Wicked Witch Murder (17 page)

T
he following Tuesday, with deadline approaching, Ted asked Lucy to retrieve the photo she'd taken of the coven when they were rescued by helicopter from the mountain. “I want to run it with my editorial on tolerance. To show everybody they're just a bunch of regular folks.”

“Maybe they'll have faded from the picture,” said Phyllis, half seriously. “Vanished into the ether.”

“I think that's ghosts,” said Lucy, clicking her way through the stored images all the way back to June. “Here they are,” she said, enlarging it with a click of her mouse until it filled the entire screen. “Thirteen average Joes and Janes who just happen to be Wiccan.”

Ted leaned over her shoulder, studying the faces in the picture. “Just as I thought,” he said, stabbing at the monitor with his finger. “You could see these people anywhere—the grocery store, a PTA meeting, lined up at the post office.”

“Or prancing around a fire stark naked to celebrate the summer solstice,” said Lucy.

“That one's the witchiest,” said Phyllis, pointing at Lady Sybil, with her loosely flowing hair and eccentric garments.

“She's supposed to be the leader while Diana's away,” said Lucy, turning to Ted. “Want me to give her a call, get some quotes to run with the photo?”

“That's not a bad idea, Lucy,” said Ted. “Ads are up this week, so I've got some extra space to fill.”

Lucy had no trouble getting Sybil Wellington's phone number from directory assistance, and the witch picked up on the first ring. “Spells and Incantations, Lady Sybil at your service.”

After identifying herself, Lucy asked Lady Sybil for a brief description of the Wiccan religion.

“How to begin?” she wondered aloud in her rich, mellifluous voice. “It is such a rich faith, with so many diverse influences, which is natural since it is so very old, as old as mankind, and has evolved through the centuries. At root, I suppose, it has to do with man's relationship with nature, with natural forces.”

“Could you be more specific?” asked Lucy, typing away.

“Well, we celebrate the changing seasons. Our holidays are tied to the calendar, the sun, the phases of the moon.”

“I understand that a lot of our Christmas celebrations are derived from ancient celebrations of the winter solstice,” prompted Lucy.

“Oh, yes, absolutely. The mistletoe, a sacred plant to us, the Yule log, bringing light into the home—you're absolutely right about that.”

“So why do you think people are so fearful of witches and witchcraft?” asked Lucy.

“People tend to fear what they don't understand,” said Lady Sybil. “But really, as much as I'm enjoying our little chat, I'm expecting a client and I really have to go now. All this is in my book, you know.
Modern Witchcraft,
available on my Web site.”

“But I'm on deadline,” protested Lucy. “I need the information right now.”

“Oh, all right,” grumbled Lady Sybil. “The thing to remember is that Wicca is a modern evolution of the Old Religion practiced by our pagan ancestors. In fact, there are remote pockets in the British Isles where the Old Religion is still practiced to this day. I came upon such a place a few years ago, and they welcomed me. It was quite remarkable.”

“And how is the Old Religion different from today's Wicca?” asked Lucy.

There was a long silence, but finally Lady Sybil spoke. “Perhaps the best way to put it is to say that the Old Religion is more balanced, more holistic in that it accepts the fact that without death there is no life.”

“I remember my mother telling me when I was a child that the old people had to die so there would be room for the new babies to grow,” said Lucy.

“It's a bit more complicated than that,” cautioned Lady Sybil.

“I know I'm simplifying the concept,” admitted Lucy. “That's how my mother explained death to me when I was very young. But it's true, nevertheless. The garden dies every fall, and all that matter and energy is recycled into new growth in the spring. I understand completely.”

“I wonder if you do,” mused Lady Sybil. “I'm afraid I have to go—my client is at the door.”

“Well, thanks for your time,” said Lucy, hanging up.

She had just finished writing up the interview when she got a call from Miss Tilley.

“There's entirely too much of this witchcraft nonsense going on,” she said. “Every day there's another bit of trash blowing about on my lawn.”

“It's Ike Stoughton. Since Ted won't print his letters, he's distributing them himself.”

