ATwistedMagick (3 page)

“I’ll do the best I can,” he promised, but the trail was cold and he might not find anything new.

He left his cousin’s house, making a mental list of how he wanted to attack the investigation. He planned to come down hard on this Shylah lady. If she had something to do with the murders, he certainly wouldn’t let her get away with it, but first he’d talk to the original lead detective on the case. He never knew how cooperative law enforcement would be. Often they seemed to regard PIs as rivals or critics of their work. Rarely, though, did he find negligent cops. They did what they could based on caseload, money, time and sometimes that just wasn’t enough. At some point, he’d call the other private investigators as well.

Detective Hain was very tall. That was the first thing Gabe noticed about her. Willowy was the word. Tall, thin, with short-cropped blonde hair and forest green eyes. She wore a gray suit with a sage-green blouse underneath. He could see the bulk of her holster under her left arm. She smiled cautiously. He sensed that she was not someone who trusted easily. An occupational hazard, he supposed.

“Have a seat,” she said after she’d led him into her crammed office. The space was the size of a closet with a beat-up metal desk, a couple of uncomfortable chairs and four filing cabinets with drawers half open and files laying on top.

“Wow, quite the accommodation you have here,” Gabe commented as he cleared papers off one of the chairs.

“Well, it’s not a big station, as you may have noticed. I think the post office has more space than we do.” She had a bit of an accent, though not Southern.

“I imagine you don’t get many murders then?”

“Correct. Maybe two a year. We call in the state police as needed, but they trust me, so they don’t step on my toes.”

“Why do they trust you, if you don’t mind me asking? Cops seem to be always vying for territory.”

“I was a detective in New York. I have the experience to work the heavy crimes.”

“Ah, that’s the accent.” He sat in the chair and discovered that one leg was shorter than the other. It creaked as it rocked, so he did his best to hold still. It seemed designed to keep the person facing the desk disconcerted.

“So you’re investigating the Horton-Gustava case? I really wish you’d give back the money and convince Mrs. Gustava to let it lie. You’re what, the third or fourth detective she’s hired? She’s beating a dead horse.”

Gabe nodded. “I think that may be true, but she’s not paying me. I’m family.”

She cocked her head. “I haven’t met you before.”

“I’m an investigator from Los Angeles. I came out here at my aunt’s request.”

“You know you’re not licensed to work in Virginia then?”

“I plan to keep the investigation really light. The family just wants to feel they’ve turned over every stone.”

“Well, call me if you find something in need of ‘official’ investigation.”

“No problem. So tell me your thoughts and what you’ve found, if you could. My cousin believes Shylah Lewis is the killer, yet you haven’t arrested her.”

“It started as a missing persons case with the Amber Alert and foot searches. We were also considering the possibility that the kids had run away together. Ms. Lewis was just one of the teachers at the kids’ school, and we weren’t specifically looking at her. I knew she was Wiccan, but I’m familiar with Wicca as a religion versus the occult from my time in New York. She didn’t strike me as kidnapper or killer. I looked at the stepfather first, because those closest to the victims are often the perpetrators.”

Gabe nodded in understanding, but stayed silent so he wouldn’t interrupt her train of thought.

“When we found the bodies with the pentagrams and signs of an occult ritual surrounding them, we looked more closely at Ms. Lewis—she volunteered to give a cheek swab—and we scoured the town for anyone else who might be involved in the occult. If anyone else practices the Craft in this town, we haven’t found them. I, of course, considered that we might not be looking wide enough, so we consulted the Richmond and Charlottesville police as well as the county and state cops, but we couldn’t narrow down any practitioners or covens that had any connection with Smith Creek or the families. Basically we were at a dead end.”

“When did Ms. Lewis get fired from her position?”

“Days after the kids were found. The town needed a bad guy, someone to pay for this shock to their system. It didn’t matter what the investigation actually turned up.” She paused and took a sip from her stained mug.

“But the investigation returned to Ms. Lewis? Why was that?”

“Because the DNA results finally came in. A single strand of long black hair was found in the caked blood at the scene. Both Lalia and Matthew have different shades of brown hair, so we sent this one to the lab. It belonged to Ms. Lewis. I just can’t believe she’d give a cheek swab if she’d believed there was risk of her DNA being found at the scene, and she was genuinely shocked when she learned about the hair.”

“She hadn’t talked to Lalia at school or something innocent?”

“She said no. As you can imagine we intensified our investigation of her, searched her house, car and old classroom. It was still winter break, so that hadn’t been touched. In the end, we found nothing. No one had seen her around the victims or the families or the neighborhood. We just had that one hair, and the DA wouldn’t move forward with that.”

“Nor you?”

