Mila found her voice. “He died at Moonstone?”
“Apparently so,” I said.
Suddenly, sirens pierced the air and bright red and blue lights flashed outside the store window.
“The police just arrived,” I said. “You’d better get here as soon as you can.”
As I ended the call with Mila, Farrah came through the curtain from the back room. She gave me a knowing glance and patted her own phone, which she then slipped into her purse. Then she walked to the front door and let the police officers inside.
The next hour was a blur of activity. Police officers swarmed the area like worker ants, taping off the front and back entrances, snapping pictures, filling evidence bags, and asking questions. After Farrah and I gave our statements, we were told that we could leave and that we might be contacted for further questioning in the coming days. Instead of leaving, we lingered in the front of the store, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Shortly after the coroner arrived, Mila and her husband entered through the back door. As soon as I heard Mila’s voice, I headed over to join her. I was distracted when I glanced through the front window and noticed a commotion near the yellow crime scene tape. Through the glare of the rotating police lights, I recognized the reporter, Sheana Starwalt. She was showing her press ID to the officer on the sidewalk.
I groaned. Should I sneak out the back? I didn’t want to desert Mila, but I didn’t want to speak to the reporter either.
Before I could make a decision, I spotted the tall, dark-haired photographer standing next to Sheana. With his unshaven jawline and rumpled jacket, he looked just as irresistible as the first time I’d laid eyes on him.
I opened the door to the shop at the same time the police officer was allowing Sheana and Wes around the yellow tape. The cops must have been done with their crime scene work. Wes’s face registered surprise when he saw me, and then concern.
“Hey,” he said, when he drew near. “What’s going on? We heard there was police activity here. There was a death in the store?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “Wes,” I said gently, “it was Charlie. I don’t know how it happened, but—”
My voice broke and Wes enveloped me in a strong hug. We held one another for several seconds. When we pulled apart, I saw the tears in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Wes. I know how much you liked him.” I reached for his hand and squeezed tightly. “I wish I had gotten here sooner. Then maybe—”
Just then, the shop door opened and two paramedics came out, maneuvering a gurney between them. A white sheet hid the body beneath it. Reluctantly, Wes lifted his camera and shot a photo as the body was loaded into the waiting ambulance.
I felt a tap on my elbow and turned around to see Farrah. “There’s a reporter inside talking to the shop owner,” she said quietly. “We should go now.”
“Okay,” I agreed, feeling a sad weight settle in. I caught Wes’s eye and gave him a wave. Then Farrah and I quickly stole away.
Chapter 12
It was well after 6:00 A.M. when I finally flopped onto my bed, still fully clothed in black. As tired as I was, I really didn’t want to close my eyes. Finding a dead body will have that effect on a person. I lay there for a while, my mind spinning like a top. The last threatening note had mentioned death. Now there had been a death at the shop. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
When daylight began to break outside my bedroom window, I decided this might be the day to end my streak of perfect attendance at work. Then my cell phone rang. I ignored it, letting the call go to voicemail. Seconds later, it rang again. On the fourth call, I hauled myself out of bed and went straight to the shower. By the time I got out, toweled off, and threw on a robe, I had missed seven calls.
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my phone. Had last night really happened? It seemed surreal now. With a sigh, I dialed into voicemail before the phone could ring again.
Three of the calls were from Catrina and one was from Max Eisenberry, the professor I had met last summer who turned out to be a member of Mila’s coven. Catrina begged me to call her, while Max simply said she’d like to stop by my office today. Two of the other messages were from my boss and our administrative assistant, each asking me to call her. The last message was from Sheana Starwalt. The reporter. Terrific.
The phone started ringing again. I recognized Catrina’s number and promptly stuffed the phone in a dresser drawer. Then I pushed myself off the bed and headed toward the kitchen. When I was halfway there, the doorbell rang. I froze.
“Yoo-hoo! Rise and shine!” called Farrah.
I relaxed my shoulders and opened the door with relief.
“What are you doing here so early?” I asked.
“You and I have a lot to talk about,” she said, walking past me. She carried two cups of coffee and a white paper sack from the Good Karma Bakery, which she placed on the small table in my breakfast nook. “Anyway, I have a sales meeting later today.”
I joined Farrah at the table and gratefully inhaled the warm aroma of fresh coffee. I peeked in the bag. “Chocolate zucchini muffins?”
“Don’t you know it,” she said. She opened the lid on her cup of coffee and took a sip, regarding me closely. “Sleep much this morning?”
I made a face at her.
“Yeah, me neither.” She reached into her large purse, pulled out her iPad, and touched the screen. “We made the ‘Breaking News’ page on the Edindale Gazette,” she said, handing me the iPad.
“Not a photo!”
“No, just our names,” Farrah said.
I glanced at the article and grimaced when I saw the headline: DEATH AT PSYCHIC OCCULT SHOP.
Trying not to groan, I read the first paragraph aloud: “‘Local psychic Mila Douglas didn’t predict the tragedy at her occult bookstore last night, nor can she explain it. Charles Morris, eighty-one, was found dead in a private back room of the shop at four A.M. by local attorneys Keli Milanni and Farrah Anderson, who were passing by.’”
