Familiar Motives

by Delia James

  “Yo, Anna!”

  “Sorry.” I blinked again.

  “Your Vibe still there?”

  I nodded. “I’m going to need a second.”

  Kenisha gestured for me to give her the key. I did. I also brought my wand out of my purse and closed my eyes, deepening my focus and raising my defenses.

  When my shields were as solid as I could make them, I nodded to Kenisha. She knocked and waited. When there was no answer, she opened the door.

  Ramona’s apartment was a lot warmer this time. Someone at some point had closed the doors, but not the curtains. Watery gray daylight filled the silent living room. The angry, greedy Vibe beat against my shields, demanding to be noticed.

  “Now, Anna, if you find anything that you think maybe could be related to the case, including that laptop, you look but you do not touch. You call me, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “Okay,” she said again.

  There was nothing else to say after that. I turned my back on Kenisha and faced the empty apartment.

  Where do I even start?

  Evidently, I started by wandering and trying to get to know something about the woman I’d met only once before she died.

  Ramona Forsythe had liked to read. That much was easy to see. Her bookcases were full of an eclectic combination of paperbacks and fat textbooks about veterinary medicine. And she’d loved her family. One whole wall of the dining room was covered with family photos. There were faded shots from the seventies and eighties of little girls in shorts and pigtails. I assumed these were Ramona and her sisters. I thought I recognized Wendy’s broad forehead and stubborn chin on one of those smiling kids. There were photos of people who might be parents and grandparents, and great big groups of young adults who must be cousins. I recognized some of them from the funeral.

  Most of the photos, though, were of Ramona and Rachael. Ramona had displayed the whole timeline of her daughter’s life, from a wrinkled, red infant at the hospital to a confused-looking baby in a party hat to a grinning young woman in her graduation robes waving her diploma over her head.

  There was an antique sideboard under the photos. I pulled open the drawers and found napkins and tablecloths, as well as some clothes and books that could have been birthday or Christmas presents tucked away for later.

  I closed that drawer and tried to ignore the fact that my eyes were stinging. My shields wavered, and I had to take several deep breaths and realign my focus. As I did, I felt something familiar, and unwelcome. It was the slow prickling in my fingertips that signaled the presence of magic, and somewhere close.

  “Kenisha?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is something going on?”

  “Depends what you mean.” Kenisha did not turn to look at me. She kept her gaze on the balcony and the rocky strip of riverbank below. “Something definitely happened, though. Julia was right. Somebody did break Ramona’s wards.”

  “You can tell.”

  “Yes. Kind of. I can feel the echo, but it’s not steady, like it would be if they were lifted naturally.”

  “So Julia was right. A witch broke the wards to be able to get in here.”

  “A witch broke them.” Kenisha turned away from the doors. She frowned at the apartment, and I hoped she never looked at me like that. “The question is when did they do it? Before or after Ramona was killed?”

  “I thought wards were, like, you know, a fence, or an alarm system, to keep people out. Why would anyone bother to shatter the wards after she was killed?”

  “To make it look like a witch was involved in the murder when maybe she wasn’t.”

  She was talking about a magical frame-up. I really did not want to think about that.

  “I’m going to have a look upstairs.”

  “Good idea.”

  • • •

  RAMONA’S BEDROOM UP in the half loft was as tidy as the rest of her apartment. Her socks were all in the wicker hamper and her laundry basket was empty. She had more photos of friends and family on the walls, along with lots and lots of pictures of animals. Probably patients. I was pretty sure I recognized several of the dogs, and that chameleon.

  The space was lightly furnished with a low futon-framed bed, a plain dresser and not much else, except for a beautiful Shaker-style cedar chest pushed up against the footboard. I glanced over my shoulder on reflex before I lifted the lid. Inside, carefully stowed, were the regalia for Ramona’s altar—candles and candleholders, a plain white cloth, a heavy brass cup, a crystal box filled with salt. I knelt down, lifted out each item and set them all on the carpet, until the chest was empty.

  “Well, sh . . . sugar,” I murmured. Because now I could see that Ramona’s computer wasn’t the only thing that was missing.

  “Kenisha?” I called without getting up from in front of the chest.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you spotted Ramona’s book of shadows anywhere?”

  Most witches kept a book of shadows. Each one was different, but they were all some kind of record of the magical workings and philosophy of the witch who wrote them. Julia had been working from hers when I visited her. I had inherited a small bookshelf full of my predecessor Dorothy Hawthorne’s writings, and of course, the first thing Julia had me do when I took my apprenticeship vows was to start my own.

  “Not yet.” Kenisha came trotting up the stairs. “Why?”

  I gestured toward the contents of the chest laid out on the carpet. Kenisha puffed out her cheeks.

  “Okay, something else to look for.”

  “But—”

  “We are not going to jump to conclusions,” she told me. “Not everybody is out of the broom closet. Ramona was at least being discreet; otherwise, she would have had the altar permanently set up somewhere. Some people hide their books.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, the books I inherited from Dorothy . . . they aren’t just a record of spells and ceremonies. They’re diaries. What if Ramona kept the same kind of books? What if . . .”

