by John Chabot
"Yes, precisely."
"And you couldn't give her that?"
She looked at them both, then down at her own ample figure. "I don't dance naked around the sacred candle, if that's what you mean. My God, could you picture it? I'd have everyone cracked up laughing."
"So you turned her down."
"Yes." She examined them speculatively, trying to make up her mind, then asked, "Do you know anything about the craft?"
Mickie said, "The truth is, I didn't think there was such a thing. Not really."
Still examining the back fence, Harry said, "With a case like this, it wouldn't hurt us to learn something."
"All right." Mrs. Converse folded her hands on the table and began to speak in a classroom voice, as if she had done this more than once before. "Wicca was a religion before Christianity. Long before. Not that that makes it better or worse, just older. It's based on Nature, rather than man or deities. For those who need a deity, then Nature would be represented by a goddess, not a god. It was the religion chiefly of country people, those who lived on the moors and in the woods. I think originally it was just a collection of lore—you know, the tricks of hunting and fishing, the best times to plant, what plants will cure and which will poison. Things you needed to know to get along in a rural life. Then it probably became codified, developed its own ritual and, joined with a reverence for Nature, became a religion."
Harry grunted and said, "And then came Christianity."
She glanced at him in surprise. "Yes, that's right."
Mickie seemed puzzled. "What did that do?"
"Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but most religions aren't noted for their tolerance, especially the major ones. Ours is right—anything else is wrong. Their attitude seems to be ‘One size fits all—or else!’ When the two collided, Wicca was simply outgunned. Cities were the strongholds of the new religion, and cities and their influence were expanding. Country people were looked down on. 'Pagan' is from a Latin word meaning villager. People who lived on the heath, heathens, were considered hicks or godless people. It became part of the language. Followers of Wicca, witches, were of course 'wicked'. That's the origin of the word. Stories were spread about their strange, evil practices. They were accused of being in league with the Devil. Which is rather silly, actually, since Satan is a Christian concept.
"So Christianity became dominant. Most country people kept the craft, but accepted the cross. It was a sensible decision. As a religion, Wicca nearly disappeared. Or seemed to. Those who kept it did so very quietly. Anything else got a rope around your neck, or a date with the fire."
"You're lucky you live today," said Mickie. "But was—what did you call it? Wicca? Was it so much more tolerant?"
"Well, it's hard to know for sure. It certainly is today. As I said, it's a Nature religion, and the essence of Nature is variety. Some creatures survive by flying, some go underground, some are fast or strong or just plain mean. Some have become expert at hiding from the fast, strong and mean ones. But they're all successful—they all survive. So which way is right? If the birds are right, are the moles wrong?"
Harry turned his head to say, "Then you're saying that Christianity is right?"
"For a lot of people, certainly. So is Islam. So are Taoism and all the rest. But in another way, they're wrong. How many people do you know who are just Christians? They're Catholics, or Baptists, or Presbyterians, or whatever. How many Christian sects are there? How many Jewish? How many different kinds of Islam? No, one size does not fit all. Never has, never will."
"Wicca, too?"
"Of course. Different people come to it for different reasons. The environmentalists like its emphasis on Nature. That's very 'in' now. A lot of feminists are attracted by the idea of a goddess, rather than a god. And some simply feel it's right for them."
"And you?" asked Mickie.
"Me? Oh, well, I'm afraid I'm not very religious. Not in the traditional sense. I have a very strong affinity to life, to Nature. I do sometimes feel I'm in the presence of a ... well, a spirit. But I could never feel comfortable in worship. To me, Nature is whatever is alive. I find it quite wonderful. I'm frankly in awe of it, but I just don't feel it's all that mysterious."
"Well, then, if you're not religious...?"
"Why am I a witch? The craft. What my grandmother called 'the old ways'."
"Is she the one who taught you?"
"Yes. She was from Wales. Came over when she wasn't yet twenty. My parents were killed when I was just a baby. Gran raised me."
