New England Witch Chronicles

  Screams erupted.

  People ran in the other direction. Some pushed and shoved to get out of the way. Others crowded around the swinging body to get a better view.

  I tore my eyes from the clown. He had to be here. That couldn’t be him. But who was it then? I had no doubt that it was Peter’s costume. It was the same clown suit he’d switched into two years ago when he tried to scare me.

  I searched the frantic crowd for a Zorro costume. It couldn’t be Peter.

  Something on the balcony moved. I forced my eyes upward. Pilgrims. Victor and one of his friends were on my balcony. They leaned over the railing and shouted at a Pilgrim standing below. Why were they up there? Surely they weren’t….

  Cutting the body down.

  Didn’t they have to wait for the police? This wasn’t a rescue mission, the Clown was clearly dead. Wasn’t this a crime scene? How could they do this in front of everyone?

  Victor sawed through the thick rope. It easily snapped under the pressure of the knife. The Pilgrim on the ground caught the Clown and lowered the lifeless body onto the grass.

  Please don’t be Peter. Please don’t be Peter.

  A swarm of costumed people encircled the body, but I angrily pushed my way to the front. Victor, panting from running downstairs, joined his friends.

  “Who is it?” Victor asked.

  “Take the mask off,” the Pilgrim said.

  “You take it off.” Sweat beaded Victor’s upper lip.

  The Pilgrim’s hand hovered over the blue curly hair. The Pilgrim looked up at Victor. For what, I have no idea, but he must not have found what he was looking for because he sighed heavily. He grabbed the mask from underneath the Clown’s chin and gently pulled.

  The mask slid off.

  Every bone in my body melted to liquid. My legs buckled and I sank to my knees. This wasn’t happening. My stomach lurched. I lowered my head until I could feel the grass against my forehead and then I vomited.

  I tried to collect myself before looking up at him. I didn’t trust myself that I wouldn’t pass out, but I had to see. I had to get a closer look. I had to make sure this wasn’t another nightmare.

  His face was relaxed. It even looked peaceful, which was strange because of the violent nature of the scene. I could’ve convinced myself that this was all just a bad prank—that it wasn’t really him—if it wasn’t for his eyes. That’s how I knew it was him. And that’s how I knew this was all absolutely and horribly real.

  The whites of his eyes were clouded red from strangulation. The blood vessels were broken, but there was no mistaking the brilliant shade of his eyes.

  Even in death.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Paramedics and police officers trampled through the house. Muffled voices on walkie-talkies echoed through the steady sound of sirens. I was sitting on Emma’s overstuffed chair in the front living room, but I had no idea how I’d gotten there.

  I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders. The itchy fabric smelled like oranges. I was thankful someone was thoughtful enough to put one around me, because I was freezing.

  Rain pounded the windows. Strangers in uniform shuffled from room to room. A young cop walked in from the foyer. His black work boots were covered in mud. Either oblivious or indifferent, he left a trail of muddy footprints on Emma’s wooden floors.

  “…and when did you notice the body? Miss Ramsey?”

  An older man, with coffee breath, was talking. To me. He was an arm’s length away sitting on the ottoman. The patch on his raincoat read “Hazel Cove Police Department.” He had a name tag, too, but I didn’t bother to read it. I already knew who he was.

  “Miss Ramsey?” Detective Henry waved his hand in front of my face. His hair was completely gray, including his mustache that was stained yellow at the tips, probably from smoking or drinking too much coffee.

  I blinked. I noticed I was barefoot. My feet were muddy, too.

  “Alexandria Ramsey, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. I tried to focus on the detective.

  “Do you remember me from the hospital on Tuesday?”

  Had it only been five days since my car accident? It seemed like weeks. “I remember you.”

  Detective Henry had also talked at Hawthorne about the murder of…. Oh, jeez. That’s when it hit me. It was the same.

  “Megan Lackey,” I whispered.

