“I don’t think Jackie fell from any step stool,” Dan said.
“So does that mean she died from voodoo?”
Dan sat down on the couch. “Did you see anything strange when you got here that night?” he asked in what Lauren assumed was his professional voice. “Hear anything out of the ordinary?”
Lauren inspected her fingernails. She didn’t want to think about that night. She didn’t want to relive it, even in words. The pain was still too raw. She raised her eyes and shook her head.
“Tell me,” Dan said softly. “What we don’t know can be much more dangerous than what we do.”
Lauren looked at Jackie’s white hair studded with nails and felt a tremor of apprehension. There was no denying that Dan’s words jibed with thoughts she had been trying to suppress since Jackie’s death. Slowly, haltingly, she told Dan what she knew. She told him about the click of the back door and about the shadow that had cut through the hedges. She told him about Jackie’s phone call, about her “really bad” something. She told him about the curse of the chronicle and about the book’s strange disappearance. And she agreed it was highly unlikely that Jackie would have had any interest in a book on a high shelf that afternoon. Jackie had been completely consumed with the chronicle.
When Lauren was finished, she rested her elbows on her knees and leaned toward Dan. “But if we assume there’s no such thing as black magic and evil curses, where does that leave us? Do you really think there could be some crazed murderer running around?”
“Crazy people can be far more dangerous than any curse,” Dan said.
Lauren thought about Deborah’s visions and sages and magic lancets. But she also remembered Deborah’s thoughtful discussion of her religion. “To explain the unexplainable one must have faith. All religions depend on it … Our religion is no different.…”
“It won’t hurt to check it out,” Dan was saying, his face set and serious. “I’ll go over to the station right now and talk to the lieutenant detective. See if we can get an investigation opened. Then—”
“An investigation?” Lauren interrupted. “Shadows in the dark. Step stools. Cursed chronicle. Is anyone going to believe you?”
“All I can do is try.” Dan slapped his thighs and stood. “There’s a cult expert on the force. Zaleski. I’ll ask him if he’s got any information on these RavenWing women or their lost coven. And I know an autopsy was done—I’ll get the report.” He paused and regarded Lauren thoughtfully. “You know, in a strange way, this actually makes me feel better. Like maybe there’s something I can do for Jackie. Maybe there’s someone I can punish.”
“If she was murdered.”
“Right,” Dan said, although Lauren could tell from the look in his eye that he no longer considered accidental death a possibility.
“I’ve got to go to RavenWing and tell Deborah I’ve lost the chronicle,” Lauren said slowly, more to herself than to Dan. She dreaded the task, but she didn’t see any way to avoid it.
“Stay away from them,” Dan warned her. “Let me handle this.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
Dan shook his head emphatically. “Even if it turns out that there was no murder, whoever sent Jackie this stuff”—he waved his hand at the cobbler’s bench—”had some kind of evil intent. At the very least, this was sent to frighten Jackie because she was prying where she wasn’t wanted.” He frowned and crossed his arms. “It sounds to me like you’re planning on prying in exactly the same places.”
After filling the trunk of her car with Jackie’s books and files, Lauren went directly to RavenWing. Although she had tried to talk herself out of it, her sense of responsibility won out over her fears. Deborah was neither crazy enough to be dangerous nor did she have supernatural powers, Lauren consoled herself as she climbed the stairs to the store’s entrance. But her palms were damp and her heart was pounding.
The wind chimes rattled and the canary warbled as she pushed the door open, but she didn’t see anyone in the store. Maybe Deborah and Cassandra were out. Maybe she could leave her message with a clerk and get the hell out of there. Lauren forced herself forward. “Hello?” she called out.
When no one answered, she took a deep breath and walked toward the far end of the store. All the things that had seemed so ordinary just last week suddenly took on an ominous cast: steel cut oats and chandrita ayuredic soap and a vitamin called candicidin corynefum. Could these women be insane? Could they have given Jackie the chronicle and then killed her to get it back?
