Mesozoic Murder

by Christine Gentry

  “Being a pagan used to mean you practiced a type of Christian folk magic,” Peyton said as they left the stairs. “We knew about herbs, healing, and how to find wells, stones, rivers, and the like. It’s only been the last two centuries that our beliefs have become distorted to imply pagans are demented or dangerous people who cavort with supernatural beings and practice destructive magic.”

  Ansel walked through the indoor garden of burgeoning plant life including violets, geraniums, chrysanthemums, carnations, ponytail palms, philodendrons, and drooping ferns. She inhaled air thick with the smell of mulch, flowers, and growing greenery. Strategically positioned grow lamps in the ceiling not only kept the plants healthy, but gave the basement a soothing, sheltered atmosphere. It was beautiful.

  Peyton walked beside Ansel, talking nonstop in his deep, hypnotic voice. “Magic isn’t really a proper term to describe what I do. This is my religion. I listen to the earth just like Indians listen to the spirits of nature. I try to achieve a joyous union with all of nature and to use natural energies as a tool to sanctify ritual areas so I can improve myself and the world. You may pray in a building, Miss Phoenix, but my temple is a meadow or a desert.”

  They stopped at the north end of the cellar. Ansel felt as if she’d stumbled into a secret forest grotto. This area had been reconstructed into a large, floor-to-ceiling waterfall with a fish pond. Just below high ceiling timbers, water cascaded down through a maze of slate outcroppings into a large, crystal-clear, oblong pond filled with tropical fish.

  Ansel’s gaze was drawn to a nine-foot-wide circle fashioned in front of the waterfall and outlined with crystals. Inside the circle was an oak altar where a variety of items were carefully positioned. She surveyed the small black cauldron, knife, bell, wooden staff, bowls of assorted liquids and powders, candles, and sticks of incense. In a bowl of dirt, a small upright pentacle had been drawn with colored sand.

  Peyton moved to the southern rim of the sphere. “This is the Circle of Stones,” he intoned. “Its circumference is made of forty pre-selected quartz crystals. This is where all of my rituals take place. The other implements inside the circle are very important in helping to invoke the power of a particular God or Goddess whose essence reflects my needs.”

  Ansel stared at him. She could see why Peyton and Freddy had hit it off. Freddy would have found Peyton’s religious philosophies quite compatible with his own beliefs, which embraced Mother Earth, Wakan Tanka, and the spirits of nature.

  “I’m impressed, Mr. Peyton, but I’m confused. I assumed you were a scholar on occultism.”

  Peyton, magnetic green eyes gazed back. “Freddy sure didn’t spill the beans, did he? No, I’m not one of those lambskin theologists from the university. I practice Wicca. I run a coven. I’m a witch.”

  Ansel silently cursed Freddy for not warning her. This trip was going to be a complete waste of time. Trying not to show her annoyance, she replied, “Technically speaking, wouldn’t you be a warlock?”

  The foreman threw back his head and bellowed out a jolly laugh. When Peyton stopped, he regarded her with his twinkling eyes. “You sure do speak your mind. I like that. Most people with a peck of opinion are four quarts low on honesty. Come into my office, and I’ll show you what a blue-collar warlock can do for you.”

  A moment later, Ansel stood in the tiny office situated behind the grotto. The walls were raw cedar panels covered with long cedar bookshelves. All of Peyton’s books concerned either nature studies or New Age topics. There was a small sofa and a desk with a computer as well.

  “Let me see the bracelet.”

  Ansel gave it to him still wrapped in Freddy’s black handkerchief. He opened the cloth and took out the jewelry with one wrinkled hand, stooping beneath a halogen desk lamp to inspect it. Ansel told herself to listen to Peyton with an open mind. She really liked this spry man who had invited her into his home, sight unseen, and shown his secret lifestyle to her with unconditional candor. Few people treated her so openly in the outside world.

  “This is interesting. Want to tell me where you got it?”

  Ansel had considered what to say to this question on the drive to Poplar. Should she hold details back from Peyton as she had with Dorbandt? She decided she had to level with somebody and gave Peyton a brief synopsis of the circumstances behind Nick’s death and her attack. Peyton’s concentration never wavered from the charm.