  Detective Henry’s bushy eyebrows touched his hairline. “What?”

  “And now Bradley,” I said, finishing my train of thought. My voice cracked when I said his name. The magnificent violet shade of his irises floating in the blood red of his eyes was an image I’d never be able to erase from my memory.

  I felt such a range of conflicting emotions. I was heartbroken about Bradley’s death, but a small part of me was thankful it wasn’t Peter. Life wouldn’t go on without Peter. I immediately felt ashamed for thinking such a horrible thought. What was wrong with me?

  A cop handed Detective Henry a tape recorder. He placed the small metal box on the coffee table next to us. “Can I record our conversation?”

  I nodded. Flashes of lightning illuminated the night sky through the windows.

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “When did you first notice the body?”

  The body. Detective Henry wasn’t beating around the bush. I’d never get that grotesque image out of my mind. The swaying. The noose. The red swollen eyes.

  Detective Henry waited for my answer.

  “Um, I went to my bedroom to put my hat away. My balcony door was open, so I went out to see if anyone was there. That’s when I saw the rope tied around the railing.” My voice broke into a sob.

  “What did you do next?”

  “I couldn’t see from where I was standing. So, I went down to get a better look.” I flinched as a clap of thunder shook the house.

  “What time was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you notice anyone near the body?” Detective Henry scribbled in his notepad. “Anyone suspicious?”

  “No one was down there. At first I thought it was part of the Halloween decorations, but when I got a better look… I knew it wasn’t.” I pulled the blanket tighter. I couldn’t shake the chill I was feeling.

  “Why was that?”

  “What’s the point of having decorations if the guests can’t see them? Besides, that’s not Emma’s taste.”

  He looked up from his notepad. “Emma? Do you mean your mother?”

  “Yes. Emma Ramsey, my mother.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I recognized the costume,” I said.

  “You knew it was Bradley Jensen?”

  “No. I thought it was Peter. It was his costume.”

  “Who’s Peter?”

  “I’m Peter, sir. Peter LaViollette.” Peter walked over from the far end of the room. He shook the detective’s hand. I hadn’t noticed Peter was in the room.

  “Lex,” Peter whispered. He kissed the top of my head. There was no room on the chair next to me, so he moved the tape recorder and sat on the edge of the coffee table.

  “It was your costume?” Detective Henry asked Peter.

  “Yes.”

  “Why was the deceased wearing your costume?”

  “Bradley called me before I left for the party. He said he went to the costume shop, but by the time he got there it was closed.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “I don’t know. We’re friends,” Peter said. “He asked if he could borrow the costume. I’d worn it a couple of years ago, so he knew what it looked like.”

  “What happened after Bradley called you?”

  “I grabbed the clown suit from the back of my closet and drove here.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, with my sister, Anne Marie.”

  “Was Bradley already at the Ramsey house when you arrived?” Detective Henry asked.

  “I didn’t
see him. He asked me to leave it on the table in the garage.”

  “Why the garage?”

  “I don’t know. He is the driver,” Peter said. “I mean, he was the driver. He was always in the garage or in the driveway.”

  “What’s your relationship to the Ramseys?”

  Peter’s eyes shifted to me. “I’ve known them my entire life. And Alex is my… girlfriend.”

  “You don’t seem too sure of that.” Detective Henry glanced between Peter and me.

  I reached for Peter’s hand.

  “I’m his girlfriend,” I assured Detective Henry.

  An audible snicker came from the other side of the room. Victor leaned against the doorframe. He was still wearing his Pilgrim costume, but the buttons were undone exposing a Harvard University T-shirt.

  I hadn’t noticed Victor in the room, either. What else had I missed?

  “Was there something you’d like to add Mr. Ramsey?” Detective Henry asked over his shoulder.

  “Alexandria has answered enough questions for the night. I don’t know why you insisted on questioning her. It’s pointless,” Victor said.

