The Poison of Ivy

by Jessica King

  “That’s why Prophetess gatherings are so essential to what we do,” Delilah said. “We want to give that overall experience of witchdom, if you will because that is good for business.”

  “And you aren’t concerned about another attack?” Vince asked.

  “Of course we’re concerned,” Delilah said. “That’s why we’ve only revealed the general location of the next gathering—in case people need to travel. We’ll be sending out an email the day of to our mailing list of where the location actually is for the meeting. Then it’ll be much harder for any Kingsmen following my mailing list to formulate a plan.”

  “And where is this going to be happening?”

  “We’ve narrowed it down to three locations in Long Beach, but right now, we’re planning to actually be on the beach. Simple enough for us.”

  “Are you hiring security?” Ivy asked.

  “As you might imagine, many of our customers feel … uncomfortable around law enforcement,” Delilah said. “No offense. But, it’s pretty easy to believe a cop being a Kingsmen.” She picked at a lime green nail. “Because it’s on the beach, it’s essentially a party, and we don’t really know how many people are going to come. We don’t do RSVP, so it’s not really considered a large event, so I don’t think we’ll need to hire police security anyway. We’ve hired a few of our own guys to help things go smoothly.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to attack a beach, really,” Ransom said. “Broad daylight, with plenty of police around on a regular day.”

  “That’s why we wanted outside, though,” Delilah said. She gulped. “Ah, last time, with all those chairs, it was almost like people got stuck. This is going to be as open as possible. But it seems unlikely they’d come again, right?”

  Ivy didn’t like it, and she didn’t reassure the woman, who clearly wanted reassurance of their decision on location. She thought of the bomb outside her apartment and the bloodstain on the motel floor. Lightning didn’t strike twice, but Kingsmen did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thursday, March 16, 2017, 1:53 p.m.

  “I’m just saying if we could get tech to use the Prophetess mailing list to figure out who in the state is also regularly visiting the Kingsmen site and perhaps performing other Kingsmen-like behaviors, then we could see which Kingsmen are going to find out where the Prophetess gathering is happening before they figure it out.” Ivy sped to keep in step with Chief Marks, and the camera crew beside her stepped up their pace as well. The Prophetess had requested no photos, so they’d left the crew here. Now, Ivy felt suffocated. “It would dumb of the Kingsmen not to have people on that mailing list to forward it to other Kingsmen so they can stay in the loop.”

  Chief Marks turned around, stopping Ivy abruptly. He held up his hands. “Ivy, I know. It would be great if we could do that, but this is not the only case we have, and we just don’t have that type of manpower.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Ivy, we can’t,” Chief Marks said. His face softened around its wrinkles. “You know I want to give you everything you need to get this done, but you’re going to have to find some other way to be resourceful. We just don’t have the people for it. The FBI is on it too, now that there’s been that killing in Nevada, and other states are starting to see murders and threats. But they’re looking for the kingpin, not thousands of possible murderers.”

  Ivy nodded. “I know.”

  “Keep working, and make sure Long Beach PD knows what might be coming for them, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “If that Prophetess company goes public like you said they might, that might give us some ideas on what type of powerful people might be Kingsmen. I think it’d be far too tempting for them to pass up an opportunity to have access to information on the witches and things like that.”

  “The Prophetess is honestly just a businesswoman—do you think she might be selling witch information?” Ivy remembered their conversation. “She didn’t seem like the type.”

  “Hmm,” Chief Marks said. “Could be, you could always bring her in for an interview session, especially considering the upcoming events and all. If you find need, you could get a warrant, see if anyone’s paying big bucks for something not listed on the website.”

  +++

  Thursday, March 16, 2017, 2:30 p.m.

  Jayda and Marisol spun in their swivel chairs in Jayda’s booth at the radio station. Marisol swung her legs, ecstatic to feel like a “real radio personality,” as she called it. Jayda didn’t want to break the news to her that most people didn’t like radio personalities, as they were the long pause between songs. But before she could decide whether she should break the news, they were on the air.

  “Today, I have my friend Marisol on the air with me today. Say, hi, Marisol.”

  “Hi, Marisol,” Marisol said.

  “Marisol is a master of bad jokes,” Jayda said.

  “This is very true.”

  “Anyway. Lots of you have written in to me that you love my remix of the speakeasy Prophetess gathering, and several of you have even confided to me that you have started practicing witchcraft since that day or have been using my music as a background to your practice.”

  Jayda could feel the station manager listening to her and bugging out. “But I think what we plan to discuss today can go for witches and those of you who believe witchcraft is entirely ridiculous. Because Marisol’s story could happen to anyone. It just happened to start at a Prophetess gathering. Are you ready to share, Marisol?”

  “Yes!” Marisol said. She launched into her story about meeting Reid at the club and her near-death date.

  “And now, yes, Marisol was considered a target by a man who considered himself to be a Kingsmen because she was associated with the Prophetess by going to her gathering and purchasing her goods. But the lesson stands true here about online dating or going on dates with people you don’t personally know very well at all—you need to be careful out there.”