  “It’s an utchat, isn’t it, Mr. Peyton?”

  “You know about utchats?”

  “Just what Freddy said. It’s a protection charm associated with the Egyptian god Horus.”

  Peyton nodded. “The utchat, also called the wedjit, is known primarily as an ancient, Egyptian symbol resembling a heavily made-up eye with a symbolic beard and ostrich plume beneath, but it means a lot of things to a lot of different people. It usually represents the eye of Ra or the Eye of Horus, the Egyptian hawk-headed sun god who was the son of Isis and Osiris. Egyptians believed that pharaohs were the living incarnation of Horus.”

  “Have you seen an utchat charm like that before?”

  Peyton pursed his lips. “Never saw one on a bracelet, but I’ve seen a few. An utchat is either the right or left eye of Horus. This is the right. It represents the sun. The left eye is the moon. An utchat is usually worn around the neck as a charm for drawing protection or good health. It’s also associated with metaphysical endeavors and the study of mathematics.”

  Peyton handed her the bracelet. “So what is something like this doing on a Montana cowboy?” she asked.

  “I gather from his name that your friend Capos was of Greek descent?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “That’s your answer. To the Greeks, the utchat represents the eye of Apollo. In Greek mythology, Apollo is the god of the sun. The cult of Apollo began from Egyptian roots and gained great power over the centuries. Apollo is the beautiful, golden-haired solar man and the patron of prophecy, art, and music. One of Apollo’s divinatory aids, along with the lyre, the bow, and the dolphin, is the stylized, All-Knowing eye. Sometimes it’s called the Eye of Apollo. There’s a group right here in Montana that worships the deity Apollo,” Peyton said as he sat down in a creaky rolling desk chair.

  Ansel stood behind him. The idea that such a bizarre group lived in Montana didn’t surprise her. What else could she expect in a state known for its militant survival groups, racist militias, religious extremists, and all other manner of unconventional organizations that gravitated here for some uncanny reason.

  “Do you think the cowboy belongs to this group?”The computer was booted, and Peyton quickly logged onto the Internet with a few clicks of the mouse. “Probably. That charm is a classic example of Greek magic generated through those who follow the Heroic Path and initiate their powers through mythic forces. Besides the utchat, the gold metal links represent the yellow-gold color associated with Apollo.”

  Once he was on the Internet, Peyton’s fingers tapped across the keyboard with amazing speed. He pulled up a Web page devoted to the Greek god Apollo and scanned it quickly. Ansel looked over his shoulder. A statue of Apollo, both the left and right utchat designs, and information on the god’s position in the Greek pantheon of deities filled the screen.

  Ansel’s heart quickened. “Do you know where this cult is?”

  “Yes,” he said with a smile. “There’s some fraternal bonding between different esoteric societies. Since we’re all under fire from traditional world religions, we tend to keep tabs on each other. I know exactly where your disciples of Apollo are and who leads them.”

  Ansel couldn’t believe her luck. “Tell me.”

  “The group is called the Avis Arcana. They’re based just outside of Lustre, near the Fort Peck reservation. Dr. Athanasios Stouraitis runs the group from a private retreat. He’s a very wealthy Greek who immigrated from the old country. He’s educated, popular in academic circles, and fully devoted to his religion. He is also a practitioner of augury.”

  Ansel’s brow
s knitted. “What’s augury?”

  “Augury is the divination of future events through the interpretation of the flight, sound, and feeding of birds. Usually this is done by taking twelve seeds or pieces of grain and feeding them to a chicken. Each piece of food is individually inscribed with a meaningful Greek symbol. As the bird eats, the diviner keeps all the grains that fall from the augury bird’s mouth and reads them as prophetic messages from the gods. This type of divination is called alectryomancy.”

  Peyton made a moue of disgust. “Stouraitis believes he’s communicating directly with Apollo, who reveals the future to him. He divines the meanings and shares his messages or predictions with his disciples.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you approve of him, Mr. Peyton.”

