Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch (9 page)

I
left with Dorothy’s address, though Paula warned me that she probably wouldn’t speak to me.

I went straight to Dorothy’s house. Walked, not rode, in case she had something against motorcycles. The lights were on and a car was in the drive. I figured it was a bad idea to cut across the lawn, so I took the walkway to the porch, rang the bell, and waited very patiently for at least a minute before knocking. No one answered.

I left a card in the door, asking to meet for coffee—my treat—at her convenience. You couldn’t get any more considerate and respectful than that. At least, I couldn’t.

Next stop: the real estate agency to fax the crime-scene photos to Adam, who’d offered to check out the ritual for me. The agency operated not only as a copy shop, but as a typing, résumé-writing, and speech-writing service. They did Web site development, too. When times are tough, the weak bail and the tough get creative.

Tough definitely described the local real estate agent. While I was faxing my files, she tried to sell me on three rental properties—leased by the week, she promised. As for the murders, she said Cody was clearly the killer. If not him, then Alastair Koppel. She didn’t have any evidence to support her claims, simply that Cody was a “useless little snot” and Alastair a “dirty old perv,” which wasn’t news on either count.

AS I LEFT the real estate agency, I was plotting my next move. When I saw a baby carriage blocking the sidewalk, I stopped so quickly I nearly fell into it. The woman behind it was in her early thirties with artfully streaked blond hair and the kind of designer blouse, slacks, and pumps ensemble you couldn’t find within fifty miles of Columbus.

“My husband didn’t kill Ginny Thompson,” she said.

It took a moment before I recognized her as the distant figure I’d seen in a doorway yesterday: Tiffany Radu.

I offered my hand and said, “Savannah Levine. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Radu.”

She gripped the carriage tighter. “He’s not a killer.”

“I’m an independent investigator. I have nothing to gain by sending your husband to jail if he’s innocent.”

“I don’t want you coming around the house.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“You already have.”

“Um, no. The closest I’ve been to your house is the police station, which is across the road. The only time I’ve spoken to your husband is this morning, when he bumped my bike with his SUV. Even then, I didn’t question him, let alone accuse him—”

“You’d better not. I won’t have my children hearing people say their father is a murderer.”

“They won’t hear it from me.” Given that I’d heard the older two were school age, I was pretty sure they’d heard already. “If you’ll excuse me ...”

I tried to sidestep, but she used her carriage as a roadblock. Now, normally, no one gets in my way like that, but I drew the line at shoving sleeping babies.

She scowled up at me. “I want you to—”

“—stay away from your house, your husband, your kids. I get it. But you know what? If you really want to protect your kids, tell your husband to stop screwing around or, if he has to and you’re okay with that, to be discreet. Because your kids are going to find out about that, and when they do, they’ll hate him for treating you like garbage, and they’ll hate you for putting up with it.”

“Who are you to be giving marital advice?” She pointedly stared at my ring-free left hand.

“Well, if you’re going to stand in my way, I have to talk about something. So you’re okay with Cody screwing his way through every girl who’s too drunk or doped up to notice what a sleaze he is?”

Her eyes narrowed, mouth opening, but nothing coming out.

“I bet you
are
okay with it,” I said. “At least if it means he’s knocking them around instead of you. It’s not like you’d feel threatened by women like Ginny Thompson.”

Across the road, Megan appeared, leading eight girls, the mother hen with her chicks, waving at the new girl dawdling at the back. The new girl was watching Tiffany and me, squinting nearsightedly, as if she recognized us, but couldn’t remember from where.

“But Claire was different,” I continued as the girls trooped into a store. “Claire was young, pretty, educated.
She
was competition.”

“My husband never even met Claire Kennedy.”

“I heard otherwise. If Claire was at that commune, she must have been as vulnerable as Ginny. Cody likes them vulnerable. Makes him feel like a man, apparently. More than you do.”

Her hand flew up to slap me. I caught her by the wrist. She yanked away, twisting to claw the underside of my arm.

