I Buried a Witch Page 2

  Blanche chuckled, said cheerfully, “No thank you. I’ve been inoculated against that disease. Twice.”

  “So then you’re a carrier?”

  “Ha.” She took the cat carrier from me, set it on the counter, and lifted Pyewacket out. “Oh, you beautiful baby, what has he done to you?”

  Pyewacket proceeded to detail his list of grievances into her sympathetic ear.

  “Don’t listen to him,” I said. “He’s been living it up on catnip and dried shrimp at Andi’s.” I glanced around the still empty shop. “Where’s Ambrose?”

  Blanche sighed. “Another problem with his grandma.”

  “Another what problem?”

  “I don’t know. He’s being very closemouthed about it.”

  My good mood deflated a fraction. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Not long. The Tuesday after you left, he had to leave suddenly, but he was back the next day, and he’s been here every day since. Until this morning. There’s a message on the machine. The poor kid is clearly stressed out of his mind.”

  “Okay. I’ll deal with it.”

  I had hired Ambrose right before the wedding. He’d been recommended by the previously mentioned Ralph Grindlewood. Ralph was a good customer and, once I’d have said, a friend. What exactly Ralph was now, I wasn’t sure. But I had hired Ambrose and agreed to make him my apprentice, so he was most definitely my concern.

  “Anything else I should know before I start going through my mail?”

  Blanche, still coddling Pyewacket, shook her head. “It’s actually been very quiet since you left.”

  “Well, we’ll see what I can do to change that.”

  She chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.”

  All the same, she looked pretty surprised when she poked her head into my office a few minutes later to whisper, “Pierre Sjoberg is here to see you.”

  I put down the catalog for Alexanders Auctioneers. “Who?” The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “The defense attorney.” Blanche was still whispering. She threw a quick, uneasy glance over her shoulder as though she feared Sjoberg was lurking behind her. “I think he’s her attorney.”

  “Her—?”

  Blanche hissed, “Ciara. Ciara Reitherman. The woman who tried to kill you!”

  Chapter Two

  Oh, right. That her.

  Not that they were lining up—I hoped—but I’d been kind of preoccupied since the last time an attempt on my life had been made.

  “I see,” I said slowly, although I really didn’t. “Send him in, then?”

  Blanche nodded, ducked out, and opened the door a moment or two later for a short, bald, dapperly dressed man of about sixty.

  “Pierre Sjoberg,” Blanche announced, and promptly closed my office door.

  Sjoberg said heartily, “Cosmo Saville, Duc of Westlands. This is an honor, Your Grace.”

  I rose to shake his hand, saying hastily, “I don’t really do the duc thing, if you don’t mind. It’s just Mr. Saville.”

  His hand was soft and smooth, but he had a grip like a professional wrestler. “Mr. Saville, then. Forgive the intrusion. I’m sure you’re buried, after your honeymoon, but it’s rather urgent that I speak to you.”

  “All right,” I said, still dubious. “Please sit down.”

  Sjoberg drew up an Erwin-Lambeth plum velvet Neo-Chippendale wing chair and sat down. He clasped his hands over his trim midsection and smiled at me from across the mail-strewn desk.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware that I’m representing Ciara Reitherman in the homicide of Seamus Reitherman.”

  I said tartly, “And the attempted homicide of me? No, I wasn’t aware.”

  Sjoberg looked pained. “My client deeply regrets her actions. She was beside herself with grief. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Ciara would like to speak with you and personally convey her remorse. Among other things.”

  “Uh, that’s okay,” I said. “No meeting necessary. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “I understand your reluctance, but my client has given her oath that she will attempt no further harm to you by methods natural or supernatural. Harm to you is the last thing she would wish. Ciara needs your help. She’s innocent of the charges laid against her.”

  “She’s not innocent of trying to kill me. I was there when it happened, and there’s no doubt in my mind. She wanted me—and probably anyone who got in her way—dead.”

  “She doesn’t deny it.” Sjoberg actually waved his hand in dismissal. “At that moment in time she was, as I said, not herself. Non compos mentis. No, the charge I’m specifically referring to is the homicide of Seamus Reitherman.”

  “Hm.”

  As mentioned, I already suspected Ciara had not killed Seamus. Surely the proof of that was in her unrelenting attempts to avenge him by killing me.

  That is not to say all was forgiven. See above. It’s one thing when family tries to kill you. Murder attempts from casual social acquaintances? Not cool.

  I was curious, though.

  “And this would be of interest to me because…?”

  “Because Seamus Reitherman was Abracadantès, and one day you will take the reins of that tradition.”

  I said shortly, “Should that day arrive, it’ll be a long time coming.”

  “Even so,” Sjoberg replied.

  Goddess help any tradition I was reigning over. Still, I saw his point. Not that I agreed, necessarily, but I did owe Seamus something for sending the Grimorium Primus to me. Or rather, to Société du Sortilège. In the end, his loyalty to the Abracadantès had outweighed his self-interest—and so it was with me as well.

  “What exactly does Ciara want me to do?”

