A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention Engine One, Engine Four, Ladder One and C-Five, a telephone alarm for a reported structure fire at one-four-five Linden Street.”
Pounding feet came behind them as men in dark-blue uniforms streamed down the stairs. Across the garage bay, several men and one woman shot through the hole in the ceiling, sliding down the fire pole into the garage below. From a hallway at the foot of the stairs, a man wearing a white uniform shirt sprinted toward the trucks. “There goes the deputy chief,” Bree said. “Should be clear now. If you lean over the railing, you can watch them leave.”
It was organized chaos below: Men shouted at each other while stepping into boots and pulling up bunkers and suspenders. They tugged on turnout coats and jammed helmets on their heads as they climbed into the cabs. Trucks roared to life. The smaller engine pulled out first, flipping on lights and sirens as soon as it cleared the bay door. The ladder trucks rumbled out next, with the deputy chief’s Tahoe right behind. In seconds they were gone, headed south down Lafayette Street, sirens screaming into the distance.
Leigh turned around to lean against the banister in the now-quiet garage. “Is it always that fast?”
“We aim for no more than sixty seconds on average. With that location, the first unit should be on scene in about three minutes. The faster they get out the door, the better. Might just be the difference between a simple contents fire versus a full-blown structure fire.” Bree glanced at her watch. “I have to head back to Stow. Let me know when you have something new. Talk to you later.” She took the stairs two at a time and disappeared around the corner in the direction of the control room.
“Are you going to start on the chemical supply houses right away?” Matt asked as they crossed the now-empty garage.
“That’ll be later today if I’m lucky, but more likely tomorrow. I need to head back to the unit and then I’m going back to the Witchcraft shop. I want to ask Elanthia Wakefield about the pentacle and the possibility of the black arts being involved. And I have a few more questions about coven membership now that we’re leaning toward a female killer. You?”
“Heading back to BU.” His eyes took on a speculative gleam. “You free tonight?”
She cast him a long sideways glance as they broke back out into the sunlight. “I should be. What have you got in mind?”
“My dad’s playing poker with his cronies. Four of them around the kitchen table playing cards and drinking beer all night. How about I pick up a pizza and we do dinner at your place?”
“Sounds good. Seven work for you?”
“Great. See you then.” With a grin, he jogged toward his SUV.
Leigh turned toward her own vehicle, her mind already spinning around new possibilities from the morning’s discoveries. We’re on to you, firebug. Just you wait . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE: EXTENSION
* * *
Extension: spread of a fire to unburned areas or adjacent buildings through open doors or unprotected openings in the attic.
Thursday, 11: 54 a.m.
Essex Detective Unit
Salem, Massachusetts
Leigh tapped lightly on the door frame of Detective Lieutenant
Harper’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Harper looked up, scowling. “Yes. Come in and shut the door.”
Leigh’s stomach dropped with a sickening lurch. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done to displease the unit chief that would require a closed-door meeting. What if he knows about the photo? Shock abruptly shot through her, setting her fingertips tingling. But she pushed that thought away. How could he know about it already? She’d barely learned of it herself.
She closed the door, entering the big corner office, lit by a spread of windows that ran the length of two full walls, overlooking Washington Street and the bright waters of the cove beyond. She took a chair opposite the wide cluttered desk. “Is there something wrong, sir?”
Harper picked up a folded newspaper and slapped it down on the edge of his desk in front of her. “Read the Salem Times today?”
“No, sir. I . . .” Leigh’s gaze landed on the headline and her breath caught. PENTACLE KILLER ON THE LOOSE. And then below it in smaller type, A RETURN TO THE BURNING TIMES? “What the hell is this?” she asked, knowing the press wasn’t privy to this information yet.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” Harper snapped. “We’re just days away from Halloween. Already the city is swarming with tourists. This isn’t exactly the publicity we need right now.” He scowled. “I got a call from the mayor first thing this morning. I hadn’t even had my coffee and he’s on the phone ranting about the morning edition.”
Leigh found the byline—JasonWells—but she didn’t recognize the name. She quickly scanned the article, wincing at the details revealed—an athame as the murder weapon, a pentacle found on the door, a rampant fire, Witches as the hunters or the hunted? She sagged back in her chair, the newspaper still clutched in her hands. “This is alarmist BS.”
“Of course it is. I know that and you know that, but Joe Citizen out there is going to be afraid that there’s another out-of-control killer out there. We’re only weeks out from the Bradford case. That’s still damned fresh in everyone’s mind.”
“I’m aware of that, sir. What I want to know is how did he get his details? They certainly weren’t from me.”
“I figured that. You’re too smart to play that game. But there are others that might not be, who would get a thrill from spilling those details just to be the ‘unnamed source.’ ”
Leigh rapidly reviewed everyone who was involved in the case. “Some of this information could have come from the morgue techs, although Rowe would have the head of anyone who talked to the media. I bet it was one of the firefighters. They were all over that scene and saw everything. They were the ones who found the pentacle. Which I just learned about myself from Trooper Gilson.”
“Which explains why that information was new to me,” Harper said. “I’m going to talk to Sharon about this.”
