I Buried a Witch Read online

  Even if I had wanted to respond, I had no idea what to say in answer to that.

  John did, though, and there was a warning note in his voice. “Mother, Cosmo is part of our nuclear family. Furthermore, he’s the only family member Jinx might actually listen to—though it’s doubtful she’ll listen to him either.”

  I shot him a look of gratitude.

  Nola, not so much. In fact, she bridled. “You’re the head of this family, John. It’s up to you to set parameters for your sister.”

  No wonder Jinx had moved out.

  “Isn’t she twenty-five?” I asked. “She has a job and her own apartment. What parameters could John reasonably set for her?”

  I already wasn’t high on Nola’s Christmas list, and the look she shot me was one of someone planning to mail-order a truckload of coal. “You’re an only child, Cosmo. I don’t expect you to understand the bond between brother and sister.”

  “That’s enough.” Though John spoke quietly, there was an edge to his voice. I was not surprised that reprimand brought a flush to Nola’s cheeks and glitter to her eyes. I’d never heard him speak to her like that before.

  I realized that he was thinking of Arabella. Thinking that Nola’s words would be hurtful to me.

  Maybe they should have been, but Arabella had crossed over when I was seven. I’m not sure when I finally understood she had died, but it was kind of moot because my memories of her were so vague.

  Nola delivered another baleful glance my way, but to my surprise, she seemed to accept John’s verdict. Or, more likely, resolved to continue the conversation when I wasn’t around.

  Anyway, all good things must come to an end. And all bad things as well. At long last we bade Nola good night and walked down the hill to the ferry at Larkspur Landing.

  “Tired?” John asked as the lights of Nola’s house disappeared around a corner.

  “A little. Do you think your mother might eventually remarry?”

  “No, I don’t. So don’t get your hopes up.”

  I laughed.

  He turned his head my way, and I saw the glint of his teeth. “You’re a good sport, Cos. Thank you for tonight.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Families.”

  “Yes.”

  “In all honesty, I don’t think my being there tonight helped.”

  John said, “It helped me.”

  My heart lightened.

  It wasn’t until we’d left the ferry terminal and were driving home that I finally brought up the subject that had been nagging at me all day.

  “I’m a little worried about Ambrose.”

  John, adjusting the Range Rover’s rearview mirror, said absently, “Why? What’s wrong with Ambrose?”

  “A friend of his was murdered. A woman named Abigail Starshine.”

  After a moment, John repeated, “Abigail Starshine?”

  “Yes. In fact, I saw it on the news this morning. She was Wiccan.”

  It was dark in the car, but I didn’t need to see John’s expression to know he knew exactly who Abigail Starshine was and that he was paying close attention to my every word. He said without inflection, “And Ambrose was dating her?”

  “Dating her? No. What he said was, they had been close at one time, but not recently. He was very shocked to hear she’d been killed.” I wasn’t sure why I added, “I think he was hoping I could tell him something about the case,” because I didn’t think that at all. What I did think was that it gave me a natural opening for asking John if he had a suspect in mind.

  John said, “I don’t think you want to hear about this case. I don’t think either of you do. It’s pretty disturbing.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. It’s only…”

  John said nothing.

  “If I could tell Ambrose something that might make him feel better…”

  “Make him feel better about his friend being murdered?”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  Silence.

  I tried again. “The newscaster said there were Satanic elements to the crime. What does that even mean?”

  “You know what Satanic means.”

  “In this context? No, I don’t.”

  John said without inflection, “Are we going to argue about this?”

  I stared at his shadowy profile. “I don’t think so. Why would we? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Didn’t we argue once before about Satanism versus whatever your belief is supposed to be? Wicca, I suppose?”

  Whatever your belief is supposed to be was not the most respectful way to put it. He had never actually asked me about my beliefs—I suspected he didn’t want to know—but Wicca was an obvious conclusion to jump to. Certainly, there was overlap in the rituals and symbols and tenets of both Craft and Wicca.

  John spoke out of ignorance, though, and there was nothing to be gained by taking offense.

  “If you care to tell me what these elements were, I can tell you whether they’re Satanic or not.”

  He said bluntly, “The victim was nude. She was lying in the center of an upside-down yellow chalk pentagram. Her hands and feet were nailed to the floor. A pentacle was carved into her forehead. What does that sound like to you? Wiccan or Satanic?”

  He intended to shock me. Intended, I suppose, to put me in my place. Intended to make sure I never again dared to trespass—although why did he consider my asking about his case trespassing?

  Anyway, two out of three wasn’t bad. I was shocked. I was chastened.

  I was also persistent.

  I said, trying to match his unemotional tone, “It sounds Satanic, yes. Was there an athame at the…the scene?”

  “What’s an athame? A knife? There was something our occult expert referred to as a boline lying a few inches from the victim’s hand.”

  I wondered briefly who SFPD’s “occult expert” was. Anyone I knew?

  “What did the knife look like?”

  “Double-edged blade and a handle made of black wood, possibly yew.”