  “I was lucky Jayda was in the house, guys,” Marisol said. “Sometimes, I think I don’t realize how close I was to death. But I would be six feet under by now if she hadn’t knocked the gun away from him.”

  “Now we’ve been informed that this man was actually killed during his most recent attempt to murder someone considered a work in progress by the Kingsmen, AKA someone on the witch-hunter hit list.”

  “Thank goodness,” Marisol said. Jayda flashed Marisol a panicked look.

  “Mari, we shouldn’t cheer for someone’s death on live radio,” Jayda said, trying to force a laugh. Marisol waved her off.

  “Yes, we should. He almost killed me!” She has a point.

  “Okay, one quick Huzzah.”

  “Huzzah!” Marisol yelled, and Jayda played the sound of firecrackers and kazoos. “We’re not dead!”

  “If you or anyone you know is on the Kingsmen hit list, we have resources for reaching out to a group of women who are going through the same sort of thing, and we will also be compiling a webpage of videos showing self-defense techniques, as well as advice from police officers about what to do if you think you’re being stalked, what your resources are, things like that on our website, so be sure to check it out!”

  “Have a witchy weekend!” Marisol said.

  “Or a normal one, like me,” Jayda said. She pressed a button, and music began playing in the studio. Marisol slipped off her headphones.

  “How was that?”

  “Well, you have a great radio voice, but I feel like you knew that already.”

  “I mean, I do want to be a musical hero to the next generation, so I expect my public speaking skills to be up to par.”

  “Humble.” Jayda rolled her eyes and used a wipe to clean their mics and headphones.

  Marisol laughed, but her smile quickly died. “Ah, Jayda, there’s a scary looking man in a suit on the other side of the glass.”

  “That would be my boss,” Jayda said, and she took a breath before turning around. He motioned fo
r her to come outside, curling one finger.

  “Are you getting fired?” Marisol asked. “Because I’ll fight him.”

  Jayda didn’t have it in her to respond. She walked out of the booth into the monochromatic hallway to where Mr. Estes stood in his tobacco-smelling suit—all of them were scented as such —with his arms crossed.

  “There was still a lot of witchcraft things in that last interview,” he said.

  “I—I know,” Jayda said. “But, to be fair, Mr. Estes, I said that this show was going to be aimed at women in my age range, and I feel like the story I just told would be relatable to that audience, whether they follow the Prophetess or not.”

  Mr. Estes’s lips were in a state of constantly being pursed like was consistently sucking on lemon-flavored candies. “Apparently, it was,” he said. “Your audience spiked during your interview with your friend.”

  Jayda’s eyes widened.

  “We’ll replay the interview during the drive-home hour, but you need a different song. You lost over half the audience with your follow up.”

  Jayda tried to hold in her smile. “What about a song by the girl I just interviewed?”

  “She any good?” he asked, looking in at Marisol, who beamed and waved.

  Jayda nodded. “Very.”

  “Can you get approval from her label that quickly?”

  Jayda’s mind drifted to her little studio near Venice Beach. “I think we can get that done.”

  “Good.” He looked around the hallway like he was searching how to finish their conversation. He wasn’t one for handing out compliments, especially to his younger members of the station’s team. “Good then.” He turned to walk away, turned back, and pointed at her. “Even less witch stuff.”

  Jayda saluted. “Got it.”

  Mr. Estes nodded once and then continued back down the hall. Jayda wondered if he knew that he’d instated a casual dress code and still decided to wear the monkey suit, or if he’d forgotten that he’d done that entirely and found Jayda’s use of T-shirts and jeans to be distasteful. Perhaps it was the latter. She made a mental note to try dress slacks next time and see how that went.

  Jayda swung into the studio, where Marisol had been staring at their conversation.

  “You know we could see you while we were talking, right?” Jayda asked. “This isn’t, like, double-paned glass or anything.” Marisol continued to swivel in her chair. “I literally could not tell at all by your body language how that went. And it was good that I was looking—I waved at him!” she caught onto Jayda’s serious air. “Did it go … less than great?”

  “You know, I don’t know if things ever go ‘great’ with Mr. Estes, but your interview will be aired on the five o’clock drive home, and he wants me to play your song.”

  “Like on the radio radio?”

  “Like on the real freaking radio!”

  Marisol screamed, and Jayda rushed to close the door before anyone could hear her outburst.

  +++

  Thursday, March 16, 2017, 8:40 p.m.

  Chief Marks, despite his position, rarely walked like a man on a mission. He had more of that classic donut-cop vibe who could bust up a major case if he really needed to—one of those lovable television cops that no one believed in but had eventually proved himself time and time again on every episode.

  So, when Chief Marks walked over to her desk like one of those stick-up-his-butt cops, Ivy got the sense that something was quite beyond wrong.

  “9-1-1 call from the Cline residence. It appears that Chloe Cline is dead, but paramedics are on the way. Ivy clicked her duty belt around her waist.

  “Was she still alive when they called?” Ivy asked

  “She was, but it wasn’t looking good. It looks like she took too much medicine all at once.”

  “They think it might be suicide?”

  “Kind of our job to figure that out, Watson,” Vince said, picking up a set of keys.