Lauren stopped abruptly as she came face-to-face with Jackie’s Deodat Willard print. After recovering from the initial shock, she took a step closer. A feeling of power emanated from the young girl in the picture. Lauren reached out and touched the hand that directed the corn. She dropped her hand and looked more closely. She had seen this girl somewhere before. She knew that she had. With a start, Lauren realized the girl in the print looked a lot like the girl she had imagined making soap—and the girl at the fireplace.
Lauren turned from the picture and moved toward the back of the store. As she walked through the aromatherapy section, she couldn’t help overhearing a conversation on the other side of the shelf.
“It’s the chemo that’s getting to me,” said a soft, tired voice. “The doctors say there isn’t much they can do.”
“Too bound to western medicine,” a husky voice answered. “There’s a lot that can be done.”
Deborah, Lauren thought, her heart beginning to hammer. She was here after all. Lauren pretended to inspect the label on a box of unbleached pancake mix as she eavesdropped on a conversation about the use of bitterworm to combat nausea and sea salt to draw toxins from the body. Lauren was encouraged by the compassion in Deborah’s voice. If Deborah was so understanding of the woman’s problems, maybe she’d be understanding of Lauren’s too. Of course, the woman wasn’t telling Deborah that she had lost one of her most priceless possessions.
Comparing the unbleached pancake mix to the unbleached flour next to it, Lauren waited for the woman to complete her purchase. When she heard the wind chimes on the door, Lauren took a deep breath and strode resolutely to the front of the store. Still holding the pancake mix, she turned from the aisle and faced the register.
Deborah looked up. She nodded but didn’t say anything.
Lauren was unprepared for Deborah’s coldness. Did she already know about the lost chronicle? Lauren wondered. Was she planning some ghoulish punishment? “I-I want to buy this pancake mix,” Lauren stuttered.
Deborah silently rang up the purchase on an old silver cash register. She didn’t offer Lauren a bag along with her change. When Lauren took the pancake mix but didn’t move toward the door, Deborah stared over Lauren’s head at the Deodat Willard print, as if by pretending that Lauren wasn’t there, she would disappear.
“I have some bad—” Lauren said, but she stopped when an elderly woman with a long braid came up behind Deborah.
“I’m Cassandra Abbott.” The old woman stared at Lauren through the narrow fissure below her wrinkled eyelids. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said uncertainly, stepping back. There was a slightly unpleasant burned odor emanating from the woman, and Lauren didn’t like the chill in her beady eyes. But she was the most shaken by the fact that Cassandra had known who she was.
Before Cassandra could say more, the door of the store flew open. A stocky man with a greasy ponytail and a pierced eyebrow entered. He bowed slightly to Deborah and turned to Cassandra. “Did my Welsh valerian root come in yet?”
“No,” Cassandra said.
The man brushed past Lauren and placed himself in front of Cassandra. “You promised it would be here today.”
Deborah turned to him. “She promised no such thing, Bram. Cassandra said either Monday or Tuesday of next week.” Pointing down the first aisle, she added, “There’s some local valerian on the shelf—use that. Northern Hemisphere isn’t so different from European.”
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Bram bowed to Deborah once again, then he clutched at Cassandra’s arm and pulled her off to the side. “You know I need my European valerian,” he said urgently, lowering his voice, “if I want to stay off the Prozac.”
Deborah nodded to Lauren in what was clearly a dismissal.
“I need to talk to—” Lauren began.
“Do you think you could call Wales?” Bram asked Cassandra, his voice rising.
“You’ll either have to wait or get your valerian root elsewhere,” Deborah answered before Cassandra could speak.
Bram’s eyes widened in fear and his face paled. He backed slowly toward the door. If he’d had a tail, he would have left with it between his legs.
“I can’t find your chronicle,” Lauren blurted out as soon as the door had closed. “I think it was stolen from Jackie’s house.”
“It was returned,” Deborah said, sharing a knowing smile with Cassandra. “Just this morning.”
“But, but …” Lauren stuttered. “I don’t understand.”