  “That’s more likely an athame. A boline will usually have a single-edged blade, much sharper than that of an athame, which is supposed to be for ceremonial use only. The handle of a boline will be light, usually horn or bone or wood. I’d have to see it to be sure, but it sounds like an athame to me.”

  He turned his head my way, but of course in the dark interior of the car, he couldn’t read my expression any better than I could his.

  All he said was, “I see.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “No.”

  My turn to be silent. I was thinking that the good news was Ambrose was not currently a suspect in his former friend’s death. Unless—and this would be the bad news—I had just brought him to the attention of the investigators by asking a lot of nosey questions.

  We turned left on Hyde Street.

  John said abruptly, “She wasn’t the first one.”

  “Not the first one?”

  “Not the first murder of someone within your…community.”

  I didn’t miss the slight hesitation over that community. Was it distaste? Ouch. But right now, that was the least of my concerns.

  “You mean another Wiccan was murdered the same way as Starshine?”

  “Yes.”

  “One? Or more?”

  “One.”

  “Another woman? The same method? The same—”

  He said tersely, “The same MO.”

  Somewhere a five-bell alarm was clanging. Sick anxiety bubbled in my belly. “Are you saying—do you think this is the work of a serial killer?”

  “It’s looking like a strong possibility.” His shadow glanced my way. “That information is to go no further. Understand?”

  “Of course I understand.” I spluttered, “I wouldn’t— I’m not— Obviously I don’t—”

  “As my husband, you’re going to be privy to highly sensitive information. Information that could be damaging not only to me, but to any ongoing investigations
.”

  “I know that. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I know you know that. If I thought you were an idiot, I wouldn’t have married you. I’m reminding you because neither of us has much experience with the other’s ability to be discreet.”

  I said silkily, “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart. I’m well able to keep a secret.”

  The silence between us was very loud as we passed a stretch of dark apartments, lightless windows and crisscrossed fire escapes, cars parked nose to bumper beneath the canopy of ficus trees. Finally, John said, “My intention wasn’t to offend you. I just think it’s better to lay our expectations on the table.”

  I continued to seethe as we turned left on Greenwich, but then, as the mortals say, reality reared its ugly head. John was right. We didn’t yet know each other well enough to predict how we would behave in all circumstances. I knew John was by nature closemouthed, but I wouldn’t—obviously didn’t—trust him with my deepest secrets.

  Granted, they were not my secrets to share.

  If they were, I’d now be telling him my worry that there was a possibility—yes, a slight one, but it was possible—these two crimes might be connected to Seamus’s murder.

  Seamus had also been found with an athame lying next to him. He had not been found in a yellow chalk pentagram, but I had seen—and destroyed—evidence that his killer might have started to draw that sacred symbol. Seamus’s body had not been mutilated, but again, my arrival could have interrupted the murderer’s plans.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe I was worrying unnecessarily.

  There was a good chance the killings weren’t connected. The other two victims were women and Wiccans. Seamus was male and Craft. And until tonight, I had been certain Seamus had died to protect the Grimorium Primus. Maybe it was true.

  Of course, it could still be true even if Seamus had been killed by the same person who had slain Starshine and the other Wiccan.

  If the crimes were connected, my tampering with crime-scene evidence was part of why Ciara was now sitting in jail.

  Worst of all, I might even be partly responsible for the deaths of Abigail Starshine and this other woman.

  Chapter Five

  “Still mad at me?” John asked when we pulled into our parking area in front of our townhouse. His tone was rueful.

  There were only a couple of other cars in our cul-de-sac. The townhouse next to ours was still dark, still empty, still under construction. The red-gold full moon rising over the bay was so huge, it looked like another world was about to bump into ours. An omen?

  I sighed. “No. I’m just touchy, I guess.”

  John switched off the engine and half turned to face me. “You’re tired. We both are. We could have used a weekend to get our bearings before having to jump right back into real life.”

  Real life. Yes.

  “That would have been nice.”

  Heaven, in fact. My idea of heaven, anyway.

  I could feel John’s gaze; I wished I could read his face in the gloom. “I’m sorry if it sounded like I don’t trust you. I do. And I love you. Very much.”

  That melted my heart. How could it not?

  “I love you too. And I’m sorry if I seemed to be butting into things that aren’t my business.”

  He made a sound of wry agreement and surprised me by saying, “I get it. You were afraid you’d put a bull’s-eye on young Ambrose by asking about the Starshine woman. And, yes, if it hadn’t been for the Hellyer case, you would certainly have spiked my interest in the kid.”

  Here was another reason not to mention the possible link between Seamus and the Wiccans. Ambrose had briefly been a suspect in Seamus’s murder. Not for any legitimate reason—I didn’t think—but one thing I’d learned about homicide investigations: detectives—like witches—do not overlook coincidences.

  “Who are the detectives investigating the Starshine murder?”

  “At the moment, Detectives Vincente and Chang are working the case.”

  “Not Iff and Kolchak?”

