I Buried a Witch

by Josh Lanyon

  John took charge of Jinx, bumping me out of the way, pulling her into his arms. “Joan. Joanie, stop.” He forced her to look at him. “We need your help. We have to know what happened. We have to hear the whole thing from the beginning.”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes.

  He guided her into the apartment, where Officer Young was examining the front-door lock.

  “I want a CS unit here now,” John told him, leading Jinx to the sofa. Officer Young nodded and began to speak softly into his shoulder mic.

  Jinx huddled on the green sofa, face in her hands. John said in a hard, flat voice, “You can go.”

  It took me a second to realize he was speaking to me. My head jerked up, and I stared at him. His eyes glittered like agates in his pale face.

  Safe to say, time had not softened his feelings toward me.

  I found I wasn’t any too thrilled to see him either. I glared back.

  Jinx half rose from the sofa. “What? Why? No, I want Cos here.” She reached out to me, tugged at my hand, and I sort of folded onto the sofa beside her.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” That was largely bravado. I still felt wretched, and I thought there was a good chance John was about to have me tossed out of the apartment, but I wasn’t going to willingly abandon her.

  Besides, I needed to hear her story.

  Jinx gave a wobbly laugh and pointed at my feet. “Cos, your shoes don’t match.”

  I looked down. I was wearing a gray Vans on my left foot and a black loafer on my right foot.

  “Jinx?” John prompted.

  She nodded. Her face quivered, but she regained control. “After work, a bunch of us went out for drinks.”

  “On a Tuesday night?” John said disapprovingly.

  I made a sound of disbelief. His frosty gaze met mine.

  Jinx was focused on her recital. “Yes. And then when it got late, we went over to Maria’s house—she’s my friend from work—and we…visited some more.”

  John rolled his eyes.

  “It was about two when I got home.” She inhaled sharply, shakily.

  I glanced around for a clock and saw that it was now just after three.

  “Take your time,” John said. “You’re safe now.” The gentleness in his voice closed my throat, reminded me of things I couldn’t afford to think of then.

  She nodded. “I-I thought when I walked in that it felt cold, like I had left a window open. I looked around, but no windows were open.”

  “Were the windows locked?” John asked.

  She gulped. “I thought so, but the little jamb thing on the bedroom window sticks sometimes, so I can’t always tell.”

  John’s face grew grimmer. He looked at Young, who nodded and vanished into the bedroom.

  Jinx said, “I undressed and went into the bathroom to take a shower. I turned on the water, and I was standing there brushing my teeth when I saw in the mirror that the door handle was…turning.”

  I put my arm around her.

  She nestled against me, whispering, “I could see it turning back and forth, and I started to scream, and then I saw my purse was sitting on the toilet lid—”

  “Why?” John asked.

  “W-w-why?”

  “Why was your purse in the bathroom?”

  She looked confused. “Maria gave me some samples.”

  He looked more severe. “What kind of samples?”

  I burst out, “What does it matter?”

  His face tightened, but Jinx said, “Cosmetics. We have a new line of makeup at the store. I grabbed the mace out of my purse—”

  I was expecting John to next point out the differences between pepper spray and mace, but he was silent, the lines of his face stark.

  “The door burst open, and I sprayed him—”

  “You saw him?” I asked quickly.

  She shook her head. “He was just a blur. A dark blur. He was dressed in black. I started screaming, and then I heard him go out through the front. The front door banged shut, and I knew he was gone.” She looked at me. “So I called 911, and then I called you guys.”

  Young stuck his head out of the bedroom and said, “This window doesn’t lock, Commissioner.”

  John swore quietly.

  I said, “Why do you think it was the Witch Killer?”

  “Because…” She closed her eyes and shuddered.

  “Because why, Joanie?” John prompted.

  “Because of what he left on my bed.”

  John stared at her, stared at me, turned and went into the bedroom. Jinx raised her face to mine, her eyes huge in her white face.

  “He found my athame, Cos. He left it lying on my bed. He was going to kill me like he killed the others…”

  It seemed to take forever before the crime-scene unit arrived, although I know it can’t have been long after Young called for them.

  It also seemed to take hours before John finished talking to them, but at last he joined Jinx and me where we waited on the landing. He said to her, “All right. Let’s get you over to Mother’s.”

  Jinx had been drooping against the waist-high cement balcony, but she straightened up at that. “Mother’s? Wait. I’m not going to Mother’s. I’ll stay with you guys.”

  John and I exchanged instinctive looks. John said, “Unfortunately, that’s not going to work.”

  “Why? You have plenty of room. You have two guestrooms.”

  “She can stay at our house,” I said.

  “No, she can’t,” John said, giving me a long, level look. “She’ll stay at Mother’s.” He looked at Jinx. “You’ll be safest there. And Mother will love having you.”

  Jinx stared. “Safer than at your house? You have a state-of-the-art security system. You’re the police commissioner.”

  John said wearily, “Joanie, will you just for once cooperate?”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not going to Mother’s. I’d rather—” She gulped and said in a smaller, tighter voice, “If you don’t want me, I’ll call Maria. Hell, I’ll get a hotel room.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re not going to a hotel. Think how Mother would feel if you didn—”

  Jinx burst out, “Mother can’t stand me any more than I can stand her! I’ll go to a hotel.”

