Ghost Witching

  The ten o’clock interview with the other short-lister was equally unproductive. Charlotte, a quiet, mixed-race woman with inquisitive, slanted eyes, limited her answers to “yes,” “no,” and “I don’t know.”

  While they waited for their third and last interview to appear, Maggie’s snort of frustration drew a wry look from Josh. “I’m not getting anything either,” he said. “Not a twitch or suspicious hesitation. It’s like they’re scripted.”

  “Yeah. Nada.” Maggie hadn’t even picked up a hint of extraordinary powers. Was she missing something?

  The door of the interrogation room opened, and a civilian clerk ushered a plump, silver-haired woman into the room. Maggie immediately smelled chocolate.

  Betty Lynn, a long-established Witching Hour member, grandmotherly and rosy cheeked, carried a plate of chocolate chip cookies. While ordinarily this might have raised instant suspicion, her behavior was right in keeping with what Maggie’s own gifted relatives might do. But despite her open manner, Betty Lynn was no help. She even denied knowing about any conspiracy to take over the Society. Since Maggie was sure it had been discussed at an emergency board meeting, Betty had to be lying. Whether it habit after years of Society secrecy or an inability to imagine anything but good in others wasn’t clear to Maggie.

  All in all, the cookies were the best part of the interviews.

  “That was a waste of another three hours.” Josh stretched out his long legs in front of him. “Did you see or hear anything I missed?”

  “No, they were almost too perfect. Madame L implied they could deceive us.”

  “Can we even judge them by normal methods? Maybe we needed someone like Dalia to sit in and tell us who’s lying.”

  “I don’t know if she could, but I doubt she’d try.”

  Josh shot her a swift look. “Why not? Honor among witches?”

  “Very funny. She’d be ill at ease judging anyone, and she’d never step outside what she considers her calling. Dalia’s is healing and teaching. Just as Selena’s is bridging the two dimensions.”

  “And yours?”

  “Selena says it’s solving murders for my unhappy ghost buddies.”

  He gave a half laugh. “I doubt if that’s how she put it.”

  “Close enough. Why?”

  He sat forward. “It doesn’t seem like you’ve been given many tools for this calling, except for the ability to see them.”

  “I don’t want or need any more. It’s gotten us a few clues, like the gas can, and police work can do the rest.” But Dalia had hinted she could do more, and Maggie had thought about it—when she was alone and no one was pressuring her. So far she’d remained skeptical of spells and crystal balls, and she’d shied away from further instruction in the Craft.

  But what about untapped abilities inside herself…if they existed? Wasn’t that different? Was she being stubborn or foolish by not exploring them? Dalia had taught her to see auras, but big deal. Who cared what kind of light someone reflected? She cocked her head. Unless there was more to it… Could they be read like other “tells.”

  Josh stretched his arms and stood. “It’s time I finished my reports. I’m meeting Harry for tennis at four o’clock. Want to come?”

  “Normally I’d love to watch two buff guys sweat, but I’m still behind on my volunteer hours at the shelter. I’ll put in some cuddle time and meet up with you later. Now, what’s this about a stakeout?”

  Josh’s idea hinged on something Mrs. Goodbody had said—the Sutter dog was still disturbing the neighborhood with his barking. If they just happened to be checking out the area because of Brice’s earlier prowler incident, and if the terrier mix began barking, wouldn’t they have a duty to investigate?

  “I’m in,” Maggie said. “What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up in the truck at seven-thirty. And I’ll bring takeout.”

  “A romantic dinner for two in your truck? How could any woman resist?”

  * * *

  Maggie went straight to the shelter, spent an hour falling in love with a pair of tri-colored kittens, then hurried home to shower. After dressing casually in white slacks and a midnight blue top, she checked the clock. Plenty of time. She plucked a cola from the fridge and called Dalia.

  They chatted a few minutes, mostly about Annie’s miraculous “cure,” then Maggie brought up the reason for her call. “Is there something useful about seeing auras? What things could I learn from a person’s aura? I mean, if I tried?”

