Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (15 page)

“I’m sorry, Ben,” I quickly apologized. “I
didn’t mean to sound like I was doubting you.”

“S’okay, Kemosabe. I think we’re all a little
wired. Kinda standin’ around waitin’ for the other shoe ta’ drop.”
He folded his arms across his large chest and pursed his lips for a
moment as he stared out through our atrium window then turned his
attention back to us. “So, Deckert and I are s’posed to go talk to
some members of ‘er group this afternoon.” He bobbed his head in
our direction. “You two wanna come with?”

“What time?”

“Around four.”

Felicity shook her head and looked over at
me, “I should really stay here and take care of a few things, but
you could go as long as you’re back in time. We’re supposed to be
at the party by six-thirty.”

“That’s right, I almost forgot,” I
replied.

“Party?” Ben raised an eyebrow.

“My grandparents’ sixtieth wedding
anniversary combined with a double family reunion,” my wife
explained. “And being a daughter of the O’Brien clan, I’m expected
to dance, so I have to put the finishing touches on my outfit.”

“You need a special outfit so ya’ can dance?”
He shot a glance in my direction and jibed, “You got somethin’
pretty ta’ wear too?”

“Céilidh
dancing, Ben,” Felicity interjected. “Irish folk dancing. My
cousins and I are providing the entertainment at my grandparents’
request. It’s like a family tradition.”

“So you mean ya’ do like that
Lord of the Dance
thing, then?
Allison loves that stuff.”

“It’s pretty much the same thing,” she
nodded. “Not exactly, but close. And there is the fact that we do
it for fun and celebration. Not professionally.”

“Wow. Sounds like a big deal.”

“Regular Irish shindig,” I grumbled. “Lots of
colcannon and whiskey followed closely by sightings of leprechauns
and the traditional ‘dancing of the jig’ right on into the wee
hours.”

“What the hell’s a cold cannon?”

“Colcannon. It’s a traditional Irish dish
made of potatoes, onions and cabbage,” Felicity explained, then
with her face bearing a broad grin, reached across the table and
jokingly slapped my hand. “And you? Stop it! You’ll have fun and
you know it.”

“You sure ya’ got time?” Ben questioned. “I’d
really prefer to have ya’ there but it’s not like it’s your job.
Deck and I can handle it.”

“He’s got plenty of time,” my wife answered
for me. “He’s not the one dancing, I am. You just have to promise
to have him back here in one piece by five-thirty, so I can get him
dressed.”

“Deal.”

“T
hat’s with a K,” a
pretty young blonde woman with a neatly clipped pageboy haircut
anxiously explained to Detective Deckert.

“K-a-r-o-l?”

“No sir,” she answered. “With a K and a Y.
K-a-r-y-l. Karyl.”

“K-a-r-Y…” Carl muttered to himself as he
wrote the name in his notepad emphasizing the K and the Y, “Gotcha.
Last name?”

“Steinbeck.”

“Like the writer?”

“Yes, Detective.” She gave a slightly
bothered sigh that was only partially masked by her obvious
jitters. “Like the writer.”

“Any relation?”

“Not that I am aware of, Detective.”

“Great book, that
Grapes of Wrath
.”

“I wouldn’t know, Detective,” she told him,
“I’ve never read it.”

“Too bad, you really ought to. Excellent
book,” he told her then moved on to the woman seated at her side.
“And your name again, Miss?”

“Miz.”

“Excuse me?”

“I prefer Miz,” she stated flatly as she
brushed a shock of coal black hair from her face and tucked it
behind her ear.

I couldn’t help but notice the lobe was
decorated with a row of three rather significant diamond studs.

“My apologies,” Carl returned without
missing a beat. “And your name again,
Miz
?”

“Starr,” she answered coldly, “with two R’s.
Starr Winston.”

He mumbled softly as he scribbled, “Of
course. Starr with
two
R’s...”

We had arrived at the upscale address in the
historic section of Lansbury at ten minutes of four. Detective
Deckert had driven himself and met us in front of the restored
home. Though we were expected, the reception had been less than
warm to say the least. Upon entering, we were quietly led to a
sizeable sitting room by the young blonde who then excused herself
and disappeared momentarily.