“Deborah’s powers are extraordinary,” Cassandra said, looking up at Deborah with undisguised reverence on her face. “She has brought the chronicle back where it belongs.”
Puzzled, Lauren looked from Deborah to Cassandra. “But who took it?” she asked. “And who brought it back?”
“I called for it and it came—that’s all you need to know.” Deborah rested her hands on the trestle table and leaned toward Lauren. “The chronicle is neither your responsibility nor your concern any longer,” she said, her soft voice as tough as iron.
“Of, of course not,” Lauren said, relief spreading through her. She wasn’t responsible for the loss of the chronicle—and it wasn’t lost to her as a research source. “I’m so glad you’ve got it,” she began to babble. “I was just so worried—afraid it was my fault. And disappointed. I haven’t gotten a chance to read it yet.”
Deborah stepped around the table. “It’s clear that it’s not possible for you to read the chronicle,” she said to Lauren. “We warned you about the curse.”
“But I don’t believe—” Lauren began.
“We can’t help you with your book—or with anything, for that matter,” Deborah said, her tone brooking no argument. “It’s best if you go now.”
Lauren nervously fingered her necklace. “If you could just—” she started, then stopped, for Deborah was staring at her necklace, a look of extreme satisfaction on her face.
Dropping her hand self-consciously, it took Lauren a moment to realize that Deborah wasn’t interested in the necklace, that Deborah’s pale eyes were searing into the skin behind the gold chain, locked onto the crescent-shaped scar at the base of Lauren’s throat.
Eleven
IT WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON, EXACTLY ONE WEEK AFTER Jackie’s death, and Lauren was at her desk, trying—rather unsuccessfully—to keep from thinking about what she had been doing last week at this time. She had spent the morning in an uncharacteristic frenzy of activity, but neither bill paying nor dish washing nor bathroom scrubbing had been able to keep the memories at bay. Last week I was arguing with Drew about getting dressed, she thought as she mulled over how much of the balance she should pay on her MasterCard. Last week I was meeting with Ellen Baker.
After managing to swallow a quarter of a tuna fish sandwich, Lauren settled down to make a list of some of the things Drew had done lately that demonstrated he was a healthy, well-adjusted boy. She wanted to prove to Dr. Berg that there were many sides to Drew—and that most of them were of no interest to a child psychologist.
1. Built a forbidden island with his pirate Legos.
2. Made up a secret language with his friend Scott.
3. Said he liked dirty fingernails.
4. Complained that making his bed was useless because he was just going to mess it up again the next night.
But even as she was smiling at her list, Lauren couldn’t help glancing at the clock. Last week I was at the library.
She hastily scribbled that Drew liked playing on the computer and occasionally ate too much ice cream, then she stood and stretched, almost glad it was time to get ready for her appointment with Nat Abraham. Although she had been dreading this meeting, which she had set up after Jackie’s funeral to try to convince Nat to let her write Rebeka Hibbens her way, Lauren was now relieved just to have someplace to go.
She went into her bedroom and stared forlornly into her closet, hoping the appropriate outfit would somehow materialize, yet knowing it wouldn’t. Aside from buying underwear and socks, she hadn’t spent money on clothes since she had begun graduate school. As she reached for her man-tailored white shirt with the frayed left cuff, the phone rang. It was Dan Ling.
“Bad news,” he said. “Lieutenant Conway nixed the investigation.”
Lauren didn’t say anything for a moment, surprised by the disappointment Dan’s words produced. “I guess we shouldn’t have expected anything different.”
“Conway gave me one of those you-overeagerrookies-are-all-alike smiles. Then he patted my shoulder and told me to stay focused on my duties. ‘Your time will come,’ he tells me. ‘Your time will come.’” Dan’s voice was bitter. “So I guess we’re on our own.”
“I don’t know, Dan,” she said. “Maybe we do have it wrong.…” Lauren wasn’t at all sure how she felt about being on their own in a murder investigation. Granted, there were a lot of suspicious aspects to Jackie’s death, but if a police lieutenant didn’t think them sufficient cause for concern, maybe they shouldn’t either. “What can we even do?”