  “There was something in there the murderer didn’t want known?” said Kenisha slowly. “So they took the books when they took the laptop?”

  “Which would mean they’d have to know they were important.”

  We looked at each other. A witch’s book of shadows was deeply private. If you shared it at all, it was only with those closest to you. Ramona didn’t have a witch’s coven, but she did have a witch’s family.

  I thought about Aunt Wendy, with her hard eyes and her determination to keep me from doing exactly what I was doing. I thought about how haggard Julia had looked after Wendy left her apartment, and how she hadn’t said a word about what she and Wendy had talked about, but she had laid this spell on me to help me find the answers we needed.

  “Julia suspects Wendy Forsythe.” The words popped out, but as soon as I said them, I knew it was true. “They had an argument the other day.”

  “I was afraid of this,” muttered Kenisha. “All the coven history is getting in the way and people are going to screw everything up trying to keep their own secrets.” She added a few other things under her breath. “All right, keep looking up here. I’ll go downstairs and check the bookcases.”

  I put the regalia back in the chest and closed the lid. There weren’t a lot of other places to look, or a lot else to find. No convenient diary or appointment book waited under the neatly folded scrubs and jeans in Ramona’s dresser. No laptop computer or tablet or cell phone or notebook had been shoved behind the sensible shoes in the built-in closet or left on the top shelf with the sweaters.

  I was clenching my teeth down around my frustration when I heard a new sound.

  “Merow?”

  Alistair! I jumped and stared around frantically.

  “Merp?”

 
; This time I realized where the sound was coming from. I got down on my knees and peered under the bed. In addition to the usual dust bunnies and unidentified lumps and bumps, Alistair crouched under Ramona’s bed.

  “Merow?” He blinked his big blue eyes at me.

  I glanced toward the stairs. I couldn’t see Kenisha. I thought I heard rummaging sounds coming from the other room.

  “Now you show up?” I whispered furiously to my cat. “Where have you been?”

  Alistair lifted his chin in a gesture that would have done Attitude Cat proud.

  “Okay, okay.” I sighed. “But what . . .”

  Alistair reached out one paw and batted at a piece of . . . something. It was round and about the size of my little fingernail. On reflex, I reached for it, but at the last minute I curled my fingers up.

  “Okay,” I whispered again. Alistair blinked at me one more time and vanished.

  “Uhhh . . . Kenisha?” I called. “I think I found something.”

  “Don’t touch it!” she shouted. This time, she grabbed her maxiskirt hem and sprinted up the stairs. I scooted sideways and held up both virtuously empty hands.

  Kenisha pulled a little flashlight out of her purse. Of course she had a flashlight. Kenisha was always prepared. She knelt, and shone the light on the dust bunnies, cardboard boxes and two gleaming silver baubles.

  I recognized them, or at least their type. I’d seen something like them very recently.

  Kenisha took her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and lay down so her cheek was pressed against the carpet to snap a picture.

  “We do not touch them,” she told me when she straightened up. “I’m calling Pete right now and we’re getting him down here because . . .”

  “Find something interesting?”

  We both cringed and we both turned to look over the loft’s half wall. Pete Simmons stood in the doorway, hands deep in his coat pockets, furry hat pushed back on his head.

  And Lieutenant Blanchard stood right beside him.

  30

  “WELL, HELLO, MS. Britton. How nice to see you again.”

  Lieutenant Michael Blanchard (Jr.) had a thousand-watt smile and Hollywood-white teeth. When he flashed them all, like he was doing now, he bore a really uncanny resemblance to a great white shark who’d just spotted his next meal.

  “Hello, Lieutenant Blanchard,” I said. “Hi, Pete.”

  “Hi, Anna,” Pete said, but he wasn’t looking at me. His attention was all on Kenisha.

  “Rachael Forsythe gave Anna the keys to her mother’s apartment,” Kenisha told them both. “She asked if Anna would have a look for the missing laptop.”

  “So we heard,” said the lieutenant.

  Heard? From whom? Aunt Wendy? Rachael? Julia? Then I looked at Lieutenant Blanchard again.

  Cheryl Bell? Not possible. She wasn’t even there.

  I looked at Pete, but Pete just gave me the tiniest shake of his head. He didn’t know where the tip had come from either.

  “I am going to assume you two won’t mind if we come on up and see what you’ve found,” said Blanchard with his usual sneering, exaggerated courtesy.

  Of course we didn’t mind. In fact, we both backed away as far as the loft would let us while the lieutenant snapped on a pair of disposable blue gloves and reached under the bed.

  “Sir . . . ,” began Kenisha.

  “And that delicate sound is Officer Freeman belatedly wondering if we have permission to conduct a new search, now that the apartment is no longer a crime scene,” said Blanchard. Blanchard close-up wasn’t any more pleasant than Blanchard at a distance. I could feel a smug kind of self-satisfied greed rolling off him, an uncomfortable echo of the Vibe that thrummed on the other side of my shields.

  “We do,” said Pete.

  I bit my lip. Hard. Somebody had called the cops. One glance at Kenisha’s stony face told me I wasn’t just being paranoid. Somebody had called the cops, and they might have done it because they knew we were here.

