“You mean you don’t just assume that because I live in Salem, I must write about ghosts or monsters?”
“You could write anything. Fiction? Nonfiction?”
She blushed. “Witches—for children.”
He grinned knowingly, and her blush deepened.
“They’re based on my great-aunt.”
“The good witch.”
“The Wiccan. As you know.”
Once they were in his car, she turned to him curiously. “Don’t you think it’s awfully coincidental that you came back to town just in time to be on the road when I ran out?”
“Not really. I’m here because of the murder in Swampscott.”
“Ah,” she said, looking at him. She was waiting for more.
“And because of the murder thirteen years ago. Because of the similarities.”
“You must be pretty high up—to be able to pick your assignments, I mean.”
“I got lucky,” he said simply. He should have added that he wasn’t sure he was even official yet, he just happened to be friends with the lead detective on the case.
They headed to the pedestrian mall on Essex and he parked in the public garage. As they walked out to the street Rocky looked at the old Civil War building that was now the National Park Visitors’ Center. When he’d been growing up, it had been under reconstruction. As they reached Essex Street he reflected that while specifics changed, the town didn’t. Shops had different owners and offered different delights, but the overall effect was still the same. He paused, allowing himself a small moment of pride. Yes, the town was commercialized. But even so, most places—even the shoddy museums with less than stellar mannequins—made a point of getting the history right. They offered theories on what had caused the mass hysteria that led to the witch trials, but they didn’t profess to have the definitive answer. They reported history.
He listened to the chatter on the street. Some of the tourists were talking about the news—about the fact that a second woman had been murdered in just two weeks.
“Young women,” one man said. “Out alone.” He looked at the teenage daughter walking next to him. “You won’t be going anywhere alone.”
“Dad!” she protested.
“How dreadful,” a woman passing by said to her friends.
“Yes, but we’ll all stay together and be safe,” offered one of them.
Devin undoubtedly heard them, too, but she just watched him instead.
“Beth’s shop is this way,” she finally told him, taking the box from his arms and starting to walk away.
He followed her. When they entered the shop, a little bell rang and a pretty petite woman behind the counter looked up.
“Devin! You have my books. Thank you,” she said. “I had a mom in here a while ago asking about the new Auntie Pim. I have her number. Now I’ll be able to call her back and—Oh, hello.” She was clearly surprised to notice that Devin wasn’t alone.
“Devin! Who is this?” she asked.
“Rocky. Um, Rocky Rockwell,” Devin said.
She’d probably already forgotten the “Craig” part, he thought.
Rocky took Beth’s hand in a firm grip and said it was a pleasure to meet her.
“A friend from Boston?” Beth asked.
Before Devin could answer, Rocky seized on the opportunity.
“Yes. And Devin has told me that you have the best shop in town.”
Beth flushed, while Devin stood silent.
“Thank you, and welcome to Salem,” Beth said. “I hope you enjoy our city.”
“Thank you. Your store looks to be as wonderful as Devin said.”
“Thank you again. And where are you from, Rocky?” Beth asked him.
He grinned—charmingly, he hoped. “Peabody.”
Beth laughed. “Of course you are. No one who isn’t ever says it right.”
While the rest of the world pronounced all the syllables, locals said it more like Peab’dy.
“Small world,” Beth went on, delighted. “I wonder if we ever met at a concert or something, somewhere along the line.”
“He’s older than we are,” Devin said. “And he’s been gone a long time. He and I never knew each other locally, either. Until now.” She blushed. “I mean, he’s here now.”
“Oh,” Beth said. “Ohh.”
Clearly she had heard an implication of intimacy that Devin had never intended. Rocky was amused. Devin wasn’t. But Beth quickly went on to other matters.
“Devin, you have to be careful. Have you seen the news? Another young woman has been killed. They haven’t identified her yet, but...it sounded as if she was found not far from your house.”
“Yes, I know,” Devin said.
“Want to come and stay with me?” Beth asked her. “I mean, I live right here in the middle of the city. A lot safer, don’t you think?”
“I’m okay right now. But thank you for the invitation.”
“I guess you need to be home in the cottage to write. I mean, Auntie Pim is Mina. Did you ever meet her, Rocky?”
“No, I’m sorry to say that I didn’t,” Rocky said.
“That’s too bad. She was a remarkable woman.” She turned back to her friend. “Devin, please be careful,” Beth urged.
“I will be. I promise.”
“Buy some pepper spray or something.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They were interrupted as two women, one noticeably tall and the other much shorter, walked toward them from the back of the store. The tall woman appeared to be about fifty. She had shoulder-length snow-white hair that curved around an attractive face and wore a black dress that fell to the ground. The other woman was clutching a number of shopping bags. She thanked her companion, waved cheerfully to them at the counter and left the shop.
“Hello,” the white-haired woman said as she walked over to Devin and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Delighted to see you. Did you bring books?”
“Yes, I brought the box,” Devin said.
