Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (18 page)

The sight of her was enough to make me
forget, if only for a moment, the horrors I had re-witnessed just
hours before. I didn’t realize it until she spoke, but I was simply
staring at her.

“What?” she asked and started to reach for
the mirror once again. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth or
something?”

“No.” I caught her hand before she could
assault the device any more. “There’s nothing on your teeth. I was
just noticing how gorgeous you are.”

“Oh stop it!” she insisted, throwing me an
embarrassed glance as she reached over to straighten my tie.
“You’re just saying that because you’re my husband and you have
to.”

“If that’s what you want to believe, but it’s
not true. You’re beautiful.”

She ignored my further comment. “There,
that’s better.”

I reached up to loosen the knot she had just
cinched around my throat, and she playfully slapped my hand
away.

“Don’t. I just fixed that.”

“I hate ties, honey. They’re too
constricting. That’s why I work at home, so I don’t have to wear
them.”

“You want constricting? Try wearing pantyhose
and a lace-up, metal-ribbed bodice. Aye, now there’s constricting
for you. Besides, it’s only for a few hours, so deal with it,” she
instructed.

“Okay. So long as I get to be the one who
unlaces that bodice later.”

“Rowan!” she giggled then winked. “Keep that
up and I think it can be arranged… Now, come on. Let’s go inside
before we’re late.”

“Yeah, I suppose the sooner we get in there
the sooner we can leave.”

“Aye, would you be showing disrespect to me
family now?” she jibed with an overstated Irish brogue. Though she
had purposely exaggerated the affectation, I knew I would need to
get used to it because, after a scant few hours inside, her normal
lilt was going to be embellished with the heavy accent for several
days. It always was.

I just grinned back at her and unlatched my
door.

“By the way, Rowan...” She looked back before
stepping out of the Jeep.

“Yes?”

“Thanks. You look kind of sexy yourself.”

* * * * *

“Club soda, twist of lime,” I told the
bartender and held up a pair of fingers. “Two, please.”

The family had pulled out all the stops for
this affair. From renting a large banquet room at the Westview
Regency, to the open bar and traditional Irish food catered
specifically for the party. As I had told Ben there would be,
plenty of colcannon was to be had, along with mutton stew, spiced
beef, potato cakes, and countless other ethnic comestibles. I had
no doubt that Felicity’s mother had been in charge of the menu as
she was a phenomenal cook.

Both of Felicity’s parents were first
generation Irish-American, born of immigrants. Her maternal
grandparents were the ones celebrating the anniversary tonight; for
her father’s parents had long since passed, well before she and I
were married.

As her mother and father both came from large
families, aunts, uncles, cousins and other relations were springing
from every corner of the banquet hall; some had even come over
directly from Ireland for the express purpose of attending this
combination party/reunion. Many of them she hadn’t seen for ages.
Many I had never even met. Be that as it may, there was definitely
no shortage of red hair in the room.

After checking our coats, I was charged with
the mission of obtaining drinks for the both of us while my wife
skittered about squealing with glee as she and long missed
relatives became re-acquainted. Having located one of the two bars
and placing my order, I decided to try and make the best of it. Had
present circumstances been different, I’m sure I would have been
more in the mood for a party. But they weren’t, and I wasn’t.

I was still wrestling with the re-awakened
visions of Kendra Miller burning to death in the middle of a public
park. I fought, from one moment to the next, with bleak stabs of
pain mirroring the emotions I experienced coming from the two young
women this afternoon. I steeled myself against the fear I didn’t
want to acknowledge. And all of this I did alone, for I hadn’t
uttered a single word of today’s events to Felicity. She had been
preoccupied with her preparations, and I felt that at least one of
us should remain unburdened by thoughts of loathing and death
during what was intended as a celebration of love and life. Of the
surplus of mental trauma I was struggling to keep at bay, the worst
was my own agonized speculation. I couldn’t stop worrying over when
the killer would strike next.

How would he strike?

Who would be the victim?

