Crimes of Magic: The Witch's Artifact

  Chapter 2

  “How do witches fit into your theory of scientific magic, Professor?” Rachel asked after we had buckled up and pulled out of the driveway.

  “Well, as you know, it isn’t really my theory. My friend Ward Thompson came up with the theory.”

  Howard (Ward) Thompson is my friend and previous boss at SimBiotic Arts, a Portland software company that creates virtual reality games. Ward is the founder and genius gamer, and I had been one of his three initial employees. The other two were professional programmers, while I was a physicist by training.

  “It reminds me of The Matrix movie,” Rachel observed.

  “The theory isn’t quite like The Matrix,” I replied. “In The Matrix, people’s bodies existed in the real world, while their minds existed in an artificial reality. According to the theory of scientific magic, reality itself is like a virtual reality game. Some would say that this reality exists in the mind of God. Ward believes that it exists in something like a gigantic computer. I guess such a powerful computer might as well be the mind of God.”

  “So what about witches?” Rachel repeated. “How do they fit in?”

  “Well, witches cast spells and spells are an important part of Ward’s theory. In fact, a wizard is Ward’s mentor. According to the theory, casting a spell is just running a hidden application in the universe’s software operating system.”

  Ward had come up with his own theory of reality. As a coder of artificial reality, he began to notice how the limitations of the real world were similar to his limitations in creating artificial worlds. For example, the fact that nothing can travel faster than light in the real world seemed to Ward to be similar to limitations on how fast players could move through his artificial world. He thought that both limitations were due to a lack of computing power.

  Another example was that in his simulations of forests and oceans, he had to use probabilities to determine what the terrain would look like when a player wandered through it. He thought that the same limitations applied in the real world.

  “You know that riddle, ‘If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?’” Ward once posited. “Well, not only does it not make a sound, it doesn’t even fall. Until somebody comes along to observe it, it’s just a statistical probability. The universe doesn’t have enough computing power to keep track of every tree and insect. When somebody comes along, the tree goes from an indeterminate state to either standing or fallen. Unless something is observed by a player, it hasn’t really happened,” Ward had theorized.

  “So casting a spell is hacking the system,” Rachel observed.

  “That’s an astute observation,” I replied, “but technically, it’s not a hack, it’s an exploit. A hack would actually change the universe’s system software. As far as we know, the system code can’t be changed. An exploit, however, merely runs an application that is already coded into the system, but is hidden and can only be accessed by casting the appropriate spell.”

  “Drawing symbols and lighting candles seems like a pretty low-tech way of running hidden software,” Rachel observed.

  “Remember, these hidden apps have existed literally from the beginning of time. Wizards had to be able to access them long before computers, electricity or even simple machines were invented. It all had to be done with symbols and ordinary objects.”

  “So witches know how to do all this hacking,” Rachel said.

  “I don’t think that all the spells that exist in modern times are the real thing. I think that in ancient times, there were real wizards and sorcerers who could work real magic by casting spells, but I think they guarded those secrets pretty closely.

  “I suspect that people tried to copy the authentic spells, and the spells of today are derivatives of those copies. I doubt that many people can cast a real spell these days. If they could, magic would be commonplace.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Rachel agreed.

  “That’s not to say that no one who claims to be a witch can perform magic. There are bound to be a few spells that have survived the centuries. Even an imperfect copy of a spell could have some effect, just as buggy software can usually accomplish something. There are likely to be more bad side effects if the spell, or software, isn’t perfect.”

  We drove into Portland’s West Hills. This is an upscale neighborhood with many houses built on the steep slopes of the hills marking the city’s western perimeter. It is a well-established area of mostly old-money homes. Most of the newly rich are buying in the gentrified sections of town. The houses in the West Hills have great views of the city and of Mount Hood. I was expecting Phyllis Overgarden to be ancient, snooty and opinionated.

  We parked in a parking area that would hold four cars adjacent to a semi-detached garage. The front entrance was at the second-from-the-top level of the house. I didn’t know how many more levels were downhill below the entrance level.

  To my surprise, the woman who greeted us at the door was about my age, blondish, trim and wearing jeans and a University of Oregon sweatshirt.

  “Hello, Mrs. Overgarden. I’m Rachel Chase, and this is Professor Walker.”

  “Do come in,” the woman replied. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t expecting two of you.”

  “The Professor is my occult specialist,” Rachel explained.