  The officers and technicians still milling around the apartment landing exchanged uncomfortable looks. John thrust a hand through his hair, making it stand up in devil tufts. “Jesus Christ, Joan.”

  “How would you know? You were never there!” she cried. “She blames me for everything my father did. Every time she looks at me, she sees him!”

  John looked stunned.

  “She can stay at my old place,” I said quickly. “I haven’t rented it out yet. The bed’s even still there.”

  John threw me an impatient look, but Jinx sagged in relief. “Yes! Okay, yes. I’ll stay at Cos’s townhouse. No one will know where I am. I’ll feel safe there.”

  John muttered something, said brusquely, “Fine. Get whatever you need—check with the CS team first—and I’ll drive you over.”

  The drive did not take long and was mostly silent. Jinx sat in the front seat. I sat in the back. Every now and then John’s bleak gaze found mine in the rearview mirror.

  I didn’t know how to interpret that look. Safe to say, he was not delighted to find me in his company again. Maybe he thought I was somehow to blame for the attack on his sister.

  When we got to Carson Street, I led the way upstairs. John, still silent, still disapproving, followed Jinx.

  I opened the door, turned on the lights, and Jinx stepped inside.

  Though it had only been a couple of weeks since I’d lived there, the rooms felt hollow and empty.

  The last time I’d been here had been the night before John and I were married. John had come to me. He’d told me he didn’t want to spend even a single night without me. The memory squeezed my heart.

  I glanced at him, wondering if he remembered. He was looking at Jinx.

  “Are you
sure you want to stay here on your own?” he asked.

  Jinx nodded stubbornly. “I like it. It has good energy.”

  He snorted. “Sure it does.”

  We said good night to Jinx and stepped out onto the landing, waiting for her to turn the lock behind us.

  As I turned toward the stairs, John said, “I don’t appreciate your second-guessing me in front of my sister.”

  “Yes, I saw that. I also saw that your sister was scared to death.”

  “She’d be a lot more scared if she knew whose—or what’s—place she was spending the night in.”

  That got to me. I spun back to face him. “You’re an ignorant, bigoted bully, John Joseph Galbraith. You don’t know who or what I am because you didn’t stick around long enough to fi —”

  The problem was, I was still shaky, and that sudden move threw me off balance. I had a vertigo-inducing glimpse of the accordion of stairs stretching below me, and then John caught my arm, yanking me back, saving me from pitching down the stairs.

  “Watch it.”

  He instantly let go, as though I’d burned him. I reeled against the banister, truly shaken. A fall like that could kill someone. I pushed my hair back with an unsteady hand.

  “Mistake. That would have solved all your problems,” I said.

  His eyes looked black, but as he watched me, his lip curled. “You smell like a brewery.”

  “I think you mean distillery. I drank your Drambuie.”

  “You’re welcome to it.” He was not being generous.

  It occurred to me that I was fighting a losing battle. John could be way more unkind than I could. And without even trying.

  I nodded and headed downstairs, gripping the railing as I went. John followed in silence. When we reached the pavement, he said, “I assume you can get wherever you need to go without my help.”

  For the first time, I wondered if I might get over John faster than I’d expected.

  I said, “Yes. I can. But I think you should hear what I have to say, since it concerns the Witch Killer investigation.”

  He was not impressed. “Go on.”

  Not even an invitation to sit in his car. Which I would have appreciated because, June or not, it was chilly standing there without a shirt, in my mismatched shoes.

  “You should find out if Ralph Grindlewood has an alibi for the night of the murders of Abigail Starshine and Clara Hellyer. You should also find out if he has an alibi for the night Rex was run down in that hit-and-run.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “You think your friend Grindlewood, the historian, tried to kill Rex? What would be his motive?”

  “It turns out Ralph’s not really a friend.”

  “Regardless, what would be his motive?”

  “I don’t know. Rex is still in a coma. But you’re the one who told me Rex was a PI. Maybe Rex was working on a case involving Ralph.”

  “That’s pure speculation. If not downright fantasy.”

  “Okay, but according to the eyewitness, Rex was deliberately run down by someone driving a black Mercedes Benz. Ralph drives a black Mercedes Benz.”

  “That’s it? Grindlewood drives a black Mercedes Benz? That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

  “Of course that’s not it. I-I can’t tell you all of it. I can only—”

  “Déjà vu.” He made a sound too bitter for a laugh. “Another French thing.”

  I winced at the memory of what had once been our private joke.

  John’s wolfish grin, his teasing, “I won’t ask.”

  And my nervous, “It’s a…a French thing.”

  It took discipline to let that go. I said, “I can tell you that Ralph isn’t what he seems.”

  “Imagine that. Is Ralph a witch too?”

  “No. No, Ralph is mortal. I thought he was an ally, a friend to the Craft. I was wrong. His interests and sympathies don’t align with ours or with Wiccans. And that’s the thing. Two of your victims were Wiccans, but the third—”

  “There was no third victim.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m certain—almost certain—that Seamus Reitherman was the third victim.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it. Because it’s bullshit. I don’t know what hold the Reitherman woman has over you, but—”

  “Her hold is that she asked me for help. She knows that I know she’s innocent.”