Farrah snorted. “Well, that much is true. We were passing by. Sort of.”
I skimmed the rest of the article, reading snippets to myself: The cause of death is under investigation.... The police have not ruled out foul play . . . . Ms. Douglas could not explain why Mr. Morris was in her shop.... Mr. Morris was a resident of St. Xavier House.
I looked up at Farrah. “What’s St. Xavier House?”
Farrah shrugged and fished her phone out of her purse. She typed in a query and read me the result. “‘St. Xavier House provides both temporary shelter and permanent low-income housing for single-room occupants.’ It’s run by Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church.”
“Hmm.” I fell silent and took a bite of chocolate muffin. Why would someone want to kill Charlie? He was harmless. I highly doubted he had any enemies. Maybe he was just a pawn, sacrificed for some bigger purpose, though I couldn’t fathom what that might be. Was the murderer the same person who was threatening Mila?
Farrah cleared her throat. “I have a bit of information that didn’t make the news.”
“Oh?”
“When our ace reporter arrived, the body had already been covered up. She didn’t see what I saw.”
I gave Farrah a quizzical look, recalling that she had been in the back room while I was on the phone with Mila. She had also watched the police do their work. Had they found a threatening note? In the moments after we had found the light switch, I looked for one, but I didn’t see any white sheets of paper lying around.
“Check it out,” said Farrah, holding up her phone.
“Oh, Farrah!” I said, averting my eyes. “You took a picture of a dead body?”
“What, you’re not squeamish, are you?” said Farrah. “This is really interesting. Take a look.”
“Ugh,” I said. “Give me your phone.”
With a mental prayer to the Goddess for strength and fortitude, I took the phone and studied the picture. Farrah was right. There was so
mething very interesting in the photo.
“What is that powdery stuff sprinkled all over him?” I asked. “I didn’t notice it last night.”
“The flash on my phone camera really brightened it up,” Farrah said. “I think those are herbs and spices. I saw one of the investigators scrape some of it into a baggie. He even sniffed it, like in TV cop shows.”
I frowned. “Come to think of it, I did smell something like cinnamon and patchouli in the back room,” I said. “But Mila’s shop always smells like that, so I didn’t think anything of it.”
Farrah gave me a strange look. “So, uh, how well do you know this Mila Douglas anyway?”
“Huh?” I said. “I don’t know. I’ve been in her shop a few times. It’s just around the corner from my office, you know.”
“Mm-hmm,” said Farrah.
“Why?”
“I heard one of the cops speculating last night. He said this might have been a ritual killing.”
I put down the coffee cup I had been raising to my lips and shook my head. “Uh-uh. Mila didn’t have anything to do with this, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Well, maybe one of her kooky customers did,” said Farrah. She must have seen something in my expression, because she softened her tone. “Sorry. You were one of her customers. I get it. I’m not talking about people like you. I’m talking about those New Age freaky people who dabble in witchcraft or Satanism or whatever. That could be what we’re dealing with here.”
I rubbed my temples, not knowing what to say. It was hard to accept the fact that my best friend would think I was a freak if she knew I practiced Wicca. Not to mention the fact that she lumped Satanism in the same category as witchcraft.
“Look at this,” Farrah said, oblivious to my inner turmoil. She touched her phone and pulled up another picture, which showed a different angle of the body. “See how his arms are crossed at the wrists, over his chest? That was purposeful. Someone arranged him that way.”
I stared at the image, feeling a surge of sympathy for poor Charlie. He was wearing the same baggy suit he had been wearing when I last saw him on the bench. The suit was dirty and rumpled, with the collar all bunched up behind his neck. His thin hair was matted in the back and covered in black dirt. His appearance was anything but ceremonious.
Yet, the scented powders and crossed arms did call to mind an ancient Egyptian burial. Maybe someone was reenacting some sort of mystical ritual after all.
Someone pretty kooky.
* * *
Beverly had warned me to expect an onslaught when I arrived at the office. Of course, everyone had seen or read the news this morning. I tried to slip in quietly a few minutes after 9:00 A.M., but someone must have seen me enter the building. I was accosted the second I stepped foot into the law firm’s lobby.
“I can’t believe you came in today,” said Julie, standing up behind her reception desk.
“Oh, Keli,” said Pammy, coming up to me. “How are you holding up?”
Crenshaw stepped in front of Pammy. “What were you doing wandering the lonely streets in the wee hours of the morning?” he demanded.
“All right, people,” said Beverly, rounding the corner into the lobby. “Give her some room to breathe.”
I smiled weakly at Beverly and hitched my purse on my shoulder. Dang, I thought ruefully. I should have refreshed that invisibility spell.
“Keli,” Beverly said, in her no-nonsense manner. “To save yourself the trouble of multiple retellings, why don’t we convene in my sitting room in five minutes? Better to let the facts squelch the speculation, I always say.”
I had no choice but to agree. After dropping my coat and purse in my office, I rejoined the others and took a seat in a wingback chair near Beverly’s fireplace.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a lot to tell you,” I began. Seeing their skepticism, I hurried to come up with something to satisfy their curiosity.
