Waking the Witch

twenty-three

The lab techs had confirmed what Jesse said. One set of stairs. One set of prints going all that up. One set of prints at the top. Michael’s death was being ruled an accident, though they took all my contact information, just in case.

After they left, I kicked Jesse out. If he was working this case, he needed to go home, pack a bag, cancel appointments, whatever. He was reluctant to leave me alone, but I said I was fine. I wasn’t, but he didn’t know me well enough to tell.

By the time he left, it was after seven, which I figured was late enough to call a few of my shadier supernatural contacts out east. None had heard of either Cody or Tiffany. Never heard of Columbus, Washington. Never heard of Alastair Koppel and his commune. The only one who was any help was the last call I made, to a local witch, Molly Crane, who was up early getting her girls off to school.

Four years ago Molly had tried to kill Jaime Vegas. I’d intervened and left Molly tied up in a swamp. In the underbelly of the supernatural world, that marked the beginning of a working relationship based on mutual respect. A temporary gift of zombies a couple of years ago hadn’t hurt matters. Molly liked me. Can’t say I felt the same about her, but she was useful.

“If there’s a witch living so close to me, then I should know about her,” Molly said. “If I don’t, she’s not just flying under the radar, she’s crawling under it. You said her magic looks old?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. I was going to run it past Paige but ...”

Molly snorted. “Like Paige would recognize magic that wasn’t pure as the driven snow.”

Not true, but part of cozying up to Molly meant letting her disparage Paige and Lucas.

“That’s kind of what I thought,” I said. “And Paige hates me getting involved in anything dark ...”

Another snort. “E-mail me those pictures. I’ll find your ritual.”

THE MOTEL ROOM got too quiet again after that. I paced, struggling to focus on the case. I couldn’t. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed out for breakfast.

I walked to the diner. It was a good hike, but I needed the air. As I approached the door, though, I slowed, and my stomach twisted. Word of Michael’s death would have spread. There would be questions, probing questions, small-town curiosity spreading its tentacles. I couldn’t handle that.

So I walked past. Got ten steps before the door whooshed open and Lorraine called out after me.

“Savannah? Hon? Nothing open down that way. Come on back and get yourself some breakfast.”

When I turned to face her, she gave a sympathetic smile.

“Heard you had a rough night. Come and eat. On the house.”

I struggled for an excuse. None came.

When I walked through the doors, every eye turned my way. The place was busier than I expected. With the local paper shut down, this was news central. And after finding Michael’s body, I was the lead story.

No one said a word, though. After weak smiles and kind nods they all returned to their meals.

I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. The questions came tentatively. Not “So what happened last night?” but “Are you okay?” and “I’m sorry about Detective Kennedy.” They wanted to know what happened and knew it wasn’t right to ask, so I told them.

When my meal arrived, they switched to other topics—local and area news, funny personal stories, whatever might take my mind off Michael’s death. And over that meal, I mentally took back every nasty thing I’d ever said about small-town folks.

I’d ordered steak and eggs, and was complimenting Lorraine on her hash browns when her gaze moved to the front window. I looked out to see a young woman locking up a bike at the rack. She took an insulated bag from the carrier.

“One of the commune girls,” Lorraine said. “We get our eggs and milk from them. This girl has come the last couple of days. She asked about you yesterday, whether you ate breakfast here.”

It was the girl who’d seemed like she wanted to talk to me yesterday. Blue-streaked hair cut short and spiky. Studs in her nose and brow. A look that screamed attitude. Her face didn’t, though. Soft features and anxious eyes said the tough-girl look was a desperate attempt to find something she lacked.

The girl ignored me as she unloaded the bag for Lorraine and took the money.

“Do you have a minute?” I said. “I’d love to buy you a coffee. Megan said it was okay to talk to me, but I still don’t want to get you in trouble.”

It was the right thing to say. The tough girl inside her squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“I’m not afraid of Megan. Alastair said we can talk to you or that detective.”

I could tell by the way she said “that detective” that she didn’t know Michael was dead. News didn’t travel as fast when you lived up on Commune Hill. I didn’t see any reason to tell her, so I nodded and sipped my coffee. She did the same, her courage melting again.

“So Alastair said it was okay?” I prodded.

She nodded. “He said if someone’s preying on the girls of this town, he wants the guy caught.”

“He thinks it’s a guy?”

She frowned. “It always is, isn’t it?” Her gaze and voice dropped in a way that told me everything I needed to know about this girl’s damage.

I asked her name.

“Sylvia,” she said. “But I go by Vee.”

“Okay, Vee. How long have you been with the group?”

“Just over a year.”

Meaning she’d known Tamara, the friend of Claire’s who’d left in a hurry. Good.

“Did you know Ginny or Brandi?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“They never came up to the house?” I said. “Talked to Alastair, maybe?”