“I don't like it one bit,” complained Miss Tilley. “Have you read the latest one?”

“They're all the same, aren't they?” asked Lucy dismissively.

“No, they're getting increasingly violent. This one has a drawing of a witch being burned at the stake—it looks to me to be a copy of a medieval woodblock. It's quite shocking, really.”

“He's obsessed. He blames his wife's death, even the cyclone, on witchcraft. He won't listen to reason, so I guess we just have to wait until he gets tired of getting no reaction and gives up.”

“I wouldn't say he's not getting any reaction,” snapped Miss Tilley. “It seems to me that people are getting all jeezled up and anxious. It worries me. I'm especially worried about Rebecca.”

“I've been keeping an eye on her, like you asked,” said Lucy. “She's not at all concerned.”

“Well she should be!” exclaimed Miss Tilley. “My neighbor spent all morning putting empty bottles on the branches of his rose of Sharon bush—and he's a science teacher at the high school!”

“Bottles?” asked Lucy.

“To trap witches—don't you know anything?”

“I didn't know that,” admitted Lucy. “Maybe we should get a photo.”

“Maybe the
Pennysaver
should start covering this and let people know how stupid they're being,” snapped Miss Tilley.

“Well, this week Ted is running an editorial—” began Lucy, but Miss Tilley interrupted her.

“Let me talk to that boss of yours. I want to give him a piece of my mind.”

But when Lucy reached for the button to transfer the call, Ted was already on his feet and heading for the door. “Coward!” she hissed, covering the receiver. Removing her hand, she told Miss Tilley that he'd been called away from his desk. “Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?” she asked.

“You bet I do!” snapped Miss Tilley.

It was later than usual when Lucy left the office that afternoon, and she was hurrying to her car when she heard someone calling her name. Stopping in her tracks and turning around, she saw Emily Miller waving and hurrying up the sidewalk, her wrinkled cheeks pink with exertion.

Since Emily was well into her eighties, Lucy didn't want her to overexert herself and trotted down the sidewalk to meet her. “Take your time,” she urged. “I won't run away.”

“I'm so glad I caught you,” panted Emily. “I have big news about the Josiah Hopkins House.”

Lucy knew Emily was a stalwart member of the historical society that had restored the town's oldest house as a museum. She also knew the society was chronically short of money and always looking for funding. “A big grant?” she asked.

“No. Unfortunately. But we have some new volunteers, and we're expanding our hours.”

“Terrific,” said Lucy. “I'll run a short in the paper. What are they?”

“We're now open from eleven to one on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.”

“Got it,” said Lucy, jotting down the information. “I'll make sure it gets in this week's issue.”

“Good.” Emily gave a thoughtful nod. “What about these flyers that are everywhere? All anybody seems to talk about is witchcraft.”

“Ted's running an editorial, calling for tolerance,” said Lucy. “He's hoping it will cool things down.”

“I hope it works.” Emily leaned closer. “In olden times, people would probably have taken me for a witch, and my sister too. We're old crones, after all.”

Lucy smiled at the sweet-faced, white-haired woman who barely came up to her shoulder. “Oh, I don't think so. You're much too nice.”

“Lots of nice old ladies got hanged or burned at the stake or drowned,” said Emily. “Especially if they happened to have a disagreement with their neighbors.”

“Those days are long gone,” said Lucy. “Nowadays, people understand that witchcraft is simply a religion. The believers worship nature, that's all. There's nothing sinister about it.”

“So you don't believe witches have special powers?”

“No. Do you?” asked Lucy.

“I'm not sure,” confessed Emily. “I think it might be like electricity, or the telephone. I don't have the faintest idea how they work, but I know that they do. I think it might be like that with witchcraft. There are forces out there that maybe I don't understand and I'm not even aware of, but some people are sensitive to them. It's like my father, who had a terrific sense of smell. He could smell rain and snow and predict the weather. I never could. I was always amazed when he'd announce snow was coming and a while later the flakes would start to fall.”

“Was your father a witch?”

