“Bad? It’s just a candle.”
“Yeah, a black magic candle.”
“Black magic, white magic, it’s all just perspective. I don’t know how much you know about Santa Muerte, so stop me if it sounds like I’m lecturing. Most people think she’s the saint of criminals. She’s not, not exclusively. Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte is the patron saint of the downtrodden, the outsider. There’s a lot of discontent with the Catholic church in Mexico, and people have turned to their own folk saint for protection, for solace. She’s not sanctified by the church, of course. In a nutshell, she’s the saint of defiance.”
“She’s the Grim Reaper,” Grace countered, “Saint Death. That sounds kinda evil to me.”
Swift made a conciliatory shrug. “I can see that. But if you know anything about Catholic saints, you’ll find a lot of less than pristine characters.” He checked his phone for a message, then put it down.
“There’s a lot of debate, but Santa Muerte seems to be a combination of Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican and Spanish religious cultures.”
Grace nodded. “The Aztecs in particular tended to have a reverence for death, and gods who looked like skeletons.”
“Oh, right. You’re an archaeologist. So you combine Pre-Columbian and Colonial religions and you come up with Saint Death. There’s some tie to Vodoun culture as well. You make offerings to Santa Muerte in exchange for favors. A lot of favors are asked by people who work at night. They ask her for protection.”
“So what would this candle be used for?”
Swift half-smiled. “Well, there are two ways to find out. The first one, I don’t think we’d better try.”
“Lighting it?” Grace guessed.
“Right.” He picked up his phone again. “C’mon, Sam, answer your texts.”
“What’s the other? Melting it?”
Swift pocketed the phone and stood up. “If we can see what’s in the wax, we might be able to determine what the ritual use for the candle might be.”
Grace followed him out of the office. Down the hall was a large meeting room. Behind it was an industrial kitchen. The reverend headed for the kitchen, searching the lower cupboards. “I’d use the microwave. It would be faster. But the way it smells...”
She didn’t blame him. He came up with a large sauce pan and filled it with water from the sink. This he placed on the stove and set the candle within. “The jar will act as a double boiler,” he said.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
Swift smiled. “We’re in God’s house. Or, God’s industrial kitchen, anyway. Speaking of, we do quite a spread after Thanksgiving service, if you’ve got no plans.”
His invitation stunned her. “I don’t know.”
“Got some actual chefs in the congregation. Better than homemade.”
“Let me think about it. It isn’t even Halloween yet.” Was he hitting on her? Grace tried to estimate his age. Despite the youthful face and full head of hair, he was probably old enough to be her father. He was pretty easy on the eyes, she admitted to herself. But a minister?
“No pressure.” He gazed into the pot. “I love making candles. I haven’t done it since I was a kid. You ever make candles?”
“I’m not much of a crafter.”
“The hard part is waiting for the wax to melt. My brother and I used to collect odd candle molds. Buddhas, moai from Easter Island, dinosaurs, Egyptian stuff.”
“Maybe that’s what attracted you to the church.”
“I’m sure it played a part. Okay, we’re starting to melt.”
Grace peered into the boiling pot. White wax melted clear, and she could see things beneath the milky surface. Rob Swift busied himself, digging more items from the cupboards, grabbing hanging things off the wall. He came back with an empty spaghetti sauce jar, a metal colander and a swatch of diaphanous cloth. He placed the latter into the strainer, cheesecloth, Grace saw. He slipped on an oven mitt. “Couple more minutes. Where did you find this thing, anyway? It’s not an antique. Although everyone in town knows that Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques appraisals handles some pretty unique items.”
She didn’t know what to say. “It, uh, may be linked to a case I’m working on.”
Swift eyed her, but didn’t speak until the wax fully melted. He held his gloved hand up to her. “Unless you’d like to do the honors?”
Grace shook her head, unable to take her eyes away as he lifted the cylindrical jar from the boiling water. He held the strainer with his other hand as he poured. At first, nothing but liquid wax drizzled from the glass tube. Then, objects dropped onto the cheesecloth. Grace couldn’t make them out.
