Wicked Witch Murder (5 page)

Lucy had been looking forward to the cookout all week. It was a chance to catch up with the neighbors, and her son Toby, his wife, Molly, and their baby son, Patrick, would be there too. Even though the young family lived on Prudence Path, just a hop, skip, and a jump away through a narrow patch of woods, she didn't get to see Patrick as often as she wanted, which was every minute of every day. Patrick was growing so fast and changed so much every time she saw him that she was afraid he'd be all grown up before she knew what happened. So when she and Bill and the girls arrived at the party, Lucy made a beeline for her grandson, scooping him up in her arms.

“He's so heavy and only three months!” she exclaimed.

“He's a real chowhound,” said his beaming father.

“Fourteen pounds,” said Molly, who looked tired. “When he hits fifteen, Doc Ryder says I can start solids. I can't wait—maybe then he'll sleep through the night.”

“Are you waking your poor mommy up?” cooed Lucy, jiggling the baby and looking into Patrick's big blue eyes. “Are you a naughty boy?”

Patrick answered with a smile and a burp, or maybe just a burp, but Lucy was sure it was a smile. “Did you see that?” she exclaimed. “He smiled at me!”

But now the smile was gone. Patrick was beginning to fuss, and Lucy reluctantly handed him back to his mother. Molly retreated to a secluded porch swing to nurse him, and Lucy joined her neighbors Frankie La Chance and Willie Westwood, who were arranging dishes on an improvised table made out of a door set on sawhorses. The party was actually taking place in the little cul-de-sac shared by five houses. Barbecue grills and picnic tables had been brought from individual yards and arranged together under a canopy improvised from a big blue tarp. Twinkling Christmas lights had been hung underneath the tarp, and soft rock music was playing on a donated stereo. Ice-filled coolers held an assortment of soft drinks, beer, and wine.

“Can I help?” offered Lucy.

“I think we're all set,” said Frankie. “Everything looks delicious.”

“I'm starving,” said Willie, helping herself to a handful of potato chips. “I was at the barn all afternoon.” Willie was a keen horsewoman who taught riding lessons; her husband Scratch was a vet. They had two kids—Sassie, who was Sara's age, and Chip, who was still in elementary school.

“The burgers should be ready soon,” said Frankie, who was the primary organizer behind the annual cookout. She was a real estate agent and a single mom with one child, Renee, also Sara's age. “In the meantime, can I get you a glass of wine?”

Soon the three women were settled on lawn chairs, sipping their wine and swapping stories about their kids, their pets, and their neighbors.

“Did you hear about this awful thing in the woods?” asked Willie. “I heard about it on the radio.”

“What thing?” asked Frankie.

“I was the one who discovered the body,” said Lucy. “It was horrible.”

“Whose body?”

“They don't know yet,” said Lucy. “It was burned.”

“Mon Dieu!”
exclaimed Frankie.

“They said it was probably a drug deal gone wrong, something like that,” said Willie.

“Maybe a gangland slaying. They burned the body so it couldn't be identified. That's the theory anyway,” said Lucy.

“I can't believe anything like that would happen here,” said Willie, sipping her wine.

“Me neither,” said Lucy, eager to change the subject. “By the way, I invited our new neighbors, the Stoughtons. They moved into the place on the other side of the bridge.”

“Ike Stoughton?” asked Frankie.

“Yup.”

“He's a shrewd one. I bet he got that place for a song. It's been on the market for over a year.”

“Speak of the devil. Here they come now,” said Willie.

Lucy looked up to see the entire Stoughton clan advancing down the road. Ike was leading the procession, followed by two tall and muscular young men, presumably his sons, dressed almost identically in crisp blue jeans with tucked-in shirts and close-shaved haircuts. Abby and her mother, a painfully thin woman with graying hair fastened into a bun, trailed behind in their unfashionably long skirts, each carrying a covered dish.

