THE WITCH'S KEY (Detective Marcella Witch's Series. Book 3)

by Dana Donovan

  I guess it was that unhealthy motivation that compelled me to search Lilith’s room when I got home that night. I had always been good at trusting my instincts, but since my return to prime, I found that my instincts were far less reliable and therefore less trustworthy. Though I really expected to find nothing of earth-shattering consequences in her room, I hoped that by just searching it, I might pacify the mistrusting beast within me.

  I started my search as methodically as possible, starting on the left as I stood at the bedroom door and working clockwise. The first thing I scrutinized was her dresser. It’s the one she had me sliding back and forth across the room like a hockey puck while holding me under her whisper box spell.

  The dresser consisted of three large drawers below two smaller top drawers. I opened the top left one first. In it, I found her lacy undies and bras—very sexy stuff. At the risk of overlooking some crucial evidence, I resisted the urge to pick them up for closer examination. A detective with fewer scruples, perhaps, would have bent to a weaker will, but I refused to stoop that low. Instead, I merely reached my hand in the drawer and felt around for anything unusual, like a bone sculpture, or a vintage locket. Finding nothing of interest, or should I say, nothing of importance, I moved on.

  The next drawer held more of the same, lacy panties, bras and stockings. I patted down the silky pile of garments and then ran my hands below them, feeling only the soft velvety fabric brushing against the back of my hands like fluffy down.

  It made me think of things I should not have been thinking, which only added to the guilt I felt for invading Lilith’s privacy to begin with. So, I quickly slammed the drawer shut and moved down to the next drawer below it. To my utter amazement, I found yet another drawer full of the hottest, sexiest, frilliest undergarments that I had ever seen in my life. Victoria Secret could hardly hold a candle to the collection that girl owned.

  The thought of reaching into the drawer to feel around for evidence gave way momentarily to a fantasy daydream, one with me climbing into the drawer like a burrowing rodent and rolling around till the lacy straps and spaghetti strings had me tied up tight as a witch’s….

  Well, you get the picture.

  I frisked lightly through the contents before dropping down to the next two drawers. Those, at least, held a more traditional assortment of clothing: blue jeans, blouses, sweaters, vests, etc. A similar frisk through the inventory revealed nothing of value.

  After debriefing her briefs, so to speak, I turned my attention to her closet and the apparent mugging in progress there, as she seemed obviously less organized about her affairs in that manner.

  Coats prescribed for winter mingled brazenly among jackets suitable for spring. Tank tops and sleeveless jerseys hung like bookmarks between see-through nightgowns and heavy sweatshirts. A terrycloth bathrobe, of which I had never seen her wear, draped the back of a hanger already occupied by a formal dressing gown. My inclination to tell them to break it up nearly forced me to take out my weapon.

  The closet floor was no better. Shoes, dozens of them, fell scattered like bones on a dry lakebed. In the corner, a coiled bundle of belts lay tangled like snakes in some bizarre mating ritual where heads and tails remained indistinguishable. I poked my foot at a pile of dirty clothes and gasped when I thought I heard a muffled cry escape from below it.

  The shelf above the hanging rod sagged with boxes of varying sizes; the largest I thought could hold Jimmy Hoffa’s remains. I reached up, pulled it down from the shelf, and looked inside. There, I found the smoking gun: several pairs of pants, shirts, shoes, hats and gloves, all black and all smelling of campfire smoke and axle grease. My heart nearly skipped a beat. I considered the likelihood that a woman, especially a witch, like Lilith would own an assortment of jet-black clothing. It wasn’t hard to believe. A pretty lady dressed in black jeans, shirt, boots and hat can look mighty sexy. And the fact that Lilith hid the clothing in a box on the top shelf of her closet didn’t really bother me, either. She’s an odd cookie with peculiar habits. I’ve learned not to question her nuances. What I couldn’t wrap my mind around, however, and what no amount of explaining could justify, was what she was doing with a tin of camouflage makeup and seven witch’s keys, identical to the one that Carlos and I found by the tracks where poor old J.T. caught out.

