Waking the Witch woto-11

by Kelley Armstrong

  Paula’s face fairly crumpled with relief. “No, thank God. He wanted nothing to do with Kayla. Wouldn’t have her around.”

  “He didn’t like the reminder that his girlfriend was a mother.”

  “Maybe that was it. I was still careful, though. I started helping Kayla in the bath again, to look for signs ... I had to be sure. I couldn’t say anything about how he treated Ginny—she wouldn’t listen. But if he’d ever touched Kayla ... ”

  “Did Ginny or Brandi have any contact with Alastair Koppel?”

  “Favorite suspect number two. I don’t know anything about that commune or cult or whatever he has going up there. Neither did Ginny. He takes in young women, and Ginny and Brandi were young women, but that’s the only connection. Mr. Koppel has never recruited in town. Never even approached one of our local girls. He’s not stupid. Some people want him gone and he won’t give them any excuse.”

  “What about Ginny’s father?” I asked.

  She started at that, coffee sloshing. “Pardon me?”

  “Ginny’s father. Is he a local? Did she have any contact with him?”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “Sometimes I forget she had a father. Certainly never felt like it. He left town before she was born. She was, for all intents and purposes, my daughter. Mine alone.”

  My responsibility. I heard that, even if she didn’t say it.

  “What about Claire Kennedy? I know she arrived after Ginny’s death, but was there any way Ginny might have known her? Did Ginny ever move away from Columbus? Work outside it? Socialize outside it?”

  “The only time Ginny left Columbus was to party, and even then, no farther than Portland. I encouraged her to take a job in the city. I thought it would help if she got away from Brandi. She just accused me of trying to get rid of her. The truth, I’m sure, is that she was afraid to leave. This was all she knew. Could she have met Claire at one of those parties in the city? I suppose it’s possible, but from what I’ve heard of Ms. Kennedy, she didn’t seem the type to have gone to them.”

  “Did Cody know Claire? Any rumors? A chance meeting, maybe?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing I ever heard of.”

  “I did,” said a voice from the hall.

  We turned to see Kayla. She stood there, notepad clutched to her chest.

  “Dorothy told Aunt Rose that she saw Cody talking to Claire the day before she died. They were fighting.” She pursed her lips. “Arguing, I think she meant, not really fighting.”

  “I never heard this,” Paula said.

  “Neither has Bruyn,” I said. “He’d have been all over it.”

  “Dorothy didn’t tell the chief,” Kayla said. “She doesn’t like him. He egged her house at Halloween when he was a kid. She didn’t say that—just that if he was a good cop, then he didn’t need her giving him clues. She doesn’t like Cody either. He let his dog poop on her lawn a few times.” She looked at me. “Dorothy’s really old, but she never forgets anything.”

  “Especially an insult,” Paula murmured.

  “Aunt Rose said Dorothy was just trying to stir up trouble because she was still mad at Cody. Dorothy said, no, she saw Claire arguing with him behind Martin’s Hardware. The women from the cookie place were buying stuff in the store, and Cody came in, and Claire snuck out back with him, and no one saw but Dorothy. She followed them. They were arguing.”

  “Did she say what it was about?”

  “Aunt Rose wouldn’t let her. She said she was sick of rumors and that if Dorothy knew something that would help find Mom’s killer, then she’d damned well better tell Chief Bruyn.”

  “Kayla ...” Paula said.

  “She said damned.” Kayla held up her notepad. “I wrote it right here. Then Dorothy said maybe she was wrong, and that’s when they saw me and started talking about something else. But I don’t think Dorothy made it up. I’m sure she saw Cody arguing with Claire.”

  fourteen

  I left with Dorothy’s address, though Paula warned me that she probably wouldn’t speak to me.

  I went straight to Dorothy’s house. Walked, not rode, in case she had something against motorcycles. The lights were on and a car was in the drive. I figured it was a bad idea to cut across the lawn, so I took the walkway to the porch, rang the bell, and waited very patiently for at least a minute before knocking. No one answered.