“I'm so glad you could come,” said Lucy, greeting them.

“These are my sons, Thomas and Mather,” said Ike, “and my wife, Miriam, and daughter, Abby.”

“I know Abby, of course,” said Lucy, smiling hard, “and it's nice to meet you all. Shall I introduce you around?”

“That would be fine,” agreed Ike as Frankie and Willie hurried over.

“Let me take those dishes off your hands,” said Frankie, approaching Abby and Miriam.

“They smell delicious,” said Willie, holding out her arms.

“It's an old family recipe for baked beans,” said Miriam, her voice so soft she was almost whispering. “I cooked them in the bake hole next to our fireplace.”

The women's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “My goodness, that must have been a lot of work,” said Willie.

“My husband likes them that way,” she whispered, with lowered eyes as if imparting a shameful secret. “He says there's nothing like the taste of real, slow-cooked beans.”

“I can't wait to taste them,” said Lucy as Toby approached the little group, gripping a bottle of Sam Adams beer. She figured he would take Thomas and Mather off her hands.

“Hi!” he said, shaking hands with the menfolk. “I'm Toby Stone. Can I get you guys some beers?”

He didn't get the reaction he expected. Thomas and Mather stiffened their backs and turned to their father, who adopted a stern expression. “We do not drink alcohol,” he said in a disapproving tone.

Lucy was pleased to see that Toby didn't miss a beat. “Well, there's plenty of pop too,” he said.

“We prefer water,” declared Ike. “That's the beverage the good Lord provides for us in abundance.”

“We've got that too,” said Toby, tilting his head toward the cooler and drifting away to rejoin his friends.

Willie and Frankie had also drifted off, leaving Lucy with the entire Stoughton clan. She dutifully took them around to meet everyone but was unable to get any sort of conversation going. Finally, having run out of people to introduce and finding little in common to talk about, she suggested they serve themselves from the buffet. Escape was not possible, however, as Ike reminded her she really had to try his wife's baked beans. She was just digging in when the fire siren went off, calling the volunteer firefighters, and she flinched at the sound. Now whenever she heard it, she was reminded of the dreadful scene in the woods.

Toby and a few others ran to their pickups, their radios already cackling with orders. “It's on the mountain!” yelled Toby, sticking his head out the window and pointing as he backed around and sped off.

They all looked at the range of hills that rose behind the town, and sure enough, there was a thick column of smoke rising from the tallest one, Hawk Mountain.

“It's been awfully dry,” said Scratch, Willie's husband. “I hope it doesn't come this way.”

“We're miles away,” said Bill.

“I've seen fires like this out West,” said Scratch. “If conditions are right, they can move really fast.”

“Mark my words,” said Ike, in a tone Moses might have used, “this is the work of that witch.”

A few uneasy glances were exchanged before Frankie spoke up. “Diana's a charming woman,” she said. “She would never harm anyone.” She laughed. “And I adore her little shop.”

“You have been deceived,” said Ike, handing his plate to his wife for a refill. She quickly gave her own plate to Abby to hold and hurried over to the buffet table while Ike continued. “In time, her wickedness will be revealed. There are disturbing signs already—like that poor soul found burned in the woods.”

His words cast a pall over the group, and conversation faltered as the smoke column grew thicker and darker as the fire spread through the dry woods. They were all keeping a nervous eye on the mountain as they filled their paper plates and ate their salads and hamburgers and watched the kids playing tag. Soon people began collecting their belongings and drifting along home. The Stoughtons were among the last to leave, so Lucy didn't even have the satisfaction of discussing their odd behavior with her neighbors.

L
ucy was wakened early Sunday morning by the phone. It was Ted, asking her to go to the crisis center at the police station. The fire was still raging, and he was out with the firefighters, covering the story.

“Have you been up all night?” she asked, grasping the situation.

“Yeah.”

“This is bad,” she said, her thoughts immediately turning to Toby. She sent up a quick prayer for his safety.

