by Wendy Tyson
The Lieutenant stuck the end of his pen in his mouth, bit down on it, and gave her a condescending smirk. “You believe that?”
“Yes.” Allison bristled. “Besides, Wiccan is a peaceful religion. It’s not the same as devil worshipping.”
“But it’s a slippery slope. What begins as interest in the occult can broaden, deepen, especially if fueled by anger or illness.” Helms shrugged. “We’ve seen it before. It’s not that big a leap.”
Allison studied him. His eyes had softened until they had the look of sad resignation. She was sure he’d seen the worst of what humanity had to offer. Of course, to him, the leap from Wiccan to more sinister occult interests wouldn’t seem so huge. But Allison didn’t agree. “Look, Lieutenant,” she said, “I really have nothing to add to this conversation. I’ve known Maggie for a few weeks. She has an attitude, perhaps—”
“Perhaps? She’s the most recalcitrant kid I’ve ever had the misfortune to work with. She has a record, you know. Shoplifting. Loitering.”
“That doesn’t make her a killer.”
“Has she told you anything about school? About her relationships with other kids?”
“I know she’s been in trouble a few times.”
“It’s a little more serious than that. She was suspended for threatening to kill another student.”
Allison paused. “Kids make threats all the time. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“With references to the devil, Ms. Campbell? She threatened this other student with a letter written in what she claimed was blood.” His eyes widened. “Now I ask you, is that normal kid stuff?”
After the Lieutenant left, Allison walked back to find Vaughn. There was so much she didn’t know about Maggie. Why hadn’t the McBrides mentioned more about Maggie’s school problems? Were they afraid telling her everything would scare her away? Probably. But even so, she’d been owed the truth. Suspension—and near expulsion—from school, psychiatric counseling, anger management classes.
What had Lieutenant Helms said? The fight between her and the other student had started over a boy. And not just any boy: Ethan Feldman. Was there a connection between the letter and Arnie’s death? The police thought so. Feldman had forbidden Ethan to see Maggie after that. He’d called the school and demanded that the teens be kept separated during school hours. He’d threatened a restraining order if she continued to call their home.
Any kid would be upset. Arnie Feldman’s actions, though perhaps understandable, would have been humiliating, especially to an emotionally unstable teen. But would they have been enough to cause Maggie to kill him?
She’d read between the lines Lieutenant Helms had drawn for her. From his perspective, Maggie killed Feldman as vindication for trying to keep her and Ethan apart. It was a logical step given the threats she’d made in the past.
Allison considered what she knew of Maggie. Difficult? Yes. Antisocial? Perhaps. On the surface anyway. Capable of murder? No. Allison had experienced Maggie’s moodiness, her unwillingness to please, her desire to get in those little painful jabs. But she’d also seen her smile, had watched her protect her mother and save a dog no one else bothered to help. The kid had a caring side. Not the profile of someone incapable of empathy.
Unless it was all an act.
Allison had been fooled before. She thought of Violet, at the shock of finding out that Violet had run away to be with Sparky. At the shock of realizing how very, very wrong she could be about people.
Was she wrong here? Was Maggie simply playing her? This was bigger than running away. Murder took a brutality of character she didn’t think she could miss. But Maggie was fifteen. Teenagers’ brains were still developing. They often made decisions without considering consequences, focusing only on their immediate desires.
But these murders, for Allison had no doubt that the murders of Udele and Arnie were connected, didn’t seem like impulse kills. Rather, they seemed calculated. And anyone who knew Maggie would know of her interest in the occult. Between that and her personality, Maggie was an easy target.
Further support for Allison’s burgeoning theory: someone was framing Maggie.
But if Maggie was innocent, who had killed Arnie Feldman? And, even more baffling, who would want to kill Udele too?
Vaughn didn’t agree. “All roads lead to Maggie, Allison. That’s the sad truth.” They were in the client room, straightening-up after the long day. Allison was pooped. She sank into a chair and focused her attention on Vaughn.
