by Leslie Meier
“I’ve just gone to a couple of classes,” said Sara.
“Classes?”
“Yeah, Lady Diana has classes for teens. On Wednesdays, after school. It’s like a club, like Scouts or gymnastics.”
Lucy was astonished. “I thought you were at track,” she said. “You’ve been lying to me.”
Sara was very busy with the meatballs, arranging them in neat rows on the pan. “I didn’t lie—I just didn’t tell you.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know.” She turned around and opened the oven door, sliding the meatballs inside and setting the timer for ten minutes. Her face was flushed, and she seemed about to burst into tears. “It was fun having a secret, you know? And witchcraft isn’t bad. It’s all about appreciating nature and the life force and harnessing natural energy to live a harmonious, spiritual life.”
Lucy bit her lip, thinking. It was obvious that Sara was deeply attracted to whatever Diana was offering, and she thought she understood why. Now that global warming and saving the environment had become such big issues, the girls had been involved in calculating the family’s carbon footprint and suggesting ways to reduce it. But more than attempting to live in harmony with nature, Lucy suspected, casting spells and mixing up potions allowed Sara to feel as if she was powerful and could control her life. That was exciting stuff for an adolescent struggling to form her own identity and free herself from her parents.
“Well, I guess there’s no harm in it,” she announced. “As long as you keep your father and me informed. No more secrets, okay?”
“So I can join the coven?” exclaimed Sara, wiping her eyes and smiling.
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Coven? You said it was like Girl Scouts.”
“It is,” insisted Sara. “But Lady Diana says I’m really progressing, and soon I’ll be able to join the coven and become a real witch. She says there’s a vacancy in her coven. Ideally there should be thirteen people, and she’d like me to fill it.”
“I’ll have to talk to her,” said Lucy, finishing off her wine. “Forget what I said. No more witchcraft. Everything’s on hold until I get more information.”
The oven timer began to beep, announcing it was time to turn the meatballs, but Sara ignored it, whirling around and stomping up the stairs. Lucy got up, resigned to the fact that she would be cooking supper. She hoped that Sara wasn’t gathering up the hair from her hairbrush and searching her wastebasket for nail clippings to make an anti-mother spell.
On Friday morning, Lucy stopped at Solstice on her way to work. The shop wasn’t open yet, but she’d called and made an appointment. Sure enough, Diana was waiting for her, standing in a long silky dress and holding the black cat in her arms.
“Thanks for seeing me so early,” said Lucy, stepping inside the fragrant little shop.
“No problem,” said Diana, scratching the cat behind its ears. “I’m a full-service witch, on call twenty-four seven. Isn’t that right, Piewocket?” The cat closed its eyes slowly, basking in the attention. “So how can I help you?”
“I understand my daughter Sara has been coming here after school,” began Lucy. The shop smelled lovely, but Lucy was determined not to be seduced by the charming atmosphere.
“Yes, Sara’s a delightful girl, and she’s definitely got the gift,” said Diana, sounding like one of Sara’s teachers. “She’s made wonderful progress, and I think she’s ready to join a coven.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Lucy. “She’s much too young to do anything like that.”
“Too young?” Diana sounded puzzled as she set the cat on its cushion in the window. “She’s sixteen. Children much younger than that have their First Communion in the Catholic Church; Jewish children have their mitzvahs when they’re thirteen; Protestants confirm twelve-and thirteen-year-olds. If anything, Wiccans tend to be conservative in these matters, waiting until an individual is mature enough to make a responsible decision.”
“That’s the problem. Sara hasn’t been responsible. She hid her involvement with Wicca from her father and me, and even worse, she’s been helping Abby Stoughton to deceive her parents. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Abby’s father, Ike, is very upset with you—this is not the right time for these young girls to get involved with witchcraft.”
“On the contrary, it’s actually the perfect time. Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve. We’ll be holding our sabbat and celebrating the longest day of the year. Who could object to that?”