  An occult specialist? Since when was I an occult specialist? Sure, I was a student of magic, but I wouldn’t try to pass myself off as an occult specialist.

  “I didn’t know that there was an occult curriculum,” Mrs. Overgarden said skeptically.

  “Oh, the occult is merely an avocation of mine. I’m strictly a consultant to Ms. Chase in matters supernatural,” I replied.

  I thought that this was excellent on-the-spot thinking on my part. Although I was taken off-balance by Rachel’s description of me, I was playing along quite nicely, I must say. I liked the idea of being a consultant on supernatural matters. Perhaps it made me sound more expert than I deserved, but it was all to help Rachel and promote her professionalism.

  “I see; do come in,” Mrs. Overgarden said as she held the door open for us.

  We entered a high-ceilinged foyer and were ushered into a room to the right of a staircase that led both upstairs and downstairs. The room we entered was a living room or parlor with a wall of floor-to-ceiling, eastward-facing windows. The city lights were abundantly on display, and the setting sun behind us cast a rosy glow over the city.

  “What a lovely view,” I observed.

  “Yes, Portland is a beautiful city, and I love living in this spot. Can I get you something to drink? I have fresh Starbucks in the pot.”

  I didn’t know exactly what the protocol was for a first meeting with a new client. Should I decline and get on with business, or should I succumb to the comfort of a good cup of coffee?

  “I’m fine,” Rachel said, “but I’ll bet the Professor would like a cup.”

  Dilemma resolved—Rachel always knew how to act in any social situation, a talent I admired. I quickly followed her lead and volunteered, “Thank you so much. I would enjoy a cup of Starbucks. Cream, no sugar please.”

  In short order, we were seated in armchairs, Mrs. Overgarden and I with plain white mugs of coffee, no saucers, and Rachel with her notebook and pen in hand.

  “Is your husband home tonight?” Rachel asked.

  “No. I don’t expect him until late tonight.”

  “I see,” Rachel remarked, “Let me summarize what you mentioned during our phone call earlier. You said that you believe your husband is having an affair.”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “What is your husband’s name and occupation?

  “My husband is Nick Jackson, and he’s a personal trainer.”

  “He has a different last name,” Rachel observed.

  “Yes. Nick is my second husband. We’ve been married for three years.”

  “And who
was your first husband?”

  “My first husband, now deceased, was Ralph Overgarden. He was co-owner of Western Columbia Insurance Partners. Needless to say, he had lots of life insurance, and he made sure that I would be comfortable after his death.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Rachel sympathized. “How long ago did he pass away?”

  “Five years ago. He was ten years older than me, and he was a workaholic. He had high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high stress. He died of a stroke, mercifully quick although unexpected.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “How did you meet Nick?”

  “He was my personal trainer. After Ralph died, I resolved to stay in shape and not make the same mistakes Ralph did.”

  “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but do you have a pre-nuptial agreement?”

  “Yes we do. With the pre-nup, he only gets one hundred thousand dollars if we divorce before our fifth wedding anniversary, and in the case of infidelity, he gets nothing before five years of marriage.”

  “So it would be pretty stupid for him to have an affair at this time.”

  “Yes, but Nick isn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”

  “How old is Nick?”

  “He’s almost thirty.”

  “That’s a pretty big age difference,” Rachel observed.

  At least twenty years, I thought. Did Rachel think that this was an unacceptable age difference? Were the problems of such an age gap insurmountable? I didn’t think so. After all, age is just a number, right? There must be lots of couples in this situation. Did this make Mrs. Overgarden a “cougar”? Was Nick a rebound from her first marriage? Mrs. Overgarden hadn’t said anything about the quality of her first marriage. For that matter, she hadn’t said anything about the quality of her marriage to Nick.

  “Can you tell me something about the quality of your marriage to Nick?” Rachel asked.

  My thoughts exactly. Great ships run in the same channels.

  “I’m afraid it’s something of a cliché,” Mrs. Overgarden admitted. “The first couple of years were absolutely fantastic. We traveled together, made love often and enjoyed life. That can last only so long, I suppose. I started to get bored in his company, and he started spending more time with his friends. A few months ago, he announced that he was restarting his personal trainer business. He had no trouble getting clients, all women, and he spent less and less time at home. I don’t know if this is his first affair, but now he’s sleeping with a witch.”