“Then all the roads are leading in the wrong direction.”
“Okay, then, let’s play whodunit. We know Mia is off the hook, at least for Udele’s murder. Coroner puts time of death sometime in the morning between nine and noon and Mia was volunteering at the local soup kitchen. Has three witnesses who will swear to it. So how about Hank McBride?”
“Why would he frame his own daughter?”
“Maybe he wants her out of the picture. What better way to make that happen?”
Vaughn stacked catalogues and put away files as they spoke. He was art in motion. She watched him, not even trying to hide her skepticism. “How so?”
He put down the file he was holding and took the seat across from her. “McBride wants a seat in the Senate. What if Arnie Feldman had something on him? He had to get rid of him. Both Feldman and Maggie stood in his way. There was one way of getting both of them out of the picture and grabbing some public sympathy.”
Allison said, “Go on.”
“He paints himself as the poor father with a psychiatrically ill daughter. He does everything to help her. Hires professionals. Even hires a popular image consultant to work with her. Nothing works. In fact, things get worse. It isn’t his fault.”
Allison said, “It’s too risky. There are easier ways to get rid of someone. Why would you purposefully bring the police into your own house? And that’s assuming Feldman had something on McBride. We don’t know that, although it’s worth exploring.” She put her head in her hands, squeezing her skull as though the pressure would keep the looming headache at bay. “The fact is, we don’t know much of anything.”
“True enough. From what you’ve said, all this conjecture might be moot,” Vaughn said. “They haven’t arrested Maggie, but it sounds like it’s just a matter of time.”
“We need to know more about Feldman. What he was working on, who his clients were. Something tells me if we understand why he was murdered, our questions about Udele may be answered as well.”
“Sasha Feldman’s a must. And Arnie’s ex-wife, Brenda.”
Allison nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll visit Sasha, you take Brenda. Between you and Jason, we should be able to pull together basic info.”
Something the lieutenant said was niggling at the corners of Allison’s mind. The knife. The crime scenes. The pentagram. Maggie’s necklace. She needed to understand the significance of Wicca and how it fit into this.
“I think we should also explore Wicca. I’ll do some Internet research on witchcraft and local covens to see what I can find out.”
Vaughn looked at her. “Are you thinking that the real killer is part of that world?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the real killer knew enough about it to frame Maggie and Ethan. Either way, it’s worth researching.”
He seemed to consider this. “Why don’t you let me handle the Internet stuff? I have a friend who’s a computer genius. He’s kind of bored right now. He may be able to track down the local covens.”
Allison felt hopeful. It would save her hours in front of a computer. And she was no computer genius. “You trust this friend?”
Vaughn nodded.
If Vaughn trusted him, Allison would trust him, too. She thought of another detail that Maggie had told her, one she’d forgotten to share with Lieutenant Helms. “Maggie said her witch name was Lanomia. I have no idea if that will help, but it migh
t.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“Thank you. And thank your friend.”
Vaughn looked away, but not before she saw the shadow that fell across his face. “I will.”
“You don’t really think Maggie was involved, do you, Vaughn?”
“I don’t know. It is still a little too neat,” he said after a moment, the shadow gone as quickly as it had appeared. “The more I consider it, the more I think the biggest defect in the police’s logic is the most basic reason of all.”
“Which is?”
“Premeditated murder takes planning and foresight. When was the last time you met a teenager who could organize her closet, much less orchestrate two cold-blooded killings?”
Twenty-Three
The Feldman home was a newly-built architectural stew of modern American, French Colonial and English Tudor, culminating with a three-car garage. The neighborhood abutted two streets of older Main Line estates without so much as a nod to their formal grace. Like the Feldman residence, the other houses on their street marked an identity crisis of style. But all the houses had one thing in common: size. Allison didn’t think any were under 5,000 square feet, and that was probably a conservative estimate. Things were bigger on this side of the neighborhood.