  He hesitated, and it occurred to me that he was not exactly sure himself. “Other than pledging no harm to you, she hasn’t confided in me. Presumably, she’ll relay that information when—if—you meet with her.”

  “I see.” I really didn’t.

  Sjoberg said with sudden and convincing sincerity, “I believe her. I believe she’s innocent, and I have more than a little experience in judging whether people are telling me the truth. She’s desperate to speak to you. I think she does regret attempting to harm you, but it’s more than that.”

  Now that, I didn’t doubt.

  I wasn’t sure I trusted Ciara’s promise of no harm, but I did trust that her plight was dire enough that she wouldn’t jeopardize whatever she hoped to gain from our meeting. Plus, forewarned is forearmed. The last time, I’d been unprepared and otherwise occupied. This time I’d be on guard.

  I said at last, “All right. I’ll speak to her. Is she out on bail?”

  “Of course not.” The silver triangles of Sjoberg’s eyebrows rose at my ignorance of how such things worked. “After attempting to kill the police commissioner’s husband? Bail will not be an option. No, you’ll have to visit her in County Jail #2 either tomorrow or Sunday.”

  Not exactly convenient. “Why tomorrow or Sunday?”

  Sjoberg said patiently, “That’s when visiting hours are.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, it’ll have to be tomorrow, then.” At least it wouldn’t inconvenience John since he’d be working most of the weekend in an effort to get caught up. Still, it was liable to be awkward.

  “I’ll see that you’re added to the list.”

  “Thank you,” I said, though I wasn’t feeling particularly thankful.

  I was still sorting through mail, still sorting through possible reasons Ciara might need to see me, when Ambrose knocked on the doorframe.

  “I’m here,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.” His dark eyes flicked to mine, flicked away.

  “Come in,” I invited. “Shut the door and pull up a pew.”

  He entered reluctantly and took the chair so recently vacated by Pierre Sjoberg. He hunched forward, bony hands gripping his knees.

  Ambrose Jones, my newest hire and first apprentice witchling, was a tall and slight twenty-one-y
ear-old with a mop of wild dark hair and eyes as wide and black as those Big Eyes paintings by Margaret Keane.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Ambrose’s gaze found mine. His expression was blank.

  “Why were you late?”

  He looked ever so slightly affronted. “I just was.”

  Once upon a time, not that long ago, I was twenty-one too. I remembered how it worked. “Blanche said something happened with your grandmother?”

  Something odd, almost like fear, flashed through his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with GramMa.”

  I tilted my head, asked curiously, “What is it to do with?”

  He licked his lips, said, “It’s just…I was upset. About Abby. I used to… We were… We used to be friends.”

  “Abby?”

  “Abby Starshine. She was—” His Adam’s apple jumped as he gulped. “Murdered. I just found out this morning. It was on the news.”

  Ms. Starshine. Yes. I remembered there had been a news story about a slain Wiccan. Remembered something about the newscaster saying the crime had Satanic elements. I’d intended to ask John about it, although I’d forgotten that until now.

  I said automatically, “Blessed is the Circle of Life. Blessed is our journey through sunshine and shadow.” Studying his face, I added, “I’m so sorry, Ambrose. To lose someone to violence is a great shock.”

  He nodded, again avoiding my gaze. That worried me. Ambrose had always struck me as shy but direct. Then again, I didn’t really know him. I’d left for my honeymoon right after hiring him.

  “Were you still—”

  “I haven’t seen her for months,” he interrupted.

  “Okay. Right.” Something was wrong here, but I wasn’t sure what, let alone how to address it. “I guess that makes it more difficult?”

  He did meet my gaze then. “It’s nothing like that, Cosmo. It was all over between us. It was just… You said it yourself—it’s a shock to hear that she’s…crossed.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There wasn’t anything still there. I mean, there weren’t bad feelings. There weren’t any feelings.”

  “Um, sure.” The more he talked, the less I believed him.

  “Anyway.” Ambrose rose. “Was there anything else?”

  I leaned back and considered him. “Well, yes. There is. We should probably discuss your apprenticeship.”

  He sank back onto the purple cushions, staring at me. “Are you— Am I— Are you going to take me for your apprentice?”

  “Yes.”

  “But…why?”

  I gave a short laugh. He seemed more shocked than pleased. “I thought that was the idea. Don’t you want me to?”

  Something blazed in the back of his eyes. “Yes. More than anything. But I thought… I didn’t think you would.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to go into my reasons for changing my mind. Not yet. Ambrose’s life seemed complicated enough, at least from the outside. The news that he might be a potential pawn in a war between the Craft and a secret organization known as the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm might freak him out.

  It kind of freaked me out.

  “Talent without training is useless,” I said. “And in our case, it’s dangerous.”

  He nodded doubtfully, but at least some healthy color finally suffused his face. “When will we start?”

  “Now. I want you to begin assembling your grimoire.”

  “A grimoire?” Some of the light went out of his eyes. “But that’s…”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that for old ladies?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He reddened. “I just mean, well, these days isn’t that for Wiccans and…and old witches?”

  “Of course not.”

  Ambrose looked unconvinced.