“Oh, I suspect quite a few people might not approve—especially Ike Stoughton,” said Lucy. “He thinks you’re worshiping the Devil.”
“Well, I see that I have a lot of work to do. There is absolutely nothing wicked or sinful about Wicca. It draws on centuries of rich, wonderful cultural tradition beginning with the Celtic Druids. Does Ike Stoughton object to hanging mistletoe at Christmas or decorating a Christmas tree?”
“I don’t have a clue about how Ike Stoughton celebrates Christmas, or if he even does. I’m not here to argue,” said Lucy, growing impatient with Diana’s attitude. “I’m here as Sara’s mother, and I’m telling you that I am not allowing her to join your coven, period. End of story. I’m responsible for her, and I deeply resent the way you’ve insinuated yourself with her and encouraged her to keep secrets from her parents.”
“I have not encouraged Sara to deceive you,” declared Diana. “If she did not want to tell you how important her new beliefs are to her, it’s because you don’t encourage openness in your home.”
“That’s awfully presumptuous,” said Lucy, reacting angrily. “My husband and I may not be perfect parents—I never said we were—but we are trying to bring our kids up to be responsible members of society, and witchcraft is too extreme.”
“That’s only because people don’t understand it,” insisted Diana, shaking her head sadly.
“My point exactly,” said Lucy in a softer tone. She was already regretting her show of temper. “And until they do, I don’t want my child to confuse religious conviction with her admiration for a glamorous and persuasive woman.”
“This isn’t about me,” insisted Diana. “Wicca’s a religion, not some cult of personality.”
“I think you may be wrong about that, especially when it comes to impressionable teenagers. People are starting to talk about you,” she added, remembering Phyllis’s comment that Diana had brought trouble to town.
“So that’s what you’re worried about,” crowed Diana with a tinkling laugh. “Well, let me assure you, witch hunts are a thing of the past. I don’t think you need to worry about anybody persecuting Sara if she decides to become a witch.”
“I thought I made myself clear,” said Lucy, emphasizing every word. “Sara is not joining your coven. I forbid it.”
“Take it easy,” said Diana. “I understand.” She drummed her fingers on a table. “But it is a shame. Midsummer’s Eve is a wonderful opportunity to witness a sabbat, and this is my first as high priestess. I really want it to be perfect, which means we need thirteen members. I wonder if Abby…”
Lucy looked at her, trying to decide whether the woman could possibly be this stupid. “Are you crazy?” exclaimed Lucy. “If I were you, I’d keep a low profile for a while—and I’d leave Abby Stoughton alone. Her father has some very strong convictions, and it’s not just the purple paint that bothers him. He’s very much against witchcraft.”
“Well, thanks for the warning,” said Diana, shrugging. “Now can I interest you in a protective charm? Perhaps a spell to drive the pests from your garden and help the plants to grow? I hear cutworms are a big problem this year.”
“Not today, thanks,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “My garden is doing just fine. But I think you better stay away from Ike Stoughton’s daughter!”
Back in her car, Lucy felt uneasy as she drove on down Main Street to the Pennysaver office. She’d been a reporter for a long time now, covering the little town, and she sensed trouble ahead. Ike Stoughton and Diana Ravenscroft w
ere polar opposites, and there was bound to be friction. Good, healthy controversy was one thing, but when emotions were running high, things could get out of control. She didn’t want to see anyone get hurt, and she certainly didn’t want Sara to get caught in the cross fire. Maybe, she thought as she parked the car in the little lot behind the office, she was overreacting. But she’d seen the body in the woods, as well as other terrible sights through the years, and she knew that ordinary people were capable of doing dreadful things to each other, especially when they were driven by the conviction that they were right.
“Goodness, you look serious today,” said Phyllis when Lucy walked into the office.
“I was just thinking about the body in the woods,” said Lucy. “Any news?”
“Not yet,” said Phyllis. “Ted’s at the press conference. He should be back soon with some answers. In the meantime, he left this for you.” She plopped a thick sheaf of papers on her counter with a thud.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” asked Lucy, examining what appeared to be a highly technical study of the effect of rising ocean temperatures on lobster populations.