“Ow,”
I said, frowning at the scratches. “Are your nails clean? Because if I get infected—”

“Stay away from my family or you’ll be sorry.”

“Did you threaten Ginny like this, too? Guess I’ll have to check those autopsy photos for claw marks. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

I put out a hand to block the stroller and walked past.

The gossips of Columbus might be an old-fashioned bunch, pointing fingers at the guys when they had a killer on the loose. But between Tiffany and Megan, I was kinda liking the ladies for this one.

TIFFANY DIDN’T LET me get away that easily. She tried to follow as fast as her short legs would carry her. I just sauntered along, letting my stride eat up the sidewalk. Then my cell rang. “Light My Fire.”

“My Jeep needs a new top,” Adam said in greeting.

“Uh-huh. I thought I mentioned this after I was rained on all the way to Seattle.”

I took a seat on a bench outside the post office. Tiffany stopped ten feet away from me, glowering over her stroller.

“I can’t afford one,” Adam said.

“Oh, right, because you had to replace the brakes two months ago, and the transmission the month before that.”

Tiffany finally moved on. I waved good-bye and turned my attention back to Adam.

“You know what you really need?” I said. “A new car, a grown-up vehicle that won’t break down every few months. Time to lose the surfer-boy-mobile.”

“Off road
mobile, which I need for lugging around rock-climbing gear and spelunking gear and horseback-riding gear for a certain someone. Love to see you carrying your saddle on that motorcycle.”

“Um, you’re the one who got me into rock-climbing and spelunking because you wanted someone else to drag along. And you love horseback riding. You just hate to admit it because it’s girly. Is this really why you called? Or are you just unbelievably bored?”

“I need an excuse to phone you now? But yes, the point of this call is that I need a new top for my Jeep. I’m thinking beige this time. Easier to keep clean.”

“Uh-huh. Well, save your pennies and—”

“I’m thinking you’ll buy it for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Payback,” he said. “For a huge favor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not going to ask me what it is?”

“I’m afraid to.”

“Come on.”

“Fine, but requesting the information in no way obligates me to—”

“I surrender. No more Lucas-speak. That ritual Cody was conducting in the Facebook photos? It’s a bastardized version of a very old home-security ritual. It’s complicated, and witches and sorcerers have developed better and faster spells since. It’s not something you’d learn unless your family was out of the supernatural loop, still using the old stuff.”

“It’s real magic, then?”

“Based on real magic, which means Cody Radu is a sorcerer, which is why I called you right away. Stay away from him if you can and if you can’t, dark sunglasses are a fashion must.”

“We’ve already met.”

A pause. “Face to face?”

“Eye to eye. He’s not a sorcerer.” Witches recognize sorcerers on sight, and vice-versa. “He could be a magician”—a minor form of sorcerer—“or a shaman, druid, Vodoun priest, necromancer, somethingwith magic juice, maybe learned the spell from a sorcerer buddy, remembered the basics for frat night.”

“The important thing, though—”

“—is that we’re dealing with a supernatural, which means we’re probably dealing with the killer. Damn. I hate the obvious choice.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. Just because he’s a supernatural, doesn’t mean someone else isn’t. Oh, and that symbol on the gate? It’s Santeria. A bastardized form. I found it online at a site selling amulets. They claim they’re Santeria, but look like a mix of voodoo and Santeria, which means you probably don’t have a real practitioner.”

“Just the kind of wannabe that keeps occult shops in business.”

“Yep. So, do I get a new top?”

“Better invest in duct tape. Now, I need to run so—”

“Call me later.”

I gave an evil laugh.

“Let me rephrase that,” he said. “Call me sometime later than now, but before midnight.”

“We’ll see.”

I
still had almost two hours to kill before meeting Cody. I called Jesse to let him know I’d sent the files. He was on the other line and said he’d phone back. I wandered into the first shop I came to—the hardware store where Dorothy claimed Cody and Claire had argued. I was browsing, trying to attract the clerk’s attention so I could ask about it, when a voice behind my shoulder said, “I thought PIs were supposed to be unobtrusive.”

