Bell, Book & Candlemas

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “You don’t sell animal parts, do you?” I asked. I knew some shamanic traditions used animal parts in their rituals, but I didn’t recall ever seeing any in Mila’s shop. I also remembered my research about the illegal ivory and rhino horn trades. Mila could find herself in a whole other kind of trouble if she were to sell any elixirs or powders made from the horn of an endangered rhino. I was relieved to see Mila shake her head.

  “No. Sometimes I use found feathers or similar items left in nature, but I don’t sell anything like that. I don’t know where this thing came from.”

  “Hmm. I suppose someone may have tracked it in from the alley,” I said. “Mind if I keep it?”

  “Go right ahead,” said Mila, handing me the piece. Then she allowed a small smile. “You know, I feel as if a weight has been lifted since we cleaned in here. Can you feel the difference?”

  “I do,” I agreed. “But, Mila, it still worries me that someone keeps finding a way to get in. You did change all the locks, right?”

  She opened her mouth to respond when a thud at the back door caused us both to jump.

  Chapter 15

  Catrina stumbled in from the alley, her arms full of canvas bags containing an assortment of jars and bottles. She set the bags on the floor with a clatter and kicked the door shut behind her.

  “That new lock is kind of sticky,” she began. Then she spotted me, and her eyes flashed. “You! Why haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “A person was killed here!” she interrupted. “This shop could be ruined. You need to defend Mila. I think you should write an op-ed, and—”

  “Catrina!” Mila said sharply. Catrina looked at her, startled. Frankly, I was startled, too. Mila straightened her spine and looked pointedly at Catrina.

  “Keli is not my publicist,” said Mila. “In fact, she’s not even my lawyer. I don’t need a lawyer. She’s my friend, and she stopped by here to help me out as a friend. Now, I think you should apologize and stop bothering her with my problems. I can handle them myself.”

  For a moment, Catrina was speechless. She jutted out her chin and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said to me. “This whole thing just has me so upset.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  Mila patted Catrina’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said.

  I checked the clock on my cell phone. “Mila, I’m going to have to get back to the office soon. Should we do the ritual now?”

  “Yes,” said Mila, clapping her hands together. “Catrina can assist.”

  We gathered around the altar, where Mila cast a circle and invoked the God and Goddess. She picked up the bowl of salt and blessed it. Then she sprinkled some of the salt into the chalice of water. Lifting the chalice, she intoned an intention for the space-cleansing ceremony. “By the powers of earth and water, may all darkness, all negativity be banished from this space.”

  She poured some of the water into her cupped hand, then flung the droplets around the circle. Next, she raised the bronze bell and said, “By the power of this chime’s vibrations, all toxic chi will flow away and be gone.”

  Mila and Catrina kicked off their shoes. Catrina gave me an arch look until I removed my boots as well. She then opened a cabinet and took out a wooden shaker. “Do you want a sound maker?” she asked. “Or do you just want to clap your hands?”

  “Me? Oh, um, I’ll just clap.”

  Catrina shrugged. She dipped her fingertips into the chalice of salt water and sprinkled it on her shaker. Then she offered it up to Mila, who blessed it with the same words she had said over the bell.

  “All right,” said Mila. “Let’s concentrate on this room. We’ll begin in the corner where . . . where Mr. Morris left this plane. May his soul be at peace as he transitions to his next life.”

  I watched as Mila walked to the corner, raised her arm high, and flicked her wrist to sound the bell. Then she crouched low and rang it at the floor. Slowly and deliberately, she moved along the perimeter of the room ringing the bell in a sweeping motion, high and low.

  Catrina followed with the shaker, mimicking Mila’s motions. Up and down, up and down, around the room. Feeling slightly awkward, I trailed behind them, clapping my hands at the walls. I was so used to performing my rituals in private that it was hard not to feel self-conscious.

  After a minute, Mila added her voice to the cacophony, chanting, “Om,” over and over. Catrina joined in, compelling me to do likewise.

  Once we had traced a complete circle around the room, Mila returned to the altar and closed her eyes. She moved her lips in a silent prayer to close the ritual. When she opened her eyes, she reached over and gave me a hug.

  “Thank you so much for your help. It feels immensely better in here. Catrina and I will cleanse the front room now. I know you need to get back to work.”

  “Okay. I’ll check in with you later.” I put my boots back on and grabbed my coat as I said my good-byes.

  As I hurried down the sidewalk, I noted that clouds had rolled in, making it feel chilly and later than it was. Still, I took the time to make a quick stop at Callie’s Health Food Store and Juice Bar to grab a container of premade lemony lentil salad and a green smoothie. I would eat at my desk to make up the hour or more I had spent at Mila’s shop.

  By the time I reached my office building, I was wishing I had opted for hot tea instead of a cold drink. I was still shivering as I fumbled to open my office door without dropping my lunch.

  “Do you need a hand?” asked a deep voice behind me.

  I turned to see Crenshaw standing in the hall with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Sure,” I said, handing him my smoothie.

  I could tell he was about to comment on the color of my beverage when he looked at my face and raised his eyebrows.