  “I don’t. Greek magic is a powerful mythic force, but Stouraitis reduces it to a game of serendipity. If our lives depend on crop-stuffed poultry, we’re in a sorry mess, Miss Phoenix.”

  Ansel smiled. The idea of witches looking down their noses at oracles was amusing. However, Stouraitis could be a murderer. People killed for their religion every day.

  “Do you know anyone associated with Stouraitis named Griffin?”

  Peyton thought for several seconds. “Nope. Why?”

  “Nick talked to somebody named Griffin before he died. They seemed to have a falling out.”

  “Are you sure it’s a person?”

  “I assumed so. Why?”

  “Well, there is a mythological Greek beast spelled G-R-Y-P-H-O-N, which is sacred to Apollo and associated with the sun. A Gryphon had the body of a lion and the head, wings, and talons of an eagle. Several of the beasts were said to pull the chariot of Apollo across the sky. The Gryphon is also an avenging bird that lays a solar egg.”

  Ansel considered Peyton’s information. Had Lydia overheard enough of Nick’s phone conversation to know for sure if he’d been speaking about a person or about a creature?

  “I need to know more about Stouraitis. Where can I get that information?”

  Peyton turned back to the keyboard and tapped in a volley of letters. “Just a second.”

  The Apollo Web site vanished. Up sprung a home page labeled Avis Arcana. “Stouraitis isn’t the shy type. He’s gone global. I’ll print this out.” He typed in a command and the laser printer next to the computer spit out copies.

  Ansel smiled. “That’s great, Mr. Peyton. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “Seeing your pretty smile is all I need. Just be careful. Stouraitis deals with some unsavory people. I’ll call upon the Mother Goddess in a ceremony this evening and draw a rune of protection for you. Perhaps that will help your quest, but you’ve already got something going in your favor if you face Stouraitis’ power.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your last name. A Greek diviner is going to think twice before messing with a Phoenix,” Peyton said, giving her a conspiratorial, emerald-eyed wink.

  Chapter 20

  “The love of possessions is a snare, and the burdens of a complex society a source of needless peril and temptation.”

  Ohiyesa, Santee Sioux

  Ansel parked the truck at a convenience store a mile from Peyton’s house. She purchased a Coke and a candy bar, then snacked on the junk food as she read over the pages about Dr. Athanasios Stouraitis and his Avis Arcana. The printout contained an overview of the historical origins of augury, its mythological credos, qualifications for membership, and a detailed biography of Stouraitis. She started to read.

  Born in 1950, Stouraitis had resided in Athens forty-seven years before coming to the United States. He acquired a zoology degree and a biology Ph.D. from the University of Crete. He had been employed for twenty years by the Greek Department of Environment as an expert on Aegean birds, serving numerous times as an officer for prestigious international organizations such as the Greek Ornithology Society and the Hellenic Ornithology Society.

  Ansel perused a long list of published works, which included more than two hundred ornithological journal papers, magazine articles, and associated materials. Stouraitis had been a guest speaker at a staggering variety of European symposia on birds. Retired for five years, he still officiated over several American environmental conservatory committees and boards. Stouraitis was also a member of the Bowie College Board of Trustees. He’d had a productive life for a man who worshiped Apollo and believed he was a western oracle.

  There was no doubt that his entire countenance radiated the authority and power of a formidable adversary. Stony eyes stared at her from the printed sheet. Medium-length graying hair curled over undersized ears and a broad, smooth forehead. A narrow chin hung beneath full lips pinched and unsmiling. Peyton had told her that Stouraitis dealt with unsavory characters. Had Nick and Evelyn crossed him?

  Ansel folded the printouts and stuck them into the glove compartment. She considered driving north to Lustre for a quick reconnaissance of Stouraitis’ estate and decided against it. Better to stick to her plan of driving to Mission City. After reviewing Leslie’s membership file earlier, she had questions to ask him.

  She arrived at Leslie’s residence in fifteen minutes. His blue Oldsmobile Regency sat parked on the driveway. A battered white Econoline van, looking vaguely familiar, shadowed Leslie’s car nose-to-trunk. She halted the truck by the curb.