“One hair so prominently placed seemed just that…placed.”

“And the previous PIs?”

“Covered the same ground, as far as I can tell. I’ve spoken to each of them as I am with you. I would love for one of you to find something, but, after all this time, I don’t think you will, and I know how hard this has hit the families financially.” She rubbed her forefinger over the tip of her nose. “The PIs did add harassment to the mix, as did our uniformed officers. I threatened demotions when I got wind of that. But Ms. Lewis didn’t break, and she didn’t run.”

“Did the autopsies add anything?”

“There had been no sexual assault. Lalia was still a virgin, in fact. These two items left me open to both the idea that the murderer could be a woman and that the murders could be occult based.”

“Like virgin sacrifice?”

“Yes, but the ME thought the cuts were made postmortem. The actual cause of death was asphyxiation from chemical inhalation.”

“Carbon monoxide?”

“More along the lines of paint thinner and the like, because carbon monoxide turns the skin bright pink.”

“So what do you think personally?”

She shook her head. “The cop in me says anyone is capable of anything, even though we still know of no motive for the murders. Shylah did come in after the first week and say that she thought the killer’s car was silver.” She paused as if she was about to say something else, but then she stood and reached out her hand to shake Gabe’s, a clear indicator that she was done talking.

Gabe nodded, stood and accepted the detective’s hand. She struck him as a very level-headed, capable investigator. He would need to discover new ways to tackle the investigation, because treading over her original path would be fruitless. He left the station thinking about the DNA evidence. If a woman murdered two teenagers and held up under a protracted investigation, she had to be a cool customer, a consummate actress. Could such a person plant a hair and offer up a DNA swab because she knew it would make her look innocent? Could she have lost one single hair during the ritual and not realized it? Or was it sheer coincidence that Shylah practiced Wicca and the murders were of an occult nature?

It was time for him to meet the witch herself.

Shylah was beginning to hate eggs. She’d thought of asking the local grocer to stop stocking them since they all seemed to end up on her house. Honestly, what was the point of buying a dozen eggs and throwing them against her wall, or buying a twelve-pack of toilet paper and wrapping it around her trees? At least the more destructive attacks had waned, no more using her mailbox for baseball practice or slashing her tires. A few more scrubs and she dropped the sponge into the bucket, satisfied. The paint was back to its usual color and texture and the smell had dissipated. She did a backstretch, then turned as she heard a car pull into her drive.

One drop-dead-gorgeous man stepped out from behind the wheel. His skin was a dark olive and his hair dark and neatly trimmed. As he moved closer, the afternoon sun illuminated gold flecks in his rich brown eyes. He had a jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He was probably six inches taller than her. All in all, a fine specimen.

But since the only men who seemed to visit her in the past few months had been cops or private eyes, Shylah greeted him with a scowl. “Can I help you?” She carefully dumped the bucket at the base of her azalea bushes.

When she straightened, he offered her his business card. “I’m Gabe Niguel. I’ve been hired by Angela Gustava to investigate the death of her daughter.”

“Another investigator? She’s got to be going broke from this! What does she think you’ll learn different than the last three investigators who talked to me?” She noted the goose bumps on his forearms.

“It’s very cold out here. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Put your coat on then.” Although she was getting chilly, despite her jacket. She’d splashed some water on her sleeves as she’d washed off the egg spatter.

He smiled and Shylah had no doubt he had women swooning everywhere he went. “It’s easier to talk when we’re at ease in your living room, don’t you think?”

Shylah glanced at his card again, buying time to sense his aura. It wasn’t something magical; it was just a heightened awareness that most people didn’t take the time to feel. Auras were usually described in colors, the different colors having different meanings. Gabe’s aura blended shades of red with a gray rim. The gray meant he was on his guard. She imagined most PIs had that about them, if it wasn’t overwhelmed by other emotions. The reds were more difficult to decipher—he was angry and strong-willed, but that didn’t overtake his realism and fairness. He would search for justice, not revenge. The clearest red meant he was passionate, powerful and sexual. Shylah felt a zing at this. She tamped it down, reminding herself that the previous investigators had been determined to prove her guilty, despite the lack of evidence.

But nothing in his aura said untrustworthy or violent. She decided to let him in, so at the very least she could take her own wet jacket off. Once they were inside, she said, “You can take the armchair closest to the fire. That will warm you right up. Would you like some tea?”

He walked past her. “You wouldn’t have any coffee?”

“I’m afraid not. I have my blend of Mu Tea, which gives you more energy than caffeine can.”

He sat down in the antique armchair, making the chair look small because of his size. “Um, what’s in it exactly?”

“Ginseng, cinnamon, ginger and licorice.”