  “Have you just come from your second job at a coal mine?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a smudge,” he said, pointing at my cheek.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I opened my door, set my salad on my desk, and turned to take my smoothie from Crenshaw. He handed it to me, then lingered in my doorway.

  “So,” I said, changing the subject from my disheveled appearance, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I enjoyed your performance the other night. The show was really entertaining. You made a very convincing butler.”

  Crenshaw gave me a half bow. “Thank you very much. I relish the opportunity to expand my range. And the Cadwelle Mansion provides a unique venue.”

  “Will there be other shows at the mansion?” I asked.

  “Murder at the Juice Joint runs for twelve weeks,” he said. “After that, we’ll see. The venture can’t be profitable, considering the actors’ union rates, the four-course meal, and the limited seating. However, the Thomisons said they would like to host other shows.”

  “Well, I hope it all works out,” I said politely.

  “As a matter of fact,” Crenshaw went on, “the Thomisons have been quite receptive to my recommendations for a future performance. You see, I have this idea for an adaptation of a Sherlock Holmes story. I would play Holmes, of course, and—”

  My cell phone began to ring.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Crenshaw, taking out my phone. I recognized Wes’s number and felt a flutter of joy. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I answered the call.

  “Hey, Wes,” I said, as I backed into my office.

  I was about to nod a silent farewell to Crenshaw when he pursed his lips and turned on his heels. I shook my head and closed the door.

  * * *

  The temperature continued to fall throughout the afternoon, so by evening I was beginning to think Tish might get her wish for a winter wonderland after all. Of course, the Groundhog Festival was still a few days off. Since this was Illinois, the weather was bound to change a few more times before then.

  After work, I took a long warm shower
and decided I’d have to bundle up for my date with Wes. He wanted to take me to a new vegan restaurant in the next town over. Looking in my closet, I selected a short heather-gray wool dress, sweater tights, and black boots. I was just adding the finishing touches to my makeup when the doorbell rang.

  Here I thought I was eager for the date, I thought, glancing at the clock. He was a good fifteen minutes early.

  I trotted downstairs to the living room, swung open the front door—and found myself face-to-face with a stranger.

  “Oh!” I said, taken off guard.

  The man on my doorstep was stocky, with a broad face and receding hairline. I took in his attire—a brown leather bomber jacket over a shirt and tie with tan pants—and his serious expression, and tried to place him.

  “Keli Milanni?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Adrian Rhinehardt, Edindale P.D.” He held up an ID case containing a badge and allowed me to read it. “May I come in for a minute?”

  “Uh, sure.” I gestured him inside.

  We sat down in the living room, the detective taking the armchair adjacent to where I sat on the edge of the sofa. He pulled out a steno pad and ballpoint pen.

  “I was wondering if you could tell me about your day last Sunday. Walk me through your activities that day and night, up to the moment when you called nine-one-one early Monday morning.”

  “Okay,” I said. I took a deep, centering breath, determined to tell the truth as much as I possibly could. “That morning I got up around seven A.M. and did some yoga in the living room. Then I had breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, started some laundry—”

  “You have laundry facilities here?” he asked.

  “I have a washer and dryer upstairs,” I answered, pointing toward the stairs.

  He nodded and made a note.

  “Let’s see,” I said. “I sent some e-mails and did some online shopping from about eleven to twelve-thirty or so. Then I ran out to the grocery store to stock up for the week.”

  “Which store?”

  I told him, then continued to describe my bland day of cooking, cleaning, and chatting on the phone.

  “And then,” I finally said, “I got up early and dressed warmly. My friend Farrah came over around three A.M., and we drove downtown to go for a run.”

  He looked up at me. “Do you always go for a run at three in the morning?”

  “No, not usually. Though, I’ve been known to run at almost any hour of the day or night,” I said truthfully. “Lately work has been really busy, so I haven’t been able to run as much as I’d like to. And, there’s this 10K coming up on Saturday.”

  “Okay,” he said, jotting down another note. “Then what?”

  Beginning with the light I saw in Moonstone Treasures, I related the subsequent events pretty much as they happened. I was no longer afraid to admit that Mila was my friend. I told Detective Rhinehardt that I was worried about her, and that I called her right after I called 911.

  When I finished speaking, the detective was silent, as if pondering everything I had said. I cleared my throat. “Um, I do have something else to share with you.”

  “Yes?” he said, regarding me with interest.

  “Well, as I said, Mila is a friend of mine. She showed me the, uh, poison-pen letters she’s been receiving. I understand you have them now?”

  The detective nodded.

  “Well, I think the harasser chose each quote purposefully, to foreshadow the next incident. The vandalism, the fire, the murder. It seems very intentional.”

  Detective Rhinehardt had a good poker face. I had no idea what he was thinking—or how he judged my credibility. He nodded, almost as if to himself.

  “Is there anything else you can think of that might be relevant?” he asked.

  I thought about Tish’s disdain for Mila’s business and Yvette’s overall reticence. I wasn’t sure how relevant these things really were. Before I could say anything, however, the doorbell rang.

  “That’s probably my date,” I said.