Leigh silently agreed. Sharon Collins, the DA’s press officer, had an especially deft hand with reporters.
“She may have a connection with this reporter and can get him under control,” Harper continued. “He’s covered all the bases in this article in terms of alarming everyone. Are the Witches the killers or the victims? Who’s safe in this town? Who’s next?” He leaned over the desk, his gaze drilling into hers. “There isn’t going to be a next. I don’t want another serial case. Find out who’s leaking this information. I also don’t want any acts of retribution going on against the Witches. They’re an established part of this community and are a part of the tourist trade that keeps the local economy running. I don’t want to see anyone going off the deep end and taking it out on them. The population in this town is going to triple in the next few days. I won’t have chaos endangering more lives.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harper sat back in his chair, yanking on his tie to loosen it. “Damned reporters. Everything’s a story and everything has to be blown out of proportion. I don’t like getting hysterical calls from the mayor.” His voice was calmer now. “You know what he’s like at this time of year. His office is overwhelmed and it all runs downhill from him.”
Leigh heard the roundabout apology in his tone and some of the tightness in her shoulders relaxed. “And you got caught in it. I’m sorry.”
One eyebrow quirked with a touch of Harper’s normal humor when he wasn’t getting pounded by both the media and the mayor. “No need to apologize, Abbott. Just get this sewed up. How’s the case coming?”
“We have victim ID and the cause of the fire. The victim’s son has been informed and his partner is on my list to talk to this afternoon as he was the realtor handling the sale of the antique store. I also have a lead I’m going to be running down this afternoon on someone with potential motive. Considering that practically all the evidence from the crime scene was destroyed, w
e’re doing pretty well.”
“Good.” Harper’s curt nod told her the interview was over.
“Thank you, sir.”
Leigh left the office and strode down the hallway toward the bullpen, her hands clenched at her sides. Bloody reporters. Who gave him that damned information? If this doesn’t stay quiet—
“The ‘Pentacle Killer,’ Abbott? Nice moniker.”
Leigh froze in mid-step, her jaw clenching. She recognized that voice and the way the words dripped with malice. “I didn’t come up with it,” she said, turning to glare at Morrison.
“I doubt you could come up with something so clever.” Morrison leaned coolly against a doorjamb. “Was the attention from the Bradford case dwindling, so you felt you needed to pump it up with something else?”
“Screw you, Morrison. I didn’t talk to the reporters.” She took a step back, forcing her hands to uncurl. “But if I find out you’re behind it, let me assure you, there’ll be hell to pay.”
She stalked down the hallway, anger burning white-hot in her chest.
Best way to wipe the smirk off his face is to solve this case.
And to do that, she needed to go back to the source, back to the heart of this case.
Back to the Witches.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BURNING TIMES
* * *
Burning Times: a historical period from approximately 1000 CE until the end of the seventeenth century when Christian churches used torture and death to stamp out heretical religious practices and Witchcraft. The wealth and property of convicted individuals was seized by the church or distributed to reward the accuser. The majority of victims were women and children, although some pets were also killed as “familiars.” In point of fact, Witches were only burned in Scotland and continental Europe; they were hanged, drowned or crushed in England and the US.
Thursday, 1:13 p.m.
Draw Down the MoonWitch Shoppe
Salem, Massachusetts
Leigh was escorted to a small back room by a young Witch. There she found Elanthia Wakefield, standing at a worn wooden workbench, its surface stained with drops of oil and scattered with herbs. She paused to inhale the fragrances of heather and cinnamon before she rapped lightly on the open door.
Elanthia smiled when she saw Leigh. “Come in, please. I’m sorry I couldn’t join you out front, but I’m in the middle of a potion for a customer.”
A single element gas burner flamed under an enamel pot; it steamed as Elanthia stirred the contents with a stained wooden spoon. A one-hundred-dollar bill sat on the bench next to the burner. Scattered around the table were tiny glass vials of golden oil, bottles of spring water, a pile of cinnamon sticks, small bags of herbs and a larger sack of coarse sea salt. “What are you making?”
“A money perfume to bring prosperity. What can I do for you, Trooper?”
“First of all, I wanted to let you know that it was Moira Simpson’s body that was discovered following the fire.”
Elanthia’s brows knit, sympathy deep in her eyes. She raised both open hands skyward. “Goddess protect her soul.” She resumed slowly stirring the contents of the pot. “I had hoped it wouldn’t be Moira. Which makes no sense because we wish harm to no one and some other poor soul would have been lost in that fire if it wasn’t Moira. Were you able to contact everyone on the coven list?”
“That’s why I stopped by. Everyone on that list was a current member. I was wondering if there were any members who left the coven while Moira Simpson was with you.”
Elanthia’s hand jerked and her spoon rapped lightly against the side of the pot. “We lost two members during that time. They never pointed fingers. In fact they gave a very good reason to transfer to a new coven, but I always wondered.”
“About what?”
“They’re lesbians. All are welcome in our coven, but some Witches of different sexual orientations prefer to be in all-lesbian or all-gay groups. Sherry and Jocelyn joined the coven about three months before Moira. Then eight or nine months later, Jocelyn told me they’d found an all-lesbian coven to transfer to. I blessed them on their faith journey, of course, but I have to admit I did wonder why they didn’t stay when they initially seemed happy with us.”