He looked doubtful. “I’ll try it. None of the previous investigators died, did they?”

“Why, Mr. Niguel, I’d be a lot more subtle if I wanted to kill you.”

She’d been joking, but his expression turned grim. “Is that what you did to Lalia and Matthew?”

She fought the urge to throw him out of her house, but then she had no doubt he would double his efforts to get at her. She forced a polite smile. “The children were not overdosed with valerian or kava kava, and forensics went over my house and car with a fine-toothed comb. However, the other investigators did claim that I’d bespelled them, so you’d better watch out.” She turned abruptly. “I’ll get your tea.”

In the kitchen, she microwaved the water to boiling. As natural as she liked to keep things, she rarely had the patience to wait for a teapot to steam on the stove. She pulled out the proper jar of loose leaves and scooped them into the infuser. Once the water was hot, she poured it over the leaves and let it steep. Instead of using the energizing mix for her own tea, she chose a chamomile blend. It would keep her from screaming her innocence at her visitor. People did not look particularly sane when screaming. She also took a moment to wash her hands and straighten her hair from being outside in the wind. She returned to the living room with the mugs.

“Not bad,” he said after taking a sip.

“I recommend it over coffee. Less addictive and fewer side effects.” She perched on the edge of the couch cushion.

He nodded and took another sip. “So is there anything you haven’t told the other detectives?”

“And why would I not have told them everything already?”

“Maybe you remembered a new detail that you did not think important at the time.”

“The children were not in any of my classes, and I didn’t hear that they were missing until Principal Acker told me in the school hallway the day after they went missing. This was just before the police arrived at the school to question us.”

“I’ve been told that you’re the only witch in town.”

She sighed. “As I’ve mentioned to every detective before you, how do you know that?” She took a large swig of tea, adding her intention to the natural calming effects of the herbs. “Most Pagans do not advertise their beliefs because of the likelihood of persecution. Besides which, the blood was taken postmortem, which implies this wasn’t a true summoning.”

“You seem very knowledgeable about the details of the crime.”

“Do you seriously think I would remain ignorant when I’ve been under this scrutiny for three months? I would have investigated myself if I knew how to go about it. I kept hoping one of you all would get it right!”

She had scryed using a silver bowl and water from her creek out back. She’d felt the children’s fear and their parents’ grief, and she’d seen disjointed images of an open car trunk with a bulky tarp inside. She’d thought the car was silver, but perhaps that was only the chrome bumper. She’d seen gloved hands toss candles, nails and a kitchen knife in with the tarp. Later she’d created an incense of mugwort and other herbs that promoted clairvoyance to burn as she meditated in circle. This time she’d seen from the perspective of the killer as he tugged the tarp from the trunk, arms and legs appearing as the covering moved. She’d heard the plop as the bodies hit the ground and came into full view. They’d been naked. The killer had taken Lalia’s wrist and slit it, but barely any blood oozed out. This was how she knew the cut had been made postmortem.

After that vision, she couldn’t stop crying. She’d done a purification spell and a cleansing, but nothing dispelled her utter depression. Then she’d gotten fired and had had to focus on keeping her life from unraveling.

“Detective Hain told me that you came in a week after the children were found to tell her to look for a silver car. What made you think it was silver?”

She sighed. “Didn’t Detective Hain tell you that too?”

“No, she didn’t actually. I think she might be tired of talking to another investigator.”

“Well, whether you believe me or not, I saw it when I was scrying. I saw an open trunk with a tarp in it, but later I wondered if the silver was just the chrome bumper and not the car color.”

* * * * *

Gabe had no idea what scrying meant, but if Shylah knew any facts about the case that were not general knowledge, that would put another nail in her coffin.

When he’d first arrived, her raven-black hair had been tossing about in the wind, but she’d fixed it when she’d gone into the kitchen. Now it fell down her back in loose curls and waves. Her sky-blue eyes—yes, actually the color of the sky on a clear fall day—were slitted in suspicion, but he could tell she had easy laugh lines. Barely there, so he guessed she was in her late twenties. She was petite but curvy in all the right places. She’d seemed to be washing her siding when he’d first pulled up, but when she’d dumped the bucket he could distinctly smell eggs.

“Did you discover anything else while scrying?” he asked.

“The killer wore work boots, heavy brown work boots, and black driving gloves.”

Well, that wasn’t specific enough to incriminate her. “And that’s all?”

“I have only scryed twice. The grief was too much to bear.”

“You felt grief for the kids?”

“Of course, but it wasn’t my grief; it was their parents’ grief I was feeling, unending pain.” Her eyes glistened from unshed tears. “And Lalia’s naked body tossed on the ground like a sack of potatoes. No, I couldn’t deal with that again.”

