Ghost Witching
Josh blinked. “Um, sorry, but I didn’t expect that. I don’t know. Does it bother you?”
“God, no, but it makes me think he’s alive. I haven’t sensed a new presence. They, um, all feel a little different.”
“Could the others have chased him off?” Josh asked in a wry tone. “I’d get out of the way of three angry witches.”
Ha, ha. Funny, Brandt. Was this conversation awkward much?
During dinner, the topic moved from the case to Harry, who was getting anxious for his veterinary classes to resume, and both of them relaxed. They were finishing over a last glass of wine when Josh leaned forward. “I want to tell you about my trip to Boston.”
Maggie tensed. The evening had been going so well. This would get them into dangerous territory and might ruin everything. But damn, she wanted to know. “I’d like to hear—”
The ring of his phone interrupted. He checked the screen and answered with a terse, “Brandt.” His expression tightened, and he got to his feet.
Her own phone chirped.
“That’ll be dispatch,” he said. “There’s been an incident at the hospital.”
Four hospital security guards stood talking in the corridor outside Stephanie Michaels’s room. The night duty nurse Maggie had first met hurried over as soon as the elevator opened.
“Am I glad to see you. Now some of these guys can go back to their own stations. Everyone’s fine, and the floor needs to get back to normal. We have other patients, some very ill, on the unit.”
“What caused all the fuss? Dispatch said there was a disturbance?”
The nurse grimaced. “Well, sort of. I wasn’t here when she started screaming. Everything had been quiet, and I was on break.” Her tone was apologetic. “The desk nurse, Nelson, was at the station, taking a call, but he didn’t see anyone except staff on the floor.”
“And what happened?” Maggie asked impatiently.
“I’ll show you.” The nurse led them to a bedstand next to the nurses’ station. It was a standard over-the-bed tray on wheels used in most hospital rooms for food service and water pitchers. On top of this one sat a white, ten-inch square gift box with its lift-off lid removed and placed next to it. A burlap bag large enough to hold half a pound of sugar lay inside, the bag open at the top and a black ribbon curled in the bottom of the box. “We wheeled the table out here, because the sight upset Mrs. Michaels so much. But no one touched the box except for her. She woke up and found it about half an hour ago.”
Maggie used a pencil to open the bag wider. It took a moment to figure out what she was seeing. Then intrigue and distaste vied for equal attention.
“Broken pieces of what?” Josh asked.
“Crushed chicken bones,” Maggie said dryly. “They’re used by certain occult groups to carry a warning or convey a curse.” She turned back to the nurse. “No one saw who left it?”
The nurse shook her head. “Sorry. It wasn’t visiting hours, so I can’t explain how a stranger got up here unobserved.”
“Are delivery services or florists allowed to come up after hours?”
“No, they’re required to leave anything downstairs. Oh, I see what you’re thinking. That it might have been dropped off, then brought upstairs by staff.” She pursed her lips. “It could happen that way. The Information Desk on the first floor should know. You want me to call them?”
“Thanks, but I’d like to talk with them myself,” Josh said. “I might have additional questions.” When the nurse excused herself to respond to a patient’s call light, Josh drew Maggie off to the side. “Why don’t I start tracking the package downstairs and checking out any camera footage, while you speak with Michaels? If she’s been holding something back, this second scare might convince her to talk, and you already have a rapport with her.”
“Go ahead. I’ll see what I can do. But if nearly being burned to death didn’t convince her, I’m not sure a few old bones will make a difference.” Maggie watched Josh walk away shaking his head. She turned back and entered the patient’s room. Stephanie Michaels appeared to have dozed off again.
When the door clicked shut, Michaels’s eyes popped open. “Oh, it’s you. I suppose you heard.”
“Yeah, you OK?”