  That meant it had to be Wendy.

  Or Rachael.

  When Lieutenant Blanchard straightened up, he cupped the Aldina beads in his gloved palm. Pete already had an evidence baggie out and ready.

  “Those weren’t there when we searched the first time,” said Kenisha.

  “We’ll need to check the photos,” said Pete. “But I’m pretty sure she’s right, sir.”

  “Any idea what these even are?” Blanchard asked Pete.

  “They’re beads off an Aldina bracelet,” I said, before I remembered I was not anybody the lieutenant wanted to hear from.

  Blanchard gave me a look that said he doubted I could have identified my own grandmother from a photo lineup. Pete, however, just held the bag up to the light.

  “Looks like it,” he agreed. “My wife has been angling for one for Christmas. I had to order it back in June. Those things are impossible to find.”

  “How nice,” Blanchard drawled. “And I don’t suppose any of you happen to know if any of our suspects wear . . . what the hell did you call it?”

  “Aldina,” supplied Pete. I clamped my mouth shut, but not fast enough. “Any ideas, Ms. Britton?”

  If it was just Pete, I wouldn’t have had any problem saying what I knew, but standing next to Lieutenant Blanchard made me want to exercise my right to remain silent. Remembering that conversation I’d overheard at the Harbor’s Rest did not make spilling the beans any easier.

  Blanchard sighed with exaggerated patience. “Maybe you know, Freeman?”

  Kenisha was staring at me. I could all but feel her trying to work out why I was hesitating.

  “There is someone involved who wears this type of jewelry,” she said slowly, giving me time.

  “And that mysterious person is . . . ?” Blanchard made a hurry-up gesture.

  “Cheryl Bell,” she said.

  Blanchard did not blink. He did not turn a hair, let alone flush or blanch or any of those other things people are supposed to do when they’re shocked.

  What he did do was glance at his watch.

  “I’ve got a press briefing. I’m taking charge of this evidence. Freeman, I want a report on my desk before noon. I don’t suppose any of you has done something really useful, like found that damn cat?”

  We shook our heads, me included. Blanchard said one short word that would probably not be repeated at that press conference.

  “You.” He turned to me. “I do not want to see any of you or your Nosey Parkers around here anymore. This investigation is ongoing and you are not messing it up. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, because Blanchard was looming, and his looming always encouraged that kind of response.

  “Smart woman.” He flashed his shark’s grin at me. “Simmons, Freeman, you make sure she gets out of here without causing any trouble.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Pete answered. “Will do. For sure.”

  Blanchard shot him one of the dirtiest looks I have ever seen and marched out the door. As soon as it swung shut, Pete gave a long whistle. He also started jingling the keys in his pocket in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.

  “Okay, Kenisha,” Pete said. “Just us here now. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “No,” she said immediately. “Rachael Forsythe asked Anna to look for her mom’s computer. Anna asked me to come along in case she found it, or anything else important.”

  “And you two found those beads or bangles or whatever you call ’em?”

  “Affirmative,” said Kenisha. I nodded in firm and enthusiastic agreement.

  Pete jingled his keys a few more times.

  “Um . . . ,” I began. Both cops turned, eyebrows raised in surprisingly identical expressions. “Did Kenisha have a chance to tell you that Blanchard and Cheryl Bell know each other?”

 
“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did mention it,” said Pete. “And that makes this whole scenario very interesting, don’t you think?”

  Kenisha watched Pete without answering. A whole world of calculations flashed behind her amber eyes. I felt that jolt of near-telepathic communication pass between the two cops again.

  And I knew what the problem was.

  “The beads . . . they really weren’t there when the crime scene people went over the place before, were they?”

  “Maybe the guys missed them.” Pete didn’t take his eyes of Kenisha. “Like I said, we’ll have to check the crime scene photos. Staff’s been stretched thin lately, and that new guy couldn’t find his own . . . elbow with a map and a flashlight.”

  “But maybe they were planted,” I said.

  Kenisha’s jaw tightened, and all at once I felt like I’d just sworn in church.

  “But maybe they were planted,” agreed Pete, slowly and thoughtfully. “And we found them, just like we were supposed to.” The detective turned his permanently droopy eyes toward me. “Anna, I don’t suppose Rachael Forsythe said anything about who else has access to this apartment?”

  “Dr. Forsythe has a lot of family in the area,” Kenisha reminded him. “Several of them have keys to the place. Tony got the full list when he was doing the interviews.”

  “But who . . . ?” I stammered.

  “Who has access to the apartment and might want to frame Mrs. Bell?” Pete calmly finished my question for me.

  I tried to picture the formidable Aunt Wendy shoving two little beads under a bed with the crumbs and dust bunnies, and failed. But there was somebody else who would be very glad to have Cheryl Bell not be around and making trouble anymore.

  Kristen Summers.

  As soon as I thought that, though, I realized it was impossible. Kristen didn’t have a key to Ramona’s apartment. And even if she did, she’d been in Minnesota when Ramona died.

  Hadn’t she?

  I turned toward Kenisha, trying to find some innocuous way to frame the question. But Kenisha wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. She’d had an idea. I could practically see the lightbulb shining over her head.