fourteen

I left with Dorothy’s address, though Paula warned me that she probably wouldn’t speak to me.

I went straight to Dorothy’s house. Walked, not rode, in case she had something against motorcycles. The lights were on and a car was in the drive. I figured it was a bad idea to cut across the lawn, so I took the walkway to the porch, rang the bell, and waited very patiently for at least a minute before knocking. No one answered.

I left a card in the door, asking to meet for coffee—my treat—at her convenience. You couldn’t get any more considerate and respectful than that. At least, I couldn’t.

Next stop: the real estate agency to fax the crime-scene photos to Adam, who’d offered to check out the ritual for me. The agency operated not only as a copy shop, but as a typing, résumé-writing, and speech-writing service. They did Web site development, too. When times are tough, the weak bail and the tough get creative.

Tough definitely described the local real estate agent. While I was faxing my files, she tried to sell me on three rental properties—leased by the week, she promised. As for the murders, she said Cody was clearly the killer. If not him, then Alastair Koppel. She didn’t have any evidence to support her claims, simply that Cody was a “useless little snot” and Alastair a “dirty old perv,” which wasn’t news on either count.

AS I LEFT the real estate agency, I was plotting my next move. When I saw a baby carriage blocking the sidewalk, I stopped so quickly I nearly fell into it. The woman behind it was in her early thirties with artfully streaked blond hair and the kind of designer blouse, slacks, and pumps ensemble you couldn’t find within fifty miles of Columbus.

“My husband didn’t kill Ginny Thompson,” she said.

It took a moment before I recognized her as the distant figure I’d seen in a doorway yesterday: Tiffany Radu.

I offered my hand and said, “Savannah Levine. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Radu.”

She gripped the carriage tighter. “He’s not a killer.”

“I’m an independent investigator. I have nothing to gain by sending your husband to jail if he’s innocent.”

“I don’t want you coming around the house.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“You already have.”

“Um, no. The closest I’ve been to your house is the police station, which is across the road. The only time I’ve spoken to your husband is this morning, when he bumped my bike with his SUV. Even then, I didn’t question him, let alone accuse him—”

“You’d better not. I won’t have my children hearing people say their father is a murderer.”

“They won’t hear it from me.” Given that I’d heard the older two were school age, I was pretty sure they’d heard already. “If you’ll excuse me ...”

I tried to sidestep, but she used her carriage as a roadblock. Now, normally, no one gets in my way like that, but I drew the line at shoving sleeping babies.

She scowled up at me. “I want you to—”

“—stay away from your house, your husband, your kids. I get it. But you know what? If you really want to protect your kids, tell your husband to stop screwing around or, if he has to and you’re okay with that, to be discreet. Because your kids are going to find out about that, and when they do, they’ll hate him for treating you like garbage, and they’ll hate you for putting up with it.”

“Who are you to be giving marital advice?” She pointedly stared at my ring-free left hand.

“Well, if you’re going to stand in my way, I have to talk about something. So you’re okay with Cody screwing his way through every girl who’s too drunk or doped up to notice what a sleaze he is?”

Her eyes narrowed, mouth opening, but nothing coming out.

“I bet you are okay with it,” I said. “At least if it means he’s knocking them around instead of you. It’s not like you’d feel threatened by women like Ginny Thompson.”

Across the road, Megan appeared, leading eight girls, the mother hen with her chicks, waving at the new girl dawdling at the back. The new girl was watching Tiffany and me, squinting nearsightedly, as if she recognized us, but couldn’t remember from where.

“But Claire was different,” I continued as the girls trooped into a store. “Claire was young, pretty, educated. She was competition.”

“My husband never even met Claire Kennedy.”

“I heard otherwise. If Claire was at that commune, she must have been as vulnerable as Ginny. Cody likes them vulnerable. Makes him feel like a man, apparently. More than you do.”

Her hand flew up to slap me. I caught her by the wrist. She yanked away, twisting to claw the underside of my arm.

“Ow,” I said, frowning at the scratches. “Are your nails clean? Because if I get infected—”

“Stay away from my family or you’ll be sorry.”

“Did you threaten Ginny like this, too? Guess I’ll have to check those autopsy photos for claw marks. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

I put out a hand to block the stroller and walked past.

The gossips of Columbus might be an old-fashioned bunch, pointing fingers at the guys when they had a killer on the loose. But between Tiffany and Megan, I was kinda liking the ladies for this one.

TIFFANY DIDN’T LET me get away that easily. She tried to follow as fast as her short legs would carry her. I just sauntered along, letting my stride eat up the sidewalk. Then my cell rang. “Light My Fire.”

“My Jeep needs a new top,” Adam said in greeting.

“Uh-huh. I thought I mentioned this after I was rained on all the way to Seattle.”

I took a seat on a bench outside the post office. Tiffany stopped ten feet away from me, glowering over her stroller.

“I can’t afford one,” Adam said.

“Oh, right, because you had to replace the brakes two months ago, and the transmission the month before that.”

Tiffany finally moved on. I waved good-bye and turned my attention back to Adam.

“You know what you really need?” I said. “A new car, a grown-up vehicle that won’t break down every few months. Time to lose the surfer-boy-mobile.”

“Off road mobile, which I need for lugging around rock-climbing gear and spelunking gear and horseback-riding gear for a certain someone. Love to see you carrying your saddle on that motorcycle.”

“Um, you’re the one who got me into rock-climbing and spelunking because you wanted someone else to drag along. And you love horseback riding. You just hate to admit it because it’s girly. Is this really why you called? Or are you just unbelievably bored?”

“I need an excuse to phone you now? But yes, the point of this call is that I need a new top for my Jeep. I’m thinking beige this time. Easier to keep clean.”

“Uh-huh. Well, save your pennies and—”

“I’m thinking you’ll buy it for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Payback,” he said. “For a huge favor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not going to ask me what it is?”

“I’m afraid to.”

“Come on.”

“Fine, but requesting the information in no way obligates me to—”

“I surrender. No more Lucas-speak. That ritual Cody was conducting in the Facebook photos? It’s a bastardized version of a very old home-security ritual. It’s complicated, and witches and sorcerers have developed better and faster spells since. It’s not something you’d learn unless your family was out of the supernatural loop, still using the old stuff.”

“It’s real magic, then?”

“Based on real magic, which means Cody Radu is a sorcerer, which is why I called you right away. Stay away from him if you can and if you can’t, dark sunglasses are a fashion must.”

“We’ve already met.”

A pause. “Face to face?”

“Eye to eye. He’s not a sorcerer.” Witches recognize sorcerers on sight, and vice-versa. “He could be a magician”—a minor form of sorcerer—“or a shaman, druid, Vodoun priest, necromancer, somethingwith magic juice, maybe learned the spell from a sorcerer buddy, remembered the basics for frat night.”