I turned to see Megan. The rest of her group was outside, milling about.

“Getting in a catfight with the main suspect’s wife?” she said. “On Main Street?”

“She started it.”

Megan smiled. “I don’t doubt that. Tiffany Radu is one of those women who believes it’s easier to scare away the competition than to tell her husband to respect his wedding vows. You should have seen her when we first moved here—practically hissing every time we came to town.”

“Did you ever see her facing off with Claire?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Is that the direction you’re looking? Interesting. I can’t say I did, but I’ll ask the girls. Or you can ask them yourself. We’re heading to the diner for an early lunch, if you want to join us.”

“So I’m forgiven for yesterday?”

“You were just doing your job. And I was doing mine. Protecting the business.”

I noticed she said the
business,
not the girls.

“I might take you up on that. And Alastair? Is he—?”

“Away today, I’m afraid. But we can set up an appointment.”

I glanced out the window. “The new girl seems nervous. Still bracing for the orgies, I bet.”

Megan laughed. “Is that all you think about?”

“I like sex. And from what I hear, so do you.” I turned to go. “Or is it power?”

A good parting line, but I didn’t get more than two steps before she said, “Power,” and I spun back to face her.

“You didn’t expect me to admit it?” she said. “Sure, the sex is a nice bonus, but sex is power, at least when you’ve got a houseful of girls and one man.”

“That’s honest.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Megan was clearly playing me, having decided I made a better ally than enemy. That was fine. I thought the same about her.

“So you’re sleeping with Alastair?”

“I’d rather
not
admit it, because that’s exactly what everyone expects, but I know you already got the scoop from Deirdre, so yes, Alastair doesn’t spend a lot of nights alone. Under the circumstances, he’d have to be a saint or a eunuch if he did. I’m sure Deirdre also told you that I’m insanely jealous of every girl he takes to bed.”

“And you’re not.”

“They like to think I am. They’re like little girls, giggling because they put one over on the teacher. But I’m not Tiffany Radu. I encourage Alastair to take the new girls up on their offers. What matters isn’t that he strays; it’s that he comes back.”

When I looked doubtful, she said, “Think about it. All those girls. All that temptation. He gives in—he’s only human. But he always returns to me. To the girls, that means something.”

“That you’re the queen bee.”

She smiled. “Every hive needs one.”

I DID JOIN them for lunch, though I just got a coffee. But no one was about to say anything in front of Megan. When I asked about Claire and Cody, I noticed a girl with blue-streaked hair shifting in her seat, like she had something to add. She didn’t speak, though. I needed to get her when the boss wasn’t around.

The girls had barely ordered when my cell rang. Jesse. I excused myself to take it, and thanked them for their time, leaving a five to cover my coffee—and win brownie points with Lorraine.

I rubbed my neck as I headed outside to call Jesse back. The headache again. Definitely time for a different helmet ... something I’m sure the hardware store didn’t stock. I made a mental note to grab aspirin later.

Jesse had run a background check on Megan. She was twenty-six, older than I thought. Her story checked out—MBA from Columbia, worked on Wall Street for awhile, then bailed.

“Burnout,” Jesse said. “She doesn’t strike me as the type to run off to a commune, but I guess you can never tell.”

“Oh, you can usually tell. I don’t think Megan burned out. She just realized she could make more working in a startup company where she was in charge. That’s what the commune is to her. A business. Those girls aren’t working for much more than room and board, I’m sure of it. And they’re pulling their own weight there, too—cooking and cleaning.”

“So cynical, so young.”

“You think I’m wrong?”

“No, I’m just kicking myself for not seeing the con first. I’m supposed to be the expert on the workings of the criminal mind. I’ll make up for it now and dig into the financials.”

“Please. Everyone here really likes the sexy angles—the philandering husband and the weird cult leader—but it may come down to money.”

“It usually does. I’ll get on that, then.”