“Depends on your definition.” Michaels used the bed controls to raise her head. “I’m living in a nightmare. Things like the last twenty-four hours don’t happen to me. I lead a normal, quiet life, and I’ll be so thankful to get home.” Her expression clouded. “This won’t delay my release, will it? The doctor said I could go home tomorrow morning. My husband made it possible by hiring a nurse to change the dressings.”
“I don’t see why this would change anything, except we’ll have officers driving by your house for a while. And for tonight, we’ll put an officer outside your hospital door.” Jenson would have to approve it now. Maggie kept her voice casual. “What do you make of the box’s contents?”
“It’s the sign of a curse. When a curse is cast, the bag of brittle chicken bones are crushed under foot and presented to the intended recipient. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“I’ve heard of such curses, but never seen anything like this,” Maggie said. “Any idea how it got here?”
She shook her head. “Dennis left when visiting hours were over. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, the box was here. Thinking it was a present from my husband, I opened it right away. I guess I screamed, because everyone came running.” Her mouth curled downward. “It was just the last straw.”
Josh appeared in the open doorway. “Sorry to interrupt. Everything OK in here?”
“Doing fine.” Maggie waved him in and blinked in surprise when a teenage girl dressed in hospital whites and a volunteer’s red pullover accompanied him.
“This is Carrie. She can explain how the box got into Mrs. Michaels’s room. I thought you’d both want to hear this.”
“I’m really, really sorry if I did anything wrong.” Carrie’s face was pinched with worry.
“You did what you were supposed to.” Josh’s voice was carefully patient, as if he’d already said this more than once. “But any details you can provide will help us find the person responsible.” He introduced Maggie and Stephanie Michaels, then smiled encouragingly to get the girl started. “Just tell us about the package.”
“This guy came up to me in the lobby, handed it to me, and asked if I’d deliver it to Mrs. Michaels. I tried to give it back and told him to go through the Information Desk. He said he’d already tried, but the lady was busy and he had other deliveries to make. He refused to take the box back and nearly ran out the door. I called to him, but he didn’t seem to hear me. I looked outside, but he was gone. So I took it to Information. I guess I should have let them handle it from there.”
“But you didn’t,” Maggie suggested gently.
“No. The evening delivery cart had already left. So I offered to take it up on my break. It was two hours before I got back.” She took a shy peek at Michaels. “When I reached your room, you were asleep, so I set it on your bed table and left. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
“Of course. It’s only natural,” Maggie said. “But this man, can you describe him?”
“Dark green uniform, golfing hat, and sunglasses.”
“At night?”
Carrie frowned. “It wasn’t dark yet when he was here.”
“Can you make a stab at his height, weight, race, color of hair?” Josh asked.
“I couldn’t see his hair because of the hat.” Carrie tipped her head and assessed Maggie’s height. “But he wasn’t any taller than Detective York. Short for a guy, kinda thin. He talked so low that I could hardly hear him.”
“Are you sure it was a man?” Maggie asked.
“Uh, yeah. Well, I thought so.”
After a few more questions, they let Carrie return to her duties. Her description wasn’t very specific, but Maggie’s mind flashed back to Brice’s visit that morning. Short, slender male. Why wou
ld he want to frighten Michaels? Unknown. But he’d popped up three times in the case already. That alone made him a person of interest.
She mentioned Brice as she and Josh rode down in the hospital elevator. “I’ll ask Annie about him. If he’s a freelancer like he claims, she may know him or have heard of him. What did you find out downstairs?”
“Not much. No cameras in the waiting area, only the patient hallways and the parking lot. I may have found the guy on the parking lot tape, but he was walking away from the area and had obviously parked somewhere else. Security is sending a copy to the lab, but I doubt if it’ll yield anything we can use. As for the information desk, they were too busy absolving themselves of any responsibility. I’m positive they violated hospital protocol by not turning an unknown package over to security. The kid shouldn’t be getting the blame. I called her supervisor and said so.”
“I’ll do the same.” Maggie sighed and shook her head. “Who is this guy, Josh? That was a risky move coming into the hospital like that.”