Her shoulders tightened. “Alastair’s a good guy. He’s helped me a lot. And, no, I’m not sleeping with him. He wouldn’t let me even if I asked. I’ve—I’ve had problems. With that ... kind of thing.” She cleared her throat. “His place, it’s not what people think. Not what my parents think, that’s for sure. Every couple of months they have this cult deprogrammer chick sneak into town to try to talk me out. It’s bullshit. No one’s holding me against my will. My folks blame Alastair because, otherwise, they’d have to admit that I’ve got a problem they can’t shove under the carpet like they’ve done all my—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“No reason to be. It’s good to know what the members think of the group and Alastair.”

“Alastair’s great. Really great.”

But I noticed she hadn’t answered my original question. Had Ginny gone up to visit him at the house? I broached the subject again with Vee, but she was quick with her denials. Too quick. I filed it and let it go.

“Is there anything about the group that does worry you?” I asked.

She chewed her lip enough to flake the skin, then said, “Kind of. It’s Megan. She—” She took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t like Megan, okay? No one does. She’s a bitch. The only reason she’s still around is because she runs the business. And because Alastair ... well, he’s kind of attached to her, you know. But I don’t like her and I’d be happy to see her tossed out on her skinny ass. I’m telling you that now, because if you find out later that I don’t like her, it’ll sound like I was making this up.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t go on right away. Drank half her coffee first, and I struggled not to fidget. Sitting for so long reminded me that I’d been up all night, and I found myself swallowing a yawn with every third breath until she finally blurted it out.

“Megan’s a voodoo priestess.”

I tried to look shocked. Probably did a decent job of it too, because while I knew someone up there was practicing Santeria, Megan was at the bottom of my list. If there’s a type of person who picks up a religion like that, Megan definitely didn’t fit it. Alastair did, though—he might seem distinguished, but he was nothing more than an old hippie, the kind of person who’d be attracted to a mystical religion.

“Voodoo?”

“Kind of. Claire said it wasn’t voodoo but something else.”

“Santeria?”

“That’s it.”

“So Claire knew.”

“Yeah, but ... It was weird. She wasn’t too fussed about it. She said she’d talked to a friend, who explained that it was just a kind of religion. It freaks me out, though.”

“Do all the girls know about it?”

Vee shook her head. “I just told Claire because she was my roommate, and she seemed smart, so I wanted to hear what she thought. I’m the only one who knows. Except Alastair. He ... he helps Megan sometimes. With the rituals and stuff. They do them in a room behind the shed, late at night, when everyone’s sleeping. I saw them once. I think that’s why Alastair likes Megan so much. She’s cast a spell on him.”

I struggled to keep a straight face and nodded. Why are humans so enamored with the myth of love spells? Even at my most desperate, I wouldn’t have been tempted by a spell to make Adam fall in love with me. My ego is way too healthy for that.

I asked Vee what she’d seen. There was nothing, though, to suggest Megan and Alastair were more than typical adherents doing typical protection rituals, like the one in the shed.

“They do sacrifices,” she said, when I didn’t seem impressed enough. “That’s what Claire told me.”

“Animal sacrifices.”

“So she said.”

“You think Megan had something to do with the murders?”

She shifted in her seat.

“Did you hear anything that might suggest a ritualistic link?”

“No, but ...”

I waited. Nothing.

“But ...” I prompted.

“Alastair was gone the night those town girls died.” She blurted it as fast as she’d told me about the Santeria. “I got up for a glass of milk. I don’t sleep too well. When I was in the kitchen, I heard the door open. It was Alastair. He looked ... sick. He looked sick.”

“Was Megan with him?”

“No, but do you really think she’d take care of the bodies? She had him do it. She killed those girls in a voodoo ritual, then she made him take the bodies into town. It wasn’t his fault. He had to protect her.”

There were a lot of holes in this theory. Still, it bore investigating.

“Did you tell anyone else?” I asked.

“Just my roommate. She left after that. I think it freaked her out.”

Claire’s friend, Tamara. I doubted it was a coincidence that Claire had ended up rooming with Vee. If the cult was as popular as they claimed, Tamara’s spot would have been filled before Claire decided to investigate. She must have maneuvered to get the same roommate as her friend.

“What about Claire?” I asked. “Did you tell her what you saw?”

“No.” The denial came fast. In other words, yes, she had and she feared that’s what got Claire killed.

“Did you know Claire was investigating the group?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Claire was Tamara’s friend from college. Tamara disappeared after she left you, and Claire joined the group trying to find out what happened. She thought it had something to do with Ginny and Brandi’s murders.”

Vee’s eyes shuttered. “I didn’t know that.”

And she didn’t like finding out now. It meant that Claire had been nice to her for a reason.

“Did you ever see Claire with Cody Radu?” I asked. “I heard something about the two of them arguing. If that’s true and Claire was investigating, it could mean Alastair had nothing to do with the deaths.”

“They did. The day before she died. At the hardware store. Claire went in, saying she needed something. I was with Megan. She looked in the window and saw them go out back together. Later Megan came to our room and told Claire to stay away from Cody. Said he was trouble.” She hesitated, then looked at me. “What if Megan did kill those girls and she figured out that Claire was snooping around, looking for the killer? That’d be bad for Claire.”

Way too many holes in that theory, too, but it confirmed that Claire had been with Cody. And if Megan knew it, maybe there was something there.