Swift lowered his brows as he set the candle jar aside. He studied the cheesecloth in the colander. “Well, at least it’s not smelly.”
Items on the white cloth were gooped up and glossy with wax. There was also a greasy, rusty stain. After studying for a moment, she picked out a brown feather, two human finger bones, chunks of black rock, and some squishy, organic bits.
Rob Swift lifted one of these last things with a pair of tongs. “And here I am, capping on the Catholic saints. Okay, without admitting my teenage years were less than sterling, I’d bet you a cup of coffee that these are magic mushrooms.”
“Psychedelics?”
He replaced it in the colander. Took out his cell phone. “Here’s another picture, Sam, pick up your damned phone.”
She remained puzzled. “So what is all this?”
“While I don’t know much, I can say for sure that this candle has been dressed for magic.”
Grace looked at the withered remnants. “Black magic?”
“Like I said, magic is a perspective.”
“Those are human phalanges,” Grace pointed at the mess. “I’ve been on enough digs to recognize finger bones.”
The reverend held his palms out. “Like I said, I don’t know much. I would like to throw the mess out, unless you need it for something. It’s starting to smell again.”
Grace didn’t like looking at it or smelling it either. Should she have the stuff tested? And tested for what? “Go ahead and toss it. The candle was a little creepy, but this goopy stew is downright disturbing.”
Rev. Swift located a paper bag and tossed the lot inside it, save the sauce pan. He headed out a back door. Grace heard a garbage can lid lift and fall. When he walked back into the kitchen, the cell phone was pressed to his ear.
“Thanks, Ruby,” he said, and hung up. “Apparently, my brother is searching for inspiration at his favorite fishing spot. I don’t know when he’ll get back to me.”
Chapter 9
Grace was now at a loss. She had found a black magic candle (Grace couldn’t find another perspective) half-burned on Paisley’s window sill. Did that mean that the Goth was bewitched, or hexed or whatever magic candles did to a person? What could she do about it if Paisley were under magic influence?
She sat in the Prius. Grace was tired of driving. Her office was closer to the square than her house. She headed to Antiques Alley, the section of Hale Avenue chock-a-bloc with dealers. Longstreet Heirlooms and Antiques Appraisals sat toward the end. Reception was full-on Victorian. Work space was full-on concrete and metal shelves. At her work bench, she took down several thick ledgers bound in green leather.
Since pre-Colonial times, sea captains had brought booty to the sheltered, deep-water cove New Carfax huddled beside. It was an ideal stopover to remove the more valuable items those explorers and merchants scared up in the Orient. Artifacts in gold or silver, encrusted with gems, never made a manifest either with the British East India Company, or later, the federal tax collectors in Salem and Boston. While some of them were insanely valuable, a small number held strange powers, influence, and even curses. It was those things the Longstreets had assessed for hundreds of years. Grace was only the latest owner of the shop.
Longstreet Green Ledgers recorded the assessments of those mystically dangerous finds. And early ancestors of hers had coined
the term Objets de Puissance to describe them. But despite being across the river from Witch Central, the family business never had much to do with witchcraft. Items in the candle explained the reason: none of it was worth money. In other words, if a golden statue of some lost god made a household sick, it was still made of gold. Though the archaeologist in her shuddered at the thought, such objects could be de-cursed and melted down without losing value. Feathers, rocks, magic mushrooms and wax, not so much.
With white cotton gloves, she leafed through the delicate tomes, only half paying attention. She knew she wouldn’t uncover helpful information. She had her cell phone charging. Calls to Paisley’s friends in town amounted to nothing. Neither Jack Stoughton of the creepy L’arts de L’occulte, nor Sal Rabinowitz, owner of the collectible musical instrument shop down the street, had heard from her. Paisley had a sort-of crush on both men. Given her obsessive tendencies, she was surprised Paisley hadn’t been in touch.
Paisley must have other friends, Grace thought. But without Paisley’s fingerprint, she couldn’t access her iPad. Thoughts of the iPad, of the garaged scooter, made her stomach hurt. Where would Paisley go without either one of them? Given her usual appearance as a member of the undead, Uber and bus rides were tough to come by.