  Leslie owned a fairly new, L-shaped, light tan, concrete block house with a white fascia. A decorative gray board fence with a gate ran to the left of the garage and around half the house. The sod lawn was green but sparse. A scrawny pair of prickly junipers formed twin sentinels along the driveway. Ansel went through the gate and up the angled walkway leading to a white door set between two multi-pane windows. She had raised her hand to push the doorbell when the door opened and a man pushed through the screen door.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said over his shoulder, then stopped short, realizing Ansel blocked his path.

  Ansel lurched backward, avoiding the swinging aluminum door before it struck her. Her eyes widened. “Shane? What a surprise.”

  Shane Roco, her seminar student, glared at her. She hadn’t heard from or seen him since they’d left Pitt’s ranch the day Nick’s body was discovered. Shane was clad in the same immaculately pressed shorts and shirt ensemble he’d worn on Saturday.

  “Ansel, is that you?” Leslie’s spectacled face appeared beside Shane’s. “Good to see you.”

  Shane stepped through the doorway. “Hi, Miss Phoenix.”

  “You know Doctor Maze?”

  Shane’s mouth became a smirking half-smile. “He’s my grandfather. Are we having a seminar this weekend?”

  His grandson? “Yes, Sunday afternoon. We’ll meet at my workshop. I’ll email the details. Are you coming to the buffet?”

  “I’ll think about it. I’ve got to run. See you later.” He slid past Ansel and hurried toward his van.

  Leslie held the door open. “Come inside, Ansel.”

  She pulled her gaze from the antisocial student and stepped into the house. They stood in a medium-sized living room, very neat and new-looking with a modest sofa, recliner, television, and stereo unit in contemporary styles. The walls were relatively bare, the dowdy lighting fixtures profuse. If not for the interesting three-dimensional bird sculptures placed around the entranceway and living room, the house would have been very austere, almost monkish.

  The birds of all sizes were intricately detailed with real bird feathers. A bald eagle was absolutely stunning. More life-like than Bieselmore’s pathetic seagull.

  “My wife did those,” Leslie said, noticing her interest. “It was her hobby. As an artist yourself, you would appreciate the time it takes to make one of these. Each bird is made from wire, papier-maché, acrylic paints, and real feathers. Takes several hundred sessions to make them right. She won several exhibitions, you know.”

  “They’re beautiful. Where did she get the feathers?”

  “From craft catalogs and local pet stores. They throw out feathers
by the bagful when they clean the cages. Sit down. Coffee?”

  Ansel picked a flowery, brown and white sofa. “No thanks. I didn’t know Shane was your grandson. Why didn’t you mention he was taking a Pangaea seminar?”

  “Shane is my daughter’s son. I didn’t know he was in the seminar until Monday when Ellen told me. I called you Monday night. Left a message to call me, too.”

  She vaguely remembered his recording among those she’d listened to before being attacked. She’d never called him back. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  Leslie lowered his bony frame into the recliner. “Don’t worry about it. You’re here about this awful mess with Nick and Evelyn, I suppose. A Detective Fiskar came to see me this afternoon. When will this madness stop?”

  Ansel turned off her thoughts about the police and Dorbandt, a sore spot at the moment, and concentrated on Leslie. “I’m handling the society’s involvement with as much decorum as I can. I think the society will weather the storm all right.”

  “I hope so. I’d hate to see us lose the POP Center funds when we’re so close to finishing the deal. I saw you on the news. Your presentation under pressure was commendable. You’re right. Time will sort this tragedy out. I don’t know how I’ll get through the funerals.” Leslie heaved a huge sigh. “Thanks for coming by.”

  Feeling pleased somebody had seen her television interview and found it acceptable, Ansel smiled. She respected Leslie’s opinion. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Karen Capos asked me to appraise Nick’s fossil collection. When I went to Nick’s apartment to begin cataloguing, I found some Baltic amber pieces with plant and insect inclusions. Since I don’t know a lot about amber and you do, I wondered if I could ask you some questions?”