  Well that was unambiguous. I was not surprised at the affair, but I wondered how she knew his paramour was a witch.

  “Who is this witch?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know her name, but she must be one of Nick’s clients.”

  “What makes you think she’s a witch?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, she’s a witch all right. And I don’t just mean her personality. She’s weird and evil. She even looks like a witch.”

  “So you’ve seen her.”

  “Damned right I’ve seen her. Right here in this house.”

  “So she was here while you were home?”

  “No, I wasn’t home. Nick’s smarter than that. But he’s not smart enough to turn off the security system while he’s having his little tryst. I have footage of her from the security video files.”

  “Do you have video of adultery?”

  “No, we don’t have cameras in the bedrooms, but we have cameras covering all the doors and visiting areas, such as in here.”

  “So you don’t have proof of adultery.”

  “If I had proof, I wouldn’t need your services, but you can tell they’re lovers just by the way they’re acting. Here’s a photo of her I copied off the security videos.”

  The aggrieved Mrs. Overgarden produced a color photo taken from an overhead angle that showed a young woman with long, dark wavy hair held in place by a colorful headband across her forehead. She had circular wire-rimmed glasses, a long flowing dress, Birkenstocks and a large fabric bag on a shoulder strap.

  “This woman doesn’t look like the kind of person who would hire a personal trainer,” Rachel observed. “Is this Nick’s ‘type’?”

  “Nick’s other clients are your typical Lululemon-wearing soccer moms or corporate ladder-climbing professional females. This one is definitely different.”

  “And you think she’s a witch.”

  “Yes, I know she’s a witch. Here’s a picture of her car.”

  Once again Mrs. Overgarden handed over a photo of an old Subaru that had parked in the same spot in the parking area that we had used. Because the car was heading away from the camera, the security photo showed not only her license plate but also a collection of bumper stickers. There was the typical “Keep Portland Weird” sticker along with “My other car is a broomstick” and “Something Wiccan This Way Comes.” Then there was “The Earth is Our Mother,” and a pentagram with the tag line “There are more of us than you think.”

  “What do you think, Professor?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, it appears that this woman may be a follower of the Wiccan faith, and therefore may call herself a witch. But just because she’s a pagan doesn’t necessarily mean that she has supernatural powers. Portland has many alternative religions and Wicca is just one of them.”

  “So she is a witch,” Mrs. Overgarden stated emphatically.

  “So it seems,” Rachel agreed. “Can I have a picture of Nick?”

  “Sure,” Mrs. Overgarden said as she walked over to an end table and opened its drawer. After sorting through a few envelopes of photos, she brought over one envelope.

  “We had some prints made of our trip to Las Vegas last year. Take your pick.”

  Rachel sifted through the photos and selected one that showed Nick by himself standing in front of a volcano.

  “Where does Nick work?” Rachel asked.

  “He works out of New Body Fitness in Northwest.”

  “Very good. I think I have everything I need, Mrs. Overgarden. What would you like for me to do?”

  “Please, call me Phyllis. I want you find out who the witch is and bring me proof of Nick’s infidelity. I want definite proof that would hold up in court.”

  “I can do that, Phyllis” Rachel said as she pulled a single sheet of paper out of her bag. “Here’s a contract that states my fees and the expenses you’ll be expected to cover. You’ll notice that there is a non-refundable advance due upon signing the contract.”

  Phyllis quickly read the contract. “This is fine,” she said as she signed the document. “I’ll get you a check.”

  Phyllis left the room and returned a minute or two later with a check.

  As Rachel accepted the check, she took another sheet of paper from her bag. “Here’s a copy of the agreement you signed. Is the phone number you gave me this afternoon the number you would like me to use to contact you?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you. How long do you think it will take?”

  “You can never say for sure,” Rachel replied. “I should be able to identify the woman in a day or two, but getting proof of infidelity can take longer. I won’t tell you her identity until I either have the proof, I know that she’s not Nick’s lover, or I realize that I can’t prove anything.”

  “You mean you might not be able to get proof?” Phyllis asked indignantly.

  “There are no guarantees in this business,” Rachel stated. “But I will try to determine as quickly as possible what the odds of success are. This will minimize your costs and my time. You have to realize, though, that you could be wrong and Nick isn’t cheating.”

  “I’m not wrong. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you for your time, Phyllis. I’ll get to work first thing tomorrow,” Rachel said as Phyllis accompanied us to the door.