  I left a card in the door, asking to meet for coffee—my treat—at her convenience. You couldn’t get any more considerate and respectful than that. At least, I couldn’t.

  Next stop: the real estate agency to fax the crime-scene photos to Adam, who’d offered to check out the ritual for me. The agency operated not only as a copy shop, but as a typing, résumé-writing, and speech-writing service. They did Web site development, too. When times are tough, the weak bail and the tough get creative.

  Tough definitely described the local real estate agent. While I was faxing my files, she tried to sell me on three rental properties—leased by the week, she promised. As for the murders, she said Cody was clearly the killer. If not him, then Alastair Koppel. She didn’t have any evidence to support her claims, simply that Cody was a “useless little snot” and Alastair a “dirty old perv,” which wasn’t news on either count.

  * * *

  AS I LEFT the real estate agency, I was plotting my next move. When I saw a baby carriage blocking the sidewalk, I stopped so quickly I nearly fell into it. The woman behind it was in her early thirties with artfully streaked blond hair and the kind of designer blouse, slacks, and pumps ensemble you couldn’t find within fifty miles of Columbus.

  “My husband didn’t kill Ginny Thompson,” she said.

  It took a moment before I recognized her as the distant figure I’d seen in a doorway yesterday: Tiffany Radu.

  I offered my hand and said, “Savannah Levine. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Radu.”

  She gripped the carriage tighter. “He’s not a killer.”

  “I’m an independent investigator. I have nothing to gain by sending your husband to jail if he’s innocent.”

  “I don’t want you coming around the house.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “You already have.”

  “Um, no. The closest I’ve been to your house is the police station, which is across the road. The only time I’ve spoken to your husband is this morning, when he bumped my bike with his SUV. Even then, I didn’t question him, let alone accuse him—”

  “You’d better not. I won’t have my children hearing people say their father is a murderer.”

  “They won’t hear it from me.” Given that I’d heard the older two were school age, I was pretty sure they’d heard already. “If you’ll excuse me ...”

  I tried to sidestep, but she used her carriage as a roadblock. Now, normally, no one gets in my way like that, but I drew the line at shoving sleeping babies.

  She scowled up at me. “I want you to—”

  “—stay away from your house, your husband, your kids. I get it. But you know what? If you really want to protect your kids, tell your husband to stop screwing around or, if he has to and you’re okay with that, to be discreet. Because your kids are going to find out about that, and when they do, they’ll hate him for treating you like garbage, and they’ll hate you for putting up with it.”

  “Who are you to be giving marital advice?” She pointedly stared at my ring-free left hand.

  “Well, if you’re going to stand in my way, I have to talk about something. So you’re okay with Cody screwing his way through every girl who’s too drunk or doped up to notice what a sleaze he is?”

  Her eyes narrowed, mouth opening, but nothing coming out.

  “I bet you are okay with it,” I said. “At least if it means he’s knocking them around instead of you. It’s not like you’d feel threatened by women like Ginny Thompson.”

  Across the road, Megan appeared, leading eight girls, the mother hen with her chicks, waving at the new girl dawdling at the back. The new girl was
watching Tiffany and me, squinting nearsightedly, as if she recognized us, but couldn’t remember from where.

  “But Claire was different,” I continued as the girls trooped into a store. “Claire was young, pretty, educated. She was competition.”

  “My husband never even met Claire Kennedy.”

  “I heard otherwise. If Claire was at that commune, she must have been as vulnerable as Ginny. Cody likes them vulnerable. Makes him feel like a man, apparently. More than you do.”

  Her hand flew up to slap me. I caught her by the wrist. She yanked away, twisting to claw the underside of my arm.

  “Ow,” I said, frowning at the scratches. “Are your nails clean? Because if I get infected—”

  “Stay away from my family or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Did you threaten Ginny like this, too? Guess I’ll have to check those autopsy photos for claw marks. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

  I put out a hand to block the stroller and walked past.