“But carefully timed. He was hanging around, watching for the right opportunity, the right person.”
“Someone might remember him from earlier in the day,” she said thoughtfully as the elevator opened into the lobby. “Look around. Besides all those waiting here, there’s a gift shop and the ER entrance. Let’s get some officers over here tomorrow to check out other shifts. If we’re lucky, they’ll get a better description. Anyone angry enough or so mentally ill to be doing all this weird stuff should stand out in a crowd.”
“Should being the operative word. He didn’t seem unusual to Carrie.” Josh stalked across the lobby and out the swinging doors. “I hate to think about him being so close to that sweet kid. Whether he’s angry, insane, or warped from a rotten childhood, so far he’s been a clever SOB. If we don’t get him off the streets soon, he’s going to kill again.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The bell over the shop door jingled on Tuesday morning as Maggie and Josh entered the dim interior of Madame L’s Voodoo Shop. It smelled of sage incense and candle wax. They’d found the small establishment tucked away on a French Quarter side street on a tip from one of Maggie’s many phone calls. According to a former Witching Hour Society member, the proprietress of the shop could introduce them to Isabella LeMontaire, the alleged priestess and founder of the Society.
When no one responded to the bell, Maggie swept the room with a skeptical eye. She’d been inside witchcraft or voodoo shops two or three times out of curiosity, but she’d never bought anything. If she needed to replenish her own limited protective charms, she depended on Dalia to provide her the real thing.
“Interesting place,” Josh murmured.
Maggie rubbed the faint quiver at the base of her neck. Madame L’s wasn’t gaudy like the touristy shops brimming with vividly colored masks, garish feathers, and plastic beads. Instead, colors were muted, left natural or stained by homemade dyes from plants or berries. Masks and voodoo dolls hung from the walls above display cases with other ritual items made of carved wood, rough stones, dye-free fabrics. Necklaces of dried beans or beaded glass draped over countertop stands alongside handmade charms. The entire west wall of shelves held bottles of oils or other liquids and jars of dried herbs and powders.
“How may I help you?” The low, silky voice startled Maggie and sent a tingle across her shoulder blades. She turned to peruse the dark-skinned woman who’d entered so silently. Self-possessed, bearing the facial creases of approaching middle age, yet not a hint of gray marred her braided locks. She wore a multi-hued robe, belted with a hemp cord, and a non-committal smile touched her lips.
“We’re looking for Isabella LeMontaire,” Maggie said, stepping forward. “I was told the shop owner could help us. Is that you?”
The woman’s black eyes quietly assessed them. “What has drawn the interest of the police to Madame LeMontaire?” This time Maggie took note of the soft-spoken accent that hinted at second or third generation immigration from the Caribbean, probably Jamaica.
Maggie hadn’t displayed her badge, hoping to set the woman at ease first, but she wasn’t surprised they’d been identified. They looked like cops. Besides, this woman had an exotic quality of mystery around her and that same glint in her eyes as Dalia and Selena, as if she knew and understood things others didn’t.
“We’re following up on a case and have a few questions for her.”
“About?” The single word was non-challenging.
“We’d prefer to discuss that with Madame LeMontaire.” Maggie matched the other woman’s measured tone. “Can you put us in touch or not?”
Another infinitesimal moment of study, then the woman turned away, pushed aside a heavy drape over an opening to the back of the shop, and motioned for them to go first. “We can speak more privately through here.”
Maggie hung back until the shopkeeper smiled and led the way, then Maggie followed, and Josh brought up the rear, allowing the curtain to fall back into place.
She halted in surprise. Although the back area was relatively small, it provided an uncluttered, efficient living space of modern furnishings and decor. Two windows bathed the room in morning sunlight. A sleek, black cat uncurled from a sunny spot on the sofa, stretched, and gave them a once-over before settling down again, her front paws curled under his body, sleepy eyes following their movements.
The woman turned to face them. “I am Isabella LeMontaire,” she said in that same well-modulated voice. “Publicly known as Madame L. Do you have identification?”