“Well, we can’t do anything immediately,” Dan said. “I wrangled a little time off, so Sunday I’m taking Helene out to the Berkshires for a few days. We’ll be back late Tuesday, so let’s plan on meeting first thing Wednesday morning.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“It’s just for three days,” Dan said, apparently thinking she needed reassurance. “So don’t let it worry you. Until I get back all you have to do is lie low. Don’t work on that book. Don’t get near those witches. And keep your doors locked.”
* * *
“I had a friend,” Nat Abraham said, putting his legs up on his desk. “Forty-two. Gets on the commuter train one morning. Drinks his coffee. Reads his newspaper. Wham—aneurysm. He’s gone.” He shook his head. “Makes you think about chucking it all and heading for Tahiti.”
Lauren pressed her palms to her skirt. She had been thinking similar thoughts herself, not so much about running away as about the fragility of life.
Nat swung his arm out wide, pulling her from her reverie and directing her to look at his cubbyhole of an office. Piles of manuscripts crowded his desk, more cluttered the floor, others tottered on the listing bookshelves next to his narrow window. There wasn’t much space for him, nor for her, nor for all the pink telephone slips and yellow stickies that were strewn on top of the manuscripts and stuck to the walls.
“Ever see the movie Romancing the Stone?” he asked.
Confused, Lauren tried to remember the movie—from the early eighties, she thought—but kept coming up blank. Nat’s habit of jumping from one topic to another seemingly unconnected topic always threw her off balance. That was one of the many reasons Jackie had always dealt with him.
“Michael Douglas?” she finally guessed.
“And Kathleen Turner.” He grinned. “Anyway—remember in the movie she’s a writer?”
Lauren nodded, although she remembered nothing of the sort.
“And she goes to her editor’s office?”
Lauren nodded again. What was he getting at?
“And remember what it looked like?”
Suddenly, Lauren did remember: Kathleen Turner’s editor had an elegant, spacious office with color-coordinated couches, lots of large windows, and not a manuscript in sight. She smiled. “Nothing like this office.”
“Tahiti.”
“I wish I could go with you,” she said, settling back into her chair, starting to feel a bit more comfort
able, beginning to understand why Jackie and Gabe liked Nat so much.
“I wish I could go with me too.” He looked out his small window for a moment and then dropped his legs from the desk and swung toward Lauren. “You want an extension—right?”
“That, uh, that would be great.”
“Can’t give you much, but I’ll see what I can do.” He leaned closer. “You want something else too.” His question was a statement.
“Well, as a matter of fact …” She tried to smile, but she knew her attempt was anemic. Once again, she heard Dan’s admonition: “Don’t work on that book. Don’t get near those witches.”
“Spit it out,” Nat prompted.
“Gabe Phipps and I were discussing Rebeka Hibbens the other day.” Lauren folded her hands in her lap and tried to look scholarly and thoughtful. If Nat thought for a minute she was actually afraid of the project, he’d never take her request seriously. “We were thinking that a bit of restructuring might be in order.”
“Oh, you were, were you?” Nat leaned back and put his legs up on the desk again. “And just what does the great Dr. Phipps think about Rebeka Hibbens?”
“We both feel quite strongly that the supernatural portion of the book should be cut back,” she said firmly. “That reverting to the original outline and concept will make it much stronger and more credible.”
“That’s what you and Gabe Phipps think?” Nat’s voice had a poking-fun tone to it that Lauren chose to ignore.
“Yes.” She paused and smiled brightly, too brightly, she thought, pulling her lips closed. “Gabe said there should be more than enough interest in my feminist and social-psychological interpretations of witchcraft to make for a strong book without a primary focus on the supernatural.” She figured that was what Gabe would say if he were given the chance.
“But a unique book? A commercial book?” Nat demanded. “Is there enough in your ‘feminist and social-psychological interpretations’ to support the print run we have in mind?”
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