  Despite the gravity of their situation, Ivy slipped on her jacket and mumbled. “We agreed that I’m Sherlock.”

  She and her partner trampled their way down the stairs, and Vince kept the lights and sirens on their entire trip to the Cline residence. An ambulance and two other LAPD cars were already there, looking cheap next to the Cline’s Lamborghini and well-tended gardens.

  They sprinted up the stairs to where voices were echoing from, and Ivy burst into the bathroom. Chloe was draped over the toilet. The Senator looked up at them but didn’t say a word.

  “He was trying to get her to throw up when we got here,” a paramedic said to Ivy. “She got some up but went unconscious after. By the time we got here, she was gone.”

  Ivy jotted notes as he gave her an approximate timeline. “Did he say what he thought she took?”

  “Antidepressants. TCAs.”

  “That would have to be mixed with something, wouldn’t it?” Ivy asked.

  “They had some wine, but usually, it would take more,” the paramedic said. “But it looks like she took the whole bottle after getting it renewed at their pharmacy yesterday.”

  “Which pharmacy?”

  The paramedic listed a mom and pop pharmacy only a ten-minute drive from the Clive residence. The paramedic held out his hand to his coworker, who handed him the bottle. “We found this on the inside of the bottle.”

  Ivy turned the bottle so she could see the inside. A Kingsmen card made almost a complete circle on the inside of the bottle. She pulled out the card and showed it to Vince. “What are the odds of her not seeing that when she went to take the pills?”

  Vince pretended to flip over the bottle. “If she was going to put all the pills on something, like a bed or table, then I could see her not finding it. But if she took them one by one, there’d be no way.”

  “And why would there be a Kingsmen card already in it if she was the one who took the pills herself?” Ivy asked.

  “Maybe it was like with Andrea. Someone got to her? Told her to commit suicide, or something would happen?” Vince said.

  “They don’t have any kids.”

  “Her husband?”

  Ivy walked carefully to the senator who had stopped crying but was staring at the tile flooring of the bathroom with a sort of numbness she was afraid to disturb. “Senator,” she said, “do you have any enemies you could think of right off the bat?”

  The senator looked up at her with glazed eyes. “Of course, there are the regular political rivals,” he said. “But no one person in my mind sticks out as having enough … hate in them to kill my wife to hurt me,” he said.

  “You’re halfway through your term?”

  The senator nodded. Ivy got up and walked to Vince. “Halfway through a term, if someone really wanted him out of there, then they’d kill him, not risk him being grieved enough to retire. And his wife was listed as a reincarnation, so I really doubt it has to do with him at all.”

  “But what if she did it to keep him alive—like if the threat from a Kingsman was toward him not as a politician, but her husband?”

  Ivy shook her head. “They’ve got so much security; I just don’t see it, you know? They would have called us first like they did before.”

  Vince fidgeted with the bottle, flipping it over in his hands.

  Ivy tracked down the woman’s phone and rifled through her messages and recent calls.

  “There’s nothing here,” she said. “Unless it’s deleted, but her phone was on a charger downstairs, and the entire staff said she was acting entirely normal up until dinner.”

  The senator’s hand was still on his wife’s back when he turned to look at them. “She was going to a therapist, and she was on antidepressants, but she had never had any suicidal thoughts as far as I knew.” He glanced at his wife. “We told each other everything. I don’t know what would have made her go over the edge like this, and so quickly, I just—”

  “I think we should do an autopsy,” Ivy said. “I just don’t think this is her medicine alone.” She looked at Vince,
who nodded. Ivy moved to the senator, asking him to clear the space while they gathered any leftover evidence they could. The body was perched precariously, and they worked quickly before the woman could fall from where she died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Thursday, March 16, 2017, 10:57 p.m.

  Ivy had found another motel. She’d barricaded it the same way as she had been, which reminded her all too much of Lily’s attack. Although the evidence had her immediately acquitted from any disciplinary action, she still felt the ghost of her in the room that was so similar to the old one. She didn’t know which haunted her more—killing such a young person or having gotten so close to death herself.

  Her throat closed, and Ivy gritted her teeth. She didn’t get like this. She didn’t panic.

  She moved the dresser from the door and walked outside. The neon glow of the motel’s sign was the only real lighting; the streetlights had either dimmed from dirt or were no longer working at all. She’d wanted to stay somewhere far away from people in this hideout, but now she wasn’t so sure. She laced her hands behind her head.

  The air was cool, and she watched as the delicate hairs on her arms stood at attention, saluting the rare chills that sometimes visited California nights. Her boots crunched against the sand and rock mixture that formed much of the motel’s driveway, and she dragged her feet against it, enjoying the grounding sensation and sound of it underfoot.

  Ivy took a surveying sweep around her and walked toward the gas station a half-mile down the road. The grass had already been trampled by travelers or cars that had swerved too far to the side of the road, but it made the walk easier.

  The gas station had the too-bright lighting of an owner who was unconcerned about the levels of nausea their employees might feel as long as it saved money, and Ivy felt as though she’d entered a black and white movie. Her skin suddenly lost its color under the harsh lights, and the hues of once-colorful packages bled from the shelves and flowed out of the convenience store.