After Maggie and Josh produced their credentials, they took the offered chairs at a mahogany dinette, and Madame L settled across from them. Maggie got straight to the point. “We’re here about the Witching Hour Society. I’ve heard you’re the high priestess.” When the woman bowed her head, Maggie went on. “Your organization has been linked to three recent murders and another violent attack. The killer or killers could be members. At the very least, we believe the victims are members and maybe be associated with your annual Masquerade Ball.” Maggie paused longer this time for the priestess to absorb the scope of what she’d said. “I know your membership roll is kept secret, and I understand why, but surely there are exceptions in a situation like this.”
“Who are the murder victims?”
Maggie gave her the names, including the missing swamp hunter.
Madame L seemed resigned. “I know the women. The male’s name is new to me.”
“He may have worked for the killers, so not your normal victim,” Josh explained.
“Yes, I see.” The priestess clasped her hands on the table. “And the other attack? Was it also linked to the Society?”
“Yes. Your spokesperson, Stephanie Michaels, was assaulted and kidnapped last night.”
This time Madame L squeezed her eyes shut. “I feared as much. Was she seriously burned?”
Maggie stiffened. She hadn’t mentioned how Michaels had been injured.
“She’ll recover,” Josh said. “Did you see the story on the morning news?” He’d clearly noticed the comment too.
Madame L’s eyelids fluttered open. “I already knew. I sensed a dark purpose, an anger. But I failed…I was unable to reach her, warn her. Later, I felt her fear and saw a vision of flames.” She stared out the window a moment. “Stephanie is part of our root membership, of those who possess a genuine link to the forces Beyond the Veil.” She turned her gaze to Maggie. “Not unlike your own.”
“There was a second incident,” Maggie said without acknowledging the priestess’s implication. “Last night a bag of crushed bones was delivered to Michaels’ hospital room.”
“Chicken bones. A black magic curse.” Madame L nodded slowly. “A struggle for power has begun, and it won’t stop there.”
“It sounds like you know who they are,” Maggie said, leaning forward. “Give us their names. We’ll put an end to it.”
The priestess seemed to pull back from Maggie’s eagerness, and Josh broke in, his voice s
harper than Maggie’s had been. “Just to be clear, a group of apparent Satanists attempted to set Stephanie Michaels on fire. If you even suspect who’s involved, you need to tell us.”
“I’m not unwilling, detective,” Madame L said. “I don’t know their names. My gifts do not conform to our human needs. I catch glimpses of their evil signatures. I’ve seen subtle changes within the Society, but…” She stood, her gown flowing gracefully around her. “It will take a bit of explanation for you to understand. May I pour you some tea?”
During the next hour, she related the history of the society, from its founding as a single Wiccan coven to its growth into a larger organization with a mixture of those with a witchcraft or other mystical heritage and those who simply chose to live with the accoutrements and practices of the lifestyle. Like Stephanie had, she described a shift in the organization’s focus during the past two years.
“It’s a dark undercurrent. From the beginning, we’ve had a few who dabbled in black magic—more hobby or curiosity than anything else—but this feels different…a hidden attempt to push out the wiccans and others whose beliefs are more positive. The pressure has escalated in the last five months, building toward…something.” She lifted her hands in uncertainty. “I cannot see the end.”
“You’ve described a hostile takeover,” Josh said. “If their practices are so different, why don’t they just form their own group? Why do they need the Society?”
“Age-old human failings, Detective. Greed and power. Our sisterhood has been fortunate—and successful in many ways. The annual masquerade ball has won public tolerance, even acceptance, for our name and for witchcraft in general. It has become a media event and a powerful recruiting tool to reach out and gather those who share our beliefs. But perhaps the greater temptation is money. We are well-funded, not only by proceeds from the ball, but by the generous giving of members, past and present, and by a number of wise investments.”
“How much money are we talking?” Maggie asked.