A dull ache through my very being told me
that it was going to be soon, and I wasn’t going to be able to stop
the inevitable. All I would be able to do is sift through the
aftermath for another misshapen piece of the puzzle and, if it was
there, try desperately to fit it into place with the bleak handful
we had thus far.

I reached up and worked the knot of my
necktie back and forth to loosen it and leaned against the bar. My
eyes darted through the crowd searching for where Felicity might
have settled. She was clad in festive Celtic attire—much like most
everyone else in the room—and with the abundance of auburn curls
filling the hall, it took me a few moments to pick her out.

She was wearing, not unlike several of the
other women, a slightly shortened version of a traditional chemise
and Irish skirt. Her shapely torso was cinched into a low-cut
bodice complete with boning and laces. On her feet, she had
replaced her snow boots with flat, black slippers secured firmly to
her ankles with a criss-crossing leather cord tied in a neat
bow.

I finally located her on the far side of the
room, arm in arm with two of her cousins, executing a short, quick
series of lithe leaps, kicks and jumps. The three of them bobbed up
and down in perfect unison as they spun about in mock rehearsal for
the dancing yet to come and came to a halt, laughing wildly at a
minor misstep. I felt like I had landed in the middle of an Irish
dance troupe and was beginning to feel self-conscious and terribly
out of place in my grey tweed sport coat and slacks.

“Aye, keeper! Why don’t you be givin’ ‘im a
real man’s drink then!” The thick timbre met my ears and was
coupled with a rough slap across my back.

A pair of meaty paws proceeded to manhandle
my shoulders, and I broke from my glassy stare.

“Me Grandmother wouldn’t be drinkin’ that
fizzly water now,” my brother-in-law’s voice boomed once again.
“Whiskey man! We’ll start with two and ye keep it flowin’!”

Felicity’s older brother was hopelessly
enamored with his ancestral roots and had spent a large amount of
time in Ireland during his youth. To this day he spent as much time
there as he could. Fortunately, his position with an overseas firm
as a structural engineer allowed him great latitude in his choice
of assignments, and he had been able to work there continuously for
the past several years. Because of this, his brogue was unfaded by
distance and time and was only slightly tarnished by his inherent
Americanism.

Coming from the same stock as my wife, he
bore the ruddy complexion and bright red mop of a classic Irishman,
right down to his rust-colored beard. He was at once jovial,
cantankerous, loud, obnoxious, loyal, hard-drinking, and if the
stories I had heard of his youth were true, hard-fighting as well.
Of all my in-laws, he and I got along the best. I was sorry we
didn’t get to see each other more often.

“Austin!” I cheerfully yelped as he greeted
me further with a brotherly bear hug. “When did you get in?”

“Just last night, Rowan old man, just last
night.” He cuffed me on the shoulder again and pushed a full shot
glass of whiskey along the bar to me as he grasped his own.

In one motion he lifted the glass with
his right hand and thrust it straight out from his shoulder. I
mimicked the motion, and he clinked his shot against mine as he
said, “May the grass grow long on the road to hell for its want of
use!
Slainte
!”

“Slainte
!” I
echoed the Gaelic equivalent of “cheers.”

With that he tossed back the ounce of liquor
and loudly clacked the glass back onto the bar. I followed suit
with somewhat less gusto. I suspected he already had a substantial
head start on me.

“Again, man!” he shouted to the hustling
bartender then turned back to me. “And where would ye be hidin’ me
charming sister then? I trust you’ve been takin’ good care of her
now.”

I chuckled and pointed. “She’s across the way
there. With a couple of your cousins.”

He followed my finger and nodded as he saw
her repeating her earlier mini performance with the other two
women.

“Aye, old man, you definitely got yourself
the pick of the O’Brien crop with her. She’s the loveliest of the
sisters.”

“As I recall she’s your only sister, Austin,”
I laughed.

“Aye, and I’m prejudiced as well!” he
chuckled in return.

The frantic bartender had refilled the two
shots, and my brother-in-law nudged one to me again. “Here’s to the
health of your enemies’ enemies!”