“Okay. My friend Farrah and I were out for an early-morning run when we saw a light on in Moonstone Treasures. We looked again, and the light was off. Because of the recent incidents there, we went to take a closer look and noticed the back door was open. We went in and found—”
Several colleagues interrupted me at once.
“You went in?!”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Oh, Keli, that was dangerous.”
I winced. “I know, I know. We assumed someone had just left, and we wanted to see if everything was okay. Anyway, we called the police right away.”
I looked around at all the questioning faces and knew I had to give them something more.
“Um, in the brief time I saw the body, I couldn’t tell how he had died. But it looked like he had been placed there. I don’t think he just wandered in and died.”
Beverly cleared her throat. “This stays in this room, but I can tell you what the coroner’s report will say. It was blunt force trauma.”
We all looked at Beverly, and she shrugged. “I know someone in the coroner’s office.”
“Poor Charlie,” murmured Pammy, as she played with her wide tortoiseshell bracelet.
“Did you know him?” I asked, surprised.
“Not really,” she said. “I saw him outside the courthouse sometimes.”
“Me too,” said Randall, one of the junior partners. “He was a funny dude. Always talking in rhymes or little songs.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would kill him,” said Pammy. “He seemed peaceful, as far as I could tell.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment, until Crenshaw broke the silence. “Three o’clock in the morning, Ms. Milanni? You take your exercise at three o’clock in the morning?”
I stood up and looked over at Crenshaw as I headed for the door.
“You don’t?” I said.
Chapter 13
Work kept me occupied for most of the morning. Julie, bless her heart, screened my calls so I wouldn’t be interrupted by any gossip seekers or journalists. At 11:30, she buzzed my desk phone.
“There’s a Max Eisenberry on the line,” Julie said. “She says she’s a friend. Want me to take a message?”
“No, that’s okay, Julie. You can put the call through. Thanks.”
I closed the document I had been reading and swiveled in my chair to gaze out the window as I spoke on the phone to Max. She asked if she could join me for lunch.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If you’d like to bring some food to my office, we can eat right here.”
“Fine by me,” Max said agreeably. “Anything you like at the Cozy Café?”
“A large bowl of vegetable soup would be marvelous,” I said.
An hour later, Julie ushered Max into my office. As I cleared off the small round table in the corner, Max unpacked the food and asked me how I was faring.
“I’m okay,” I said, touched at her kindness. “How’s Mila? Have you talked to her?”
“That’s partly why I’m here,” Max said. “I’m worried about her.”
I nodded. “I’m sure she’s more than upset. I can’t imagine being targeted the way she has. And now a murder at her shop? That would be enough to give anyone a nervous breakdown.”
Max unwrapped a slice of crusty Italian bread and furrowed her brow. It occurred to me once again that she looked too young to be a college professor—I had mistaken her for a student the first time I met her. Even so, she was sharp and self-assured. She shook her coppery-red curls.
“Mila’s not going to have a nervous breakdown,” she said. “At least, not anytime soon. She’s incredibly strong. The problem is, she’s so used to caring for others that she doesn’t know how to let others care for her. She thinks she ought to be able to handle everything on her own.”
I sipped my soup and glanced at the purple amethyst sitting on the desk next to my computer. It was true: Mila was not in the habit of asking for help—she was the one who was always offering assistance, or guidance, or gifts.
“I do
n’t know if you know this,” Max went on, “but Mila and her husband are not able to have children. So, perhaps to compensate, Mila has become like a mother to everyone—her friends, her customers. Even strangers.”
“Which makes it all the more inconceivable that someone is trying to sabotage her business,” I said.
“Yeah,” Max agreed. “I have no idea what or who is behind this, but Mila can’t face it alone. Yet, she canceled this week’s Circle meeting. I’m afraid she’s starting to withdraw, shoring up her energy for something big.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Max hesitated, apparently reluctant to talk about Mila in this way. “Well, she’s naturally turning to magic for a solution. That’s all well and good, except I think we should be focusing on the practical issues here, like the police investigation. Do you have any contacts at the police station?”
“Not many. I do have a friend of a friend on the force,” I said, thinking of Farrah’s on-again, off-again boyfriend whose police officer pal had helped me last summer. “Is Mila being open with the police now? I know she didn’t tell them about the threatening notes before.”
“Yes,” said Max. “Her husband convinced her to hand over the notes. I think she was hoping to use them in a banishing spell. But I’m worried Mila will be under suspicion because of the latest incidents. The fire was started with items from the shop. Now the death . . . These things implicate Mila.”
I recalled the photos Farrah had taken. “Did Mila tell you about the dried herbs and powders on Charlie’s body?” I asked.
Max nodded. “She said someone had grabbed a bunch of jars from a cabinet and scattered the contents, without any apparent rhyme or reason.”
“So, it was just meant to appear magically motivated to the layperson?”
As I pondered the pseudoritualistic nature of the incidents, an image of Catrina popped in my mind. She was so zealous about raising awareness about the persecution of witches. Surely, she wouldn’t have vandalized the shop and harassed her boss just to make a point . . . . Would she?
Not to mention commit a murder.
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