  Detective Henry stood up from the ottoman. “I understand Mr. Ramsey, but we have to conduct and complete our investigation before we can officially rule Mr. Jensen’s death a suicide.”

  Wait a second. I shot out of the chair. “Suicide?”

  Victor stepped into the room. “Bradley killed himself.”

  Suicide? Did anyone else hear this? I automatically turned to Peter, but he was already on his feet. Glacial blue eyes watched Victor’s approach. The muscles in Peter’s arms and shoulders tensed.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Suicide? Bradley would never do that! Someone murdered him in our backyard!”

  Detective Henry’s eyes darted back and forth between Victor and me, assessing the situation. “Miss Ramsey, why do you believe that?”

  “Miss Ramsey is obviously upset right now,” Victor said to Detective Henry. “She’s extremely disoriented, as you can imagine.” Victor the attorney was talking now.

  Why wouldn’t Victor listen to me? Surely he did not—could not—believe that Bradley would kill himself. He knew Bradley better than anyone.

  “Why don’t you do something?” I screamed at Detective Henry. “Why won’t you ever do your job? You never called me back about the hit-and-run!”

  “Stop making a scene,” Victor hissed. “You’ve been completely incoherent for the last hour. Now get upstairs!”

  With every step Victor took toward me, Peter inched in front of me.

  Detective Henry cleared his throat. “There was a dent in the rear fender of your Mercedes, Miss Ramsey, but I was informed that that particular dent was caused by an accident that occurred the week before. I believe a trash can was the culprit.”

  “What? No. I mean, yes, I hit the trash can last week, but someone hit me from behind the night of my car accident!”

  Detective Henry looked tired. “Emotions are running high, Miss Ramsey. I think it’s best if we continue this conversation at a later time.”

  Before I could respond, Victor clenched my arm.

  Peter jumped in between us. “Let go of her!” His hand balled into a fist.

  If Peter punched Victor, Detective Henry would have no choice but to arrest him. I shook my head at Peter. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

  “Do something!” Peter yelled at Detective Henry.

  The detective watched Victor drag me out of the room. “That’s a private matter, son. There’s nothing I can do.”

  I translated that as: Victor’s a powerful attorney and I’m not going to meddle in his private affairs.

  Detective Henry reached into his pocket and gave Peter his card.

  Victor pulled me into the foyer. I yanked my arm back. “Let go of me!”

  “Upstairs!”

  “That’s two murders in Hazel Cove in the past few weeks! Doesn’t anyone see that?” I shouted. I must’ve looked like a crazy woman.

  Rain pelted the large window above the front door.

  “She needs rest,” Victor said to no one in particular.

  Peter darted into the foyer, screaming at Victor.

  I struggled against Victor’s steel grip. He was physically dragging me upstairs. I thrashed back and forth trying to loosen his hold. I wanted his creepy hands off of me. Rage pulsated through me. My arms and legs trembled. Sweat rolled down my face. I hated Victor. I looked directly into Victor’s fat face. “LET. ME. GO!”

  The foyer lights flickered like a strobe light and then abruptly turned off.

  Victor froze.

  “It’s only the storm,” someone said in the darkness.

  Victor stopped on the stairs. His breathing was labored, but he didn’t release his grip.

  I waited for someone to say something, but there was only silence. The house was completely dark, except for flashes of lightning from the storm. Realizing that Victor wasn’t going to let me go, I stopped struggling. I inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm myself.

  The lights switched on.

  Victor’s furious face filled my vision. The vein in his forehead bulged. He blew out a breath of sour air, lifted me off the ground and carried me upstairs.

  Peter ran to the bottom step.

  Victor’s head snapped around as he adjusted me over his shoulder. “Peter, get out of my house!”

  There was nothing I could do. Peter and I were fighting a losing battle. Victor had won.

  “Go home,” I whispered to Peter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bradley was buried on Thursday.

