by John Chabot
"It's on the news. On the Wilmington channel. I was just watching."
"I see. How long have you known Mrs. Siegert?"
"Oh, I don't know, four or five years, I suppose. We’d worked together."
"Where was that?"
"At her husband's business. She was his secretary—before she married him." Be careful, she thought. Don't let it show.
"And you still work there?"
"Yes, I do." Was there a touch of defiance in the answer? "I'm the so-called computer expert. All the billing, the inventory, payroll. Everything is on the computer now."
"Were you very close?"
Don't lie. It's no secret. "No, not really. I don't suppose I should say this, but I never liked her."
"Why was that?"
Kathryn pursed her lips, shook her head a fraction, let that be her answer.
"Was she generally liked?"
A shrug. "She had friends."
"Anyone special?"
"I suppose Cheryl was. Cheryl Doles. She's the one who got Tina the job in the first place."
"Any enemies?"
"None that I know of."
"Any family other than her husband?"
"There's an ex-husband somewhere. I think she called him Bryan, something like that. He used to come to company parties before the divorce."
"Was she good as a secretary?"
"I don't think so." She wanted to repeat the office joke that Frank had only married her so he could hire a real secretary. Instead, she said, "I never could get her to enter data properly from a terminal."
"Some people have trouble working with computers."
"I don't think that was it. Tina was always eager, alert, bright-eyed. She just wasn't very bright."
"When I talked to you earlier, when I told you what she had said about your having breakfast together, you reacted very strongly."
"It was a damned lie."
"Yes, I know that. But your reaction seemed to be anger rather than surprise. Did you think she might say something like that?"
Kathryn stopped to consider the implications. No—no danger there. It was all right. She shrugged again. "She called me this morning, about eight-thirty. She was all giggly and full of secrets. She said that if anyone asked, I should say we had breakfast together."
"Did she say why?"
"No, and I didn't ask. I had no intention of lying for her."
"Did you tell her that?"
"I didn't have the chance. She giggled again and hung up. I think she just assumed I'd do it. I had the sense of suddenly being back in high school, with all the stupid little intrigues and secrets."
"Did you have any idea what it might be about?"
Again the hesitation before answering. "I thought she'd probably been fooling around, and was afraid someone had seen her. I thought she wanted someone to back up a story about where she'd been, in case Frank asked her." That’s a laugh. Don't smile. Don't let them see it. Instead, she frowned and asked, "What was it about?"
She didn't think Wilder was going to answer. The detective paused, looking doubtful, but then said, "A man had his clothes stolen on the beach this morning. Nothing very valuable. It looks as if Mrs. Siegert may have taken them."
"She stole a man's clothes?"
"Probably."
Typical. Oh God, poor Frank.
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
"Do you know why she might have done it?"
"No, I have no idea. Really. It's just that you could never tell what Tina would do."
"Do you mean she was unstable?"
"I mean she was a flake. 'Unstable' is a little strong but, yes, I think she came pretty close to the edge at times."
"She told me she was interested in astrology."
"Did she?"
"She said you had taught her."
Kathryn almost laughed. "If you can call it that. It was a fiasco. I think that's when I found out why I'd never liked her."
"You're an astrologer, then?"
"No, I'm not an astrologer. I'm a computer analyst. Astrology is, at most, a hobby, an interesting phenomenon."
"But you taught Mrs. Siegert."
Kathryn inhaled deeply and let it out patiently before answering. "Late last year, sometime before Christmas, she called me. She said she wanted to learn about astrology, and would I teach her? I told her there were books in the library that could do a better job than I could, but she didn't want that. So I said, sure, why not? She started coming over in the evenings, and I showed her how to set up the basic horoscope. Some people say 'cast a horoscope', but I always felt that sounded like 'casting a spell', or 'casting out demons'. There's nothing mysterious about it. It's nothing more than looking up entries in astronomical tables, then plotting them on a chart. Very simple, very mechanical. Good God, even Tina learned to do it."
"So what was the problem?"
"Well, you see, setting up the horoscope is simple. The interpretation isn't. That's where the skill comes in. It's not a science; it's an art. There are some basic tenets to follow, but to become proficient takes a certain talent, or aptitude. And lots of practice—you have to work at it."
"And she wasn't willing to?"
Kathryn's eyes went to her hands folded in her lap, considering how to put it. She looked up and said, "Tina wanted magic. That's what it came down to. At first, she was very enthusiastic. I thought she might really be taking to it. Then she became bored. I'd be trying to explain something, and she'd get impatient. Finally, she said that what she really wanted were the secrets."
"The secrets? What do you mean?"
"That was my question. I told her again that I was no expert, that any good library would have at least a dozen books on the subject, but that wouldn't do. She said she wanted the things that were never put into the books, things that astrologers know but keep to themselves. The Secret Mysteries."
"So what did you do?"
Kathryn couldn't imagine what this had to do with Tina Siegert's death, but at least they weren't asking her about Frank. "I told her I didn't know what she was talking about. If there are any mystical secrets, I wish someone would tell me. Besides, I was beginning to get a little sick of Tina. And do you know what she did then? The little bitch reminded me that I worked for her husband. Without actually saying so, she was threatening to have me fired."
