“Wow, I don’t know. Those all sound kind of cool.” I smiled. I could tell Wes was trying to cheer me up.
After dinner, we held hands on our walk back to the car. Cruising back down River Road toward Edindale, Wes offered his hand to me again, palm up, and I readily clasped it, feeling a grin tug at my lips in the dark car. Before long, I spotted a sign touting Briar Creek Cabins as a romantic weekend getaway. It may have been just a coincidence, but Wes gently pressed my hand as we passed the sign.
Hmm. An overnight camping trip would definitely up our relationship status.
I shook myself. Better not to let my imagination jump ahead like that.
“So, how did you learn about Layla’s on the Raw?” I asked. “I can’t get over how fresh and tasty that was.”
“Sheana told me about it,” he said. “She wrote an article on the restaurant when it first opened.” Wes chuckled. “She wants to be a crime reporter, but there’s not enough crime in Edindale to keep her busy. So, she has to write pieces for the ‘Lifestyle’ section, too.”
“Ha. That makes sense,” I said. But inside I wasn’t really that amused. I was hung up on the fact that Wes had mentioned Sheana twice during our date.
I gave Wes a sidelong glance as I tried to come up with a way to ask him how much time he spent with the pretty, young reporter.
“Dang!” exclaimed Wes, slamming on the brakes. “Where the hell did he come from?”
I jerked my eyes forward to see a black car peeling out in front of us. Wes had pulled his hand from mine to grip the steering wheel, and he now accelerated as if to catch the car.
“What are you doing?”
“I just want to get a look at the license plate,” he said. “Who pulls out like that right in front of another car? There’s no one behind us. Why couldn’t he wait?”
As Wes gained on the other vehicle, I held on to the edge of my seat. The dense woods on either side of the road flew by, the rolling landscape becoming a blur.
“Can you see the plate?” Wes asked as we gained on the black car.
I squinted through the windshield. “I think it’s a California plate,” I said. “6Y—”
The car in front of us sped up even more and rounded a curve, kicking up dust as its tires hugged the shoulder. Thankfully, Wes let up on the gas and fell back.
“Not worth it,” Wes said. “What a jerk.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, with relief.
Wes glanced at me and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry if I scared you.”
This time it was me who reached over and took his hand. “That car was acting weird. But it’s not our job to chase it down.”
For the next several minutes we listened to classic rock on the radio and chatted about music. Wes mentioned that a band he liked was going to be playing at the Loose Rock on Friday, and he asked if I’d like to go with him to see it. I readily accepted, ignoring the fact that I’d have to run a 10K the next morning.
When we reached Edindale, we came up to a stoplight behind a small black car. I glanced at the license plate and realized with a start that it was the same car that had cut us off on River Road. Wes saw it, too, and frowned.
“I guess he’s not in a hurry anymore,” he remarked.
When the light changed, we followed the car until it turned onto Archer Avenue. After a slight hesitation, Wes turned the same way. I didn’t object. I was feeling increasingly curious about the car myself.
A mile and a half later, the black car switched on its turn signal. Wes slowed down, and we watched as the car drove into a long driveway leading up to a large Victorian mansion. And not just any Victorian mansion.
It was the Cadwelle Mansion Bed and Breakfast.
Wes shrugged and drove on. “Guess he was in a hurry to go to bed.”
* * *
After checking in at the law firm Wednesday morning, I headed to the office of Edin Title Services for a real estate closing. I represented the buyers, a young couple who were purchasing their first home. Their nervous excitement was contagious, and I found myself grinning as they signed the final papers. At one point, I even caught myself imagining what it would be like if Wes and I were the ones buying a house together.
When the seller’s agent handed over the house keys, my brain switched gears. I suddenly thought about all the burglaries around town and the fact that there was no evidence of a forced entry. Farrah had said something about a potential master lock picker . . . or someone with a master key. Someone like a real estate agent?
Of course, Mila had changed the locks on her store after the first incident of vandalism. Nevertheless, when I found Charlie’s body, the back door was standing open. Maybe Mila or Catrina had forgotten to lock it. Or maybe the new lock didn’t work properly—I remembered Catrina saying it was “sticky.” Either way, if the door had been left open, then it wouldn’t matter if the lock had been changed. The killer could still be someone who had somehow possessed a key to the original store locks.
That is, assuming the killer and the vandal were one and the same.
As I left the title company and walked to my car, I made up my mind to reach out to Yvette. I would make an appointment with her to talk about house hunting—and then see how much other information I could wheedle out of her.
Now, though, it was time to call Wes. We had agreed to meet up as soon as I was finished with the closing and then proceed together to St. Xavier House.
After making the call to Wes, I started my car and shifted into gear when my phone rang. With a sigh, I shifted back to PARK and pulled the phone out of my purse again. I saw it was Farrah and picked up.
“What’s up, Kojak?” I said by way of greeting.
“Hiya, Tootsie Pop,” she said. “You know me well. I’ve got an idea.”
“Uh-oh. Why does that statement make me nervous?”