"And she was a witch?"
Dana Converse smiled at that. "It's a good thing for you she's not here. You'd get thumped with her cane. She was very handy with that cane. No, Gran was Methodist—and a good one. Nothing wishy-washy about her. What she taught me were the things she had been taught as a girl. Things passed on from mother to daughter. The old ways. They had nothing to do with her religion. It wasn't until much later that I found out it was part of the craft. To Gran, it was just how you got things done. She was very pragmatic about it. She used to tell me to try things. If they work, keep them. If they don't, then to hell with them.
"I mean, we all have different talents, haven't we? If you have the talent for something, and you're willing to work at it, you learn, you improve. Let's just say these are ways to maximize the results. If you can mobilize your confidence, your will and emotion, your imagination, your ability to visualize the result you want, and focus all these on the problem, there's not a lot you can't do. But it's mental, sometimes even emotional. Perhaps it’s harnessing forces in ourselves that we don’t fully understand, but it’s not supernatural.
"I'm telling you this because it's what I tried to tell Mrs. Siegert. But of course, she didn't believe me. Or rather, it's not what she wanted to hear. She thought there must be more, and perhaps there is, but it's not magic. And as you say, she wanted magic."
Mickie asked, "What did she say to that?"
"Nothing." The way her lips clamped shut on the word made Mickie wonder.
"And what do you do, Mrs. Converse?"
"I'm a librarian. At the Wilford library."
"Were you there yesterday, between, say eleven and one?"
"Saturday is our busiest day, so I was at the library until nearly twelve. But I came home for lunch. I was back by one-thirty."
"Was anyone else here?"
"You mean do I have an alibi? No. Maggie had gone off to meet some friends. Four of them have lunch together, usually several times a week. I think they just gossip, mostly."
"Your husband wasn't here?"
"I was widowed several years ago. Now it's just Maggie and me."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. I miss him."
Harry asked, "How can your mother-in-law go out in the sun? Doesn't it hurt her eyes?"
"Not as much as she says. She has special glasses for outside. Besides, she wouldn't miss her lunches if it meant going blind. Of the two of us, she's the social one. I prefer it out here, helping things grow."
Mickie said, "I hope you won't mind coming to Connor Beach tomorrow. We're trying to get everyone's fingerprints. It will help us to sort things out."
"Not at all. I have to open the library tomorrow, and I'm practically alone there in the morning. All right if I come by on my lunch break?"
Mickie nodded. "Perhaps," she said, "you could help us in another way. Are you very familiar with symbols—mystical symbols?"
"Some. I'm no expert. It's not the kind of thing I have much use for, but it sort of comes with the territory."
Mickie glanced at Harry to see if he had any objections to what she was about to do, but he was watching a bird explore a patch of freshly turned earth.
"What I show you," she cautioned, "is in confidence. Please keep it to yourself."
She turned to a fresh page of her notebook, and drew the symbols found on Tina Siegert's body, the 666, the star and the cross.
"What would you think if you found these drawn on the b
ody?"
Dana considered them closely, then asked, "Where on the body?"
"The numbers on the stomach, the cross between her breasts, the star on her forehead."
She shook her head, frowning. "Strange. Two are strictly biblical, as far as I know. 666, of course, is the number of the beast, the Devil. Being on the stomach, perhaps it’s meant to suggest physical appetites gone to hell. The cross, of course, is the sign of Christ. A symbol of hope?"
"And the star?"
"That's more medieval. It's called a pentagram. It's been used in a number of ways, but…. Are you sure this is right—the point of the star was up?"
Mickie checked her notes to be sure. "Yes. Does it make a difference?"
"Oh yes. As I remember, the pentagram was commonly used in conjuring spirits. Point up for good spirits, point down for the evil ones."
"And all these taken together?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I've never seen them used that way. It doesn't seem to make much sense." She paused and then asked, "Is it true what they said on the news? Was there a stake through her heart?"