She didn’t get a chance to introduce Rocky, because Beth stepped in.
“Gayle Alden, this is Rocky Rockwell, a friend of Devin’s. Rocky, Gayle is one of the two best mediums in the city. The other, of course, is my other employee, Theo Hastings, but Theo is off today.”
“How do you do?” Gayle said politely, then turned to Beth with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t suppose he’s here for a reading, is he?”
“Actually, I’m here about a piece of jewelry Devin bought from you,” Rocky said.
“The silver pentagram. Or pentacle—whatever you choose to call it,” Beth said. “Technically, it’s a pentagram when it’s just the symbol and a pentacle when the star has the circle around it, but people mostly just say pentagram these days.”
Rocky smiled. “Whatever you call it, it’s a beautiful piece.”
“I’m sold out for the moment. They go as quickly as Devin’s Auntie Pim books,” Beth said. “But they’re done by a local artist. Sheena Marston. I can order one for you. In fact, if I special order it, you can have input on the design, if you want. She only works with silver, but she can add enamel, and precious or semiprecious stones. I had one with black onyx that was spectacular.”
“Is it possible to meet with Ms. Marston?” he asked. “It would be easier for me to explain my ideas in person.”
There was a slight pause. Gayle and Beth exchanged a long look filled with something he couldn’t decipher.
“She doesn’t actually see people,” Beth said.
“She’s something of a hermit,” Gayle added.
Gayle Alden was Sheena Marston, Rocky thought.
“Are the pieces exclusive through you?” he asked Beth.
“They are now. In previous years,
a number of shops carried her work, but I convinced her that being exclusive would be to her advantage,” Beth said.
“I’m sure Beth and the Haunted Dragon will have more soon,” Gayle said.
“Are you a Wiccan, Rocky?” Beth asked.
“No, but I think the pieces are beautiful,” he said.
“I’m so glad you like them,” Gayle said. “I’m guessing you’re thinking of getting one as a gift for someone. So many people think that only Wiccans should wear them. And a lot of others think they’re associated with devil worship, or that they’re just plain evil. In fact, there’s nothing evil about them.” She pointed to a pentagram-shaped paperweight on the counter. “From the top and moving clockwise, the points represent spirit, water, fire, earth and air.”
She met his eyes and continued. “There’s nothing evil about the pentagram or the modern practice of Wicca, which was established by a man named Gerald Gardner in 1954, with practices based on ancient pagan traditions. Laurie Cabot, arguably the most famous Wiccan high priestess, came to Salem in the 1970s and popularized Wicca here. And just as Christianity has many sects, so does Wicca. Some are traditional, others revere figures a lot like Christian saints. But none of them are evil.”
“Are you a Wiccan?” Rocky asked her.
She flushed. “No. Congregational church. But people here in Salem respect everyone’s beliefs. Or those of us you’d want to know do, anyway.”
He smiled. “Gotcha.”
The little bell rang as a group of tourists came into the shop. Gayle excused herself, and then Beth went to help a couple who were interested in the jewelry under the counter.
“Did that help you any?” Devin asked Rocky as they left.
He didn’t get a chance to answer her, because she’d been looking at him as she spoke, and now she plowed straight into another man.
“Devin! Hey, sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, backing away.
The man was almost Rocky’s height; he had slightly silvered hair, which somehow added to an impression of being debonair—or a lecher, one or the other.
“Completely my fault,” the man said. He looked at Rocky with raised brows.
Was that jealousy? Rocky wondered.
“Theo, meet Rocky Rockwell. Rocky, Theo Hastings. Theo works for Beth, too.”
They shook hands.
“Old friends?” Theo asked lightly.
“From Boston,” Rocky said, avoiding a direct answer.
“Oh, well, pleased to meet you,” Theo said. “Devin, always wonderful to see you.”
He smiled and moved on.
“Interesting character,” Rocky said.
“I think pretty much everything about him—including his claim to be Wiccan—might be an act,” Devin said. “His way of making it here. Anyway, I should get back.”
“Of course.”
“If you’re looking for a restaurant later, I can suggest a new one for you. It’s at the old jail. The place is apartments now, with the restaurant on the ground floor.”
“Thanks.”
They headed to the car, and he drove the short distance to her house. He got out and went around to open her door, but she’d already opened it by the time he got there.
“You’ve got my card, right?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course. And I’ll call you if I think of anything that might help,” she promised.
Still, he hesitated. “How well do you know Gayle Alden?” he asked her.
She arched her brows. “I’ve known her forever. She was one of my teachers in high school. She retired last year and went to work for Beth.”
“What did she teach?”
“History.” Devin was silent, a smile playing across her lips. “You don’t think that Gayle could possibly—”
“I think that Gayle Alden is Sheena Marston.”
That genuinely surprised Devin, who shrugged after a minute. “I have to say, that’s possible. We did a lot of reenactments in class, and she made a lot of the jewelry and things for the costumes.”