WITH THE GIRLS eating lunch in town and Alastair away, it was the perfect time to take a closer look at the commune. I parked my bike in a wooded area nearby, then headed in the back way. Once I was sure that the drive was empty and the lights all off, I approached the front gate, to get a better look at the symbol. It was there—and had been repainted.

I licked my finger and smudged a line. Yep, blood. Likely chicken blood, if someone was practicing Santeria.

I eyed the house wistfully. As rustic as it appeared, I was sure it had a burglar alarm. Disarming it wouldn’t leave me much time for searching before Megan came back. And I figured I had just as good a chance of finding evidence of rituals out here.

I went through the outbuildings. Met some chickens, a couple of cows, even a pig. No horses, though, which seemed a complete waste of barn space. I did manage to make friends with a barn cat. Or it made friends with me.

I’m not a pet person—even with horses, I’ve never seriously considered owning one—but you have to give cats kudos for attitude. If you stop to pet them, they can’t be bothered with you. Ignore them, and they rise to the challenge. By the time I was done searching the outbuildings, the cat had brought me a gift—a still-twitching rat. I was impressed. I rewarded it with an ear scratch, and it took off, mission accomplished.

That was the only reward I got, though. A half hour of searching, and all I had to show for it was shit on my boots.

There was one other outbuilding behind the barns. It was locked, which seemed promising, until I opened it and found tools and a lawn tractor. I checked out the yard next. Vegetable garden, herb garden, even a couple of beehives behind the toolshed. So very
Little House on the Prairie.
Why anyone would choose to live like this was beyond me.

I was checking out the hives when I noticed the boarded-up window above them. That made me realize I hadn’t seen a boarded-up window from the inside ... and that the toolshed looked a lot bigger from out here.

I went back in. Sure enough, there was a false wall. And behind it? A sacrificial altar. Not for human sacrifice—Santerians don’t practice that. I’ve been well schooled in basic respect for religions, courtesy of Paige. Not that she always practices what she preaches—I recall a certain incident with naked Wiccans in our backyard—but she handled it more respectfully than I would have, and she would point out it’d been a small sect, not indicative of the religion as a whole.

Santeria is a Caribbean religion melding African, Catholic, and Native American traditions. Its rituals include the sacrifice of animals. There was evidence of that here—a small ornate axe and bloodstains on the floor. There were also coins, oils, flowers, herbs, colored cloth, stones, beads, even a set of dominos, for rituals of a less bloody sort.

A lamp burned on a table. It was a clay pot of oil with stuff floating in it and a wick on top. I could make out ashes and metal in the oil. Beside it lay a dead scorpion coated in oil.

I took pictures, sent them to Adam, then called.

“Now that you actually need my help, I can’t get rid of you,” he said when he answered.

“I just sent you—”

“Photos. I’m looking at them now. With the scorpion, we seem to have another home-protection ritual, this one specifically to keep away enemies. The oil has to burn for a few days, and most of it’s still there. You were up at the house yesterday, weren’t you?”

“So this ritual is to protect them from
me
? Cool. Doesn’t work, though.”

“I can’t imagine anything that would. So we definitely have someone practicing Santeria. Presumably someone high on the group’s food chain. One of the girls isn’t going to construct a hidden room in the toolshed.”

“I know Santeria doesn’t condone human sacrifice, but if we’re dealing with a wannabe, maybe they’re bending the rules. If chickens don’t work, try dead girls. Any link with the crime-scene stuff?”

“That bead Claire was clutching could be significant for the pewter or from the symbolism. Could even be a cheap stand-in for silver. I’ll keep looking. Anything else?”

“No, Jesse’s doing the background checks.”

“Got the guys doing the grunt work, huh?”

“After years of doing it for you, Paige, and Lucas, I’m liking this a whole lot better.”

“Just don’t get used to it.”

EVIDENCE OF SANTERIA did not mean we’d found our killer, any more than if I’d found evidence of a Catholic mass. But these ritualistic religions did attract fringe types who misunderstood the beliefs and focused on the occultlike aspects.

Now I needed to figure out
who
was the practitioner. The best place to find evidence of that would be in the house. If there was an alarm, I’d be out of luck, but I could always hope they were the sort who left without turning it on.

