by Leslie Meier
“The fire’s out,” said Lucy when the two firefighters jumped out of the heavy-duty truck. She indicated the tree with a jerk of her head but wasn’t about to take another look.
“My God!” exclaimed one firefighter, taking in the horrible sight.
The other, younger man started to approach, then stopped when the stench hit him. “This is one for the medical examiner,” he said, retreating.
“It’s amazing the whole woods didn’t go up,” said the older man, studying the site.
“That tree’s by itself,” said the younger man, scratching his stubbly chin. “In the middle of this clearing. And it looks like whatever happened here happened a while ago.”
“Yeah,” said the older man, surveying the scene. “A lot of trees and brush have been cut. It’s almost like it was prepared on purpose for something like this.” He shivered. “This is an evil place.”
It was true, thought Lucy. It was as if the sap rising in the trees that circled the clearing was tainted and bilious, as if the ground beneath her feet were seething with nests of twisting snakes, a place where monsters lurked and the trees came alive, whirling around her.
Next thing she knew, she was on the ground and one of the firefighters was wrapping her in a foil shock blanket and Libby was licking her face. “You didn’t look too good there,” he said, handing her a lollipop.
“I just want to go home,” she said, obediently licking the pop and concentrating on the taste. It was grape, not her favorite.
“We’ll get you home soon but first I have a few questions.” Lucy sat up slowly and saw that the police and more fire trucks had arrived while she had been unconscious. Several cruisers with blinking lights were lined up on the dirt road, and a couple of officers were stringing yellow tape around the edge of the clearing. She recognized her questioner; he was one of the Kirwan boys. Todd, according to his nameplate. Dot Kirwan, who worked at the IGA, had produced a large brood of kids, most of whom now worked for the police and fire departments, including her oldest, who had recently been named chief of police.
“I don’t know anything,” said Lucy. “I was just walking the dog.”
Todd nodded. “You live nearby. Did you hear anything?”
Lucy thought of Diana Ravenscroft, who’d looked in her crystal ball and saw fire and heard screams in the night. But Lucy hadn’t heard any screams; she hadn’t seen any column of smoke rising from the woods or noticed any fire. Or had she? Perhaps one morning, months ago, hadn’t there been a smoky scent in the morning air that she’d attributed to a smoldering wood-stove?
“Maybe, a couple of months ago, I thought I smelled smoke.”
“Can you be more specific than that?”
“It was a foggy, misty morning. Still cold. April, maybe early May?”
Todd nodded. “Just one more thing. Did you touch anything? Did the dog?”
“No, no,” said Lucy. “Once I realized what it was, I immediately leashed the dog. I was sick.”
“No wonder,” sympathized the officer. He wasn’t very old, not yet thirty, with a blond crew cut and an unlined face.
“What do you think…Why would somebody do this? Who was this person?” asked Lucy.
Kirwan shrugged. “A drug deal gone bad, maybe a gangland killing. The body was probably burned to prevent identification.”
Lucy had been a reporter for a long time, and as far as she knew, the little seaside town was a peaceful haven where people didn’t bother to lock their doors and left the car keys in the ignition. “Here? In Tinker’s Cove?” she asked.
Kirwan shrugged. “Up ’til now, when we got reports of a fire in the woods, it’s always been partying kids. This is a new one for me.” He looked solemn. “And I hope it’s the last.”
The cops gave Lucy a ride home. She got to ride in front, but the dog had to sit in the caged rear of the cruiser. She wished she could stay home—the empty house was sturdy and cozy and reassuringly normal with dog dishes on the kitchen floor and a couple of coffee mugs in the sink—but she knew the discovery of the burned body in the woods was big news, and she had to file her story. So she tossed some dog biscuits into Libby’s bowl, gave her some fresh water, and headed out to her car.
It was a few minutes before five when she got to the office, and Phyllis was tidying up her desk, preparing to leave. Ted was seated at the old rolltop desk that had once belonged to his grandfather, a legendary small-town editor. He was on the phone with somebody, laughing it up.