“You think Moira made them uncomfortable?”
“Never within my hearing, but members of the coven sometimes interact individually or in smaller groups, so I was not privy to all their conversations. However, I noticed something in circle casting. Since there is no hierarchy within the group, all members mix freely. But Sherry and Jocelyn always seemed to keep their distance from Moira. As Moira often tried to be near me, I noticed their distance.”
“Moira considered you the leader of the group.”
Irritation flashed in Elanthia’s eyes. The reaction surprised Leigh as the other woman always seemed so cool, but perhaps that was only the face she showed the outside world. Perhaps her control was starting to waver.
Elanthia turned back to her pot. “Excuse me for a moment.” She turned off the gas and moved the pot to a metal trivet on the table. Holding her hands over the steaming liquid, she murmured, “I ask that this be correct and for the good of all people. So mote it be.”
So be it. It struck Leigh afresh how long it had been since she’d heard those words.
Elanthia turned back to Leigh. “It was an old argument with Moira. She wanted there to be a hierarchy when I told her time and again the coven was all about equality.”
“You said before that Moira was all about flash rather than substance. I assume that by the time Moira left the coven, Sherry and Jocelyn were gone?”
“Long gone.”
“And in criticizing of the group afterward, did she focus on those two particular members?”
“Not that I know of, but I never heard directly. Word filtered back to me, but she would never dare to speak that way in front of me.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, it disturbs me to speak ill of the dead.”
“It disturbs me not to find justice for them.”
Elanthia sat down on the tall oak stool in the corner of the room, looking limp and tired. “This just isn’t something I deal with every day. The thought that one of our members might be responsible for this . . .” She looked up, her spirit suddenly renewed and her eyes bright. “I just don’t believe it. I’ve shared my life with these women, some of them for years. I can’t believe it of any of them.”
“But you understand that I can’t leave any stone unturned. If anyone has a connection to Moira, to the store where she died, or to any of the evidence we found there, I will pursue them. To start, I need Sherry and Jocelyn’s full names and addresses.”
“They married last year and live together under their shared last name of Haws-Chase. I see them on occasion as they’re still customers. Their address is in the sales book up front.” She met Leigh’s eyes. “They aren’t responsible for this. I know you have to follow through, but they had no part in it.”
“Then they have nothing to worry about. Now, there’s one other thing I wanted to ask you about. The concept of the black arts came up in this morning’s discussion.”When Elanthia made a snorting sound, Leigh raised a puzzled brow. “You don’t give any credence to black magic?”
“There is no black magic. You should know that from your time with us.”
Leigh ran her fingers over the bits of dried herbs on the table as she thought back to her days in the coven. The scent of lavender filtered into the air as the delicate purple blooms crumbled under her touch. “You mean because of the threefold law of return?”
“ ‘Do as ye will and harm ye none.’ Our actions, both good and bad, will be returned to us threefold. Do harm to others and it will be revisited upon you threefold. But do good, and good will come to you three times over. There is no black magic or white magic. Only the magic that helps us align with the forces of the universe. You thought to blame this on the black arts?”
“It was suggested. We found a pentacle at the scene of
the first fire. Dr. Lowell, my scientist partner, wondered if the killer might be someone practicing the black arts and using the pentacle in contradiction of the Craft’s sacred regard for it.”
Elanthia elegantly slid off her stool and shook out her long skirt. “That wouldn’t be done by anyone genuinely within the Craft unless it was put there separately as part of a protection spell. Someone wishing to point fingers at the Salem Witches could, however, have placed it there. For all the good we do in the community, there are still some who do not accept us.”
Elanthia’s sharp tone clicked the puzzle pieces into place for Leigh. “You saw this morning’s Salem Times.”
“Yes. And if I hadn’t, I would have found out shortly thereafter when coven members started to call, concerned about their safety. The ‘burning times’? Do you know what mention of that does to a Witch?” She turned back to the bench, organizing the bottles scattered haphazardly over the surface. Her voice was steady, but the jerky movements of her hands gave away her agitation.
“I didn’t talk to that reporter,” Leigh said. “I don’t know where he’s getting his information. Truthfully, most of that article was speculation and hysteria. He’s got the Witchcraft community concerned that they’re targets and the general population worried that the Witches are on a rampage. It’s ludicrous.”
“But it sells papers,” Elanthia said flatly.
“I’m sure his editor is very happy. But I’d like ten minutes with him in interrogation to find out who his source is and to ensure that he leaves this case alone.”
Elanthia gave her a dark look. “Work fast, Trooper Abbott, before someone else gets caught in the crossfire of this man’s thirst for headlines. Now, if you’ll come out to the front desk, I’ll find that address for you.” Elanthia swept past her and out the door.
Leigh cast a long look at the oils and herbs on the table. Was someone threatened by the Witches and their beliefs and traditions? And would they go to these lengths to show them as evil? Filing that thought away, she followed Elanthia out into the shop.
A Flame in the Wind of Death Page 11