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

by Dana Donovan

  “Thanks,” I told her, and then I dropped the matchstick into the pot. I stepped back, expecting a puff or a bang, or maybe a wisp of spiraling wind like the kind Lilith usually gets whenever she casts a spell. Instead, I got nothing. I bellied up to the stove and looked into the pot. “Huh. It didn’t work.”

  Lilith rocked up on tiptoes and peered over my shoulder at the boiling dud. “No, it worked,” she said. “You can tell by the way the bubbles sort of heave before they break.”

  “How come there was no smoke cloud or big boom like when you do it?”

  She slapped me on the arm. “Oh, that’s because I sometimes throw a little side spell in there for dramatic effect.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s sort of my thing. Don’t try to copy it and we’ll get along just fine.”

  We let the potion cool to room temperature as the recipe called for before mixing an ounce of the elixir with five ounces of orange juice. Then we chilled it in the refrigerator and got cleaned up for the drive to the hospice care center. On the ride over, I worried about my chances of getting Pops to drink the concoction, but Lilith assured me she had a plan for that.

  “Think whisper box,” she said. “I’ll make one up and put it in an envelope to disguise it as a greeting card.”

  “What if it doesn’t work on him?”

  “It worked on you.”

  “Hmm, yes, remind me I still owe you for that.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hey, did you remember the witch’s key?”

  She reached into her blouse pocket and pulled out the very key she had used to send Gypsy on the train ride of her life. “Got it here.”

  We both looked at it, and I know we were wondering the same thing. A call to Carlos just before we left the apartment confirmed that Gypsy’s body still had not been recovered. “What if….” I started to say, but she shut me down with just a stare.

  Melissa greeted us as we entered the hospice building, but her reception seemed unusually cool. I guessed it was because of Lilith. If for no other reason than for what India likely told her, she probably saw Lilith as a threat to the natural order of things. I told Melissa I was there to see Pops, expecting she might let me go right upstairs. Instead, she paged India and asked us to take a seat.

  Our butts barely hit the sofa, when India showed up in the lobby carrying a small brown bag. Because of the hour, I assumed we had caught her on the way out to lunch. We immediately stood—I to greet her, Lilith to maintain height superiority.

  “India. You look well,” I said. “How are you?” I heard Lilith scoff at that.

  “Fine, Detective Spitelli.” She smiled at me warmly. “And you?”

  “Wonderful.” I presented Lilith with a casual sweep of my hand. “You remember Lilith?”

  “Of course.” India kept her smile, but it had faded considerably. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Lilith, though I have to admit, saying it through gritted teeth made it look a lot like a smile. “You don’t really think it’s nice to see me, but I’m cool with that.”

  “Lilith!”

  “Well, she doesn’t.”

  “Pay her no attention, India. She’s only teasing.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Please, Lilith. We’re not here to—”

  India reached out to steady my hand. I don’t know why. Maybe she thought I would hit someone. I know she certainly wanted to. “It’s all right, Detective. I don’t mind. I’m glad you’re both here. I was going to call and ask you to come in anyway.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “To give you this.”

  She reached into the paper bag and pulled out an object that I recognized immediately. Even still, I could not stop from asking, “What is this?”

  She handed it to me. “It’s a whistle.”

  I shook my head. “I see that. But why are you giving it to me?”

  Her eyes dropped, and her reluctance to look up again sent a chill down my back that I will never forget. “He wanted you to have it.”

  I looked again at the whistle; its rounded edges and oil-rubbed patina made it look as though it was painted black. My vision faded at the peripheries and my tunnel of sight filled with nothing but the old wooden block and two trembling hands. I felt Lilith’s hand on my back working in soothing circles the way people do sometimes when they know of no other way to comfort you.

  “What do you mean he wanted me to have it? Don’t you mean wants me to have it?”

  India cupped my hands gently and only then did I realize how badly they shook. “I’m sorry to tell you this,” she said, “but Mister Marcella…. Pops, passed away last night.”

  I felt Lilith rest her head on my shoulder and wrap her arm around my waist.

  “No. That’s impossible,” I said. “We came here to help him. We brought him something that will…this drink, it will make everything better again.” I broke from Lilith and started for the elevator. “I’ll show you. It’s not too late. I can—”

  India called out. “Dominic, He’s gone!”

  Her words stopped me cold in my tracks. I turned slowly. She looked at me with vitreous eyes blinking back tears; her hands pressed steeple-like below her chin. “I’m sorry. They took him this morning.”

  I started back in a stall, my feet dragging, my face creased in anguish. “Where?”

  “They’re preparing him for cremation. It’s what he wanted.”

  Lilith came to me softly, nestling her cheek to my chest, her arms squeezing me tight as if she might absorb my pain. I cleared my throat of a drying pinch. “How did he…I mean, was he….”

  India shook her head. “He went peacefully. Around ten o’clock he rang for someone on the night shift. Laurie came in. He gave her the whistle and told her he wanted you to have it. Said he was going to catch out on the next southbound. An hour later when she went in to check on him, he….”