“What are you doing back here?” asked Phyllis, peering at her over her harlequin reading glasses. Her rhinestone-studded tote bag and zebra-striped purse were ready on her desk.
“Big story,” said Lucy. “I was walking the dog, and I found a body.”
“You know, that’s the reason I don’t have a dog,” said Phyllis, slinging her bags over her arm. “You’re always hearing about people finding bodies when they walk the filthy beasts.”
“A body?” inquired Ted, ending his call.
Lucy nodded, her expression grim. “It was burned. Tied to a tree and burned.”
Phyllis stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “That’s awful.”
Ever the editor, Ted had a ghoulish appreciation for a sensational story, but even he was horrified. “Ohmigod. Who is it?” he demanded.
“They don’t know,” said Lucy, trying unsuccessfully to block the sight from her mind. “It was in a clearing off the old logging road behind my house. The cops think it was drugs, or maybe gang related. They think the body was burned so it couldn’t be identified.”
“Dumb,” said Phyllis, who was a fan of CSI. “They never heard of dental records?”
“This happened here in Tinker’s Cove?” wondered Ted.
“I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it myself,” said Lucy, suddenly feeling the need to sit down.
“Well, if you ask me, a lot of strange things have happened since that Diana Ravenscroft moved to town,” said Phyllis. “She makes no bones about it—she comes right out and says she’s a witch.”
“Considering the fact that throughout history, witches got burned quite a bit, I think it’s fair to assume that Diana is firmly opposed to the practice,” said Ted, reaching for the phone with one hand and his pen with the other. “Just my luck,” he muttered. “Why do big stories like this always have to break on Thursdays?”
“Well, I’ll leave you two newshounds to it,” said Phyllis, opening the door. “See you tomorrow.”
There was always a chance of selling a breaking story to the Portland or Boston papers, so Ted and Lucy got to work calling every contact they could think of. The investigation was in such an early stage that they didn’t get much information, except for learning that the state police would issue a statement sometime Friday.
“Great,” muttered Ted. “There goes my scoop.”
Lucy nodded in agreement. At best, they had enough for only a short brief that would be included in a regional news roundup. But tomorrow, once the official statement came out, the town would most likely be overrun with newspaper and TV reporters hunting a sensational story. She was shutting down her computer and tidying her desk, getting ready to leave, when Ted snorted and tossed a letter in the trash basket.
“I can’t believe the stuff people expect me to print,” he snorted.
Lucy was checking her bag, making sure she had pens and a notebook and an extra battery for her camera. “What is it now? Another please-scoop-your-dog-poop letter?”
“No. It’s all about this so-called witch. Has that little purple shop.”
Lucy put down her bag. “I was there today, and so was Pam. We went after our usual breakfast and had our fortunes told.”
“Well, according to this guy, Ike something or other, you were consorting with a Devil worshipper.”
“Let me see that.” Ted retrieved the letter and passed it to Lucy, who found her suspicion about the author confirmed. It was the letter Ike Stoughton had delivered earlier that afternoon. “He drop
ped by earlier,” she said, smoothing out the crumpled sheet of paper. “He’s just moved into town, out by me. He bought the old Whipple place.”
“Sounds like a nut,” said Ted.
Reading the letter, Lucy had to agree. Ike not only accused Diana of worshipping the Devil but also claimed she was corrupting the town’s youth and was responsible for the recent drought. He stopped short of suggesting that decent people ought to drive her out of town, but he did call for all God-fearing folk to boycott her shop. Finishing the letter, Lucy screwed up her mouth. “You’re right. He’s some sort of bigot. I wish I’d known.”
“So he’s your neighbor; you don’t have to be buddies.”
“My girls are friends with his daughter.”
“So what? You say hi and good-bye and that’s it.”