Clearly, Arnie had been good at his job.
Allison rang the doorbell. She heard a yippy dog barking, but no one answered. She rang again. Her watch read 8:08. Rudely early for an image consultant; perfect timing for an investigator hoping to catch someone at home.
After a few minutes, the door opened slightly. Allison saw a pair of squinting eyes looking at her from the other side of the chain-locked door. A Chihuahua’s pink face poked its way through the crevice, cradled in the woman’s hands.
“Mrs. Feldman?” Allison wedged the front of one red pump in the door, cringing at the thought of marred leather. “May I speak to you? Please? It will only take a few minutes.”
Sasha stared at her through the opening.
“I know it’s early,” Allison said, “but I was hoping to catch you before you left for the day. I’m Allison Campbell. Do you remember me?”
The woman squinted, nodded, her eyes slowly widening in recognition. “Of course. What do you need, Allison?”
“Just to talk. About your husband.” Allison flashed an apologetic smile. “I can explain if you let me in. I tried calling first, but—”
“I’ve been busy.” Sasha hesitated for a moment before unlatching the chain lock. Allison followed her into a spacious foyer. A round table sat in the entryway, on it a multi-colored Chinese vase too big for the circumference of the small table, and a set of brightly-patterned Russian nesting dolls. The foyer had been painted a deep red; the carpeted floor was white. Small stains dotted the rug. The house smelled of cloying floral perfume and cinnamon room spray.
Allison took a sideways look at the woman in front of her. Sasha Feldman was short, maybe five feet tall, and wore Lycra shorts and a sports bra that accentuated a slender, sculpted figure— including a good dose of surgical enhancement. Her long hair was pulled away from her face with a teal headband. Despite the cosmetic transformation, everything about her was harsh: overly-square fingernails, sharp chin, long, chiseled nose, even the stony look in her eyes. She certainly didn’t look like the grieving widow.
Allison remembered Arnie Feldman. Significantly older than Sasha, balding, with small tortoiseshell glasses and a lipless smile. Had Sasha been the trophy wife, or had there been love between them? She was having difficulty picturing them together based on appearances. But then, appearances could be deceiving.
The Chihuahua snuggled against Sasha’s chest, managing to look simultaneously indignant and frightened. Sasha stroked the dog’s head.
“My personal trainer is on his way here,” Sasha said. “I don’t have much time.”
Sasha sashayed through a narrow archway and into the living room. Allison tried to take in the layout of the house, picturing in her mind how an intruder would get in. The house was a maze of interconnected rooms, each one contained and claustrophobic. She had to admit that she had no idea what ingresses and egresses lurked behind these walls.
“You can sit over there.” Sasha pointed to a leather couch the color of sand. The whole room was sand-colored, except for an abstract oil painted in viscous strokes of crimson and orange..
Sasha cleared her throat.
Allison said, “You’re probably wondering why I’m here—”
Sasha simply stared at her. The dog stared at her, too. Allison shifted in her seat, feeling suffocated by Sasha’s overwhelming perfume and the awkward stillness. She waited it out, though, understanding all too well the power of silence.
Finally, Sasha said, “How can I help you?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. This must be an extremely difficult time for you.”
“I don’t think you came here to tell me that, Allison.” Sasha said the words without a hint of malice or emotion—just a flat matter-of-factness that Allison found even more unsettling.
“I’m here because of what happened to Arnie, Sasha. My mother-in-law was a client of Arnie’s. She’s understandably concerned that certain, well, uncomfortable information about her divorce could make it into the public forum.”
The dog growled, a pathetic sound from deep within its skinny throat. Sasha’s perfume assaulted Allison in waves, sickly sweet and nauseating. She held back a sneeze.
Sasha picked at a loose thread on her shorts. “I don’t understand.”
“Because of the police investigation. Records will be reviewed. Information could leak out.”