"Could she?"
She said, "No, I don't think so." What she thought was, Fat chance!
"Do you know if she continued studying with someone else?"
"I don't believe so. I heard somewhere that she had become interested in the power of crystals. And after that, it was meditation or channeling, or something. She even dabbled a bit in witchcraft. At least, that's what I heard."
"You're kidding!"
"Not at all. In fact, I guess I'm the one who told Tina about the witch. I remember saying something about her one day."
"Did you give her the address?"
"I don't have it myself. I've never met her. I just know her name."
"And that is...?"
Harry cut in. "I don't think we need to waste our time interviewing witches."
It was the first time the man had spoken since they sat down. Kathryn had nearly forgotten he was there. They both turned in surprise, as if he had just appeared. His voice was slow and relaxed, as if he were just making pleasant conversation. "Tell me Ms. Meadows, do you believe in witchcraft?"
It was nearly dark. She had a hard time reading his expression. "I don't know. I don't know anything about it."
"Do you believe in astrology, then?"
"What an odd question."
He said nothing else, just waited, and she said, "I'm not sure. I think there's definitely a phenomenon there, so there's something behind it, but I'm not sure what. It seems to me it's probably the result of a lot of very complex factors we don't understand."
"Not very scientific."
"Well, there's no theory, you see. You can't have scientific inquiry without a the
ory to test. I've never heard a convincing explanation of why it works, even a theoretical one. Still, the phenomenon is ... interesting."
He said nothing more. Finally, Wilder said, "Now, if you could give me the name of the, uh, witch." Her voice was a little harder now.
Kathryn glanced at Harry, but he was watching a fishing boat slide through the dark water, making its way north to the docks.
"It's Mrs. Converse. I believe she lives somewhere near Wilford. A pity, isn’t it? You'd think an island like this would be a more fitting place for a witch."
Mickie closed her notebook. Harry continued watching the boat. She stood up and said, "If you don't mind, could you stop by Police Headquarters sometime Monday—preferably in the morning. We're going to have a lot of fingerprints from the scene, and we'd like to sort out who belongs to what."
"Me? All right, why not?"
"Fine. And please remind Mr. Siegert we'll need his also."
She frowned at that, the fear rushing back. "I doubt if I'll see him. I don't imagine he'll be at work for awhile."
Mickie regarded her steadily. "He's here, isn't he?"
Kathryn looked back just as steadily. Two statues in a face-off. Then she drew her sweater closer. "I don't want him bothered. I gave him a Valium. He's sleeping."
"Very sensible. Just tell him, please."
* * *
Walking back to the cars, Mickie said, "You were awfully quiet."
"Sure. I'm no fool. If you want real information, there's nothing like listening to a couple of women gossip."
"Gossip? Well, it may have wandered a little, but —"
"No, I'm serious. I've always found it's best to let an interview go wherever it wants. If you insist on sticking to pertinent questions, everybody gets up tight and defensive. You miss all the good stuff that tells you what they're really thinking. So who's next, Kurt Brodbeck?"
"Yeah. No. First I have to call Paul and cancel. We were going out tonight. Dinner overlooking the surf."
"Sounds like Sailors. Good choice. Tell him you'll meet him there."
"How can I? We have to talk to Brodbeck tonight. And then there's, what's her name, Mrs. Converse."
"Tonight? It's dark, Wilder. You want to talk to a witch in the dark?"
She gave him a look, and he said, "Let's put her on hold until tomorrow. By that time we may have something from forensics. And I want to ask around about symbols and Satanic cults before we talk to her."
"I thought you weren't interested—didn't want to 'waste our time' talking to witches.”
"Did I say that?"
"You know you did."
"Yeah, but luckily you don't pay any attention to what I say."
"Then what the —"
"It's your case. You do whatever you think is right."
"Thank you. I will."
"But I'm serious about the witch. Either this is satanic cult stuff, or someone is trying to make it look that way. Let's find out what we're talking about first."
Mickie opened her car door, but didn't get in immediately. "What if I hadn't insisted on getting her name? What if I'd gone along with you?"
Harry shook his head sadly. "Then I'd give you hell for it, wouldn't I? Wilder, we're going to make a detective out of you, like it or not."
"You wish!" she said, but he could tell from the expression she tried to hide that it pleased her. And she was wrong—he knew too many cops, and wasn't sure he wished any such thing.
CHAPTER 8
KURT AGAIN
At that time of the evening, the crowd had cleared out of the mall. Most of those who remained were scuttling to follow, anxious to get home to dinner, TV, or Saturday night dates. As Harry and Mickie came into the store, the only customers were a woman and a little girl at the back, peering at rows of little bottles. Kurt was standing behind the counter, between the cash register and a sign announcing a two-for-one sale on vitamin C. At first, he showed surprise at seeing Mickie. His eyes flicked briefly to Harry, then back. His face broke into a self-satisfied smirk.
As they came up he asked, "Did you find her?"
Mickie looked him over before answering. He wore a short-sleeved shirt tight enough to show off his chest and biceps. His name was embroidered on the pocket. Filling out the shirt, she thought, was probably a requirement for employment. Possibly the only one.