Emily laughed. “My mother used to say he was a devil, but she never called him a witch.”

Lucy was still smiling when she said good-bye to Emily and got in the car. The little delay meant she was later than ever, but she decided to take the long way home, anyway, just so she could tell Miss Tilley that she'd checked on Rebecca. She was driving with only half her mind on the road, thinking instead of what would be quick and easy for supper. Spaghetti again? Spanish rice? Soup and sandwiches? She could just imagine Bill's reaction when she informed him it was tuna melts and chowder—again. So when she came around the bend, the last thing she expected to see was a large sign announcing the latest Compass Construction project, the soon-to-be-built Lighthouse Point Mall.

Turning in the drive, she found Rebecca feeding her chickens.

“When did the sign go up?” asked Lucy, after exchanging greetings.

“Yesterday,” said Rebecca, scattering a handful of cracked corn on the ground for the birds that were gathering around her. It could have been a scene straight from a story book, thought Lucy, smiling at Rebecca's long, old-fashioned calico dress, her bare feet, and her straw bonnet. And then something caught her eye and she turned her head, seeing the crudely drawn pentagram painted in garish red paint on Rebecca's front door.

“When did that happen?” she asked, horrified.

“Sometime last night,” said Rebecca. “I found it this morning.”

“Are you all right?” asked Lucy.

“I'm fine,” said Rebecca.

“Did you call the police?”

“Why would I do that?”

“It's a crime—and it might mean you're in danger.”

Rebecca tossed the last of the feed on the ground and shrugged. “Life is dangerous,” she said with a smile. “Now, what can I get you? I've got some nice broilers I just killed.” She smacked her lips. “Yummy with a sprinkling of my herbes de Provence.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, reaching for her wallet. At least the problem of what to have for dinner was solved.

Back in her car, she impulsively decided to stop at the Stoughton homestead. She suspected Ike or his boys had painted the pentagram on Rebecca's door, and she wanted to find out for sure. When Ike opened the door, however, she was so shocked by his changed appearance that she changed her mind about confronting him.

“What brings you here?” he asked. He'd lost weight, his ruddy cheeks had paled, and he looked beyond tired, as if standing was almost too much effort.

“I just wanted to ask if there's anything I can do for you? I know it's a hard time,” she said.

“We're doing okay,” he said, speaking with effort.

“How's Abby?” asked Lucy.

“As well as can be expected,” he said, swallowing hard.

It was clearly not a good time for a social call, and Lucy decided to make it short.

“There's been some vandalism in the neighborhood,” she said. “Someone painted a pentagram on Rebecca Wardwell's door.”

“Good. It's about time people learned that she's a witch too. Tickling trout. Concocting potions. Hexing people.”

“She does seem to have some amazing abilities,” said Lucy, defending Rebecca. “But there is not an evil bone in her body.”

Ike shook his head. “Why won't you believe what's happening? It's right in front of you, right now, but you refuse to see it. Look around,” he said with an abrupt wave of his arm. “It's all gone to hell: the garden, the house, even the goats have gone dry.”

Lucy knew it was true. The homestead that was so tidy and promising in June now had a derelict, shabby air. The only thing that seemed to be thriving was the belladonna plant, which was bigger and greener than ever.

Ike continued, squinting at her. “Maybe you're in league with that witch.”

It was definitely time to go, thought Lucy. “Not me, and not my girls,” she said. “If there's anything we can do to help, please give me a call.”

“I can't think of anything,” he said, closing the door.

Lucy continued on her way, clattering over the temporary steel bridge and onto Red Top Road, eager to get home and stick the chicken in the oven. Throw in some potatoes and make a salad and she'd have a really nice supper. Maybe she even had a bottle of white wine. A chilled glass of wine would be awfully nice, she was thinking when the house came into view and she flicked on her turn signal. She had to wait for a truck to pass before making the left turn into the driveway; then the road was clear, and she aimed the car for the drive, checking the flag on the mailbox to see if anybody had collected the mail. The flag was down, she saw, and partially covered the angry red pentagram that had been drawn there.