  We got into Fred, and headed down the hill.

  “Well this certainly seems straightforward,” I said. “You have a photo of the
alleged adulteress, and a photo of her car with license plate.”

  “Easy money,” Rachel replied. “You know, Professor, this case seems like a standard ‘younger husband cheating on older wife’ investigation. But every time I get a case that seems so cut-and-dried, it has always come back to bite me in the ass.”

  I contemplated this visual for a couple of seconds. “It certainly seems, the way the case was laid out, that you don’t need any of my expertise, such as it is. This home-wrecking witch probably isn’t even a real sorceress. She seems to be a regular Portland Wiccan. She may be serious about the Old Religion, or she may just be a dilettante, but in either case, she probably can’t cast real spells of the sort I’ve been researching.

  “And on top of that, I don’t see what this boy, I mean man, Nick, would see in her. Maybe I’m just stereotyping him, but a young physical trainer who marries an older, richer widow, well that’s right out of a romance novel. I admit that Phyllis is very attractive, but I would think that a man like Nick would have an affair with a younger, fitter blonde, not an earthy Wiccan.”

  “So you think Phyllis is hot, Professor?”

  “I didn’t say hot, but she is attractive for a middle-aged blonde.”

  “You don’t like blondes?”

  “I have nothing against blondes. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. I just find it a little hard to tell blondes apart. I always get Cameron Diaz, Gwyneth Paltrow and January Jones confused, for instance.”

  “You should look at their faces instead of their boobs.”

  “Ah, so that’s the trick. I’ll try to remember that.”

  Getting back to the point, Rachel said, “I get what you say about Nick. Nobody could be more different than Phyllis and Witchy Wanda: blonde - brunette, conventional - weird, older - younger. It could be that Phyllis is wrong about Nick. After all, she only has suspicions. Wives aren’t usually wrong about cheating husbands, though.”

  “That may be, but I think Witchy Wanda, as you call her, is a lesbian.”

  “Professor! What do you know about lesbians? You can’t tell she’s a lesbian just by looking at one photo of her from a security cam.”

  “Not from the photo of her, from the photo of her car. Remember all those bumper stickers? There was an oval one with two goddess symbols.”

  “You mean the one that looked like two bowling pins with arms?”

  “That ‘bowling pin,’ as you call it, with arms upraised curving over the head, is an ancient goddess symbol. In this bumper sticker, there were two goddesses, and their arms were interlocked. Also, it was hard to tell from the photo, but I think the goddesses were rainbow colored. Put that all together, and that says ‘lesbian pagan.’ Plus, she drives a Subaru.”

  “You amaze me Professor. Let’s say you’re right; let’s say Wanda is a lesbian. Then what does she want with Nick? If we’re going to talk in stereotypes, Nick looks like a boy toy.”

  “You have me there, Rachel. I have no idea.”

  “It must be money. It’s always love or money. So what would Nick be paying her for? Probably not for being a lesbian, if she really is one, so it must be for being a pagan.”

  “Maybe the lesbian pagan thing is just a coincidence,” I ventured. “Maybe their association has nothing to do with love or money.”

  “It’s always love or money,” Rachel reiterated.

  I wondered what Rachel would say about our relationship. Is it about love or money? We do have a relationship of some kind, but of what kind?

  “Maybe it’ll be clear after we know more about Wanda,” Rachel said. “I have a guy at the DMV who’ll look up her license plate for me. Then we’ll know who she is and where she lives. I’ll get on that first thing in the morning. First thing for my DMV guy is ten o’clock. He’s worthless before his second cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t know if I can be of any assistance, but I would like to know what you find out.”

  “You already helped with the lesbian pagan thing, Professor. You’re one of those people you never know what they know. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  That was good news.

  “Here we are, back at the Grey Goose,” Rachel said as she pulled into the driveway.

  “Grey Goose” is the name Rachel has given to my house. It is kind of appropriate, actually. The gray siding with black trim and shutters is reminiscent of a goose. We both entered the front door, and I headed for the stairs as Rachel walked toward her ground-floor apartment.

  “I’ll check in with you tomorrow after I call my guy,” Rachel said.

  “Will you still be at home or at your office?”

  “I’ll work at home until I ID the witch.”

  “Maybe you could join me for second breakfast, then.”

  “Sure Professor, see you soon after ten.”