Mickie nodded.
"Well, there you are, then. That's certainly not biblical. And it's not connected with the so-called Black Arts."
"Have you ever heard of Hotai?"
"Can't say that I have."
"He's supposed to be a minor Japanese god."
"Then what you have is stuff from at least three different traditions. They don't fit together at all."
"Do you think this could be connected with a satanic cult?"
Dana spread her hands, shrugged. "Now you're out of my area. As I said, that's strictly for Christians. Or I suppose it would be anti-Christian, wouldn't it?"
"All right. But from what you saw of Mrs. Siegert, from what she said, do you think she might have become interested in such things? Did she mention it?"
Dana studied the table between them, considering. She raised her eyes, and said, "Perhaps. I don't know what it means, but there was something she said just before she left. Her face lit up and she told me she had once betrayed a friend. Had done something mean. And she had enjoyed it, enjoyed the wrongness of it. She seemed proud of it."
"Did she say who it was or what she did?"
"No, and I didn't ask."
My God, thought Mickie, had Tina any friends at all? "Why would she tell you something like that?"
Dana's face stiffened. "Well, after all," she answered, "I'm a witch, aren't I? She probably thought I'd be favorably impressed by her wickedness."
"Did she say anything else?"
"No. Right after that I threw her out."
* * *
"You know what I think?" asked Mickie. "I think everyone's been trying to con us."
"Is that right?"
They were coming out of the darker part of the woods. As the road straightened, they could see glints of sunlight on water.
"Not about everything. I think most of it's straight, only no one's telling us all the truth."
"Selective honesty—the biggest liar of all. What didn't you like about Mrs. Converse's story?"
"When she told Tina there wasn't any magic. I asked her what Tina had said to that, and she said, 'Nothing'. I can't see Tina saying nothing."
"What do you think she might say?"
"Well, she threatened Kathryn Meadows when she told her the same thing."
"And what did she threaten her with?"
"Losing her job."
Harry said nothing, just leaned back, practicing his Cheshire Cat smile.
Mickie said, "Oh, I see." She could picture Tina talking to some one on the City Council, or maybe one of the County Commissioners. Were they aware that a practicing witch had wormed her way into a position of trust, was in fact helping to chose the books our children are reading? Dreadful!
"That's rotten."
"Yes," agreed Harry, "it is. It's also a believable motive."
CHAPTER 10
KURT'S MOVE
Kurt slept late. He woke slowly, and his first fully conscious thought was that he knew something no one else knew. That pleased him. Then he began wondering what he could do with that knowledge. He lay there, savoring the possibilities, running through a few scenarios in his imagination, finally deciding there was no need to settle on one right away.
He didn't feel much like running on the beach. He knew he should—it seemed every day it was getting harder to keep the weight off and easier to find a reason not to. But his best sweat suit and running shoes were gone. Godamn bitch! He had older ones that would do, but decided to pass. He would work out later, doing extra repetitions of each exercise.
He was conscientious about having a healthy breakfast. Half a grapefruit, high fiber cereal (no sugar), wheat toast and a protein drink from the store. He put the dishes in the sink for later, and went out the back way and across the parking lot to the convenience store, where he bought a Sunday paper.
Back in the house, he made a pot of decaffeinated coffee and settled down with the paper. The murder, because of its sensational nature, had made the front page of the Wilmington paper. Not the headline, but prominent space on the lower half. There was a picture of the victim and her husband. There was also one of a Detective Chervenic, the hard-looking one who had stood by while the skinny broad had asked the questions. None of her, though. Typical. The guy's in charge, but she does all the talking. He read most of the story, but didn't learn anything he hadn't heard on the news the night before. Just the usual—the police were looking for anyone who had been in the vicinity around noon.
He grinned at that. He’d bet they were. Wouldn't they love to know what he knew? He could tell them.