She turned to the life-sized statue of a cat on top of her bookshelf. It was a likeness of the Egyptian goddess Bastet in alabaster. Finding her feather duster, she gave the cat a friendly dusting. “I suck at this so bad, Kitty. How am I going to find Paisley?”
The cat statue had no answer.
Grace knew there was no answer to be found in the Green Ledgers, either.
Heading back to the Prius, she realized she hadn’t eaten all day. After the candle melting, the idea of cooking didn’t appeal. At the pizza shop on Orchard, she grabbed a steak bomb to go. Once home, she unwrapped it at the eat-in kitchen table. She put the news on. Block the Mainline had not struck again, and despite speculation, no one seemed to know who was responsible for the flash mob protests, or when or where they might converge again.
Before she could bite into the steak, peppers and cheese grinder, her cell rang. Grace fished it out of her purse. It was an unknown number, but Grace thought it seemed familiar.
“Grace Longstreet,” she answered.
“This is Lt. Riley, Drug Control Unit. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.”
His voice was pitched high, the words terse, as if bitten off. “That’s fine, thanks for calling.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Listen, you wanted to talk about the bust in Roxbury a few years ago, but that case is closed. Reports are online. I don’t have any comment.”
The man put Grace on the defensive. “I’m not so much interested in the drug bust as I am in Will Cartwright.”
“That’s another closed case. It’s available to the public.”
“His sister has gone missing,” Grace said, hearing heat in her voice. “I think she may be looking into the suicide, a case the department didn’t pursue. Is it possible she found something the rest of you missed, and it’s gotten her in trouble?”
“Jane’s gone missing?” The voice softened.
Grace couldn’t get used to people calling Paisley “Jane.” She asked, “So is there something about the suicide? You can tell me. Pete Willoughby is a friend. He’ll vouch.”
“I know Pete.” There was a silence on the line. “Alright. I liked Jane a lot. She was a good cop, even as a rookie. I was trying to talk her onto Narcotics. For her sake, I’ll tell you. And for her sake, you’re not to repeat this to her.”
Not give Paisley information about her brother’s death? “I don’t understand.”
“You will once I tell you. And hopefully, you’ll back off.”
Grace thought it over. She had no leads. What else could she do? “Fine.”
“This is all supposition, circumstantial. Even if we wanted to make a case, Will Cartwright’s death makes it impossible.” She heard Riley sigh. “We knew it even before the shoot-out at the storage facility. There was a rat in the department.”
Holy shitballs, did they think Will was a rat? Grace held her tongue.
“The only way my people got out of that crossfire alive is that they knew the shooters would be there. At the same time, someone let the shooters know that their buyers were undercover cops. Furthermore, we found that intel stopped flowing to the cartel people after Will died. Like I said, circumstantial, nothing but conjecture.”
Grace wondered what Paisley would do if she found this out. Disappear? What would the point be?
“As far as I’m concerned, we leave the memory of a good cop, a hero cop, intact. We don’t dig into his death, because there’s a chance we find out he was crooked. Maybe Jane can’t let it rest. It was a shock to the whole department, let alone his sister. But she won’t get any help from this unit. Are we clear on this?”
Lost in the turmoil of her thoughts, Grace couldn’t speak.
“It must’ve eaten away at him,” the lieutenant mused. “Maybe for a long time. Working undercover is tough enough. I can’t imagine the stress of working both sides. The guilt of knowing the person you worked side by side with trusted you implicitly, and you betrayed them by the hour.”
She had a thought. “Is there any way Pais—Jane could’ve found out about this?”
“No. We play it close to the vest in this unit. I’m telling you, because I don’t’ want to hear from you again. Now that you know you’re barking up the wrong tree, you can pursue an actual lead. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks,” Grace said to dead air. “Except I don’t have an actual lead.”
