Despite the fact that this October morning came with more than the usual amount of Ohio fall chill in the air, I sipped on an iced mocha. My stomach was churning hot. The coffee’s flavor was much too strong. I wasn’t sure if the barista had made it wrong or if the bitterness was a projection of my present mental state.
Trying to find something good in the situation, the only positive I could see was that Lorrie had known a secret of mine I hadn’t wanted to share. Now I didn’t have to worry about it ever coming back to haunt me. The rest was all bad. I’d never see Lorrie again. And poor Beverley! So young—her tenth birthday was next month—and now alone.
I knew how rough that was. At about her same age, I ended up with Nana. Beverley didn’t have any living grandparents, aunts, or uncles. Poor kid. With whom would she live?
My eyes burned. I had to stop thinking about her or I’d start sobbing again like I had in the shower.
By now, blood tests would have revealed Lorrie’s affliction, and the murder would make tomorrow’s headlines again. Another notch in the belt of those trying to prove the violence and danger of wæres in the community. Bad press like this made it harder for the good, responsible wære-folk trying to blend into society. I could imagine a terrible version of how this would play out: witchcraft symbols at the murder scene would spark an investigation of the local coven; then the news would break that Lorrie had been infected. Some journalist itching for a Pulitzer would do an exposé and reveal that Lorrie and Vivian were connected, leading to negative public outcry and, worse, Vivian and her coven enduring an inquest by the Elders Council. It had potential to become a witch-and wære-bashing media circus.
That was probably why Vivian had called me. She wanted someone uninvolved to do a more objective Tarot reading.
Not that my current state could be termed “objective.”
I’d been eyeballing every woman who walked in for the last fifteen minutes. Downtown Cleveland at eight A.M. was a hub of hurrying businesspeople. Many women came and went, tidy in their office wear and comfort-pumps. I expected Vivian to be among them, incognito with a secretarial-type day job and a real life. But when I was finally approached at eight-fifteen, it wasn’t by an executive assistant.
“Miss Alcmedi?”
She’d been here all along. As soon as the crowd thinned, she came to my little table and called me by name. Her name badge read Vivian, Manager.
With her blond curls fastened up and the ends wildly spraying out, she reminded me of a doll from my childhood; I’d dunked the doll’s head in the toilet whenever I wanted to “wash” her hair. It had taken a toll. Vivian’s hair, however, looked soft, and the style suited her much better than it had my doll. Her makeup was flawless and, as she bit her lip, her too-white smile glistened. No way she actually drank what she served unless she had those teeth professionally bleached.
My knee stopped bouncing. “Hello.”
Under her apron, Vivian wore a pretty cream-colored blouse with long sleeves and sensible cuffs. Combined with tan corduroy slacks and trendy shoes, the outfit made her look like one of her more businesslike customers. Her jewelry, though, was overdone: Diamond stud earrings, a matching necklace and bracelet set in gold, and at least one ring on each finger. Apparently, Vivian took her last name as an accessorizing decree.
“Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. One of the girls didn’t show up. I’d have said something to you, but you went through Mandy’s line.”
What I knew of Vivian Diamond had come secondhand from Lydia, an elderly witch from whom I’d bought my house and land and who still lived about ten minutes from her former home. Lydia attended every meet-up and coven ritual without fail, then always found a reason to call or stop by and give me a report. Not that I asked her to; Lydia wanted me to get involved. She told me once that I’d make a better high priestess than Vivian. It was flattering, but I’d never been interested in the role or the exposure that came with it. Lydia was one of those sweet old ladies who were nearly impossible to say no to, but I managed, citing my youth as a disadvantage.
Still, here Vivian was, and she didn’t seem that much older than me if I was correct in gauging her at thirtyish. And she led the WEC-endorsed coven? Had been leading it for maybe eight years? From Lydia’s reports, I’d assumed Vivian would be fifty-plus.
Though most witches in the big cities aren’t as secretive about their path as their counterparts in smaller towns, Vivian wasn’t wearing any pentacles or goddess-symbol jewelry. I thought speaking quietly in code would be prudent. With a quick, room-sweeping glance, I lowered my voice and asked, “You wear the garter in the group?”
“Yes, but only when we’re doing a specifically Stregan ritual.”
I frowned; she’d taken my question literally. Strega is the Italian Wiccan tradition; in it, the high priestess wears a garter to show her status, the way kings wear crowns.
Vivian’s expression darkened then, as she seemed to understand why I had asked. “I started young,” she snapped. Questioning her authority must have hit a touchy spot.
A small, sad smile curved her lips a fraction as she noticed my newspaper. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?” She turned without waiting for my reply.
I gathered my purse, newspaper, and velvet Tarot bag and followed her through a door marked Employees Only. She removed her apron, placed it on a wall hook, and slid into a standard office chair behind a desk so neat it didn’t seem used. The small space was well organized, with oak filing cabinets and shelves adorned with bookends bearing the shop’s logo. On the highest shelf was perched the only thing that seemed out of place: a wooden box. It had rust-speckled iron workings and an old lock. I liked it; it seemed very Arthurian, like a cross between a suitcase and a pirate’s treasure chest. If I’d had to guess, I’d have said it probably held some kind of successful-business-spell items. Or maybe a charm that kept her rent from rising beyond a point that allowed for profitability.
I lowered myself into the folding chair positioned opposite her. The newspaper and purse went underneath the chair; the Tarot bag stayed on my lap.
“Obviously you know about Lorrie’s death,” she said.
“Yes.” I smoothed the fringe on the velvet bag.
“I know who did it.”
My head snapped up. I hadn’t expected that.
Vivian’s chin dropped. Her fingers came up and fluttered about as if her shaking hands could wipe away the words she’d just said. Trying to cover the awkwardness, she shifted and almost put her face in her hands, but seemed to decide against it. Doing so would have messed up her impeccably applied cosmetics.
I waited for her to go on, but she remained silent. I didn’t need the cards to tell me what to say. “You have to go to the police.”
“I can’t.” She opened a drawer and pulled a tissue from a pocket pack. She dabbed at her perfectly lined blue eyes. “Look, if I start butting into police business, the police will start butting into coven business. I know how that game works, and my coven is far too important to me.”
I was right. Her ability to be impartial and objective had totally evaporated. “You could call in an anonymous tip,” I suggested. The police had already had one of those. If she wouldn’t be talked into it, I was confident that the cards would convince her to do the right thing in the interest of justice.
Vivian exhaled a trembling breath. “This is not an issue for the police, Miss Alcmedi.”
“I beg to differ. Lorrie’s dead. She was murdered!”
“Even if I told them everything,” she said, “the police would never find the killer. It will go unsolved. They think it’s random because it looks random.”
“Random? Occult symbols were scrawled on her walls with her own blood!”