Sasha said, “The police aren’t focused on Arnie’s clients, so she doesn’t have to worry. They know who did it.”
It was Allison’s turn to play dumb. “Really?”
Sasha huffed impatiently. “Ethan’s little whore of a girlfriend. With Ethan’s help.”
Allison feigned surprise. “His own son?”
Sasha shrugged. “I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t want to accept it, either.” Sasha ran her long, manicured fingernails down the dog’s back, leaving little trails of fur like garden furrows. “He’s almost a son to me. But the evidence was huge. Gi-normous.”
Allison cringed. Vaughn’s voice rang out in her head: once you establish your reason for being there, just keep her talking until you get what you need. Proud of her new-found ability with one-word sentences, Allison said, “Really? How?”
“The crime scene: a silver cup, a parallelogram like Maggie wears around her neck. Knives. An upside down crucifix. And there was no breaking and entering,” she said. “So the police think it was someone who lived here. And I didn’t do it, so that leaves Ethan.”
Allison fought back the desire to say “pentagram, not parallelogram.” And she wondered what Sasha meant by “silver cup.” A chalice? She asked, “Did Arnie try to get away?”
“He couldn’t. His hands and mouth were bound with duct tape.”
“How could two kids overpower a grown man?”
“Surprise. Have you met Ethan? He’s a bull.” Sasha looked down at the dog. “And Maggie’s a witch. Literally. All along we thought maybe she was just a devil bunny. You know, one of those teens who thinks it’s cool to be into Goth and worship Satan? Stuff she’d grow out of. Boy were we wrong.”
Allison thought for a moment. “Does anyone else have the security code, Sasha?”
“Now that would be plain stupid, wouldn’t it? Of course not.”
“Maybe someone arrived and Arnie let him in?”
Allison knew she was grasping at nothing, but Sasha was so blasé about all of this. For a woman who was recently widowed, she certainly didn’t appear bereft. And if Ethan was like a son to her, wouldn’t she be defending him, maybe even trying to prove he hadn’t murdered his father? But Sasha
Feldman seemed to take it all in stride, like she would a broken shoe strap or a missed Bloomingdale’s sale.
“No. Impossible. Look, Arnie was a busy man. He had few friends outside of work. I was his life. No one came to the house. As I said, I didn’t do it, and my Arnie did not kill himself. That leaves Ethan. And that little slut he hangs out with.”
Allison remembered Vaughn’s words: All roads lead to Maggie.
“Did anyone hold a grudge against Arnie that you knew of? A client?”
Sasha snorted. “He was a divorce attorney. Everybody he went up against held a grudge against him.”
“Anyone threaten him?”
“What are you, the police? I don’t know. Like I told that lieutenant someone-or-other, Arnie didn’t talk about work. When he came home, he liked to have a drink, relax.”
“What can you tell me about Ethan’s relationship with the McBride girl?”
Sasha laughed, but it was a bitter, mean sound. “I’d hardly call it a relationship. Maggie McBride is a witch. Literally. Ethan is no angel, certainly, but together...they had no regard for authority.”
“When did they start dating?”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “Like a year ago, maybe? Two? I don’t know, exactly. I’m not the family secretary. Does it really matter?”
“When was the last time Maggie was here?”
“With Arnie’s permission? About four months ago. Without Arnie’s permission? Who knows. The night he was killed, probably.”
“Why did you forbid Ethan to see Maggie?”
“The Jacuzzi incident was the last straw. Arnie found them together.” Sasha’s lips twisted into a look of disgust that gave no doubt as to what together meant.
“You said ‘the last straw.’ Were there prior incidents?”
Sasha twisted on the ottoman and glanced at her watch. She didn’t answer.
Allison decided to help things along. “Letters, Sasha? Did you know anything about Maggie getting suspended at school for sending threatening letters?”
Sasha nodded. “Sure. Ethan was in the middle of that, too. Troublemaker. I wish to God Arnie had left the brat with Brenda.”