  The gossips of Columbus might be an old-fashioned bunch, pointing fingers at the guys when they had a killer on the loose. But between Tiffany and Megan, I was kinda liking the ladies for this one.

  TIFFANY DIDN’T LET me get away that easily. She tried to follow as fast as her short legs would carry her. I just sauntered along, letting my stride eat up the sidewalk. Then my cell rang. “Light My Fire.”

  “My Jeep needs a new top,” Adam said in greeting.

  “Uh-huh. I thought I mentioned this after I was rained on all the way to Seattle.”

  I took a seat on a bench outside the post office. Tiffany stopped ten feet away from me, glowering over her stroller.

  “I can’t afford one,” Adam said.

  “Oh, right, because you had to replace the brakes two months ago, and the transmission the month before that.”

  Tiffany finally moved on. I waved good-bye and turned my attention back to Adam.

  “You know what you really need?” I said. “A new car, a grown-up vehicle that won’t break down every few months. Time to lose the surfer-boy-mobile.”

  “Off road mobile, which I need for lugging around rock-climbing gear and spelunking gear and horseback-riding gear for a certain someone. Love to see you carrying your saddle on that motorcycle.”

  “Um, you’re the one who got me into rock-climbing and spelunking because you wanted someone else to drag along. And you love horseback riding. You just hate to admit it because it’s girly. Is this really why you called? Or are you just unbelievably bored?”

  “I need an excuse to phone you now? But yes, the point of this call is that I need a new top for my Jeep. I’m thinking beige this time. Easier to keep clean.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, save your pennies and—”

  “I’m thinking you’ll buy it for me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Payback,” he said. “For a huge favor.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Not going to ask me what it is?”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  “Come on.”

  “Fine, but requesting the information in no way obligates me to—”

  “I surrender. No more Lucas-speak. That ritual Cody was conducting in the Facebook photos? It’s a bastardized version of a very old home-security ritual. It’s complicated, and witches and sorcerers have developed better and faster spells since. It’s not something you’d learn unless your family was out of the supernatural loop, still using the old stuff.”

  “It’s real magic, then?”

  “Based on real magic, which means Cody Radu is a sorcerer, which is why I called you right away. Stay away from him if you can and if you can’t, dark sunglasses are a fashion must.”

  “We’ve already met.”

  A pause. “Face to face?”

  “Eye to eye. He’s not a sorcerer.” Witches recognize sorcerers on sight, and vice-versa. “He could be a magician”—a minor form of sorcerer—“or a shaman, druid, Vodoun priest, necromancer, somethingwith magic juice, maybe learned the spell from a sorcerer buddy, remembered the basics for frat night.”

  “The important thing, though—”

  “—is that we’re dealing with a supernatural, which means we’re probably dealing with the killer. Damn. I hate the obvious choice.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. Just because he’s a supernatural, doesn’t mean someone else isn’t. Oh, and that symbol on the gate? It’s Santeria. A bastardized form. I found it online at a site selling amulets. They claim they’re Santeria, but look like a mix of voodoo and Santeria, which means you probably don’t have a real practitioner.”

  “Just the kind of wannabe that keeps occult shops in business.”

  “Yep. So, do I get a new top?”

  “Better invest in duct tape. Now, I need to run so—”

  “Call me later.”

  I gave an evil laugh.

  “Let me rephrase that,” he said. “Call me sometime later than now, but before midnight.”

  “We’ll see.”

  fifteen

  I still had almost two hours to kill before meeting Cody. I called Jesse to let him know I’d sent the files. He was on the other line and said he’d phone back. I wandered into the first shop I came to—the hardware store where Dorothy claimed Cody and Claire had argued. I was browsing, trying to attract the clerk’s attention so I could ask about it, when a voice behind my shoulder said, “I thought PIs were supposed to be unobtrusive.”