“Yup. They're evacuating some campgrounds, trying to notify people with cabins in the area.”

“I'm on it,” she said, throwing back the covers.

“I knew I could count on you.”

Lucy was certain they would have been notified if they were in any danger from the fire, but she still went straight to the window, just to make sure. Smoke was still rising from the mountain, but the fire seemed to have moved to the other side, away from the town center. Somewhat reassured, she went into the bathroom to wash up. A few minutes later, she was leaving the house, carrying a commuter mug of coffee.

She noticed the smell of smoke the minute she stepped out the door—it irritated her nose and stung her eyes—and she hurried to the car, where she made sure the windows were shut tight and turned on the AC. It was still early and there was little traffic, which was normal for a Sunday morning, but there weren't even any joggers running along the road because the air was so bad. Lucy felt a sense of suspended animation, similar to the period of time after a storm warning was announced but before the storm watch actually began and people started boarding up their windows and pulling their boats out of the water.

When she reached Main Street, she saw the white satellite trucks that indicated the Boston and Portland TV stations were covering the fire. The parking lot at the police station was full, forcing her to park in the little lot behind the
Pennysaver
office. She felt a rising excitement as she hurried across the street and through the parking lot to the back door of the police station. The crisis center was located in the basement, a windowless area that was deemed secure from flood, wind, and reporters. A small group of newshounds, including several men with TV cameras, were gathered at the gray steel door.

“Nobody's getting in,” said one guy with an NECN cap.

“There's not much room inside,” said Lucy, who'd been given a tour when the crisis center opened. “And I suppose they've got more important things to do than talk to reporters.”

“I've got to make a report in ten minutes,” said a young woman in a WCVB Windbreaker. “What am I going to say?”

Lucy gave her a sympathetic smile, thinking that perhaps there were advantages to a weekly deadline. She didn't have to file her story on the fire until Wednesday morning.

It was then that the door opened just wide enough for an arm to protrude, and they all watched as a notice was taped to the outside, announcing a press conference in an hour.

“Might as well get some coffee,” muttered one guy, and the crowd began to thin. Lucy lingered, trying to figure out her next step. Suddenly she spotted Todd Kirwan coming down the sidewalk and went to meet him. He was out of uniform, and as she got closer, she realized he was fresh from the shower, still smelling of shampoo, but his eyes were tired and red.

“Were you out all night?” she asked, with a nod toward the mountain.

“Yeah. I grabbed a half hour for a quick nap, but now I'm back on duty.” He sighed. “This has been a hell of a week. First that poor devil in the woods and now this.”

Lucy looked away, breaking eye contact and checking out the mountain. “I'm supposed to cover the response to the fire. Mind if I tag along?” she asked.

“Just keep a low profile,” he said, politely holding the door for her. She followed him through the foyer and down the stairs to the crowded crisis center, where phones were ringing like crazy, radios were cackling, and everybody's attention was focused on a large map. She recognized most of the people, even if she didn't know them by name. There was fire chief Buzz Bresnahan; police chief Jim Kirwan; and Roger Wilcox, chairman of the board of selectmen.

“What's the status of the fire?” demanded a young woman Lucy recognized as a part-time dispatcher. “The governor wants to know.”

“Tell the governor the fire is ten percent contained, but we hope to get to fifty percent by noon,” replied Buzz Bresnahan.

Lucy didn't think that sounded very good. She had a million questions she wanted to ask, but she took Todd's advice and made herself small, sitting on a plastic chair shoved against the wall. As she watched and listened, she gradually made sense of the scene: Reports were coming in from firefighters on the front lines, the information was evaluated, and orders were issued for fighting the fire and evacuating people. The area was popular with hikers and campers, and there were also a number of summer homes; those people were taken to a temporary shelter the Red Cross was setting up in the high school gym. Lucy was considering going over to the shelter to cover that aspect of the story when somebody called for attention.