“More than that, I’m afraid,” said Lucy. “I invited him to the neighborhood potluck on Saturday night.”
Ted was grinning. “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t mention your recent séance.”
“You’re right,” said Lucy, crossing the office. “And it wasn’t a séance. It was a psychic reading, and”—she stopped at the door—“Diana had some very interesting things to say about you!”
Then she was gone, leaving Ted to wonder what Diana had said about him. Lucy, however, was thinking about her new neighbor when she got in the car and started the engine. She was tired; it had been a long, emotionally exhausting day beginning with Diana’s disturbing predictions, followed by the gruesome discovery in the woods, and ending with Ike Stoughton’s letter. She couldn’t understand why he found Diana Ravenscroft’s presence so disturbing.
A honk reminded her that she needed to pay attention to the road. She was well below the speed limit, which sometimes happened when she was tired and distracted, as if it was too much effort to press her foot against the gas pedal. She gave her head a shake and stepped on the gas, looking forward to getting home.
Considering the events of the afternoon, pot roast was out of the question. Luckily, school vacation had started earlier that week, and she’d left a note explaining she’d had to go back to the office and instructing the girls to cook supper, maybe a simple menu of spaghetti and salad. While they prepared dinner, she planned on sipping a glass of wine out on the porch.
But the minute she pulled into the drive, she heard the piercing shriek of the smoke alarms and the frantic barking of the dog. Braking hard and pulling the key out of the ignition, she jumped out of the car and ran toward the house. There was no sign of fire that she could see, but she still hesitated at the door, remembering that you should never enter a burning building. There was no scent of smoke when she opened the kitchen door. The kitchen was cool and fresh from the breeze blowing through the windows. There wasn’t even any sign of cooking in progress, although she could hear voices coming from upstairs, in between the strident wails of the smoke alarms.
Climbing the back stairway that led from the kitchen to the bedrooms, she became aware of a smoky scent, and she found herself taking the steps two at a time. What was going on? Had the girls been smoking and started a fire? Were they trying to put it out themselves?
In the hall the scent was even stronger; it was clearly coming from Sara’s bedroom. Lucy pushed the door open and saw the room filled with a bluish haze. Sara, Zoe, and a third girl had opened the windows and were waving pillows around, trying to dissipate the smoke. Libby was following her, barking anxiously.
“Where’s the fire?” demanded Lucy.
“No fire, Mom,” shrieked Sara over the smoke alarms.
Lucy grabbed a chair and took it out into the hall, where she climbed up and disconnected the alarm. The sudden silence was a huge relief. She took a deep breath, then stepped down and marched back to question the girls. “Were you smoking?” she demanded angrily. Cigarettes were strictly forbidden.
“No, Mom,” said Sara. “We were casting a circle.”
“What? And who’s this?” demanded Lucy, afraid she knew the answer. The girl was about Sara’s age, fourteen or fifteen, wearing a long summer skirt that fell below her knees. She had her long, blond hair pulled back into a thick braid.
“I’m Abby Stoughton,” said the girl, confirming Lucy’s suspicion. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone.”
“I met your father today. He said we’re neighbors.”
“That’s right,” said Abby. “We just moved into a new house down the road, on the other side of the bridge. Well, new to us. The house was built in 1799.”
Lucy sat down on the bed, and Libby rested her chin on her knee. She was beginning to get the picture. The girls had apparently struck up a friendship with their new neighbor, they’d even met her father, but they hadn’t bothered to inform her. She had the same unsettling feeling she’d first encountered when Toby, her oldest, began going to kindergarten and was occasionally greeted by people she didn’t know. Her first reaction had been suspicion but they usually turned out to be parents of other students who’d visited the class. It was ridiculous, she thought, but she’d never quite come to terms with the idea that her children had lives of their own.
“So what set off the smoke alarms?”
“We were casting a circle,” said Zoe. “We were going to make a spell.”
Lucy’s heart sank. “A spell?”
