5 Beewitched (26 page)

Which was true.

“Okay,” I said, “but I’m checking out this store first.”

Patti looked self-satisfied and almost smirky, as though she’d anticipated my response. Was I that predictable? I hated being predictable. She also seemed nervous now that she realized she was right in front of a witch’s shop.

“If you get into trouble in there,” she warned me, “don’t call me for help.”

I rolled up the window, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and sighed.

It appeared that P. P. Patti had sucked me into one of her schemes again.

This time I was going to practice extreme caution and uncommon common sense.

Yeah, right.

Famous last words.

Twenty-nine

Patti needed an excuse to avoid accompanying me
into the magic shop, so she offered to go in search of lunch. I watched her slither down the street dressed all in black, down to her fatigue jacket and low-riding ball cap. She’d purchased the men’s jacket in a secondhand store last year. All those little pockets meant she had to have it. But since it was green and she only wore jet-black, she’d dyed it. Patti might have made a good soldier if the military could have trained her to follow orders. That wasn’t her strong suit.

I stepped through the doorway into the Little Shop of Magic. Tabitha with the pointy glasses greeted me by name. I almost missed her in the dazzling array of products—books, oils, candles, incense (which hung heavily in the air), tarot decks—it went on and on. And like the storefront window signage, stuff filled every spare inch of space.

“What are you doing in the big city?” she asked from behind a counter loaded with items for sale, sounding friendly enough. Glancing down in a front case, I spotted something called . . . dragon’s blood. Really? And a bunch of jewelry on top of the counter, including pentacles on chains, necklaces similar to Rosina’s.

“Just visiting old friends,” I lied. “You have an amazing store,” I went on. “Now that I’m here, I could use a potion for asthma.”

I watched to see if my mentioning asthma would draw a reaction, like about the inquest into the death of Rosina’s boyfriend.

But Tabitha didn’t bat an eye, leading me to think either she hadn’t been aware of it or she was a very skilled actress. I went with unaware. “Potions were Rosina’s specialty,” she said, wistfully, while consulting a book behind the counter. “You heard, didn’t you, that she was killed?” Tabitha’s voice was breaking up.

“And her brother is in custody,” I added.

“It’s so sad.”

“I agree, such a shock. You two must have been close.”

She looked up with tears in her eyes. “We got along really well. That’s why we were sharing a tent. I’d asked her if she wanted me to go along with her, but she didn’t want my company. If only I’d insisted.”

Tabitha broke down completely at that point.

“You can’t blame yourself,” I tried to reassure her.

I waited a few minutes while she pulled herself together. “So you have asthma?” she asked, after wiping her tears away with a tissue.

“Not me. A friend.” No way was I going to pretend that I had difficulty breathing.

She stopped paging and looked up. “I have to see your friend to help her. Does she live close by?”

I thought of Patti and how much fun it would be to drag her into the store to act out the role of asthmatic. “No,” I said reluctantly. “She doesn’t.”

“Next time, bring her with you. Sorry, I can’t be of any use without the person.” Then she perked up and said, “Why don’t I make up a little magic for you? Let’s see. How about a potion to make a wish come true?”

“That sounds like fun,” I said.

“This is on me. A gift. First we need a mojo bag.” She produced a small red flannel bag. “While I put it together, you think of a wish. But don’t tell me. Keep it to yourself.”

I had my secret wish pronto.

She put some beans in the bag. “Wishing beans,” she explained. “And a rabbit’s foot key chain—a fake one, just so you know, I’d never harm an animal—and a piece of parchment with a little of this and that added. There.” She handed me the bag from the other side of the counter. “Carry it with you, but keep it out of sight. And don’t let anyone else touch it.”

“Thanks.” I stuffed it into a pocket. “I’m sure you told the police everything you remembered from the night you discovered Rosina’s body, but have you thought of anything else since?”

Tabitha adjusted her pointy glasses. “I told what happened, but I never thought that her brother was the one who killed her, and I still don’t.”

“Why not? All the evidence points to him.”

“I was sharing a tent with her, remember? When she left that night, she was calm. If she had been meeting her brother, she would have been anxious, you know, really nervous. They hadn’t spoken in years, and she told me she was worried that he’d make her leave.”

“That’s a good observation on your part,” I said. “But not enough to get Al released, I’m afraid.”

“There’s more.” She leaned forward. “A group of us consulted the high priestess when we came home. Lucinda said not to bother since a suspect was in custody, but we needed the practice so we did it without her.” Tabitha tensed after that. “Please don’t tell Lucinda. I shouldn’t have told you. If she finds out . . .”

“Don’t worry about me,” I assured her quickly. “My lips are sealed. But weren’t you short of the proper circle?”

“Some of us got together with a few witches who come into my shop. Actually, we were testing that ritual. Most of us didn’t actually believe it worked.”

So witches could doubt their magic, too. “And what happened?”

Tabitha brightened. “I think it worked just fine. The high priestess spoke through the written word. In fact, she picked me as her conduit, and I wrote her answers down on paper. It was pretty incredible because I didn’t know I did it, but sure enough, it was my handwriting.”

“And?” I had a lot more doubts than Tabitha did. This should be good. “What did she say?”

“That Rosina’s killer wasn’t her brother. I’d written
not brother.
”

“Who was it then?”