  “Moods, conflicts, character traits. Why? Have you seen something that puzzled you?”

  “Well, no. I haven’t been looking.”

  “Not at all? Maggie.” Dalia drew out her name in mild reproof. “I showed you months ago how easy it was to see them, just by focusing your inner eye. I’d assumed by now it was second nature to you, like noticing the color of a person’s hair or eyes.”

  “I didn’t realize they meant anything,” she said a little defensively. “Seeing auras seemed more like a carnival trick.”

  “Oh, my.” Dalia seemed resigned, maybe a little sad. “Are you wanting to do more with them now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The easiest way to explain is to show you. Shall we meet at the park?”

  Ten minutes later Maggie entered the public area on Rampart Street where she’d first met Dalia and learned about their shared heritage. She spotted her cousin immediately.

  “I hope I didn’t drag you away from something else,” Maggie said. “This could have waited.”

  “Nothing is more important.” Dalia gestured toward a shaded area of park benches which offered a reprieve from the hot August sun. “Shall we talk?” Maggie fell in step beside her as the older woman continued. “Reading auras is a simple matter of interpreting the colors. Expertise takes time, but even a beginner can pick up useful insight.”

  “Could I tell if someone were lying?”

  Dalia raised a pencil-thin brow. “You could identify inner conflicts. Interpreting the cause of the conflict—whether deceit, guilt, or something else—requires practice in reading subtle changes. So it’s possible, but there are better ways.”

  Uh-huh. Maggie knew what that meant. More Craft.

  “Show me what can I do right now.”

  “All right. I want you to tell me the dominant colors you see.” Dalia glanced over the people around them. “Second bench on the right. Can you see the young man’s aura?”

  “The sulky one? Sure.” Maggie tried to focus on the teenager without being too obvious. “Mostly red, light to dark. And a streak of…dark pink?”

  “Yes. Very good.” Dalia beamed her approval. “You’ve described an immature person who is currently energized or angry. In this case, the scowl on his face confirms he’s angry. On the other hand, the woman in the yellow blouse who just passed us is balanced, calm and serene.”

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder. “Her aura is a mixture of blues and green.”

  “Right again. You’re very good at picking out colors. Let’s do one more. Look back at the woman sitting beside the teenage boy. I suspect she’s his mother.”

  Maggie shifted her gaze. The woman’s aura was as dark red as her son’s, but she was smiling and staring across the park as if he didn’t exist. “I see what you mean. Her smile and her colors don’t fit. She’s as angry as he is but hiding it. I might be able to use that,” Maggie said eagerly. “Could I use this for other things, like identifying real witches from pretenders?”

  Dalia gave her a thoughtful look. “Is this about your case?”

  “Well, yes. If investigation is my calling, I thought I should use what I can.”

  The older woman hesitated, as if she might suggest something else, then went on. “Witches’ natural auras are brighter and grow vivid as the person gains power. But auras are easily controlled and hidden by concentration, which becomes second nature to a witch with practice. Perhaps under stress a witch would lose focus and reveal herself…”

  No won
der Madame L—and Wanda, possibly all the others—had recognized Maggie’s ability. Apparently she was broadcasting it. “Could I learn to control mine?”

  “Of course.”

  She might do that. For now, she was more interested in reading others. “Where do I find the meaning of each color?”

  “Right here.” Dalia opened her handbag and produced a hand-written list. She ran through the eighteen hues she’d included and their typical meanings, warning that subtle differences and shades were important, hard to spot, and easily misinterpreted.

  Jotting notes on the side, Maggie found herself intrigued by the possibilities, enough that she decided to go one step further. “Are there more things I could do? Do I have other hidden talents?”

  A long sigh. “Oh, my dear, of course you do. Are you ready to discover them?”

  “I’m not sure.” Maggie wavered, trying to be honest. “But if I have skills, already there…and they’d help me catch killers, I guess I should think about it. Do you know what they are?”