“We've got trouble,” shouted a young officer. “A caller reports seeing a group of hikers near George's Falls.”

The fire chief and a couple of others rushed over to the map. “That's the way the fire's moving,” he said.

“Maybe we can get a National Guard helicopter?” suggested Wilcox.

“It's our only option—but I'd hate to be wrong,” said Buzz. He raised his head, making eye contact with the young officer who was still on the phone. “How reliable is your caller?”

“Rebecca Wardwell? She's honest as the day is long.”

“She knows the area,” said a man in a Red Cross vest.

“Okay,” agreed Bresnahan. “And it's gotta be fast. I think we've got a small window here—maybe thirty, forty minutes, tops.”

From outside they could hear shouting and banging on the door. “What the hell?” demanded the police chief.

“Time for the press conference,” said somebody.

“The hell with 'em,” muttered the police chief, and Lucy concentrated hard on making herself even smaller. She couldn't help wondering about the hikers and whether they knew the danger they were in. She hoped they had some survival skills and would be making some sort of marker so they could be spotted from the air.

“They're giving us a Coast Guard heli,” announced Chief Kirwan. “It's closer but it's smaller—they're gonna have to make a couple of trips. We need a landing spot.”

Todd was already pointing at a spot on the map. “How about the outlet mall parking lot?”

“I need the coordinates, fast,” snapped the chief.

Lucy didn't need the coordinates; she was a faithful customer at the outlet mall, and that's where she headed, arriving just after a couple of cops had finished marking off part of the lot with yellow tape. One of them was her old friend Barney Culpepper, and he introduced her to his young companion, Officer Jason Struthers. They could hear the copter approaching, and minutes later it broke through the smoke and clouds and landed. Four people were practically tossed out, and it took off as soon as they had scuttled to a safe distance.

The little group didn't look like hikers to Lucy; they were carrying baskets and tote bags instead of backpacks, and not one was wearing hiking boots. One woman, who was extremely overweight, was wearing a long, full skirt and had lots of chains and beads strung around her neck. Her long, gray hair hung loose from a central part and fell to her shoulders; large hoop earrings hung from each ear.

“Is everybody okay?” asked Barney, pulling out his notebook.

“Relatively speaking,” snapped the large woman. “If you call being up all night in the middle of a fire okay.”

“Lady, you're lucky to be alive,” said Barney, producing his notebook. “Now, if you don't mind, I need your ID for my report.”

Hearing this, the other three, a scruffy-looking man and two equally disheveled women, exchanged glances.

“ID? I didn't bring any. Will a library card do?” The woman was rummaging through a basket, tossing out a variety of brightly colored garments, some with mystical designs.

The young cop, Officer Struthers, turned to the others. “How about you?”

Reluctantly, they began producing their wallets and showing their driver's licenses. The fat lady triumphantly produced a paperback book. “Here! How about this? It's a book I wrote and has my photo on the cover.”

The book, Lucy noted with interest, was titled
Modern Witchcraft,
and the author was Lady Sybil Wellington.

“This ‘lady' part, is it a name or a title?” asked Barney.

“It's a title,” said Lady Sybil, pulling herself up to her entire five feet.

“So you're some sort of nobility? Like from England?” asked Struthers.

“I am an initiated priestess of the Wiccan religion and the author of numerous books on the subject,” declared Lady Sybil. “I am a United States citizen and live in New Hampshire.”

Barney shrugged. “Okay, I'll take your word for it.”

The helicopter could once again be heard approaching, and Lucy could hardly wait to see who emerged this time. She was certain the “hikers” were actually members of Diana Ravenscroft's coven, who had gone up the mountain to celebrate Midsummer Night. She wasn't disappointed when four more ill-equipped hikers scrambled out. This group included two men and two women, all middle-aged and mostly dressed in cheap tracksuits. Like the others, they were carrying an assortment of duffel bags and baskets. Lucy had just decided to approach them for an interview when she was interrupted by Lady Sybil.