“To get rid of pimples,” volunteered Zoe. “Abby’s been collecting rainwater under the moon.”
“Rainwater didn’t set off the smoke alarms,” said Lucy.
“No,” confessed Sara. “First we burned a bundle of sage to clear the circle of evil forces.”
Spells, circles, evil forces, thought Lucy. “This sounds a lot like witchcraft,” she said.
Sara produced a well-thumbed paperback book with a gorgeous, raven-haired woman pictured on the cover. Witchcraft for Teens was the title. “I bought it at that new shop in town,” she said. “And the sage bundle too.”
Now, not only was Ike her neighbor, but also her girls had been practicing witchcraft with his daughter. Lucy sat there, stroking the dog and staring at the pink and green braided rug that covered the floor. It occurred to her that so far, Diana Ravenscroft’s predictions had been right on target.
Chapter Four
“Now, Abby,” said Lucy, looking the girl in the eyes, “it just so happens that I saw your father today, and he expressed his deep concern about the presence of Diana Ravenscroft in town. He’s very much against any sort of witchcraft, as I’m sure you know. There’s absolutely no way I can allow you to come here and do something that your father disapproves of, now, can I?”
“No, Mrs. Stone.” Abby was hanging her head.
“Maybe you should see a dermatologist instead of fooling around with a lot of mumbo jumbo,” suggested Lucy.
“That’s just it!” exclaimed the girl angrily. She raised her face, and Lucy saw that her chin was indeed spotted with a few pink bumps. But it was her eyes that caught her attention. Fiercely blue, they were tearing up. “I’ve begged and begged but my parents won’t let me see a doctor. They won’t even let me use anything on my face except soap and water!”
“Pimples are just part of being a teenager,” said Lucy. “You’ll outgrow them.”
“It’s like being cursed,” muttered Abby. “I feel like a leper having to go around like this.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” said Lucy. “They’re not that noticeable, really.”
“They’re disgusting,” exclaimed Abby, beginning to sob.
“Mom’s right,” said Sara, handing her a tissue. “You can hardly see them.”
“I hope I never get zits,” said Zoe, getting a sharp look from her mother. “And you have really pretty hair,” she added. “I wish Mom would let me grow my hair long like yours.”
“No, you don’t,” said Abby, dabbing her eyes. “I wish I could have short hair, too, but my parents won’t let me cut it. It’s a pain, having to brush it all the time. It gets all snarly and it hurts.”
“Well,
pretty soon you’ll be old enough to leave home and do what you want,” said Lucy. “But in the meantime, you have to obey your parents. They’re giving you a home and they love you.”
“I know,” grumbled Abby. “It’s one of the Ten Commandments: Honor thy father and thy mother.”
“That’s right. And it’s getting late, almost dinnertime,” reminded Lucy. “Do you need a ride home?”
“No, I’ve got my bike,” said Abby.
Lucy led the way and they all trooped downstairs. At the kitchen door, Abby paused. “I’m really sorry about the smoke alarm,” she told Lucy.
“It’s okay,” said Lucy. “And you’re always welcome here, as long as you don’t do anything your parents would disapprove of.” As soon as Abby was out the door, Lucy turned on her daughters. “What were you thinking?” she demanded. “Practicing witchcraft! You were supposed to cook supper, not some magic spell!”
“Sorry, Mom,” muttered Sara, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the package of ground chicken.
While Sara emptied it into a bowl, Lucy poured herself a glass of chardonnay. “Set the table, Zoe,” she ordered, seating herself at the kitchen table.
Sara added egg and breadcrumbs and shaped the mixture into little balls, which she set on a baking sheet. Lucy watched, wondering how involved the girls had become with Diana Ravenscroft.
“So how long have you girls been practicing witchcraft?” she asked.
“Not long,” said Sara, keeping her back to Lucy as she worked.
“Weeks? Months?” persisted Lucy. She could hear Zoe thumping plates onto the dining room table.