“Read it and weep,” wisecracked Phyllis. “No. Read it and recap the information for the average reader.”
“I think you had it right the first time,” said Lucy, heading for her desk.
When Ted arrived an hour or so later, she knew more than she wanted to about the sex life of lobsters.
“How’s it going?” he asked, seating himself at his desk and turning on his computer.
“Inconclusive,” said Lucy. “Warmer water may make the lobsters mature sooner and thus reproduce at a faster rate, or it might encourage parasites and disease, which would have a negative effect. What about the press conference?”
“Inconclusive,” replied Ted. “The body is male, but that’s all they’re about to say at this point. They’re checking the missing persons, have some likely matches, but nothing definite yet.”
“These things take time,” said Phyllis, “especially if they have to use DNA.”
“DNA tests are expensive. The ME said that’s a last resort.”
“It’s so horrible,” said Lucy, remembering the oppressive sense of evil she’d experienced in the clearing. “Nobody should end up like that, no matter who they are.”
Saturday afternoon, when Lucy was picking lettuce for a salad to take to the annual neighborhood cookout, she noticed a number of newly planted tomato and pepper seedlings had fallen over and were wilting. When she took a closer look, she realized they’d been neatly nipped off at ground level. Cutworms! She’d never had a problem with them before. What was going on? Was there really a sudden infestation, and how had Diana known about it? And where had she gotten that bit about fire and screams in the night? How could she have known? It was enough to make you wonder, she thought, carrying her bowl of lettuce into the kitchen.
Lucy had been looking forward to the cookout all week. It was a chance to catch up with the neighbors, and her son Toby, his wife, Molly, and their baby son, Patrick, would be there too. Even though the young family lived on Prudence Path, just a hop, skip, and a jump away through a narrow patch of woods, she didn’t get to see Patrick as often as she wanted, which was every minute of every day. Patrick was growing so fast and changed so much every time she saw him that she was afraid he’d be all grown up before she knew what happened. So when she and Bill and the girls arrived at the party, Lucy made a beeline for her grandson, scooping him up in her arms.
“He’s so heavy and only three months!” she exclaimed.
“He’s a real chowhound,” said his beaming father.
“Fourteen pounds,” said Molly, who looked tired. “When he hits fifteen, Doc Ryder says I can start solids. I can’t wait—maybe then he’ll sleep through the night.”
“Are you waking your poor mommy up?” cooed Lucy, jiggling the baby and looking into Patrick’s big blue eyes. “Are you a naughty boy?”
Patrick answered with a smile and a burp, or maybe just a burp, but Lucy was sure it was a smile. “Did you see that?” she exclaimed. “He smiled at me!”
But now the smile was gone. Patrick was beginning to fuss, and Lucy reluctantly handed him back to his mother. Molly retreated to a secluded porch swing to nurse him, and Lucy joined her neighbors Frankie La Chance and Willie Westwood, who were arranging dishes on an improvised table made out of a door set on sawhorses. The party was actually taking place in the little cul-de-sac shared by five houses. Barbecue grills and picnic tables had been brought from individual yards and arranged together under a canopy improvised from a big blue tarp. Twinkling Christmas lights had been hung underneath the tarp, and soft rock music was playing on a donated stereo. Ice-filled coolers held an assortment of soft drinks, beer, and wine.
“Can I help?” offered Lucy.
“I think we’re all set,” said Frankie. “Everything looks delicious.”
“I’m starving,” said Willie, helping herself to a handful of potato chips. “I was at the barn all afternoon.” Willie was a keen horsewoman who taught riding lessons; her husband Scratch was a vet. They had two kids—Sassie, who was Sara’s age, and Chip, who was still in elementary school.
“The burgers should be ready soon,” said Frankie, who was the primary organizer behind the annual cookout. She was a real estate agent and a single mom with one child, Renee, also Sara’s age. “In the meantime, can I get you a glass of wine?”