  “He caught out?” I said.

  She smiled. “Yes. He caught out.”

  There was not much more to say after that. I thanked India for the whistle and kissed her goodbye on the cheek. Once outside, I felt the cool assault of light drizzle on my face. It reminded me I had not dressed in layers, a no-no for any veteran traveler. But the rain did mask my tears, and for that I was grateful. People walking into the hospice did not need reminding why they were there. They needed only to enjoy the time they had left with their loved ones, and nothing more.

  On the drive back to the apartment, I asked Lilith if she knew about what time it was last night when the train hit Gypsy.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking. There was only one southbound heading out of Minor’s Point last night.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I turned to her with hesitation. “So, do you think it’s—”

  “Just a coincidence?” she said.

  I set my hands on the wheel at the ten-to-two position and concentrated on the road ahead. I realized at that moment that we did not need to speak. We were on the same wavelength, sharing thoughts like two people that have been married a lifetime. But as we drove on, my mind began to wander to a place where even Lilith could not have joined me.

  I found myself back on the hilltop that Pops took me to so many years ago, back when I was just a boy. We sat in the grass looking down on the trains pulling out of Minor’s Point.

  “Big boys don’t cry,” he told me then. I tried hard to heed his words, but the urge to let it out weighed upon me like a locomotive. I might have given in to that urge if not for the hollow flute-like whispering in my ears. I turned to Lilith. She had Pops’ old whistle pressed to her lips, blowing the catch out call as sweet and softly as ever I’ve heard. I almost asked her how she knew it, how she could play it like an angle’s song. But I didn’t. I just leaned my head back and listened.

  I don’t know if it was the whistle, if it was the moment of reflective solitude or if Lilith had wishe
d a spell over me. But I suddenly felt okay with things. I had said goodbye to Pops when last we met, and he said good-bye to me. And though I never told him who I really was, I think inside he somehow knew. After all, I called him Pops, and didn’t he call me son?

  Back at the apartment, Lilith sat me on the sofa and insisted I kick off my shoes and prop my feet up on the coffee table. Then she made me a sandwich and brought me a beer. We spoke nothing more of Pops or Gypsy or India until my belly was full and my heart was at peace.

  Eventually, though, the time came, as I expected it might, when Lilith felt that she needed to tell me what I already knew, but was afraid to ask. She did this in the most un-Lilith-like way, which is how I knew she meant it. I had just finished my beer and started on another when she sat down beside me, one leg folded under her butt, the other draped over my knee.

  “Tony,” she said, “you told me something the other day, and I think I might have mishandled my reaction to it.”

  “Oh?”

  She leaned in closer until our noses nearly touched. “You told me you loved me.”

  I nodded uncertainly. “Okay?”

  “You remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for not treating the matter with more sensitivity. I should have explained a few things to you first.”

  I stopped her there. “Lilith, it’s okay. I understand why you couldn’t reciprocate. In fact, I’m a bit embarrassed now that I tried to move in on you like I did.”

  “Embarrassed? Why would you feel embarrassed?”

  “You know, because of our relationship.”

  “What about it?”

  “Come on! That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Why not? You love me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think I love you, too. Now, I’m not making any promises, but maybe we can start something here that will....”

  “No!” I pushed her back gently and slid across the sofa as far as I could. “Lilith, will you listen to yourself? What you’re suggesting is repulsive.”

  Her face twisted into tight wrinkles and furrows. “You think I’m repulsive?”

  “No, of course not! I think you’re beautiful, gorgeous and exciting.”

  She shimmied back across the sofa toward me, pressing her body to mine. “Then kiss me.”

  “No!”

  “Come on, Tony. I’ll show you my tattoo.”

  “Lilith, stop it!” I pushed her away again, this time with considerably more force, almost knocking her off the couch. I sprang to my feet, holding her back at arm’s length to maintain a healthy distance. “Look, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this can never happen. I won’t let it.”

  Finally, a more familiar Lilith emerged. She picked herself off the sofa, pulling on the bottom of her blouse to banish the wrinkles. Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned. I could see her nostrils flaring slightly, her breasts rising on every breath.

  “If you don’t want me,” she said, her voice falling flat and monotone. “All you had to do is say so. I’m not going to beg. As far as I’m concerned, we will never have this conversation again.”

  She turned and started down the hall to her bedroom. I knew I could not make her feel any better with my words, but I had to apologize anyway. At least then, I figured, I would have done all I could to set things right. I followed her to her bedroom and jammed my foot in the door just as she went to shut it.

  “Please, Lilith.” I pushed the door open enough to wedge my body halfway into the room. “Before you shut me out of your life completely, I just want you to know that I do love you, and of course I want you. I’ve wanted you ever since you took me with you through the rite of passage, hell even before that. But you have to admit that it just isn’t right for a brother and sister to have these kinds of feelings for one another. We cannot go—”

  “Wait!” She pulled the door open completely. “You think we’re brother and sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “No!”