  “Not with any certainty. We’d have to test you.”

  Driving home, Maggie recited the colors and their related meanings in her head, memorizing them just in case the opportunity arose. In fact, she found herself eager to try. The interviews had been mostly useless because the witches had outmaneuvered her. She’d be better prepared for round two.

  Her thoughts drifted to her final discussion with Dalia. The thought of other abilities was intriguing. But it would mean greater changes in her life, maybe things she couldn’t hide. She wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize her relationship with Josh…or her job.

  * * *

  By nine o’clock that evening, Maggie was fanning her face, and Josh had checked the dashboard clock several times. It was too hot and humid to be cooped up in a truck cab. Even with the windows down, little air stirred. Despite the risk of drawing attention to themselves, they were forced to turn on the AC occasionally just to make it bearable. They’d eaten the Cajun takeout, talked over the morning interviews, discussed movies currently playing in town, and still Scamp wasn’t running around his back yard raising the usual racket.

  “I thought Sutter would let him out after dinner,” Josh grumbled.

  “The dog could be napping. They don’t bark all the time.” Maggie suddenly sat up and jerked her head toward the suspect’s house, where a dark blue sedan was pulling into the driveway. The garage door went up. “Or his owner wasn’t home to let him out. We should get some action soon.”

  But nearly thirty minutes passed without further sound or movement, and twilight was settling in before a house door banged from that direction. Shortly afterward, Maggie and Josh grinned at each other as Scamp began his nightly high-pitched ritual of warning everyone within hearing to stay away from his property.

  They waited while the terrier’s yapping continued to crescendo. Josh finally opened his truck door. “I think we’ve heard enough to justify our intrusion.”

  Sutter answered their knock with a frown. “What now? I thought you’d finished with me. I don’t know anything else about Mrs. Preston’s death.”

  “We’re here about an intruder,” Maggie said. “We’d like to look around your backyard…with your permission, of course. May we come in?”

  His frowned deepened, but he moved aside. “What intruder? Where?”

  Josh entered and moved quickly toward the back door, while Maggie continued more slowly, explaining to Sutter as they went. “We had a prowler at Preston’s recently, who may have gone over your back fence. We’ve driven by to check frequently. When Scamp started up a few minutes ago, we thought somebody might be out there again. Can we take a look?”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s OK,” Sutter said with some reluctance. “But he always barks like that.”

  Josh and Maggie exited into the yard the moment he said OK. Maggie shined her Maglite on the back fence, moved the beam to the bushes, skated over the shed and returned to settle on the doorway. And the red gasoline can.

  “This your shed?” she asked Sutter, who’d followed them out.

  “Yeah, of course. This is all my property inside the fence. Like I told you, there’s nobody out here. The damned dog just likes to bark.”

  Scamp had abandoned his guard duties and was circling their feet, demanding attention. Maggie squatted to pet him and momentarily drew Sutter’s attention while Josh stepped to the open door of the shed. “You seen anybody in your yard lately?” she asked.

  “No. Uh, what are you doing?” Sutter took a step toward Josh, but the detective had already picked up the gas can in a gloved hand.

  “This yours?” Josh asked.

  Maggie eased to her feet, waiting for Sutter’s response.

  He looked confused. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t put it there.” He swung around to confront Maggie. “What’s going on?”

  She studied him, expanding her focus until she picked up the colors of his aura. Dark green—low self-esteem seemed about right for him—had flared into streaks of red and orange He was getting upset. Not a big surprise. “Where were you last Tuesday night?”

  “I’m usually at home. Why?” He took a step back, angling his body to include Josh in his scowl. His aura colors didn’t change, but his muscles visibly quivered, and Maggie wondered if he was going to run.

  “Can anyone verify you were here?”

  “Scamp, if he could talk. Oh, wait…” Relief flooded his face, and he straightened his slumped shoulders. “I wasn’t home that night. I was helping Bob, my brother-in-law. Ask him. He’ll tell you. No matter what happened that night, you can’t pin it on me.”

