A Flame in the Wind of Death

by Ann Vanderlaan

  Thursday, 4:36 p.m.

  Simpson Residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  The door opened to reveal a tall, muscular man, neatly dressed in pressed slacks and a button-down shirt. When he saw Leigh standing on the doorstep, he pointed to the Bluetooth headset in his left ear and waved her into the house. “I think it’s going to go fast. I can show you tonight if you’re interested. Wonderful. I’ll pick you up at seven. See you soon.” He pulled off the earpiece. “Sorry about that. Realtors—we’re constantly on the phone. Can I help you?”

  Leigh flashed her badge. “I’m Trooper Leigh Abbott of the Massachusetts State Police.”

  “Flynn told me about you,” he said, extending his hand. “Aaron Dodsworth, Flynn’s partner. I’m sorry, but Flynn isn’t in. He’s at the funeral home making plans for his mother’s funeral.”

  “I’m actually here to see you.”

  Aaron froze for a moment, as if startled, and then relaxed. “Please come in.”

  He led the way to the living room and Leigh took the same seat as the day before, pulling out her notepad. “I have a few brief questions. I understand that you had the real-estate listing for Uniquely You Antiques.”

  “I did.”

  “As the realtor, you had access to the property?”

  “I have a copy of the key.”

  “Do you usually have copies of all keys for all buildings you sell?”

  “No. Houses have a single key available to all realtors in a timer-controlled lockbox. We all have the combination to that box. But I always have keys or keycards for the commercial buildings.”

  Leigh made a note. “When was the last time you were in the store?”

  “I showed it to a client last Wednesday. It’s in a great location, right by the water in a busy tourist area, so I expected it to sell quickly. The client was still deciding when the store burned down.”

  “You still have your copy of the key?”

  “Of course. But there’s not much point in keeping it.”

  “Please hold onto it for now. Mr. Dodsworth, how would you describe your relationship with your partner’s mother?”

  “We had a very good relationship. Moira absolutely doted on Flynn, and he on her. Their relationship sort of transferred sideways to me.” He leaned forward in the manner of someone about to share a confidence. “Flynn’s had some . . . medical issues and his mother has been nothing but supportive. And very generous financially. Flynn never truly wanted for anything.”

  “How did she feel about her son’s same-sex relationship?”

  “As I said, she was nothing but supportive.”

  Leigh leaned her elbow on the arm of the couch, trying to keep the tone of the conversation casual. “Really? I understood she disapproved of a same-sex couple in her coven.”

  Dodsworth jerked backwards, as if driven away by an unpleasant odor. “I find that hard to believe. She never expressed any such views to us.”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood,” Leigh said. “Can you tell me where you were on Sunday morning between midnight and four thirty?”

  “I was here with Flynn.”

  “Thank you. That was what he said as well, but you understand that we need to corroborate alibis.” Leigh stood and held out her card. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dodsworth. If you can think of any detail concerning Moira or the store, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  “And thank you, Trooper. Both Flynn and I are grateful for all you’re doing for us. Moira never deserved this, so it gives Flynn comfort to know you’re trying to find her killer.”

  As Leigh pulled away from the house, she thought about the different descriptions of her victim—the loving, supportive mother versus the shallow, flashy social climber. Was this simply a matter of perspective, or did Moira Simpson really show her family one face, and the rest of the world another?

  Thursday, 6:17 p.m.

  Haws-Chase Residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  “Thank you.” Leigh accepted the steaming cup of tea and settled back into the high-backed leather barstool pulled up to the kitchen island. The room was an eclectic mix of late-nineteenth-century charm and twenty-first-century luxury. The rustic brick walls were from the historic structure’s original design, as were the heavy beams that crossed the ceiling. But the rest of the kitchen was all modern convenience, from the glossy maple cupboards to the gleaming stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. The timelessness of a historic downtown Salem location combined with all the comforts of modern life.

  “You’re welcome.” Jocelyn sat down next to Leigh, while Sherry took the stool at the end of the short island. Both women busied themselves fixing their own tea. “Elanthia said we should expect you.”

  Leigh set her cup down on the granite with a sharp crack. “She shouldn’t have called you.”

  “Elanthia has a good heart and I think she feels responsible for our leaving the Circle of the Triple Goddess,” Sherry interjected softly.

  “Is she responsible?” Leigh asked.

  “No,” Jocelyn said firmly, flicking a cautious glance at Sherry.

  “Did she explain the situation?”

  “Look, you can ask around and you’ll find that Moira didn’t much care for our lifestyle.” Jocelyn air quoted the word “lifestyle,” her tone derisive and edgy. “She believed sexuality is a choice. People like that always think it’s a choice.”

  “Jocelyn!” Sherry laid a hand over her partner’s arm. “Trooper Abbott doesn’t deserve your anger.”

  With an oath, Jocelyn focused on the ceiling overhead as she appeared to struggle for calm. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Moira always could piss me off. I guess some old grudges die hard.”

  “You held a grudge against her?” Leigh asked.