  The detective stood up and closed his notebook. “I’ll let you go. If you think of anything else, please give me a call anytime.” He handed me a business card, then headed to the front door.

  I followed him and watched with some amusement as he opened the door to a startled Wes. The two men sized up one another. Rhinehardt nodded curtly and moved past Wes to descend the steps to the sidewalk.

  Wes watched him go, before turning to me with a questioning look.

  “Are those for me?” I asked, indicating the bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.

  His face softened and he smiled, then leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Do you have a vase? I can arrange these for you.”

  “I do, yes. That would be great.” We went inside to the kitchen and chatted lightly, while Wes trimmed the flowers and I filled a vase with water. It felt so natural to be with him. He was a welcome distraction from the week’s troubling events—especially considering how fine he looked in his dark jeans. With his plaid scarf and the upturned collar on his peacoat, I thought he looked handsomely mod.

  A short time later, we were in Wes’s car driving through town toward River Road. It would have been the scenic route if it were daytime. Still, it was a quieter and less hurried way to travel. Along the way, I told Wes about Rhinehardt’s questions.

  “So,” Wes said, “you just happened to be going for a jog downtown in the middle of the night.”

  “Well, yeah.” I paused. Am I really going to lie to Wes, too? I seemed to be bending the truth a lot lately. I didn’t want to deceive Wes, like I had everyone else.

  “No,” I said, making up my mind. “Actually, that’s not quite right.” I told Wes about Farrah’s fixation on the burglaries and our stealth mission through the downtown alleyways.

  “Good God, Keli,” said Wes. “What if the burglars were armed?”

  “We weren’t going to confront them,” I said defensively. “We were just going to spy on them.”

  He glanced over at me to see if I was serious. I met his eyes, and we both burst out laughing.

  “You know, this isn’t really funny,” he said, still chuckling.

  “Yeah,” I said. Then I turned serious again. “But, Wes, how are the burglars getting in? And why did they kill Charlie?”

  “You think the burglars killed Charlie?”

  “Who else?” I said. “Granted, nothing has been stolen from Moonstone Treasures. Still, don’t you think the break-ins at Moonstone have to be connected to the other burglaries?”

  Wes was silent for a moment. I looked at his profile and saw that he was chewing on his lips.

  “Charlie must have seen something,” he said, almost as if to himself.

  “I think you’re right,” I said.

  Then I had a disturbing thought. What if Charlie had been walking at night, had seen a light or a door ajar, and had decided to check it out? What if he had done the exact same thing Farrah and I had done?

  More to the point, what would have happened if we had gotten there before he did?

  Chapter 16

  Craneville was a small lake town about fifteen miles north of Edindale. It was known for its bustling main strip, which featured a variety of eateries including Layla’s on the Raw, a new vegan bistro specializing in “high raw” cuisine. As it was a cold Tuesday night in February, the restaurant was pleasantly quiet. Only a few other diners occupied the cozy, candlelit space.

  Wes and I sat knee to knee at a small round table near a window in the back. After placing our orders—a creamy cauliflower and arugula salad for me and veggie-stuffed collard wraps for Wes—we sipped warm tea and munched on an appetizer of hummus and crudités, while chatting companionably about food, work, and the weather.

  Before long, however, our conversation returned to the demise of poor Charlie.

  “Do you know if he had any family?” I asked.

  Wes shook his head. “I got the impression he didn’t. I haven’t heard anyt
hing about funeral arrangements yet. I was thinking of stopping in at the place he lived, St. Xavier House, to see what I can find out. I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “Mind if I come along? I’d like to pay my respects, too. Especially since I . . . found him.”

  Wes reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, Keli,” he said. “That must have been traumatic for you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But mostly it was sad.”

  Wes took a sip of tea. “Sheana thinks there’s something weird going on with the psychic shop. She’s been trying to get an interview with the owner, but the woman keeps brushing her off. Sheana thinks the owner is a witch who’s into some kind of voodoo practice.”

  I put down the carrot stick I had been about to bite into and regarded Wes in the candlelight. How much should I tell him?

  I cleared my throat. “I know Mila. She’s a practicing Wiccan, but she’s not into voodoo. Someone is harassing her. She’s the victim here, not the perpetrator.”

  “Well, she and Charlie,” Wes said.

  “True.” I gazed out the window, where a street lamp cast a circle of light on the empty sidewalk. A misty fog was rolling in from the lake.

  “I’m going to miss Charlie’s funny songs,” Wes said wistfully. He chuckled softly. “The last time I saw him, he was reciting the words to ‘Down in the Valley’ in combination with that children’s song ‘Down Down Baby.’”

  Our dinner arrived, and we ate in silence. My thoughts returned to Moonstone. Why had Charlie been killed? Was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was it premeditated, to fulfill the threat in the notes? If it was planned, would the killer kill again?

  Wes cleared his throat, and nudged my foot under the table. “Hey. On a lighter note, want to help me pick my next tattoo?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You’re getting another tattoo?” I knew he already had two—a tribal armband around his left bicep, and a dragon on his right shoulder.

  “Yeah, on my back, as soon as it gets warmer. What do you think? Hamlet’s hand with a skull? Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man? Or a geometric design?”