The room, like the rest of the interior we
had seen, sported meticulously restored hardwood floors,
three-member base accents and crown moldings. Throughout, eclectic
paintings adorned strategic points providing embellishment for the
muted colors of the walls. Otherwise, the furniture and decor
seemed a paradox of feminine tastes driven by masculine undertones.
The layout was nice, neat and altogether functional in design.

Karyl had returned shortly with her partner,
and the two young women were now huddled close together on a
high-backed love seat holding hands, their fingers tightly
entwined. Carl and I had taken up residence on the matching couch
across from them. The short distance between was occupied by a
spartan antique coffee table. Ben remained standing, hands buried
in his pockets, quietly surveying the room. I knew he was using his
size to, as he would put it, “compel full cooperation”; but in this
case it was accomplishing nothing more than scaring the wits out of
one of the women and putting the other on the extreme defensive. At
least he was wearing a sport coat, so his sidearm wasn’t adding to
the intimidation.

Having worked with me before, Carl had
slipped easily into the habit of treating me as if I were just
another cop; therefore, I doubted he was aware—or even concerned
with the fact—that from my vantage point seated next to him, I
could see everything he was putting on the paper. Next to Karyl’s
name he made the notation, “blonde/blue nervous”—hair color, eye
color, and demeanor. Next to Starr’s was the description
“black/blue bitchy.”

On a separate line beneath the two names, he
scrawled “lipstick lesbians” and double underlined it. I assumed
this to be a reference to the fact that while they were obviously
involved with one another, they were both very feminine in their
appearance and dress. Yet another slang term born of the same
misconstrued stereotypes of homosexuals that had given us such
epithets as “bull-dyke” and “flaming-fairy.”

“Nice house you got here,” Carl observed
aloud. “Must be one heck of a mortgage payment.”

“As if it is any of your business,
Detective,” Starr hissed, “it is paid for.”

He let out a low whistle. “Nice. Have a good
job, do you?”

“I am an attorney, Detective Deckert,” she
returned. “A very successful one. Of course, I’m sure you were well
aware of that before you ever came here.”

Next to her name on the notepad, he penciled
in “lawyer/bucks.”

“Just the two of you live here, I take
it?”

“Yes,” she huffed. “If I may, Detective
Deckert, I am certain you were well aware of our names and
countless other facts that are none of your business before you
ever arrived here. So, if I may ask, is there a point to these
questions other than a transparent attempt to antagonize me?”

“Just makin’ an observation, Miz Winston.” He
shrugged. “That’s all. I’m not tryin’ to antagonize anyone.”

Her eyes quickly darting back and forth
between Deckert and Starr, Karyl suddenly blurted, “Are we
suspects?”

“Not at all, Miss Steinbeck.” Carl shook his
head. “Not at all. We’re just tryin’ to get some information, so we
can solve this case.”

The reply to her question was followed by a
thickening silence. Information wasn’t going to flow freely from
these two women, and being a Witch myself, I could fully understand
their reluctance to speak. Considering the way the media had
already begun sensationalizing their erroneous and unconfirmed
rumors of “Cult Revenge,” the entire Pagan community in the area
was probably running scared. Two of the local television stations
had even started weeklong exposés titled something on the order of
“WitchCraft: Saint Louis’ Hidden Evil.”

“Listen, Miss Steinbeck, Miz Winston...” Carl
volunteered. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of this
case except to say that the current speculation in the media is way
off base... Don’t pay any attention to it.”

Their silence continued.

“Should we be expectin’ anyone else?” Ben
finally asked from his station, semi-blocking the doorway. “Or is
it just gonna be the two of you?”

The blonde woman stared past him into the
next room at first, obviously making note of his blatant
positioning, then tensely chewed at her lower lip before answering,
“No, Detective...”

“Storm,” he reminded her.

“Detective Storm,” she said with a nod. “No.
No one else.”

He paused for a moment and thoughtfully
rubbed his chin. “Mind if I ask why? When I called yesterday I was
given ta’ understand that there were several members in your group,
and I asked that you all be present for this meeting.”