Soon the three women were settled on lawn chairs, sipping their wine and swapping stories about their kids, their pets, and their neighbors.
“Did you hear about this awful thing in the woods?” asked Willie. “I heard about it on the radio.”
“What thing?” asked Frankie.
“I was the one who discovered the body,” said Lucy. “It was horrible.”
“Whose body?”
“They don’t know yet,” said Lucy. “It was burned.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Frankie.
“They said it was probably a drug deal gone wrong, something like that,” said Willie.
“Maybe a gangland slaying. They burned the body so it couldn’t be identified. That’s the theory anyway,” said Lucy.
“I can’t believe anything like that would happen here,” said Willie, sipping her wine.
“Me neither,” said Lucy, eager to change the subject. “By the way, I invited our new neighbors, the Stoughtons. They moved into the place on the other side of the bridge.”
“Ike Stoughton?” asked Frankie.
“Yup.”
“He’s a shrewd one. I bet he got that place for a song. It’s been on the market for over a year.”
“Speak of the devil. Here they come now,” said Willie.
Lucy looked up to see the entire Stoughton clan advancing down the road. Ike was leading the procession, followed by two tall and muscular young men, presumably his sons, dressed almost identically in crisp blue jeans with tucked-in shirts and close-shaved haircuts. Abby and her mother, a painfully thin woman with graying hair fastened into a bun, trailed behind in their unfashionably long skirts, each carrying a covered dish.
“I’m so glad you could come,” said Lucy, greeting them.
“These are my sons, Thomas and Mather,” said Ike, “and my wife, Miriam, and daughter, Abby.”
“I know Abby, of course,” said Lucy, smiling hard, “and it’s nice to meet you all. Shall I introduce you around?”
“That would be fine,” agreed Ike as Frankie and Willie hurried over.
“Let me take those dishes off your hands,” said Frankie, approaching Abby and Miriam.
“They smell delicious,” said Willie, holding out her arms.
“It’s an old family recipe for baked beans,” said Miriam, her voice so soft she was almost whispering. “I cooked them in the bake hole next to our fireplace.”
The women’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “My goodness, that must have been a lot of work,” said Willie.
“
My husband likes them that way,” she whispered, with lowered eyes as if imparting a shameful secret. “He says there’s nothing like the taste of real, slow-cooked beans.”
“I can’t wait to taste them,” said Lucy as Toby approached the little group, gripping a bottle of Sam Adams beer. She figured he would take Thomas and Mather off her hands.
“Hi!” he said, shaking hands with the menfolk. “I’m Toby Stone. Can I get you guys some beers?”
He didn’t get the reaction he expected. Thomas and Mather stiffened their backs and turned to their father, who adopted a stern expression. “We do not drink alcohol,” he said in a disapproving tone.
Lucy was pleased to see that Toby didn’t miss a beat. “Well, there’s plenty of pop too,” he said.
“We prefer water,” declared Ike. “That’s the beverage the good Lord provides for us in abundance.”
“We’ve got that too,” said Toby, tilting his head toward the cooler and drifting away to rejoin his friends.
Willie and Frankie had also drifted off, leaving Lucy with the entire Stoughton clan. She dutifully took them around to meet everyone but was unable to get any sort of conversation going. Finally, having run out of people to introduce and finding little in common to talk about, she suggested they serve themselves from the buffet. Escape was not possible, however, as Ike reminded her she really had to try his wife’s baked beans. She was just digging in when the fire siren went off, calling the volunteer firefighters, and she flinched at the sound. Now whenever she heard it, she was reminded of the dreadful scene in the woods.
Toby and a few others ran to their pickups, their radios already cackling with orders. “It’s on the mountain!” yelled Toby, sticking his head out the window and pointing as he backed around and sped off.
They all looked at the range of hills that rose behind the town, and sure enough, there was a thick column of smoke rising from the tallest one, Hawk Mountain.
“It’s been awfully dry,” said Scratch, Willie’s husband. “I hope it doesn’t come this way.”