  Her chin shot up. “Damn straight. She was never overt, but if she didn’t approve, she’d pick at you constantly. Little digs, little slights. All. The. Time. But she was all sweetness and light with the others—constant compliments, small tokens. I saw this and thought of you. Sherry was always better at turning the other cheek, but it got to the point in the coven where I couldn’t take it anymore. We loved it there, but she ruined the experience for us.”

  “Elanthia told me she suspected some ill will between you.”

  Jocelyn said nothing, just stared at her, eyes flat, jaw locked.

  Leigh focused on Sherry. “So you joined a new coven.”

  Sherry beamed. “And we found a wonderful new place to belong. As much as we regretted leaving the Circle of the Triple Goddess, our new coven is perfect for us.”

  “It’s an all-female group?”

  “All female, all lesbian. We are free to explore and live our Craft there, with no questions about our lifestyle or our habits. It’s a wonderfully freeing experience.” She gave Jocelyn’s arm a little shake. “Isn’t it?”

  Jocelyn turned to face her partner, all anger sliding away as a smile curved her lips. “Yes, it is.” She turned back to Leigh. “I guess in many ways, we should be thanking Moira. We’re in a really good place right now, and if she hadn’t been a such a bitch—”

  “Jocelyn!” But Sherry’s scold came out on a half laugh.

  “—we wouldn’t be there.” She relaxed her fist, turning her hand over and intertwining her fingers with her partner’s. “We’re happy now, so we’d have no reason to wish her dead. Besides, it’s not our way.” She reached to the back of her neck with her free hand and touched the small dark pentacle tattooed just below her short-cropped hair. “Above all else, do no harm.”

  “So mote it be,” murmured Sherry.

  “For the record, can you tell me where you were between midnight and four thirty on Sunday morning?”

  Sherry looked startled. “We were here. Asleep.”

  “Together?”

  Jocelyn frowned. “Of course.”

  “When was the last time you saw Moira Simpson?”

  “It must have been at Beltane, o
n May first,” Sherry said. “That was our last sabbat with the coven. By Midsummer Night, we were with our new group.”

  “I haven’t even bumped into her on the street since then,” Jocelyn said. “I expected to see her this Samhain; you see everyone on Samhain.” She looked at Leigh. “That’s what you’d know as Halloween night.”

  “That’s the night of the memorial walk?” asked Leigh.

  “You’ve heard of the Samhain candlelight vigil?”

  “I’ve seen it mentioned in the paper.”

  “Everyone within and without the Witchcraft community is invited to join that night. It begins with a gathering on Gallows Hill, followed by a candlelight walk through town to the Salem Witch Trials Memorial down by the Old Burying Point on Charter Street. Then the Witches cast a circle and light the way for all that we have loved and lost. It’s the one time we allow those outside the Craft to witness our rituals.”

  “It sounds like a lovely way to give back to the community.”

  “Thank you.” Sherry beamed at her. “You should join us this year.”

  Leigh considered the invitation. “You know, I just might. Assuming this case is solved, of course.” She pushed back her chair.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help. And I’m sorry that Moira lost her life in such a horrible way. No one deserves to die in a fire.”

  Leigh didn’t enlighten her as to the real cause of death. She left her card on the glossy counter. “Please let me know if you think of anything else. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Good luck,” Sherry said. “We’ll keep you in our thoughts.”

  We can use all the help we can get, Leigh thought as she closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: CHURCH RAISE

  * * *

  Church Raise: a method of erecting a ladder and keeping it upright using guy ropes extending from the top of the ladder to four opposite points of the compass. It allows a team to use a ladder in an open space when there is nothing to brace the top against.

  Thursday, 7:02 p.m.

  Abbott Residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  Struggling to maintain his tenuous hold on both wine bottle and pizza box, Matt rapped on Leigh’s front door.

  A muffled “Coming!” drifted from behind the autumn wreath of twisted grapevine accented with russet leaves and wheat sheaves. Then Leigh stood in the doorway, dressed casually in low-slung jeans and a long flowing top with tiny buttons and a high waist tucked in under her breasts.

  He grinned at her.

  “What?” She looked down at herself. “Too casual?”

  “Just right. And you left your hair down. You should wear it loose more often. Here.” He handed her the dark-green bottle as he entered the house.

  She read the label, her eyebrows arching. “Cabernet Sauvignon. My favorite. Excellent label too. What’s the occasion?”

  Matt toed off his shoes, and then nudged them neatly against the wall beside the door. “Dinner alone with you? That’s enough for me.”

  “I can go with that. Come on. Let’s eat in the living room where we can be comfortable.”

  She led the way. The lights were already low and cracking flames danced in the fireplace. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  Matt set the pizza box down on the coffee table and settled into the deep cushions of the couch. Firelight flickered across the antique oak floor and over the seascape oil painting above the mantel. His gaze fell on a picture on the end table. He picked it up, a smile tugging his lips at the image of Leigh, fresh-faced and smiling at the camera. Her similarity to the older man beside her was striking. Judging from the shared eyes and zygomatic bones, he had to be her father.

  He glanced up as she came into the room, a tray in her hands loaded with plates, napkins, two wineglasses, and a wide-based decanter that held the red wine. “Nice photo.”