Even better—the back door was latched but not locked. I eased it open, bracing for the squeal of an alarm. Silence. I slipped in and looked around. I found a security panel, but it was green. Unarmed.

As I crept into the hall, a phone rang. On the third ring, it stopped. I paused, expecting an answering machine.

“Hello?” A man’s voice. Alastair. Shit. That’s why the door was open and the alarm off.

The voice came from the front of the house. I cast a blur spell, and began a slow retreat to the kitchen door. That sleep spell would have come in really handy right about now. Damn. I needed to find a cemetery.

“Ice cream, huh?” He laughed. “No, that’s fine. They could use the break and I could use the peace and quiet to finish this ledger. Take as long as you want, Meg.”

Okay, he was busy in his office and the girls were enjoying after-lunch ice cream.

I took off my boots, cast another blur spell, and zipped up the stairs, boots in hand. Padding around in socks, I searched all six bedrooms. The closest thing to talismans I found were a four-leaf clover pendant on a dresser and a dream catcher hanging in a window. For drugs, I only found a stash of pot and a cache of diet pills. Whoever was practicing Santeria was keeping it out of the house.

I headed back downstairs. As I passed the living room, the doorbell rang. I darted into the living room, dove behind an armchair, and cast a cover spell. As long as I didn’t move, I’d be okay.

When Alastair opened the door, I recognized the visitor’s voice. Tiffany Radu.

“I met your new girl in town,” she said. “She gave me a coupon for a dozen cookies. Getting a little bold, aren’t you? It would be much easier to call.”

Alastair laughed. “I wish I could take the credit, but no, Megan must have given Amy those to hand out. A nice way to introduce herself. Come in, please.”

Tiffany pushed the baby buggy into the living room and returned to the hall.

“So, do you want those cookies?” he asked.

“Is that the only thing on the menu?”

A chuckle. Then a crash, like a body hitting a wall. I jumped, startling the baby, who stared at me, her blue eyes wide. From the hall came a grunt, then the whir of a zipper. A groan. A sucking noise. Another groan.

Okay, no one was getting killed. And I would have been less surprised if someone was.

The baby craned her head, trying to see her mother. I really hoped she couldn’t. Seeing Mom blowing a guy who isn’t your dad really isn’t an experience any kid needs imprinted on her young memory.

I slid from behind the chair and tugged the buggy toward me until I was certain the baby couldn’t see Tiffany. It’s a sad day when I’m more concerned for a child than her mother is.

The baby started whimpering now. There was no way Tiffany could hear her—Alastair was too vocal in his appreciation. When a baby isn’t heard, though, a baby gets louder, and I didn’t want them coming in here.

I murmured an incantation. A light ball appeared on my fingertips. The baby’s eyes rounded. I tossed it to hover over her buggy and she giggled and crowed.

“Mama, Mama!” she said, bouncing as I made the light ball dance.

Tiffany really needed to work on her parenting skills if her kid adopted the first stranger who paid attention to her.

I went through a repertoire of simple tricks—lights, sparks, fog, all the ones kids love. I’d learned all the ways to keep Elena and Clay’s twins amused when I baby-sat. Now that they’re school age, they want to learn the tricks ... and get royally pissed off when they can’t.

So I entertained the baby as Mom and the local cult dude moved to full-on screwing. When they started banging against the walls, the baby got concerned again. I did, too. The house was old and they were really going at it.

I picked up an ugly stuffed toy from the buggy and made it dance. The baby grabbed it and threw it. I knew this game. I picked it up and gave it back. She threw it, then chortled when the stupid grown-up fell for it again.

The toy looked homemade. Tiffany didn’t seem the type to lovingly sew toys for her baby. It was definitely an amateur job, with weird stitching along the seams. An older sibling? Whatever they’d stuffed it with, it wasn’t exactly soft and cuddly. It felt like ... dried herbs.

I caught a whiff of something that made my eyes fly open. I lifted the toy to my nose.