“On my counsel they have elected to remain
anonymous,” Starr replied in her still frosty tone. “Not everyone
in our Coven is as outspoken about their religious practices as
Karyl and I. To be perfectly honest, Detective, the last thing they
need is to have the police putting their names on their hit
list.”

“Ladies,” Carl interjected with a fatherly
chuckle, “I can assure you that there is no such thing as a ‘hit
list.’”

“Officially,” she spat.

“Listen,” Ben began, “like Detective
Deckert said, we’re just tryin’ ta’ solve a coupl’a murders here.
The media is just runnin’ off at the mouth, as usual, and you two
are
not
suspects. Now, we know
Kendra Miller was a member of your group, and all we wanna do is
ask ya’ a few questions. This isn’t some kinda shakedown. We
are
not
on a Witch Hunt,
okay?”

The two women simply stared back silently,
making no move to speak or even acknowledge what he had just told
them.

“I was afraid of this... That’s why we
brought Rowan along,” he appealed, gesturing in my direction. “Give
us a break, willya’?”

Still facing a mute audience, he turned his
exasperated gaze on me and threw his hands in the air. “Okay, I
give up… Row, speak some Witch to ‘em or somethin’.”

As I suspected would happen, I was
unceremoniously dropped into the hot seat, and the two women turned
to me almost in unison. Starr continued her piercing stare with ice
blue eyes. Her stony expression combined with the frigid glare was
enough to show me why she was so successful in her practice of the
law. I somehow doubted that losing was an acceptable option for
this young woman, and I was inwardly glad that I wasn’t on a
witness stand being cross-examined by her; although, I wasn’t
entirely sure if I was any safer where I sat at the moment.

Karyl was quite obviously the weaker of the
two. Though while she certainly wasn’t as stoical as her partner,
she remained completely mute. She simply cracked a fleeting,
tight-lipped smile and watched me with wide, troubled eyes.

I cleared my throat and shrugged then
stated succinctly, “They
are
telling the truth.”

“I read about you in the newspaper last
weekend. You’re the one who helped find that murderer last year,
aren’t you?” Karyl finally peeped.

On the edge of my vision, I caught a slight
movement as Starr squeezed her hand and, getting her attention,
almost imperceptibly flashed her a stern look. She wasn’t going to
make this easy for me.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

Starr cocked an eyebrow and spat
sarcastically, “So what did they do, make you an honorary cop?
Promise to leave you alone if you helped root out a few
Pagans?”

“No, Ms. Winston, there were no such promises
made, very simply because they aren’t necessary. I am merely a
consultant.”

“A consultant for the police,” she added.

“Look,” I sighed and shook my head. “I’m not
going to tell you that there aren’t cops who are prejudiced against
Pagans. If I did, I’d be lying. We’ve all heard of friends being
pulled over just because they have a Pentacle bumper sticker on
their car. But if you happened to read that article in the paper,
you know that I’ve been working toward educating the law
enforcement community about The Craft—with Detective Storm’s help,
mind you. You need to remember that it’s a two-way street. You
can’t pass judgment on all cops just because of a stubborn few with
preconceived ideas. And you can’t run around being paranoid all the
time.”

“And why should we be any more trusting of
you?” she demanded. “As far as I’m concerned, that article was
nothing more than propaganda.”

I knew that even as we spoke, I was being
checked out. Poked, prodded and inspected on an ethereal level by
the two women. I had felt it ever since walking into the house and
even more so since this terse conversation began. I decided that if
we were ever going to get anywhere, I would have to go ahead and
show my hand. I was going to have to let them feel for themselves
that they could trust me.

“You’re both Witches,” I expressed evenly.
“And judging from what I’ve been picking up, fairly practiced ones
at that. Why don’t you tell me?”

I relaxed my inner self and drew a deep,
cleansing breath. As I softly exhaled I allowed all but my most
basic defenses to lower. Taking away any walls and putting out a
psychic welcome mat. In effect, I invited them to come in and
spiritually shake my hand. Just get to know me. Just get
comfortable.