He nodded. “What about the old guy?”
“The old guy?” she asked.
“The one you crashed into.”
Devin laughed. “Oh, Theo. He would be devastated that you called him an old guy.”
“How long have you known him?”
“A year or so. I think he’s from Ohio.” Her smile faded and she frowned thoughtfully. “Do you really think...I mean...is it possible that the person who killed thirteen years ago is back?”
“I don’t know, and that makes me nervous. I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about, but even so, be careful. If something seems suspicious, call the cops. Or call me. Do you have anything you can use for protection?”
“I really do wield a wicked hockey stick.”
He smiled. “I’m going to get you some pepper spray. I’ll call you before I bring it over so you’ll know it’s me.”
“Sure. Thanks,” she told him. “Well...” She smiled again and headed toward her door. He followed her up the little stone path.
“I just want to make sure—” He began.
“That I lock the door.”
“Yes.”
“I will,” she promised.
They both hesitated.
“Want me to walk through the house—just check it out?” he asked her.
“Um, sure. That’s not a bad idea. Ever. I guess.”
She moved to one side so he could enter first, then followed him as he went from room to room, and looked in closets and under the beds. He checked all her windows and the back door. At last he was satisfied.
“You’re alone—well, except for Poe, of course,” he told her.
“Thank you.”
He could tell that she was waiting for him to leave, so he did, but he waited outside the door until he heard the bolt slide into place.
As he walked back to his car, his cell phone rang.
It was Jackson Crow. He was official. And several other agents would be joining him shortly.
* * *
Devin finished cutting up bits of fruit for Poe and walked back into the parlor. “Hey, boy, you know what? I’m not so fond of Mr. FBI. I was living this nice happy life, just getting back into something approaching a social life with old friends, and now he has me doubting all of them.”
Poe had no answer. He was interested only in the fruit she was offering him.
“Meanwhile, I need to get back to the computer. My publisher wants a new Auntie Pim adventure out there every six months.”
There were a number of places in the house where she might have chosen to work. Auntie Mina might have been an herbalist and a Wiccan and slightly crazy, but she had also loved technology. There was cable television, and a wireless network. Auntie Mina had loved her little tablet that had let her watch her shows in any room.
After giving it some thought, Devin had chosen the parlor as her office. She loved the old mantel and the way the fire burned when the nights turned chill. She liked to look out at the stone path that led to the house and the gardens—now in need of work—that grew on either side of it.
Last night, though... She hoped never to go through anything like that again. She had discovered a murder victim.
A sight she would never get out of her mind.
But she wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t even a reporter anymore.
She made her living writing children’s books, and she needed to get back to Auntie Pim and the Belligerent Gnome.
She started to work. The gnome was angry with one of the dwarfs who lived in the woods and wanted a potion from Auntie Pim to make the dwarf grow a giant nose. He begged at first and pleaded—but Auntie Pim told him that magic must never be
used to hurt people. The gnome threatened her next, telling Auntie Pim that he would send a plague of locusts to eat all the herbs in her garden and then she wouldn’t be able to do anything. So Auntie Pim told the gnome that she would make a potion that could cause a nose to grow. But she warned the gnome that any harm he caused would come back at him threefold.
Devin had read her initial draft to children at the library, and they had actually been on pins and needles—horrified that Auntie Pim would use her magic for evil. But Devin had assured them that they shouldn’t be afraid, because Auntie Pim always had a plan. What would happen, of course, was that the dwarf’s nose would grow by a fraction of a fraction of an inch, while the angry gnome’s nose would blossom out like a double-size volleyball. At the end, of course, the gnome, having learned his lesson, would beg for forgiveness. And after Auntie Pim returned his nose to a normal size, he would help her in her garden.
Devin looked out at the garden, wishing that she had a belligerent gnome to help her now. She’d intended to get outside today, but that didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
Her phone rang, and she jumped.
It was Beth, who skipped right past hello and said, “You’ve been holding out on me!”
“What?”
“Rocky Rockwell. Wow. You sure can keep a secret. I can’t believe you’ve had that man in your pocket all this time and haven’t said a word. Now I know why you don’t want me fixing you up with anyone. He looks like he walked off the cover of GQ. I have to admit, I couldn’t have found you someone like him anywhere around here.”
Why the hell hadn’t she introduced him as an FBI agent, here to investigate the recent murders? She massaged her temples with her thumb and forefingers.
The last “GQ” man she’d dated had worked with her at the paper. He’d been stunned—shocked—but not emotionally devastated when she’d broken it off with him. He’d scooped her story, and people who cared about other people didn’t do that. In his mind, it had been his right. She was just a woman, while he was a serious reporter.
But this man...
Yes. He was a sharp dresser, tall and well built and...okay, gorgeous. Neatly clipped auburn hair, searing green eyes. Of course, it was easy for Beth to think...
Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 4 Page 35