  I turned to see Megan. The rest of her group was outside, milling about.

  “Getting in a catfight with the main suspect’s wife?” she said. “On Main Street?”

  “She started it.”

  Megan smiled. “I don’t doubt that. Tiffany Radu is one of those women who believes it’s easier to scare away the competition than to tell her husband to respect his wedding vows. You should have seen her when we first moved here—practically hissing every time we came to town.”

  “Did you ever see her facing off with Claire?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Is that the direction you’re looking? Interesting. I can’t say I did, but I’ll ask the girls. Or you can ask them yourself. We’re heading to the diner for an early lunch, if you want to join us.”

  “So I’m forgiven for yesterday?”

  “You were just doing your job. And I was doing mine. Protecting the business.”

  I noticed she said the business, not the girls.

  “I might take you up on that. And Alastair? Is he—?”

  “Away today, I’m afraid. But we can set up an appointment.”

  I glanced out the window. “The new girl seems nervous. Still bracing for the orgies, I bet.”

  Megan laughed. “Is that all you think about?”

  “I like sex. And from what I hear, so do you.” I turned to go. “Or is it power?”

  A good parting line, but I didn’t get more than two steps before she said, “Power,” and I spun back to face her.

  “You didn’t expect me to admit it?” she said. “Sure, the sex is a nice bonus, but sex is power, at least when you’ve got a houseful of girls and one man.”

  “That’s honest.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  Megan was clearly playing me, having decided I made a better ally than enemy. That was fine. I thought the same about her.

  “So you’re sleeping with Alastair?”

  “I’d rather not admit it, because that’s exactly what everyone expects, but I know you already got the scoop from Deirdre, so yes, Alastair doesn’t spend a lot of nights alone. Under the circumstances, he’d have to be a saint or a eunuch if he did. I’m sure Deirdre also told you that I’m insanely jealous of every girl he takes to bed.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “They like to think I am. They’re like little girls, giggling because they put one over on the teacher. But I’m not Tiffany Radu. I encourage Alastair to take the new girls up on their offers. What matters isn’t that he strays; it’s that he come
s back.”

  When I looked doubtful, she said, “Think about it. All those girls. All that temptation. He gives in—he’s only human. But he always returns to me. To the girls, that means something.”

  “That you’re the queen bee.”

  She smiled. “Every hive needs one.”

  I DID JOIN them for lunch, though I just got a coffee. But no one was about to say anything in front of Megan. When I asked about Claire and Cody, I noticed a girl with blue-streaked hair shifting in her seat, like she had something to add. She didn’t speak, though. I needed to get her when the boss wasn’t around.

  The girls had barely ordered when my cell rang. Jesse. I excused myself to take it, and thanked them for their time, leaving a five to cover my coffee—and win brownie points with Lorraine.

  I rubbed my neck as I headed outside to call Jesse back. The headache again. Definitely time for a different helmet ... something I’m sure the hardware store didn’t stock. I made a mental note to grab aspirin later.

  Jesse had run a background check on Megan. She was twenty-six, older than I thought. Her story checked out—MBA from Columbia, worked on Wall Street for awhile, then bailed.

  “Burnout,” Jesse said. “She doesn’t strike me as the type to run off to a commune, but I guess you can never tell.”

  “Oh, you can usually tell. I don’t think Megan burned out. She just realized she could make more working in a startup company where she was in charge. That’s what the commune is to her. A business. Those girls aren’t working for much more than room and board, I’m sure of it. And they’re pulling their own weight there, too—cooking and cleaning.”

  “So cynical, so young.”

  “You think I’m wrong?”

  “No, I’m just kicking myself for not seeing the con first. I’m supposed to be the expert on the workings of the criminal mind. I’ll make up for it now and dig into the financials.”

  “Please. Everyone here really likes the sexy angles—the philandering husband and the weird cult leader—but it may come down to money.”