  “And you know that because…?”

  “I told you this already. She wouldn’t have tried to kill me if she hadn’t believed I killed Seamus. It’s obvious that her only motive for trying to shoot me was revenge for Seamus.”

  “It may be obvious to you, but it’s not obvious to me or the detectives who worked the case, or Chief Morrisey, or the DA, or—”

  “John, don’t let your anger at me blind you to what’s really going on. Don’t take your anger at me out on Ciara.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m telling you there were…signs at the crime scene that indicated Seamus’s killer was mortal.”

  “So, you’re immortal?”

  “No. I’m not immortal.” My throat closed. I said huskily, “I can break my neck falling down a staircase like anyone else.”

  I could feel him trying to read my face in the gloom.

  I said, “The term mortal is used to—that is, some use it to refer to the soul of the non-magic.”

  John’s mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “I see.”

  And I was sure he did.

  “So Reitherman’s wife is not mortal. Naturally. Is anyone you know, besides me and my family, actually mortal?”

  “Of course. Blanche is mortal.”

  Even though it was his suggestion, he looked taken aback. “That’s it?”

  “No. It’s only that you’re flustering me. I’m blanking on the others. Ralph is mortal.”

  “Yeah, right. Ralph. The bad guy. The one you think is behind this whole conspiracy to wipe out you and your coven.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Forget it. What signs were present at the Reitherman crime scene?”

  I hesitated. “I can’t really… You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  John laughed. “Really? Your word?”

  Anger was one thing. I expected his anger. I knew I deserved it. But his cynicism, his contempt, his instant challenging of everything I said or did… It wasn’t right. That I didn’t deserve. I hadn’t lied about everything. Mostly I had not lied. I had acted in good faith in our marriage. To the best of my ability. I had tried—still wanted more than anything in the world—to make him happy.

  I forced down my hurt. “John, I know you’re—I know you hate me for what I did. But this isn’t about us. Innocent people shouldn’t have to pay the price because you don’t trust me. You don’t have to trust me. I’m telling you what I know—or at least what I think—and I’m giving you the names of those I believe you should look into. Can’t you at least keep an open mind? What do you have to lose by investigating?”

  He opened his mouth to tell me, no doubt in detail. I added quickly, “Why would I come to you with this information if I didn’t believe it to be true? What do I have to gain by giving you more reasons to be angry with me?”

  “How do I know what your plan is?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “John. If you could just…remember these last weeks. Not as you view them now, but how they really were. Do I seem like someone with a plan? What would such a plan have been? What do you think you have that I need so badly, I would trap us both in…this?”

  He was silent. Finally, he said, “Who else do you think we should be looking at?”

  The fight drained out of me. What else was there left to say? “You should also check into the background of a woman named Valenti Garibaldi.”

  “Valenti?” John repeated slowly. “Isn’t that Jinx’s friend?”

  “Yes. She’s…” It wasn’t only that telling these things to any mortal, even John, was difficul
t. To reveal such secrets to a police officer went against everything drummed into me since childhood. I felt like—I was—betraying a sacred trust. “She’s involved in the Wiccan community. Both women who died were connected to her. And Seamus was—at least I think so—also connected to her.”

  He said, “Honest to God, if I didn’t know what you were—if I hadn’t witnessed it myself—I’d think you were crazy. You sound crazy. I’m not sure you’re not crazy.”

  I said wearily, “I’m starting to wonder myself.”

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll see that Grindlewood and the Valenti woman are looked at.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is that it? Are we done here?”

  After a moment, I nodded.

  Without another word, he turned, climbed into his Range Rover, and drove away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June is a good time to visit Paris.

  The days are long and sunny, the weather is warm but not too warm, the crowds are large, but not yet too large. The roses are in bloom, and it’s almost impossible to walk down any street and not hear music. Or see a cat. Many, many of the cats of Paris are witches’ Familiars. In fact, they say there are more feline Familiars in France than in any other country in the world.

  Anyway, a small black Familiar had been following me since I left my hotel in Rue Jacob.

  As much as I like Paris in June, I was not happy to be there. I was not happy about the reason for my trip, nor the trip itself. Eleven hours is a very long time to be stuck in a metal-and-glass container hurtling through the clouds. There are faster ways to travel than by plane, but it takes an incredible amount of energy and skill to cross an ocean. And the risk of accidentally entering a postern in an underwater sea cave or a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea is high. I don’t know anyone who’s actually tried it. Not me. Never me.

  So I had landed Thursday afternoon, jet lagged and depressed, as well as edgy about my upcoming interview with the Société du Sortilège. I hoped a good meal, a strong drink, and a walk by the Seine would at least calm my thoughts, even if nothing could lift my mood.

  And it was true—the fading afternoon sunlight on my face was pleasant, the smells and sounds of Paris comforting. Perhaps if John and I really were through—and it had certainly felt that way Tuesday night—I could move to Paris for a time. Blanche could run the shop without my help.