  John’s, “No,” was faintly amused. “But if this case turns out to be what Chief Morrisey thinks it is, more resources will be allocated.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  He seemed to be waiting for something. When it didn’t happen, he said, “Shall we go inside?”

  I nodded.

  “I still can’t get over how much you managed to get done this afternoon,” John said, locking the front door behind us.

  “It was mostly Bridget.” No lie there. I picked up Pyewacket, gave him a quick cuddle. “You smell like catnip.”

  Pye’s purr was self-satisfied.

  “Next best thing to vodka, I suppose.”

  John headed toward the den. “Speaking of. Did you want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  A moment later Sinatra came over the stereo. “Blue Moon.”

  Pyewacket sprang from my arms and bounded upstairs. I followed John into the den and took a seat at the wet bar.

  He poured two glasses of wine. “This is an Australian Petit Verdot.”

  “Ah.” Wine is all right. I prefer cocktails.

  His mouth twitched. He handed me a glass. “Arriba.”

  “Abajo.”

  “Al centro.” He suggestively rubbed the bowl of his glass against mine.

  I grinned. “Adentro.”

  “Abracadabra?” John asked, and my heart warmed, remembering earlier. This was how traditions were made. One morning, one evening, one glass at a time. I laughed.

  “Abracadabra.”

  For a few peaceful minutes we sipped our wine and listened to Sinatra.

  Blue moon!

  Now I’m no longer alone…

  Funny how your life could change so much in the space of a month. It had never occurred to me that I was lonely before I’d met John.

  “What is a blue moon?” John mused. “Besides an optical illusion.”

  “The second full moon in a calendar month.”

  “Something rare, in other words? And that’s why you named your shop Blue Moon Antiques?”

  “Exactly.”

  For witches, that second moon, the blue moon, was an especially auspicious time for spellcasting. Lunar power reached its greatest height during a blue moon. But that wasn’t something John needed to know.

  I said, “I don’t think you should try to order Jinx to move back home.”

  “I have no intention of doing so.” He added, “Although I can’t say I’m happy about the friends she’s choosing to surround herself with.”

  And he probably didn’t know the half of it.

  “Have you met many of them?”

  “No.”

  An uneasy thought occurred. “Are you keeping tabs on her?”

  “She’s not under surveillance, if that’s what you mean.” His smile was sardonic. “But she’s my kid sister, and she’s not as worldly as she thinks she is, so sure, I’m keeping an eye on her.”

  I sipped my wine. “Have she and your mother always been…”

  “Always.” He picked his glass up, contemplating the purple-red liquid. “Is Bridget working out?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Because you don’t have to keep her on simply to make my mother happy.”

  I chuckled. “No worries. I know nothing I do will make your mother happy about me.”

  He grimaced. “Give her time. This is all new to her.”

  “It’s new to us too.”

  “True.”

  “Did she not know you were gay before you told her we were engaged?”

  “I can’t say I ever discussed it with her. But I also never hid it.”

  He wouldn’t have been around enough to have to hide it.

  As though reading my mind, John said, “I don’t think she’d have ever considered it relevant because I never showed any indication of wanting to get married.”

  “But then you had to go and pick, of all things, someone French.”
>
  John made a sound of amusement. “Yes. Of all things.”

  I finished my wine and said, “Would you mind if I walked down to the white garden for a few minutes? I’d like to see how it’s coming along.”

  “Wouldn’t you be able to see better in the daylight?”

  “Well, yes, but the point of a white garden is it comes alive at night.”

  “Fair enough. Would you like company?”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  The last time I’d claimed to be in the white garden, he’d caught me lying, and I wondered if John suspected I might be lying now. He did not have a trustful nature. But I preferred to think he just wanted to keep me company.

  The night air was cool and damp as we strolled down the flagstone path. Before we reached the last step, I could smell the jasmine and angel’s trumpet. My heart lightened.

  We reached the bottom. The garden had a hushed, magical quality to it as we stood for a moment, surrounded by glimmering, ghostly shapes. Silvery-white flagstones ringed a wide border of ivory and white heirloom roses, cream and blush-edged peonies, and panicle hydrangeas. The beds brimmed with sweet-smelling lily of the valley, snowdrops, Queen Anne’s lace, fragrant white hyacinth, and choisya. Datura and angel’s trumpet vines twined together as they wound around obelisks made from ornate reclaimed wrought iron. The silver and blue faux gazing ball that Ciara had blasted had been replaced with a new one, and the orbs shined like twin moons atop weathered pedestals—a reminder that John did not forget even the smallest of details.

  “This is coming along,” he said.

  I murmured agreement, lowering myself to the marble bench. After a moment, John sat beside me. I could feel his curious gaze, but he didn’t say anything else, and I was grateful for his understanding.

  I was sort of ashamed of the way I’d neglected my prayers for the past two weeks. It’s so important to worship when things are good and right, not just when you’re in trouble.

  I thought of Nola’s “irreverent.” She had been speaking of Jinx, but the word had come to her while looking at me.

  For once, Not Guilty.

  I closed my eyes and gave thanks to the Goddess. So many things to be thankful for now…