  “What do you mean? You told me that Gypsy was your mother.”

  “She was.”

  “She was my mother, too.”

  At that point, Lilith threw her head back and laughed aloud. She staggered into the room and fell backwards onto the bed, her eyes tearing at my expense. “Oh, that’s funny,” she said, after catching her breath and then rolling back into an annoying laugh.

  I walked over and sat beside her on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to regain some reasonable composure before coaxing her to a complete stop. “Are you done?”

  She took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’m sorry, bro.” That sent her into another laughing fit.

  “That’s all right,” I said, “whenever you’re ready.”

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks and forced a straight face. “Tony, I am sorry. I thought you knew. You did such a good job investigating the case that I assumed….”

  “What?”

  “That you knew who you were.”

  “Lilith, what are you saying?”

  She took a deep breath, gathered my hands in hers and kissed them. “You are not who you think you are.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You are not Anthony Marcella Jr.”

  My mouth opened, but words failed me. I think I may have managed to utter something akin to that of a choking man, but nothing more.

  “Did you hear me?”

  I nodded. “I don’t understand.”

  “All right, it’s like this. I knew J.P. when he was Jersey Jake, but you probably figured that out already. I knew that he fathered a baby with my mother, though she never gave him the satisfaction of letting him know he was the father.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t want him to get too attached to the kid. You see, there is something about witches you should know. Only girls born to a witch become witches, and they need no special ritual to come into their own. But when a witch’s first born is a boy, then no girl to follow him can become a witch until he either dies or becomes a witch himself, and that can only happen in a rite of passage ceremony, which is easier said than done. Despite all good intentions, barely one in ten males succeeds in becoming a witch after the rite of passage.”

  “But I wasn’t Gypsy’s first born. You were.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t. I have an older sister that I haven’t seen in nearly a hundred years. But that’s beside the point. The return to prime resets your biological clock, and Gypsy had just returned to prime the year she met Jake. Her days of producing female witches rewound. Unfortunately, her first born after that was a boy. In order for her to produce a lineage of witches, she had to kill him.”

  “Oh.” I nodded as though I fully understood. The concept seemed simple enough. The logic, however, I could not comprehend. I looked to Lilith, still unclear about her initial assertion. “So, exactly where do I fit into this bizarre mix?”

  “You don’t,” she said. “That’s just it. You are not related to Gypsy. You are not related to Pops and you are definitely not related to me.”

  “Then who the hell am I related to?”

  “Dickey Skittle.”

  “What?”

  “You, my dear boy, are Little Skittle.”

  “I’m Little Dickey Skittle?”

  “You prefer Little Dick?”

  “No!”

  “Tony, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this a long time ago. But back when you were just a boy, your real father, along with Jersey Jake, dropped you and little Anthony off at an orphanage. Anthony was about five years old and you were barely four. You both had little nametags pinned to your jackets so that the folks at the orphanage would know what to call you.

  Well, I knew that this was happening and I feared that Gypsy also knew. If not, I expected she would eventually figure it out. I found you and Anthony crying on the doorst
ep of the orphanage. So, I took you both around to the back door, but before ringing the bell, I switched your nametags.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. I’m sorry, but Anthony was my little brother. I couldn’t let anything bad happen to him. I switched nametags and then I hurried out of there. I believed that you would both be taken care of, but I just couldn’t take the chance of Gypsy finding little Anthony and….well, you get the picture.”

  “So, Pops wasn’t my dad?”

  “Nope.”

  “And Gypsy wasn’t my Mother?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “And you’re not my sister.”

  “No-ho way Jose.”

  “Wow!” I fell back on the bed with my arms splayed wide; my gaze lost on a spot in the middle of the ceiling. I tried hard to reconcile all the bits and bytes that made up the last few weeks of my life. Still there was one thing I could not understand.

  “Help me with something,” I said, “please.” She dropped back and joined me, resting her head on my arm.

  “Sure. What?”

  “It’s Pops. I could have sworn that I remembered him. I remember sitting up on the hill with him, watching trains coming and going from Minor’s Point. I remember that damn whistle. He played it all the time.”

  “What you remember is your father, who happened to be a hobo. And like many hobos of the day, he had a whistle. If you try hard enough, you’ll probably remember how he used to bathe you in the river, or how he made you hold a tin cup out on the street corner while he played his whistle for pennies and dimes so that you both could eat. And if you try real hard you just might remember how he cried like a baby the night before he left you on some stranger’s doorstep because he wanted a better life for you than what he could provide.”

  “I do,” I said, noticing how the spot on the ceiling started to wobble for the tears pooling in my eyes. “I do remember that stuff.”

  “I’m sure you do. You and a thousand other little boys and girls, because that’s who your father was. He was Jersey Jake, Dickey Skittle, Milwaukee Mike, Scratch Jones and an army of great guys just like them.”

  I thought about what she said, and it warmed my heart to know that whoever my father was, all he wanted for his boy was an opportunity to succeed.