Farrah laughed. “Hear me out. You think the ‘Mystic of Moonstone Treasures’ is innocent, right? But there was a dead body found in her shop. And it was covered in some kind of herbal juju stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said uncertainly.
“The psychic lady has to be involved somehow,” Farrah said. “So we have to talk to her, ideally at the scene of the crime. And I thought of the perfect way to do it—we’ll make an appointment for her psychic services.”
“You want to have a tarot reading?” I said, surprised.
“No, not tarot,” she said. “In movies, the death card always comes up in tarot readings. I don’t want to play around with anything that has a death card.”
“Well, it’s not meant to be taken literally,” I said. “The death card can signal the ending of any number of things—the end of a phase, the end of a bad habit. It all depends on what question you asked before shuffling the tarot deck.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “How do you know so much about tarot cards?” Farrah asked.
“Oh, well, you know . . . I dabbled in stuff like that when I was a teenager. My high school friends and I were all about the esoterica. Made us feel hip and important.” This much was true enough, if not the whole story.
“Gotcha,” she said. “Well, I still don’t want to take any chances that a death card might pop up. I was thinking more along the lines of a palm reading.”
“Okay. And how is this going to help again?”
“You’ll sit next to me while I’m having my palm read. We’ll look around, ask questions, get a read on the woman. You know. That sort of thing.”
I shook my head, glad that Farrah couldn’t see my expression. I knew there was absolutely no reason to investigate Mila, yet I couldn’t think of a single excuse to get out of this.
“All right,” I finally agreed. “I’ll make the appointment for you.”
Chapter 17
St. Xavier House was a cube-shaped brick apartment building on the same block as Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church. A small rectory built from the same red brick sat between the apartment house and the tall, steepled church. Less tha
n fifteen minutes after I left the title office after my real estate closing, I pulled up behind Wes’s car on the street in front of the rectory and joined him on the sidewalk.
He gave me a brief smile and nodded toward the rectory. “Shall we start there?”
“Makes sense to me,” I said.
We walked up the stone path, which was lined with neatly trimmed hedges, and rang the doorbell. A moment later, the door opened, revealing a clean-shaven man who appeared to be in his midthirties. Based on his black shirt and clerical collar, I gathered he was the priest.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly, looking from Wes to me.
“Good morning, Pastor,” Wes said, sticking out his hand. “If you have a minute, we were hoping to talk to you about Charlie Morris.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Come on in.”
We followed the priest to a tiny but warm and inviting parlor off the front hall and sat down on an old-fashioned, upholstered love seat. He took the adjacent wing chair and folded his hands in his lap.
“I’m Father Gabe,” he said. “How can I help you?”
Wes and I introduced ourselves and explained how we were acquainted with Charlie.
“I have some photographs I took of him,” Wes said. “If he had any family or friends who would like the photos, I’d be happy to share them.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Father Gabe. “I would love to see the photos. Charlie had one sister, who lives in a facility for Alzheimer patients. I don’t know if she would recognize her brother, but I can arrange to have a picture sent to her.”
“Did Charlie have Alzheimer’s, too?” I asked. I didn’t want to come out and say it, but what I really wanted to know was how sharp his mental faculties were.
“I don’t know about that,” said Father Gabe. “He had a number of health problems from years of drinking too much. And he had his eccentricities. But he got along okay, living by himself. Some ladies from the church would look in on him from time to time, but he was largely independent.”
“How long did he live at St. Xavier House?” I asked.
“Oh, nearly three decades, I would say,” answered Father Gabe. “He was a resident there long before I became the parish priest. I was told he had been laid off from his factory job and had no place to go. He also struggled with alcoholism, but he had a good heart. He was a gentle, Christian man.”
Wes and I offered our condolences. The priest’s mention of alcoholism reminded me of Reverend Natty’s A.A. meetings. Was it possible Charlie had attended one? If Father Gabe had any knowledge about that, I doubted he would tell me. Those meetings were supposed to be confidential.
I tried to keep my tone casual. “I wonder if Charlie was familiar with the Church of the New Believers. I believe they have support programs for recovering alcoholics.”
“Ah, yes,” said Father Gabe. “Reverend Natty’s church. I don’t know if Charlie ever had any contact with the New Believers.”
Something about the way the priest referred to Reverend Natty made me think Father Gabe didn’t hold a very high opinion of his fellow pastor.
I cleared my throat. “I understand Reverend Natty has been outspoken about a number of things, including the psychic shop where Charlie’s body was found. I recall reading something the reverend wrote about the shop owner being a witch.”
Father Gabe pressed his palms together. “You’re correct about Reverend Natty. He is well known for his outspokenness. While much of what he says is technically accurate, his methods are . . . not the most effective.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes. You see, I don’t think Reverend Natty realizes that most modern folks who call themselves ‘witches’ or ‘Wiccans’ are actually on a genuine spiritual quest. I prefer to take a more charitable approach and offer guidance and education, rather than make unkind accusations.”
“Oh,” I said. As sincere as the priest sounded, I couldn’t help feeling a bit queasy at his words. Maybe it was time to change the subject.