  I began rummaging through the box for more incriminating evidence when I thought I heard a sound at the front door. I snatched up one of the witch’s keys, stuffed it in my pocket and quickly returned the box to the top shelf.

  As I started out of the room, I noticed I left one of the dresser drawers slightly ajar. I knew that Lilith was no neat freak, but she was particular about things like that. Putting lids back on jars, box tops back on boxes and keeping doors and drawers shut seemed like a witch’s creed with her. I suppose when one dabbles in paranormal activities, one must make sure boundaries and containment fields are observed. Perhaps it’s the Pandora effect; I don’t know. Regardless, I hurried to the dresser and pushed the offending drawer shut with a gentle nudge.

  I turned around, thinking I was in the clear, when I heard, “Find everything okay?”

  A fist-sized lump slid down my throat like a sandy slug. “Lilith?”

  She stood at the doorway in her signature stance; hip out, arms folded, head cocked. “What are you doing in my room?”

  I fumbled for words, my posture shrinking like melting ice. “Nothing,” I said, only, it came out broken and squeaky.

  Her eyes zeroed in on my pants pocket. “What have you got there?”

  I gave her the classic, what are you talking about, look, convinced there was no way she knew that I had the witch’s key on my person. As small as it was, its shape could not possibly telegraph through the relatively baggy material of my pants pockets. So I called her bluff by turning my empty palms up to her. “What?”

  She uncrossed her arms and pointed. “In your pocket. What is that?”

  I stepped back until my butt hit the dresser. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She came toward me, and I thought we might end up tangled in a brawl as matted as the collection of belts in her closet. Before I could react, she reached down and snatched up a small dog-eared piece of fabric sticking out of my pocket. She recoiled like a cobra, holding up the material and unfolding it before my eyes.

  “My panties!” she said, and I have to admit, I was as surprised as she was. “You perv! You came in here to swipe my panties?”

  I hadn’t, of course, and I don’t know how the hell they got in my pocket, but I knew an out when I saw one, and so I rode that bus all the way to the station. I dropped the surprised look and adopted one of guilt. “Yes, you caught me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  She wadded up the panties and stuffed them into her back pocket. “Why, Tony? Are you that sexually frustrated?”

  “What? No! I’m not sexually frustrated. Your panties mean nothing to me.”

  “Oh?” She returned to her signature stance. “Then how do you explain yourself? And it better be good.”

  “It will be,” I said, but then quickly corrected myself. “I mean, it is.” I walked over to her bed and sat down on the edge. “It’s the guys,” I told her. They’ve been ribbing me lately, teasing me about not…you know, doing it with you.”

  Already, Lilith’s posture was softening. She dropped her folded arms, tucked her fingers into the slits of her pants pockets and leaned back against the doorjamb. “Carlos and Spinelli were teasing you?”

  “Yes. Spinelli started it, but you know Carlos. The two of them together are like schoolboys. Once they know they hit a nerve, they don’t let up. They keep teasing until they break you. I guess I just wanted to show them that I…that we….” I trailed off in silence, designed to maximize my pathetic case. She totally bought it.

  “Oh, Tony.” She crossed the room and sat down beside me on the bed. “I had no idea. Look, why don’t you take these?” She leaned into me, shifting her weight onto one back poc
ket while pulling the wadded ball of panties from the other. “Tell the guys it’s a trophy, and that they can stop teasing you now.”

  I took them, reluctantly. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled, and then kissed me on the cheek. “I know how guys are. Go ahead. Play it up. You deserve it.”

  I smiled back. “Thanks, Lilith. I won’t forget this.”

  “I know you won’t.” And she stood and rubbed the top of my head briskly. “Now, get the hell out of my room and don’t come back. If you do, I’ll turn you into—.”