He thought of how it would be. Wilder would probably ask him if he'd got the license number, and this time he'd say, Hell yes! He also had the address and the name on the mailbox.
But why should he tell them? They had practically accused him of doing it. If they came back and got nasty about that, then he could use what he knew. It would be his ace in the hole. Besides, that stupid broad detective probably wouldn't believe him, anyway. To hell with them. He pulled out the comics and the sports section, and got down to serious reading.
Later, he went into the spare bedroom he used as a gym. The only furniture were an exercise mat, an inclined board used for doing sit-ups, a multi-purpose exercise machine and, by the far wall, a rack of graduated hand weights. He opened the window to get as much fresh air as possible, then began with stretching exercises on the mat.
It was later, lying on the bench of the machine doing chest-presses, that he decided what he would do. He felt the strength and the burn in his chest and shoulder muscles as he pushed the heavily weighted bar straight up, brought it down nearly to his chest, and up again. He let the supporting hooks take the weight of the bar, then lay there breathing heavily, thinking about it. Yes, this could be good. Why the hell not?
He went into the kitchen, and dug the phone book out of the junk drawer. He smiled when he found the name, kept smiling as he dialed. When the ringing stopped and he heard the voice, he waited a few seconds, then asked, "Have you told the police where you were yesterday, just after noon?"
* * *
The man pulled back the lever of his lounge chair, leaned back and let the footrest elevate his legs, his white sweat socks making a V in front of him. He had thin, whispy hair above a narrow, sour-looking face.
He clicked the TV on and punched in the right channel. An open beer, cold and sweaty, started a ring on the table beside him. On the screen, two men blinked into existence and began discussing the match up of the point guards, while behind them tall people in short pants warmed up with set shots and lay-ups. His sour expression softened. He smiled. It was Sunday afternoon. It was NCAA Tournament time.
The phone rang. He frowned. On the second ring he started on the beer. Let the damned thing ring.
His wife came in from the bedroom to answer it. She gave him a dark look when she saw him sitting ther
e. A moment later, it got darker still as she said, rather icily, "It's for you. It's Charlie."
He swore softly and got up, avoiding her gaze as he took the receiver. He listened, then said, "God damn, Charlie! Why now? It's Sunday, for God's sake! What are they doing working today?"
He listened some more and argued a bit, knowing it would do no good, but feeling a little better for it. He finally said, "Yeah, yeah, I know!" and hung up. He went back to the chair and picked up his sneakers, saying, "I have to go down to the office. Somebody wants to see some records."
"Today?"
"It's the police. It's supposed to be important."
"Why does it have to be you? Can't Charlie do it?"
He finished tying his shoes and picked up the beer. "The building's locked. I'm the one with the keys."
She eyed him critically. "Are you taking that beer with you?"
"Yes, I damned well am taking this beer with me."
She was going to say something about it being illegal, but decided not to. Instead, she said, "As long as you're out, pick up a bottle of wine for the roast."
"Don't we have any?"
"Not red. Oh, and a head of lettuce. There's not enough for salad. Would you like me to write that down for you?"
"I think I can manage without a list."
Her look was dubious. "Well, don't forget—red wine and lettuce. Get the leaf lettuce if it looks fresh."
When he pulled into the parking lot, he saw them waiting in an old, blue Honda. He had expected a patrol car. They got out as he did, an older, thickset man and a young woman. That was a break, anyway. A bit thin, maybe, but better looking than most detectives. Now, if they just knew what they wanted and weren't here on a general fishing trip, he might get home by half time.
The woman gave him a tentative smile, made the introductions, adding, “Sorry to get you down here on a Sunday.”
He nodded. “What are you looking for?” He didn't bother returning the smile. Why be a hypocrite? It would just encourage them.
He sat before the terminal in his office, typing in the proper codes and, finally, the name Tina Siegert. Wilder and Chervenic stood just behind him, one on either side, peering over his shoulder at the screen.