  I repeated firmly, “Of course not. A grimoire is an absolute necessity for a practicing witch. Why on earth would you think putting together your own personal book of spells and incantations is something obsolete?”

  How did he imagine modern witches cast spells? Through text?

  Come to think of it…after Seamus’s murder I had received some peculiar text messages. Not every witch had my precarious relationship with technology.

  Ambrose raised his chin. “Isn’t it? What does any textbook have to do with real life?”

  “What? First of all, Gardner’s Book of Shadows is a textbook. The Lesser Key of Solomon is a textbook. Your grimoire isn’t a textbook. It’s the map of your journey through your life in the Craft.”

  His lip curled. “That’s worse. In other words, it’s scrapbooking.”

  This is why I never wanted to teach. Teaching is an art. It requires patience. It requires perseverance. Did I mention it requires patience? Anyway, it’s an art I do not possess.

  “You know what? Maybe it is. Maybe it’s part scrapbook, part recipe book, part Thomas Guide, and…I don’t know. Part family Bible. You can think of it however you like. The point is, you need to begin compiling yours ASAP. I started mine when I was eight, so you’ve got some catching up to do.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What does any book have to do with real power?”

  I said menacingly, “You’ve worked in bookstores for how many years? And you ask me this?”

  Ambrose’s expression was sheepish but stubborn. “You know what I mean.”

  “Nope. I certainly do not.”

  “But how do I even begin? The whole reason I need you is I don’t know any real spells.”

  I laughed. “The fact that you think that’s what you need me for is proof of how much you need me.”

  He looked confused—and fair enough.

  I had a flash of inspiration. “Have you ever heard of the Miyagi tradition?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We’re going to begin your training using some of the time-honored Miyagi methods. One week from today I want to see your grimoire.”

  Ambrose opened his mouth, met my gaze, closed it. He nodded.

  “Good. You can go.” I pointed at the door and returned to flipping through auction catalogs.

  Ambrose rose and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he stopped and turned back. He said casually—too casually, “Cosmo, do you think the police will want to talk to me?”

  I could see the anxiety he was trying to hide beneath his stoic expression, and my heart sank.

  “If you haven’t seen Abby for months, I can’t see why they would. I don’t know, though. I guess it depends on how things ended between you.”

  I was hoping to hear something reassuring. Instead, Ambrose nodded, opened the door, and went out.

  First thing I did was phone my mother.

  I should probably clarify. I mean, I’m fond of ma mère, certainly, but it was in her role as Duchesse d’Abracadantès, the witch first in line for accession to the seat of the Crone that I needed to talk to her. If anyone would have a handle on current events related to Witch World, it was she.

  (By the way, no one calls the Craft Witch World. That’s my little joke. I loved those Andre Norton books when I was a kid.)

  Anyway, per her vapid companion Phelon Penn, Maman was out of the country.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Paris,” Phelon replied.

  “Why is she in Paris?” It was galling to have to ask, but my mother does not possess a cell phone. Not, like me, because her relationship with technology is dicey. In Maman’s case, it’s because she rejects the entire concept of cell phones as rude, inelegant, and intrusive.

  Phelon, who thinks as highly of me as I do of him, replied, “You’ll have to ask her,” and hung up.

  Paris was the seat of the Société du Sortilège, but it was also where my mother, still citoyen français, preferred to shop, so maybe there was a weighty reason behind her sudden trip abroad or maybe she was out of real Dijon mustard.

  Hopefully, if she phoned home—though why would anyone wish to speak to Phelon
if they didn’t have to?—her companion would tell her I’d phoned. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

  So next I called John at City Hall.

  Or rather, I called his executive assistant, Pat Anderson. Pat is an efficient, charming, and capable woman, which means she’s very good at reassuring me I’m the person John most wants to speak to even as she relegates me to the back of the queue.

  Which I totally get.

  Obviously, the mayor, the police chief, the assistant chiefs, and the deputy chiefs take precedence. Then comes me. Usually. If there’s a crisis in the city, the phone tree branches above my own perch include the commanders, the executive director, and even, potentially, the directors.

  It appeared there was a crisis in progress because after asking all the right things about Scotland and the new house, Pat apologetically informed me that John was on a conference call and was going to be a while.

  “That’s all right,” I said, trying to be a good sport. “It wasn’t anything that can’t wait.” Besides, now that I’d had time to think, I realized I needed to do a little research of my own before broaching the subject of a murdered Wiccan with John.

  “I know there’s no voice he’d rather hear,” Pat said, which was sweet but probably not at all true. John was not particularly romantic.

  Which was fine because it turned out I was romantic enough for both of us.

  Anyway, I thanked Pat and clicked off.

  I was Googling Abigail Starshine a short time later when my cell phone rang. My sister-in-law Jinx’s photo popped up, and I pressed to accept.

  I was smiling as I answered, “Hey, stranger.”

  “How was Scotland? Are you going to request an annulment?”

  I snorted. “Certainly not. And Scotland was brilliant.”

  “Did John buy a kilt?”

  “Um, yes.”

  She laughed. “Did you buy a kilt?”