  No doubt Bob Dunsbury would backup his alibi…again. It just didn’t mean it was the truth.

  “That’s all we need to know for now.” Josh’s calm voice broke the tension. “We’ll just take the gas can with us.”

  “I don’t know it I should let you,” Sutter said doubtfully.

  “Why not?” Josh asked in apparent surprise. “You said it wasn’t yours, but it could be evidence in a crime committed Tuesday night. If you’re not involved—”

  “Oh, OK. Fine.” Sutter’s face said he wasn’t sure it was fine, but he realized he’d been backed into a corner. “Do what you want with it. Come on, Scamp. It’s time for our favorite show.” He turned his back on them and walked toward the house. The terrier trotted by his side, and Sutter let the door slam behind them.

  “That didn’t go too badly. Except for the alibi.” Carrying the can at arm’s length, Josh slipped it into an evidence box when they reached the truck. “Think he was really at the brother-in-law’s?”

  “Who knows? We can’t take Dunsbury’s word for it, but if he really was conducting a tour…that sheds a different light on this evidence.” As the truck pulled away from the curb, Maggie scooted over and rubbed the tension in the back of Josh’s neck.

  He gave her a smile. “I’m ready to be off duty for a while. Once we drop this at the lab, how about a walk downtown? Maybe an ice cream or gelato before we go home. There are better things to do on a hot, Friday night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The following morning Maggie sat cross-legged on the bed making phone calls, while Josh went out to pick up breakfast. Her first call went to the lab for results on the gas can, but learning nothing, she contacted Captain Jenson to put pressure on the lab manager. How hard could it be to check for fingerprints? Or determine if the gasoline matched with the arson scene? OK. Making a match might be a stretch, but the prints were a no-brainer.

  Josh returned with egg and cheese biscuits and beignets, which they ate in bed. They’d just cleaned up the paper wrappings and Josh had leaned over to kiss her neck when her phone rang.

  She gave him a rueful face. “Sorry. But I bugged the lab the whole time you were gone. I’ve got to take their call.”

  “I’m curious too. But make it quick.”

  “York,” she answered. She listened for a minute, then turned to stare at Josh. “You?
??re sure? None?”

  “What?” Josh sat up beside her.

  She put her hand over the phone. “No fingerprints on the gas can. They say it’s been wiped clean.”

  Josh rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That’s weird. Could they match the gasoline?”

  She tapped the speaker function on her phone. “Cory, I’m going to let you explain the results on the gasoline tests to Detective Brandt.”

  “No problem,” the lab manager said. “We got a match, Josh, but it doesn’t mean much. Every company has their own process and additives in the gasoline they produce. These variations are slight, because the product has to work across the country for all types of vehicles, but they’re sufficient to pinpoint the company. In this case Shell, but the same gas markers are also found in hundreds of thousands of cars, trucks, and any other gas can filled at a station selling Shell gas.”

  “That’s swell,” Josh said in disgust. “Thanks for ruining my day.”

  Cory chuckled. “Sorry. Science should do better by say…the twenty-second century.”

  “A little late. Gasoline should be obsolete by then.” Josh grabbed clean towels from the closet and headed for the shower.

  Yeah, the lab report had been a buzz kill for her too.

  “Cory, can you check the numbers on the can? See if we can trace where it was purchased.”

  “Already on it. It looks new. The seller might remember the customer.”

  Or not. That was pretty far-fetched, almost desperate, but they needed to chase down every potential lead. Maggie disconnected. What started out as a promising lead was fading fast. She glanced at the bathroom door. If she joined Josh in the shower, it might improve both their moods. She slipped off the bed.

  The phone rang again. Dispatch this time. She tensed. No, not another murder.

  “Sorry to bother you at home, detective, but I have a patch-through. Officer says it’s about an ongoing case.”

  Maggie straightened. “That’s fine, dispatch. Thank you.” She heard a click on the line.