“I can go for that.
Slainte
!”

“Slainte
!”

We raised our drinks in unison and clinked
them together soundly. Before we could bring them to our lips,
however, we were interrupted by the Celtic lilt of a familiar
female voice.

“Austin! There you are!” the voice exclaimed,
and we both swiveled our heads toward it. “Oh, hello, Rowan. I
didn’t know you and Felicity had arrived.”

“Maggie,” I smiled and nodded to my
mother-in-law.

“Austin, dear,” she continued, “your father
needs to speak with you. You don’t mind, do you, Rowan?”

“Not at all.”

“Aye, can’t it wait?” Austin protested at
first. However, since he instantly found himself on the receiving
end of a sharp “don’t question your mother” glare that an offspring
of any age would obey, he tossed back the shot of whiskey and
settled the empty glass on the bar. “I’ll be catchin’ up with ya’
then, old man,” he told me as he followed her away. “Don’t you be
runnin’ off now.”

“Don’t worry,” I called after him. “I’ll be
here all night. Promise.”

Had I known at the time I would have to break
that promise, I never would have made it.

“S
hamus O’Brien, my
father-in-law, would never be in any danger of becoming elected
president of my fan club; of this you could be certain. Our
relationship was one that stressed the boundaries of polite
tolerance and mute indifference. I am sure he allowed this much
solely for the benefit of his only daughter. In general, he wasn’t
what you would call outwardly discourteous to me. I was, of course,
well aware of his feelings, and I endeavored to respect them by
keeping my distance; therefore he was rarely even given a chance to
become rude. However, we would invariably be thrust together by
holidays or other family functions at intervals throughout the
year. At these times I would make it a point to avoid any
controversial topic on which he may have a strong opinion—which was
only a shade left of everything.

The one subject that remained an absolute
taboo on any and all occasions was my choice of religious paths;
for you see, that was the one and true reason Shamus didn’t like
me.

If asked about it, my stern in-law would
return a blank stare and pretend to ignore the subject entirely.
But, if one were truly inclined to press the matter, he could be
made to speak of it, and speak of it he would.

The entire discourse would begin with him
muttering a long string of Gaelic expletives under his breath.
Soon, his ruddy complexion would flush even brighter, and he would
begin gesturing with a stiff index finger while making his opinions
adamantly known. Finally, he would proceed to explain how I had
turned his fair daughter from the righteous path of God with my
heretical Pagan practices. The story seemed to grow more heinous
each time he told it.

My mother-in-law, Maggie, would simply roll
her eyes and sigh then sternly admonish, “Oh Shamus, just you hush
now!”

It didn’t matter to him that Felicity was a
practicing Witch long before our first chance meeting—a meeting
that interestingly enough occurred at a local Magickal and Earth
religion festival. No. He would have none of that, and he would
even deny the fact with great fervor. She was his little Colleen,
and she couldn’t possibly have taken this road without being
tempted by some unsavory character such as myself. Each time she
would try to reason with him, it simply flowed into one ear and
straight out the other. To Shamus, his little girl could do no
wrong, and in his mind, she was just going through a phase.

Needless to say, I went to great lengths to
avoid this subject entirely.

Tonight, however, much to my chagrin, I had
no control over the topic being debated no matter how hard I tried
to evade it. My face had been plastered all over the news, both
electronic and print, placing me in the astringent beam of an
unwanted limelight. My religion had suddenly made me something of a
morbid celebrity among those relatives of local residence, and
whispered stories of my involvement in the murder investigations,
both past and present, were spreading through the room like fire
through a dead forest. One of Felicity’s second cousins, a
wide-eyed, round-faced, young girl of eight or nine, had even asked
me for my autograph.

Like everyone else, my father-in-law had been
at work on his own share of Irish whiskey in celebration, and the
alcohol had freed his sharp tongue from the sheath where it was
normally kept. Felicity and I had only been here the sum total of
one hour and twenty-minutes. I had been backed into a corner
listening to his closed minded diatribe for the twenty.