  “I know, a frog or a toad or some other slippery amphibious vertebrate.” I laughed then, but when I saw that she wasn’t kidding, I high-tailed out of there as fast as I could.

  A half-hour later, I hopped into the shower. When I got out, Lilith was gone again. I didn’t know if she had stepped out for just a moment, or if she planned to be away all night. I went back into her room to check the box on her shelf. As suspected, it was missing a pair of black jeans, a black shirt, hat, gloves and a tin of camouflage makeup. I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to conclude one thing. Gypsy was on the prowl again.

  Fourteen

  The following morning I bumped into Lilith out in the hallway. She had just gotten out of the shower and was heading for her bedroom wrapped in a towel and still dripping wet. She seemed surprised to see me, which made me think she had tried getting back to her room before I awoke.

  “Hello,” I said. “You’re up early.”

  She smiled nervously. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “I didn’t hear you come in last night. It’s funny, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were just getting in now.”

  She grabbed the knot in her towel and cinched it tighter between her breasts. “Yeah, that is funny. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Oh, I guess. You?”

  “Yes. Like a baby.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, and tried sidestepping around me. “Well, the bathroom’s all yours.”

  “Wait!” I tugged on her towel to stop her. “You know I meant to ask you.”

  She turned abruptly, and when she did, her wet hair whipped me across the face. “What?”

  “Can I use your car this morning? I have an errand to run.”

  I could see her thinking about it. If she had left anything in it that might incriminate her, then the answer would be no. Otherwise, the car was mine. After careful consideration, she must have determined that she had covered her tracks sufficiently. “Sure,” she shrugged. “The keys are on the table.”

  She turned and started away, and for just a moment, the urge to step on the tail of her towel left dragging on the floor seemed too irresistible to let pass. But then I remembered her threat the night before to turn me into something slimy. I didn’t know if a harmless prank like stripping off her towel would warrant such harsh retaliation, but I decided to err on the side of caution. “Thanks!” I said, as her bedroom door shut in my face.

  Forty-five minutes later I was dressed and driving down I-95 towards Quincy to meet with anyone at Gitana Freight Lines who might talk to me. I had just started across the Tobin Memorial Bridge when Spinelli called.

  “Hey, what are you doing right now?” he asked.

  “Crossing the Mystic River,” I said.

  “So, you’re sitting down?”

  “Dominic, I’m not swimming it.”

  “Yeah, right. Well, listen to this.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been running EINI all morning and—”

  “Wait. You’ve been running what?”

  “E.I.N.I. the Electronic Intelligence Network Interface here at the office.”

  “Oh, that on-line database thing?”

  “Yes. EINI”

  “Whatever. Continue.”

  “Like I was saying, I’m cross-checking all the names of the victims with that of Anthony Marcella Senior, and guess what I find.”

  “I don’t know, a connection maybe.”

  “No. There are no connections at all.”

  “Wow, great work Dom. Glad to see that all the money the county spent on that computer didn’t go to waste.”

  “No, Tony, you don’t understand. I didn’t find a connection, but I did learn something interesting.”

  “What, that you can save a lot on your insurance by switching to the lizard?”

  “Huh? No. Listen, I learned that Anthony Marcella Senior went off to fight in Europe in early 1942, but that he never returned.”

  “What?”

  “He’s listed as K.I.A., killed in action.”

  I turned the wheel sharply to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me. After swallowing my heart back into my chest and picking my cell phone up off the floorboard, I asked Spinelli, “You still there?”

  He seemed genuinely worried. “What happened?”

  “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Dominic, are you certain about Marcella?”

  I could hear him sigh. “Yes, I have a photocopy of the official document from the DOD, listing his disposition. He parachuted into occupied France in late September 1942 with fourteen other GIs. None of them made it back alive.”

  I don’t know why I felt such a crush of disappointment from the news. I mean, I knew that Anthony Marcella was not my real father. But I had carried his name for so long, I felt a kinship to him that was hard to explain. I gripped the steering wheel and wrung my fingers around it until my knuckles turned white.