  We huddled around the open grave as the priest gave the eulogy. A bundle of white roses sat on top of the metal coffin. It was a small funeral. Bradley’s elderly mother was not able to make the trip from England. The only mourners present were my family, Peter, Mya, Sadie and the Coopers.

  Snow flurries fell from the gray sky making Hazel Cove Cemetery look even more dismal than usual. We were in the modern section of the cemetery. In fact, Megan Lackey’s grave was only a few feet away. Peter’s arm shielded me from the blustery wind. I wiped at my endless tears with a crumpled tissue.

  Emma and Victor were across from us. Emma was crying, too, which was comforting. At least Bradley’s death stirred something inside of her. Victor looked solemn. As much of a jerk as he was (and even though he insisted Bradley’s death was a suicide), it was evident that Victor was mourning Bradley. Bradley had worked for our family for over a decade. That had to be worth something, even to someone like my father.

  The priest read a verse from the Bible. He tucked his chin into his clerical collar to shield himself from the falling snow.

  I wasn’t paying attention to the readings. I was too lost in my own thoughts. I was having a difficult time dealing with Bradley’s death. He was my friend. I’d always thought of Bradley as an ally in our tumultuous house. And now he was gone.

  I’d stayed in bed all week, relegated to the guest room because my own bedroom was a crime scene. This morning, the Hazel Cove Police Department officially cleared my bedroom for reentry and today was the first day I had ventured out of the house since the night of the Halloween party. And since I had to go back to school tomorrow, my self-imposed hiding was now officially over. I’d have to deal with all my problems head-on.

  The priest ended his reading. We all crossed ourselves in unison, except for Victor who was Protestant, and there was a murmur of “Amen.” That was it. The funeral was over. It seemed so final.

  It was final.

  Peter pulled up the collar of his charcoal gray dress coat. He grabbed my gloved hand with his own gloved hand. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m really, really sad. And I’m not sure it’s completely hit me yet.”

  I hugged Sadie goodbye and waved to the Coopers, who were all huddled around Emma. Mya stood near the coffin. I didn’t want to disturb her. She was having a tough time with Bradley’s death. Victor was ta
lking with the priest, but I didn’t want to say goodbye to him anyway. I was still angry with him for the way he treated me on Saturday night.

  Peter and I walked over the soggy grass to the gravel path that twisted through the cemetery. I hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to Peter since everything happened on Saturday night.

  “You know Bradley didn’t kill himself, right?”

  “He didn’t seem suicidal,” Peter said.

  “He absolutely wasn’t suicidal. I was with him before the party. He told me he bought a plane ticket to go to England over Christmas. You don’t make plans in advance if you’re planning on killing yourself.”

  “I agree,” Peter said.

  “And if he did commit suicide—which we both know he didn’t, but for argument’s sake—why would he do it at the Halloween party? And on my birthday? No way. We were practically family. He wouldn’t want to cause such a spectacle.”

  Peter brushed the snowflakes from his coat. “If it wasn’t suicide and it obviously wasn’t an accident, then we’re talking about murder. But why would someone kill Bradley?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t discuss his personal life with me, but maybe he got involved in something? Do you think it could’ve been the same people who killed Megan Lackey?”

  “It’s possible, I guess,” Peter said. “They were both hanged. But Megan was a teenage Goth girl and Bradley was a thirty-something British chauffeur. What do they have in common?”

  “Nothing that I can think of.” I kicked a small pebble. The snow was falling harder. Little white piles were accumulating on top of the gravestones.

  “Have you talked to Detective Henry?” Peter asked.

  “He called yesterday and asked some questions. There wasn’t much more I could tell him. I don’t think the police have much to go on.”

  We reached the fork in the path that snaked through the cemetery. If we went to the right, we would end up at the iron gate, where we could exit. If we went left, we’d end up in the historical section, deep in the heart of the cemetery. I’d never actually been in the historical part. Unless I counted my nightmare.