  She set the tray down on the coffee table, her gaze flicking to the photo, an easy smile of affection curving her lips. “That’s my favorite photo of Dad and me.”

  “Graduation day?”

  “What gave it away, our dress uniforms?” She took the photo from him and stared down at it for a long moment. “He was so proud that day. He’d been preparing me for the academy all through my undergrad years. He was so happy when I was accepted. His little girl was finally following in his footsteps.” Her eyes took on a pensive gleam and the smile fell away. “If only he’d been able to enjoy it longer. He had hopes that I’d come join him in the detective unit.”

  “How long were you on the force before you lost him?”

  “Two years.” She returned the photo back to the table, fussing until it was at the perfect angle. “I joined the unit the year after he died. By that time, Kepler had taken Dad’s position as Sergeant. I think Kepler felt a little awkward when I first came on board, because he knew that Dad should have been there. And Kepler had big shoes to fill because after Dad’s death, his reputation approached heroic proportions. But we all settled in and made it work. Kepler tends to be a little brusque, but he’s a good man.” She picked up the decanter and handed it to Matt. “Do the honors?”

  “Sure.” Matt poured wine into the deep goblets, while Leigh opened the box and served pizza slices onto the heavy stoneware plates. Then they settled back onto the couch.

  Conversation over dinner naturally drifted to the case. Matt updated Leigh on the day’s progress in the lab—Kiko almost had the skull reconstructed despite the challenges of working with badly damaged and warped bone, and Paul and Juka were almost finished cataloging the injuries—and then Leigh filled Matt in on all her interviews.

  “So, did you believe the Witches? They alibi each other, but if they were involved, they could have pulled it off together.”

  Leigh took a long sip of her wine, then set her glass down next to her empty plate. “They could have, but I believe them. When you work this job, you have to be able to read people. They rang true for me.”

  “Who’s next on the list, then?”

  “I’m going to interview the other Witches in the coven, but I also want to look into Moira’s life more. That may mean going back to her son. She joined the coven in the last nine or ten months, but her life before then is still sort of a closed book. Her son may shed some light on her other friendships.”

  “Or lack thereof. It sounds like she was a my-way-or-the-highway kind of gal. Kind of makes you wonder how controlling she was?”

  Leigh cocked her head. “In what way?”

  Matt drained his wineglass, then idly rolled the stem between his fingertips, watching the firelight waver through the cut glass. “She raised a child who was totally dependent on her assistance. She was used to calling the shots. Maybe that was reflected in her desire to work her way up the ranks in the coven.”

  “Except there aren’t any ranks.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know that when she joined.”

  Leigh leaned forward, peering into the nearly empty pizza box. “Do you want any more?”

  “I think I ate over half of it.” He set down his glass and relaxed back into the cushions, rubbing one hand over his stomach. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Not even carrot cake?”

  His hand froze and he glanced up at her. “You made carrot cake?”

  “Sure I did, in my copious free time.” Leigh lightly batted him on the arm. “I bought it. But at a fabulous little-hole-in-the-wall bakery downtown. It’ll blow your mind.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’m there.” He picked up her hand and tugged her over to curl against his side. “There’s one other thing that occurred to me. Simpson is clearly gay.”

  “You were paying attention. I could have sworn you were too busy dissecting his bone structure.”

  “You’re hilarious.” He gave her a mock glare. “It just makes me wonder if Moira’s disapproval of a committed monogamous lesbian pair is really rooted in her son’s sexual orientation. Perhaps she felt that
he was too delicate, so she opted to direct her displeasure at someone else instead.”

  Leigh was silent for a moment. “You may have a point. She seems to have been rooted in ‘traditional’ values and anything she saw as contradictory to that earned her disapproval—gays, prisoners, AIDS patients, et cetera. Elanthia did say that Moira tried to force her community priorities on the group and that’s what led up to the final split.”

  “She also may have upset more than one coven. And if she’s been out of the coven for the last three weeks, what’s she been up to in the meantime? The son can’t help you there—he didn’t even know she’d left the Craft—but it merits looking into. But enough shoptalk. We can do that when my students are around. We can’t do this . . .” He slipped his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up as his lips dropped over hers.

  Leigh made a low humming noise in the back of her throat, and one hand reached around to clasp the back of his neck. Her lips opened under his, parting easily at the stroke of his tongue; she tasted rich, like the wine they’d shared. When the angle proved slightly awkward, Matt slid his lips from hers and down her neck. He’d learned that the spot where her throat met her collarbone was particularly sensitive. Pushing aside her collar, he laid a line of slow kisses from the hollow of her throat across her shoulder, smiling against her skin at her breathy exhalation.

  Her hands ran over the muscles of his arms and she practically purred in approval. But she quickly grew restless under his touch and her hands dropped to his waistband. Grasping handfuls of his T-shirt, she yanked at it, nearly hard enough to pull his mouth from her skin. His T-shirt finally slid free and her hands dove underneath.

  Matt froze momentarily, his mouth hovering over her collarbone, his breath washing over her damp skin. His fingers twitched where they clasped her hips. Any second now, she was going to touch his scars. Then she’d pull away and the moment would be lost. Dread and embarrassment coiled in a tangled mass in his belly.