"Yes. We found her."
"All right!" He noticed they weren't carrying any packages. "Do I get my stuff back?"
"Eventually."
He thought about that. "Oh, evidence, huh?"
"In a way. Where did you go when you left the station this morning? After you filed the complaint?"
The smile vanished. "Why?"
"Where did you go?"
He glanced at Harry, but got no help there. "I went home."
"Straight home? You didn't stop off anywhere? Run an errand, get groceries?"
Had she seen him, after all? "No, I went home. That's all."
"And how long were you there?"
He didn't like being questioned, and let his annoyance show. "I stayed there. I didn't go anywhere. Not till I came to work. I left about two-thirty."
The attractive woman with the little girl came to the counter. She had two bottles of children's vitamins in one hand. Her daughter had a grip on the other, staring shyly at the crowd of adults.
Mickie smiled at her, and stepped aside. She watched Kurt as he rang up the sale, noticing the intimate smile directed at the woman, the slight swelling of his chest, the flexing of his arms.
Oh, for Christ's sake. She's married, you idiot. She has her daughter with her.
When they were gone, Mickie asked him how he'd spent the day.
"I don't know. I worked out some. I have some gym equipment. I keep fit." He swelled a little more as he said it.
"You did that all day?"
"Yes. No—I don't know. I hung around. What the hell is this all about? I'm the victim here, you know?"
"Did you have the radio or TV on?"
He couldn't figure out what the questions were about, so he stopped for a moment, trying to think. Finally he said, "No."
"You didn't hear about the woman who was murdered?"
"No. Listen, what the hell are you...?" The belligerence went out, as he suddenly understood. "What woman?"
"Tina Siegert."
"I don't know anyone by that name."
"You met her this morning—on the beach."
He took a step back. He would have taken more, but the wall behind him wouldn't move. "Hey! Hey, come on now. I didn't kill anyone. I didn't even know who she was."
"You said you'd get her. Remember?"
"Hey, I didn't mean that. I meant, you know, I'd find her. That's all."
"So where were you, Mr. Brodbeck?" She could see the wheels trying to turn, see the haze of fear on his face.
"I was at home. That's all. I was home."
"Did you see anyone? Did anyone drop by?"
"No."
"Anyone call? Did you call anyone?"
The muscles of his face felt tight, and his voice was ragged as he answered. "No, I guess not."
"Then you can't prove you were at home."
"And you can't prove I wasn't."
And so it went. He had his story now, and he stuck to it. Harry asked him how he had got to work, gave him a sour look when he said he had driven. "Without a license?"
No answer.
"We'd like you to come into the station Monday morning," said Mickie.
"What for?"
"To take your fingerprints."
"Hey, come on, I didn't do anything. I never even saw her."
"Well, you're all right then. We have to go through the routine, though. We'll take the prints of everyone who might have been there."
"I wasn't there."
"Where?"
"At the ... wherever it was." Damn! That was close. He had almost said, ‘At the house’.
She looked him over slowly, from his receding c
urls to as far down as the counter allowed, and back again. "All right, just come in Monday morning. Can you do that?"
When he nodded, she opened her purse, brought out his wallet, and dropped it on the counter. "As long as you're going to drive, you might as well be legal."
Before they left, Harry said, "You won't use that license to go very far, will you?"
"What?"
Harry's eyes under the heavy bush of his brows were hard. "Leaving the area without checking with us would be a very dumb thing to do."
When they left the store, the shirt with 'Kurt' on the pocket didn't seem quite so full.
* * *
Mickie checked her watch as she left the mall, knowing it would give her nothing but bad news. She wanted desperately to go home, have a long soak in a hot bath and a change into something special. She wanted Paul to come by and pick her up, for them to have an unhurried drive to the restaurant, to talk of unimportant things, to let the day's business slip away. Instead, she would have to push the speed limit just to be there anywhere near on time.
Approaching the bridge to the island, she swore as the signal turned red, and the barrier came down across the road. The middle of the bridge swung slowly, very slowly up, and she sat fuming helplessly as the lights of a tall, stately schooner sailed leisurely past.
"Come on, come on! Get with it!"
Once the bridge had come down, again very slowly, the traffic piled up in front of her seemed to be in a contest to see who could drive the slowest. By the time she pulled into the parking lot of Sailor's, she was trying to hold her mood to one of seething impatience. It wasn't easy.
Sailor’s is a big, two-story, wood frame building that sits on a low bluff overlooking the beach. Its ground floor is a coffee shop, and from there a fishing pier stretches out for a hundred yards over the breakers. During the day, fishermen come in from the pier to warm up with coffee or hot chocolate, or to cool down with beer or soft drinks, depending on the season. They drift in throughout the day for lunch or cigarettes or spare tackle.
At six, the coffee shop closes, and the restaurant on the upper floor takes over. This is a white linen and candlelight restaurant. No fishnets or plastic lobsters clutter the walls. The only things nautical are the name and the menu, which specializes in whatever is fresh. The food is good and the atmosphere relaxed, with just a touch of elegance.
