicca, but that would explain why he accepted the religion so easily. Mom, though, so concerned about appearances and fitting in with ‘normal’ society, would never accept such a thing. No wonder she hated Whispering Pines so much. No wonder she had such issues with Gran. She must have thought Gran was trying to convert us. Or sacrifice us. Or who knew what.
I looked at Tripp and blinked. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Were either of your grandparents Wiccan?”
“My grandmother was.” I told him everything I had just remembered. “I don’t know if she was before she invited Morgan’s family and others to live here. Morgan told me that Wiccans tend to keep their beliefs to themselves to avoid ridicule.” I thought again of our family feud, the one that would never be resolved now that Gran was gone. “I think that’s what caused the problems for my family.”
“You know nothing breaks up a party faster than politics and religion.”
“Indeed. Thanks for showing me this. Maybe Morgan can tell me more.”
“Do you care if I bring stuff up here?” Tripp shoved his hands in his pockets. “I mean, this isn’t like a shrine or a temple or someplace we’re not supposed to enter, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” I said with a shrug. Was there a protocol for someplace like this? “Go ahead and haul stuff up. Just, you know, be respectful.”
Right now, I needed to get over to the campground before my shift started and talk to Keko about her own intentions with witchcraft.
Chapter 25
I found Keko sitting on a log outside her tent, staring at the dying embers of a campfire.
“Keko?”
“You’re back,” she said like she was glad to see me.
It took about two seconds to realize she’d be happy to see anyone right then, even her own reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was fidgety. She patted the log, inviting me to sit next to her. I did and could tell by the smell that whatever she’d swallowed, shot into her arm, or smoked had been chased by a lot of booze.
“I’ve got a few more questions about Yasmine,” I said.
She dropped her head to her knees. “God, I miss her.”
Really? Or was that just drunk talk?
“You told me before that you wanted to learn from Morgan Barlow.”
Keko sat upright . . . kind of. “Totally. She knows everything there is to know about plants and spells and stuff.”
“She told me you wanted to learn to cast a couple of specific spells. A love potion and a spell to repel.”
Keko snorted and mimic
ked, “Spell to repel. That’s funny.”
“Is it true?”
“That I want to make spells and stuff? Yeah.”
“You also said something about black magic.”
She looked around, as though making sure no one could hear us, and then giddily nodded her head.
“You know that Morgan has a stash of dangerous plants?” I asked.
“Yep. Poisonous. Bad stuff. But how cool would it be to make a spell to repel?” She laughed again. Apparently, rhymes were hilarious in her current state.
“Did you also know that someone broke in to her shop and stole some of those plants?”
“No.” Her eyes opened wide and she became very serious. “What did they take?”
“Keko, I think Yasmine was poisoned.”
She nodded dramatically. “Food poisoning.”
“No, I think whoever stole those plants used them on Yasmine.”
She started to cry then. Agonized sobs that I’d only heard from people who had lost someone they were very close to. Not just a friend, but a loved one. Considering Keko’s current state, leading questions weren’t going to work. Blunt was the way to go.
“Keko, did you poison Yasmine?”
She sat straight and stared at me, shocked. “Did I what?”
“You know about Morgan’s plants and said you want to become a green witch. You said you wanted to perform black magic.”
“You think I killed her?” She hugged her arms tight against her chest and looked offended as well as shocked. “I loved her.”
Over the years, I’d heard plenty of drunken or stoned I love you, man proclamations from partying college students, patrons stumbling out of the bars at close, and street junkies. This wasn’t one of those. Keko sincerely cared about Yasmine.
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