“Tossed on the ground?”

“He pulled the tarp from the trunk, the tarp they were wrapped in. When the bundle landed, the bodies rolled free.”

“He? Did you see him?”

“No, I think I was seeing from his point of view and I had the impression he was male, partly because of the heavy boots and partly because of the strength it must have taken to pull the bodies from the trunk.”

If the kids had been dead or knocked-out before being taken to the scene, it would have taken a lot of strength. Perhaps Shylah had had an accomplice? He didn’t believe in visions, so her details were either from memory or entirely made up from details she’d learned later. “Explain this scrying to me.”

She set her mug on the scarred coffee table. “It’s a way of opening up to the vibrations and spirits that you wouldn’t normally be aware of. Your third eye, it is sometimes called. Clairvoyance.”

“Okay.” It sounded like a lot of bullshit to him, but she looked intense as she explained it, as if willing him to understand. “And how is it done?”

“You’re familiar with a crystal ball, of course. But a black mirror is far more common, because it is easy to make and a lot less expensive. The first time, when I saw the car, I was using a silver bowl filled with clear water. The energy of the water usually works best for me.”

He still didn’t get how this was done. He’d been subjected to palm reading and tarot cards at parties, but no one had pulled out a crystal ball and claimed to see his future in it. “You see images in the water?”

“I think of it as reflecting the knowledge of our third eye back to us.”

“You said the ‘first time’. Was there a second time?”

“Yes. That time I used several herbs that help with clairvoyance.”

Okay, this seemed wackier and wackier. He’d laugh if she was anyone else, but her beauty combined with her earnestness kept him silent. He noted that she hadn’t mentioned any sort of sacrifice to gain power. He knew of some in the Cuban neighborhood who practiced Santeria, which involved killing chickens, but his neighborhood had been mainly Mexican Catholics.

“So your theory is that the murder wasn’t meant to summon something. What was it meant for then?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her chin and stared off into space. “Maybe I should try again, try to visualize the ritual itself.”

“You think you could get more information?”

“I just don’t know. I could also sense the auras of those involved and get a sense of guilt, but, of course, I’m not allowed anywhere near the family.”

“Auras?” Now she sounded like a New Age freak, someone who hung out at that shop on Seventh and wore crystals and flowing peasant skirts.

“Like colors around a person that give you clues to their feelings and personalities. Like whether they’re depressed or trustworthy or whatever.”

“Do I have an aura?”

She sighed. “You don’t believe.”

“Did you really expect me to?”

“No, but you’re listening longer than the others, which I appreciate.”

He thought for a moment. He could ask to watch her as she scryed. Would it help him prove her a charlatan?

“Explain the significance of the pentagram to me.”

“It represents the five elements—air, earth, water, fire and spirit. Spirit is at the top as most important. It is for invocation and protection and a symbol of our religion, but we did not create the pentagram. It’s been used for other purposes in history. As protection, I wear the silver chain with the pentagram pendant. I also have pentagrams around the house, on potholders and trivets, carved into candles, in lace doilies on several tables.” She pointed to the side table, which he’d barely glanced at since the woman before him was so captivating. Focusing on the lace, he saw the shape knitted into the circle. It was under a lamp and a box of tissues.

“They’re not obvious,” Gabe noted.

“I don’t want to bowl people over with my beliefs. I very strongly believe in ‘live and let live’. Unfortunately most people don’t seem to share my philosophy.”

During the drive over, Gabe set an appointment to see Mrs. Horton at five. He stood, which felt good to his legs. “I’m sure I’ve taken up too much of your time, but it is fascinating. Much to think about.”

Shylah glanced up at him. “And will you?”

“Hmm?”

“Think about it. Will you think about what I’ve told you today?”

“Definitely. Very eye opening.” He walked to the door.

Jet lag was killing him. He’d go back to the hotel after talking to Mrs. Horton and save tracking down Jorge and Dave, Lalia’s father and stepfather, for tomorrow. He hated having to treat the victims’ families as suspects, but that was part of the job.

Mrs. Horton was at home alone. He’d explained his relationship to Angela when he’d first called, which smoothed over the meeting.

“Oh please call me Vicky,” she said as she led him to her well-worn couch. Her makeup was caked on and the colors a bit eighties, while her clothes were skintight jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. She was definitely heavier on top, making Gabe wonder if her breasts had been augmented in some way. He asked the whereabouts of her husband first.

She offered him a beer and sat on the couch right next to him so that he nearly choked on the smell of her cheap perfume. He slid over some, not only to keep from touching her but to see her expression better. She took a long draw on her own beer and said, “Michael works at that big Lowe’s in Zion Crossroads. He’s a manager, so his schedule changes around a lot.”