“Where's Lady Diana?” she shrieked, addressing the new arrivals.

“She insisted that we go first,” said a young man with a prominent nose and a receding chin. “She said that she's”—the fellow lowered his voice to a whisper—“she's the high priestess, responsible for everyone, and she should be the last to be rescued.”

“So what exactly were you folks doing up on the mountain?” asked Barney, sounding suspicious. “You weren't starting any fires, were you?”

Glances were exchanged among the group members, and Lady Sybil finally spoke. “Fire is part of the Wiccan Midsummer Sabbat celebration,” she admitted. “But we seek only to encourage the growth of crops and their ultimate fruition.”

“So did you start a fire or not?” persisted Barney.

“You better discuss that with our leader, Lady Diana. She should be here shortly,” said Lady Sybil.

“If they make it in time,” said Struthers, who was checking the newcomers' IDs. In the distance, they could all see smoke rising from the mountain and the occasional burst of flame as the fire advanced through the pine woods. Everyone fell silent, listening for the sound of the helicopter. Seconds stretched into minutes. It seemed an eternity before somebody yelled, “I hear it!”

This time the helicopter landed and the pilot and copilot, dressed in orange jumpsuits, climbed out and helped the rescued hikers alight. The four ducked close to the asphalt and scrambled out from under the slowly whirring blades until they reached safety. Lucy recognized not only Diana Ravenscroft, but also Abby Stoughton. She was dying to talk to the girl but knew her job came first.

“How about a photo?” she suggested, producing her camera. “I'm from the local newspaper.”

“I don't know…,” began Diana, scratching her arm.

“Good idea,” said Barney, beginning to corral the group.

“Sure,” said the helicopter pilot, smiling broadly. “My mom will put it in her scrapbook.”

“My kid can take it in for show-and-tell,” said the copilot, forcing the issue. The coven gathered reluctantly, lining up in front of the helicopter that rescued them, with the Coast Guard pilots at either end. Everybody said “cheese” as Lucy snapped the photo. When she asked for names, however, the group scattered, leaving only Diana and the helicopter crew members.

“What now?” asked Lady Diana, scratching her stomach as the helicopter lifted off. “Do we call some taxis?”

“Not so fast,” said Barney, who had been reporting to headquarters on his radio. “The fire marshal has some questions for you. The mountain was posted you know—there were notices warning about the risk of forest fire. All fires were strictly prohibited.”

“First things first,” said Diana, coughing violently and scratching energetically. “I need to see a doctor.”

Taking her cue, a couple of other members of the coven began coughing and complaining of assorted aches and pains.

“Should I request an ambulance?” asked Struthers, consulting Barney.

“Nah,” growled Barney. “They might need it for people with serious injuries, like the firefighters. Get a school bus.” He nodded his head sharply. “One of 'em small ones, to save gas.”

While they waited, Lucy seized the opportunity to talk to Abby, who was looking extremely anxious, standing with the group but not really part of it. “Everything will be fine,” she said, giving the girl a hug.

“I don't think so,” said Abby. “My father's going to kill me when he finds out that I sneaked out last night.”

“You'll certainly have some explaining to do,” said Lucy. “But I'm sure he'll be relieved that you're safe and sound. Your parents must be worried sick.” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. “Do you want to give them a call?”

Abby shook her head, and Lucy, dismayed, tucked the cell phone away. She understood the girl was trying to postpone the inevitable, but she believed she would be wiser to get it over with.

Minutes later, the school bus arrived and everybody climbed aboard. Lucy brought up the tail of the little procession headed to the cottage hospital, following the cruiser with its flashing lights and the bright-yellow minibus containing the coven. Arriving at the cottage hospital, she followed them into the emergency room waiting area and waited as they were examined one by one. Eventually, Diana and Abby emerged and Lucy approached them.