“Unfortunately, the high priestess refused to tell us that.”

Doesn’t it just figure. An all-knowing being shows up and refuses to cooperate.

Back out on Brady Street with my mojo bag safely stowed away and my wish tucked back inside my short-term memory compartment, I took an incoming call from Hunter.

“What’s up?” he wanted to know.

“Not much.”

“Where are you?”

“Around.”

“You sure are a Chatty Cathy this morning.”

“I’m sort of busy right now.”

“Okay, that’s a good thing, right? Your store sure has been a success.”

Hunter thought I was working. And I wasn’t about to correct him. He’d burst a blood vessel if he knew I was hanging with Patti. And visiting with witches. And about to break and enter. Well, not exactly break and enter, but close enough. “Yes, The Wild Clover has been a huge success. Chalk it up to all the gossip. We serve you rumors with your groceries.”

“I like that. It would make a cool sound bite. Listen, let’s meet up later this afternoon for a nap.”

I did the math—a quick peek at Rosina’s apartment and forty-five minutes back to Moraine. I could make it easily. “I like how you think,” I told him.

We disconnected. Patti came at me from across the street, paper bag in hand, ball cap pulled down tight so her features were indistinguishable, a sort of stealthy manner about her. If I were a beat cop, I might consider stopping her with a few questions about her intentions.

And this was Brady Street where you expected to see just about anything.

Looking right then left, she jaywalked to my side.

With trepidation, I unlocked the passenger side door.

Patti slid in.

Within a heartbeat, she had reinserted herself into my life.

Thirty

We drove over to Farwell Street, where Patti directed
me to pull over next to a run-down, dirty white Victorian. Then we ate traditional Wisconsin Sunday fare: hot ham and rolls.

I shared what I had learned about Claudene’s legal situation, confirmed the inquest and how she had been cleared of any wrongdoing but had changed her name to Rosina to escape the stigma of those allegations.

“Who told you all this?” Patti asked, one cheek loaded up with ham.

“Mabel Whelan’s niece Iris.”

“Only heresy then!” Patti stated as though she were a litigation attorney.

“You mean
hearsay
.”

“Whatever. Iris doesn’t have any personal knowledge of the events you described. But don’t worry. I have actual facts to back up her story. My information came from documents I found online. So my info trumps yours.”

“Stop acting so cocky or you won’t hear what the owner of the magic shop had to say.”

Then I went on, wading through the details of the latest ritual.

“These witches didn’t intend to go bad,” Patti stated. “They might have started out innocent enough, but then the dark forces take control. That’s why it’s best to steer clear of them in the first place. Having one on the block is going to ruin property values and worse, jeopardize our healthy minds. I’m telling you, watch out.”

“I just realized why you waited for me instead of going into Rosina’s apartment alone. You’re afraid.”

“At least one of us has a clear head,” she said, unzipping her jacket halfway and drawing out a DIY project. When Patti had worked for the newspaper, she’d crafted her very own press pass and wore it around her neck, even though as far as I know, it never gained her special access. This time she’d created another piece of neckwear by hanging a long, beaded chain with a large crucifix, the kind I’ve seen on people’s walls. She noticed me appraising it. “I made it myself.”

“Obviously.”

“I drilled a hole for the chain. It’s a little heavy but worth its weight in gold.”

“Since when are you the religious type?”

“Since I found this witch’s den and knew I’d have to go inside.”

It’s one thing to wear a cross as a symbol of love and sacrifice; it’s another to use it like a bulletproof vest to ward off people who are different. I’m not Catholic, but I can respect their traditions. As far as I know Patti isn’t Catholic, either. If she gets zapped by a lightning bolt, I just pray I’m not standing next to her.

“Keep your jacket zipped and the cross hidden away,” I advised, “or someone is going to try to take you in for a mental health examination.” And that somebody might be me.

We got out and approached the white Polish flat where Rosina had lived. Most visitors to Milwaukee don’t know what Polish flats are, because they aren’t found anyplace else. When our early Polish immigrants arrived, they often built small cottages. Some years later, they raised their homes on jacks and constructed apartments below in the partially sunken basements, which they rented out to the constant influx of more immigrants. “The downstairs neighbor will let us in,” Patti said, stopping at a door underneath the stairway leading to the top flat.

While we waited for an answer to our knock, I thought about Al Mason and how we probably were going through motions that wouldn’t change the outcome one bit. If it weren’t for the incriminating fingerprints on the dead woman’s pentacle, and if it hadn’t been discovered inside Al’s home, I would have said, “no way would he kill his own sister.” But I had to admit to myself that he probably really had killed her, and all our wishful thinking was just that. Wishful thinking.

The optimism I’d been clutching had all but fizzled out. What was there to find in Rosina’s apartment? Nothing, that’s what. Before I went totally negative, I found a ray of sunshine in the situation: It sure would be fun watching Patti squirm her way through a witch’s den.

With that pleasurable thought, the door opened and my glee evaporated.

Because it was Lucinda Lighthouse who frowned at me from the entryway.

It made sense once I thought about it. Patti had never shown her face around the witches, so Lucinda wouldn’t have had any reason to doubt it when Patti showed up claiming to be a niece. “You!” she exclaimed, still focused on me. “You’re the best friend?!” Then her head swiveled to Patti. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but it isn’t going to work.”