Wes made a move to get up from the love seat, but I put my hand on his leg. “Father Gabe, I have another question about Charlie. Do you know if he had a habit of going out late at night? And, if so, where he would go?”
The priest looked thoughtful. “The police detective asked me the same thing. As I told him, Charlie preferred to be outdoors no matter the hour of the day or the season. To my knowledge, he generally spent most of his time in one of two places: a bench outside the courthouse and a bench in Fieldstone Park.”
“Do you happen to know which park bench?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t growing weary of my interrogation.
He nodded. “It was one of the benches along Clarke Street. Charlie liked to watch people go by as he fed the pigeons.”
Just then the doorbell rang, and Father Gabe stood up. “Won’t you excuse me for a moment?” he said.
As soon as the priest left the room, Wes turned to me and cocked his head. “Well, aren’t you a regular Veronica Mars? Are you ready to go yet? Or do you have more questions?”
I smiled at him and rolled my eyes. “I guess I’m ready,” I replied.
A minute later, Father Gabe returned carrying two large cardboard boxes. Wes jumped up to help him.
“Thanks,” said Father Gabe, after Wes took the top box. “Let’s just set these here by the wall. I can take them over to the church later.”
“Are you sure?” asked Wes. “I’d be happy to carry them over for you.”
“I’m sure,” Father Gabe replied. “We don’t need these until Saturday. These boxes contain the candles we’ll use at our Candlemas service Saturday evening.”
“Candlemas? Is that related to Christmas?” asked Wes.
“It is related,” Father Gabe affirmed. “Candlemas is the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord. Forty days after Christ’s birth, the Blessed Virgin Mary brought the infant Jesus to the temple for the first time. Therefore, as Jesus is the Light of the World, we bless all the year’s candles on February second.”
I listened to the priest without comment. Of course, Father Gabe didn’t mention that Candlemas had been a Pagan festival of lights long before the Christians adapted it for their purposes.
“This is a celebratory holy day,” Father Gabe added. “You are more than welcome to join us at the service.”
Wes buttoned his coat and offered up a mildly apologetic grin. “I’m agnostic, Pastor. But thanks all the same.”
“I won’t hold that against you,” Father Gabe said with a smile. “But I guess that rules out my original assumption when you two showed up at my door. Usually when a young couple comes knocking they want to talk about having a wedding.”
Something flickered across Wes’s face in reaction to the priest’s words, but I didn’t have time to analyze it. Father Gabe had turned toward me.
“Unless, of course, you have ties to the church?” he asked.
“I . . . I’m a . . . lapsed Catholic,” I finally said, shifting my eyes to the floor.
“Well, like the prodigal son, you can always come home,” the priest said, walking us to the door. “Our Lady of Mercy will always be here for you.”
* * *
After work, I went straight home, changed into comfortable clothes, and slipped on my favorite pentagram necklace. I had taken to wearing the necklace more often lately. Feeling the silver pendant against my chest was comforting, like being wrapped in a well-worn security blanket. It also made me feel close to the Goddess—my Earth-Mother of a thousand names.
I flipped on the TV to catch a snippet of local news. It had been three days since I’d discovered Charlie’s body, and the police were still being tight-lipped about their investigation. The only bit of news tonight was that the coroner had released his report, which confirmed that Charlie had been hit from behind. There was no question it was homicide.
I turned off the TV and went to the kitchen, where I filled my teakettle and placed it on the stove. Then I sat down in my breakfast nook and c
alled Mila. In typical fashion, she expressed concern for me before I could even ask her how she was doing.
“Keli, I have this new herbal tea blend you have to try. It’s a tisane made from chamomile, lemon balm, and valerian root. Wonderful for calming the nerves.”
“That sounds nice,” I said. “Have you been drinking it? You sound remarkably calm right now. I take it you haven’t received any more threatening notes.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“Mila?”
“I haven’t received any other notes,” she said. “But I have received a couple of phone calls.”
“What! When?”
“Two on Monday night. One on Tuesday night. None yet today—knock on wood.”
“What did the caller say? And what did they sound like?”
Mila paused again. She clearly didn’t want to talk about this.
“Well,” she finally said, “they spoke in a whisper. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. And they didn’t stay on the line for more than a few seconds.”
“What did they say, Mila?” I asked again.
I heard Mila sigh. “In the first call, they said I need to take down my sign at the shop and move out. Or else . . . someone else will die. In the next two calls, they said I have until Saturday, or else there will be more innocent blood on my hands.”
“Jeez, Mila. Did you go to the police?”
“No. I can handle this. Besides, I’m not sure the police would believe me. It’s not like I have any proof.”
“Mila,” I said firmly, “call Detective Rhinehardt. Please. He needs to know about this.”
Another sigh.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it for you.”
“Thank you. So you’re not going to reopen the shop until this person is caught, are you? I walked by earlier today and saw that you were still closed.”
“Actually, I plan to reopen on Imbolc,” Mila said, using the Gaelic word for the February 2nd holiday. I understood her thinking. The early spring sabbat was auspicious for any new beginning. It also happened to fall on Saturday, the day of the killer’s deadline. I had to hand it to Mila—she was not easily intimidated.
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