  I thought of Lilith, and what she might do upon hearing the news. That, alone, could provide the answers I needed from her. A long, reflective silence might indicate that she knew him all those years ago. She needn’t say a word and I would know it. On the other hand, a shrug of indifference might suggest that she had never heard of him before, and her care-less attitude might lead me to conclude that she and Gypsy are as individual as night and day. I could have gone on speculating for hours if not for Spinelli pulling me back into the fold with his yelling.

  “Tony, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Dominic. I’m still here.”

  “Oh, thank God. I thought I lost you again.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you, yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  Good question. But what could I say? Even I wasn’t sure what I thought. My head was spinning faster than the wheels on my car. “Dominic, this is all such a surprise. If Anthony Marcella died in France, then who the hell is at the hospice care center, dying of cancer?”

  “I don’t know, maybe an imposter looking for the VA to pick up the tab for his funeral.”

  “No. The guy knows me,” I said. “Or, at least he knew me as a child. He told me things that no one else would know.”

  “Then, maybe he is Marcella.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just saying that maybe he never went in behind enemy lines. A lot of guys go AWOL in the heat of battle. If one disappears in the fog of war, then who’s to say that he didn’t get killed?”

  “You think Pops is who he says he is?”

  “I don’t know, Tony. I’m just tossing it out there.”

  “Right.” I turned at the off ramp and signaled with the merging traffic. “Listen, Spinelli. I’m going to have to get back with you. In the meantime—”

  “Wait, there’s something else,” he said, and I swear I knew it was coming.

  “What?”

  “We have another body. This one’s in our neighborhood.”

  I found myself checking the odometer and doing a quick calculation to determine how far Lilith might have driven the night before. It didn’t seem like it could have been very far. I asked Spinelli, “You and Carlos on it?”

  He came back quickly. “We’re leaving now.”

  “Keep me in the loop.”

  I hung up thinking I should have told him what I found in Lilith’s closet, but was glad t
hat I didn’t. I still needed time to digest it all. I suppose I was in denial. It’s what I would say to anyone else in my shoes. And I’m sure it’s what Spinelli would say. You’re too close, he’d tell me, scolding me in a way that even Carlos wouldn’t dare. You live with her. She has those witch’s keys. What more evidence do you need?

  Then he’d throw out the most obvious and damning prejudice. You’re in love with her, for God’s sake!

  Man, how I hate it when he’s right. I turned the radio on for the rest of the ride to drown my thoughts. It didn’t work, but it kept me from talking to myself, which was a good thing, because I really didn’t think I would like what I had to say.

  I’m not sure what I expected to find when I pulled into the parking lot of Gitana Freight Lines. I guess I thought that all railroad companies were large corporations with megalithic structures for office buildings. But if that were generally the case, then Gitana was the exception.

  Gitana’s building resembled something more modest, larger than a gas station, but smaller than a country barn. I found an empty parking spot out front, next to a Cadillac setting in a space reserved for J. P. Stevens. I didn’t know who that was, but I figured he must be important. His reservation sign came complete with a warning to visitors that violators would be towed at owner’s expense. Funny, I thought, that they would tow the violator and not his car.

  I stepped into the building and got the immediate sense that I had walked into an old-fashioned train depot. The smell of oiled timbers and the defused lighting reminded me of the old fish houses down at Suffolk’s Walk, but the décor was definitely Victorian era railroad, complete with gas lanterns, track cogs, signal switches and even a vintage turnstile. If you added a gift shop and a ticket counter, you could call it a museum and charge admissions for the tour.

  I went up to the receptionist, a warm-hearted old soul, soft-spoken, gentle and polite in a way that you don’t see any more in younger people. In a way, she reminded me of Pops. She greeted me kindly and offered coffee even before asking me my business. I told her no and thanked her.