Chapter 10
Between the steak bomb and the conversation with Lt. Rylie, she found herself unable to sleep. On the Channel 7 late-late movie, Misty Moonlight featured “Lady Frankenstein,” a terrible Italian horror film. Her interview was with Mariska Hargitay. The future Law & Order: SVU star wore bangs and looked like a teenager. Her father, Mickey, was in the film. Misty said that fans would most likely remember Mariska from the film, “Ghoulies,” and the TV show, “Freddie’s Nightmares.” This made Grace laugh out loud. She hadn’t laughed in a while.
Was Paisley watching this right now? Watching a mother she had never known. Could Grace watch a TV show with her mother starring? Sitting in bed, predawn light about to break, she realized she missed her mother. Despite her anger at Laura Longstreet, that palpable emotion that had somehow outpaced the sorrow, the grief, she would give just about anything to see her again, to talk to her again. Grace wanted to forgive her mother for committing suicide. Yet after all these years, she couldn’t find it within her.
It seemed like seconds passed when Grace awoke with a jerk. Wane sunlight of October lit the bedroom. For a moment, she considered whether to bother with a shower, with getting dressed. Grace had no leads to pursue. She was making no headway. What Paisley did on her own time eluded her. No one seemed to know the Goth well enough to know—and that included Grace.
She got ready anyway. Sitting at the kitchen table, she debated whether to hit the Starbucks on the town square, or Judy’s Java. Studying the appliances, she understood that she had the means to make her own breakfast. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cooked anything.
A beep from her phone made the decision for her. Pete Willoughby wanted to meet her at the Dunkin Donuts in half an hour. That gave her twenty minutes to watch the news.
A crowd of reporters gathered outside the Salem courthouse as Judge Melvin Stanton walked down the stairs, a hand up in defense. Grace watched him mouth the words “No comment,” as the anchors talked over him. Apparently, the Commission on Judicial Conduct was investigating Stanton’s recent actions, allowing drug dealers to go free. They cut to a state trooper who opined that Block the Mainline would likely react to this, but that the State Police were on alert for any potential bridge closures.
Whatevs. Grace needed caffeine.
New Carfax’ town square consisted of th
e New Church, Your Corner Drug, Dunkin Donuts, the wood frame New Carfax Town House, and the browning grass of the park like square in the middle. Parking was usually easy, unless there was a town meeting, or it happened to be Sunday morning. Grace parked in front of the Dunkin and saw Pete sitting at the counter.
“What’s up, Pete?” She sat beside him and ordered a large black coffee and a bacon, egg and cheese croissant.
He whirled the coffee around in his to go cup. “Unfortunately, not as much as I would’ve thought.”
Grace took the coffee from the server, blowing over the top. “Meaning?”
“As a favor, I contacted an FBI friend. He put a Hotwatch on Paisley’s bank cards.”
“What’s a Hotwatch?” She bit into her breakfast sandwich.
Pete ordered a refill. “The Department of Justice can track financial information in real time. They call it a Hotwatch, and you can see when and where a purchase is made as it happens.”
“Wow,” Grace said around a mouthful of croissant. “Hello, Big Brother.”
“Unfortunately, Paisley hasn’t made an electronic purchase in the past few weeks. She might be using cash, but there was no significant withdrawal from any of her accounts. The last purchase was for sixteen gallons of gas and two bags of Doritos at the A L Prime on Lafayette in Salem.”
“Sixteen gallons? So it wasn’t for her scooter. She mentioned a car.”
“I checked with the RMV. She owns a 1966 T-bird, listed as non-operational. There’s a BOLO on the plate, but nothing so far. Although, I don’t know how you could miss a red ’66 T-bird.”
Grace put her elbows on the counter, her head in her hands. “Why is this so hard? There’s only a day left until the anniversary of Will’s suicide. I don’t know what she might do. I can’t find her. How can I not find a girl with the Joker’s hair, Morticia Addam’s wardrobe and Dracula’s makeup? Dammit, I haven’t found a single lead. Except, well—”
“Well what?”
She ate more sandwich. “Remember when you said there was something off about the investigation into Will’s death?”
The Sinister Secrets of the Enchanting Blaze Page 4