“Business, politics, charity?” He shook his head. “It could be anything from knitting club to drug running. Or another coven.” Josh tapped the printouts. “You said you had three names. Why’d you exclude the third?”
She averted her face. “The victim’s physical size didn’t fit what I’d seen, and it…um, just didn’t feel right.” Her voice trailed off so much he barely caught the last words. Would she ever grow comfortable with this other side of her? Josh had accepted it, but then he hadn’t known her when these strange abilities weren’t a part of her life. She’d lived nearly twenty-nine years without witchcraft and without seeing ghosts. That kind of change took adjustment.
“Then we go with your instincts.” He read the name on the top one. “I’ll read over both cases, but why don’t I start checking on Bernice Shayre, if you want to follow up on the other.”
“Trust a man to go for the blonde. But you must have read my mind,” she said, a fleeting smile taking the sting from her remark. “I’m waiting for a callback from the head investigator on the Judith Gundermann case.” She stood and dragged a box around the double desks to his side. “Here’s the Shayre evidence file. The lab delivered the boxes a few minutes ago. I haven’t had time to inspect either one.”
That was the end of the talking. She returned to her desk and buried herself in files and phone conversations. Josh watched her for a moment and then did the same. He was relieved they’d established a decent working relationship. But it was disconcerting she could act so blasé. Women. Would he ever understand the first thing about them?
* * *
Bob Dunsbury strolled in promptly at seven o’clock, wearing a white shirt and shorts, a deep tan, and with his sun-lightened hair upswept into a short, casual style. He could have just stepped off his yacht. Hardly the rugged swamp dweller Maggie had anticipated.
They established for the record that Marvin Sutter had been married to Dunsbury’s younger sister and moved the conversation into Sutter’s recent struggle with depression.
“The accident hit him hard,” Dunsbury said. “Marv’s been a drinker as long as I’ve known him, but it’s been nearly non-stop since the wreck. So bad at times that I suggested therapy. But he wasn’t interested, so I let it drop.”
“Sometimes it takes a while,” Maggie said. “Did he seem to hold anyone responsible for the accident?”
“Oh, sure. Other drivers on the road, his wife for not staying home that day, the crews who built the highway, himself for not being there, even God. He’s run through them all. But this neighbor you mentioned on the phone? Mrs. Preston? Never even heard her name before.”
“That seems strange,” Josh said. “He told the traffic officer she’d placed a curse on his family.”
Dunsbury spread his hands. “All I can tell you is what he said to me. I was out of town at a tour operator conference when my dad called about the accident. I didn’t speak directly with Marv for two or three days. I guess he’d calmed down by then.”
Maggie hid her skepticism. He hadn’t even blinked at the mention of a curse. He was lying—which might or might not be significant. That was the problem with overly protective relatives. They lied about things that only confused investigators and made them more suspicious.
“Tell us about your tour business,” she said, switching focus. For the next ten minutes they listened to what must have been his regular business spiel, detailing the types of tours and the advantages of his company over others.
Josh finally brought the sales pitch to a close. “I assume your brother-in-law and his family were regular visitors.”
Dunsbury shook his head. “My sister didn’t like the swamp, the gators, the bugs. Marv had only been there once until he recently began helping me out.”
Maggie’s interest perked. “Helping with what?”
“Tours. He doesn’t like being alone all the time, and I’ve hired him to drive the boat when we had too many tours running at once. He does a good job if he’s not drinking.” Dunsbury looked pensive. “He’s not a bad guy. Sis would hate seeing him like this.”
“Some tours have live reptile exhibits or demonstrations by tour guides. Do your drivers handle gators or snakes?”
Dunsbury’s expression turned sour. “We’re not a zoo. A few of our guides show tourists the baby gators, but none of my people fool around with snakes.”
Josh got even more direct. “How about you or your brother-in-law, any experience with snakes?”
He bristled this time. “None. I heard how that woman died, and if you’re implying Marv is involved and that I somehow helped him, you’re dead wrong.”
Maggie wasn’t convinced. Anybody who’d play with an alligator might dare to handle a snake. Sutter’s trips into the bayou gave him potential access to the murder weapon. Nothing she’d heard removed Sutter as the prime suspect.
After Dunsbury left, Maggie and Josh walked toward the front door of the precinct. Josh seemed relaxed, approachable this evening, and Maggie was on the verge of suggesting they stop for a beer, when the door opened.
“Hi, Josh, Maggie. All done?” Ellen’s bright smile swept over Maggie and settled on Josh. “I must have timed this just right. I’m here to drag you off to dinner.”
Maggie thought he hesitated for an instant, but it might have been her wishful thinking.
“You have to eat sometime,” Ellie coaxed.
He chuckled. “OK, sure. Where are we going? Do I need to change clothes?”
“You’re fine. You’re always fine.” Ellen gave him a playful smile and hooked her arm through his. “Would Maggie like to join us?”
Josh cleared his throat, and Maggie couldn’t tell whether he was choking or laughing. She’d bet on the latter…and envisioned a well-placed kick.
“Thanks, I have other plans. But have a good time.” Maggie brushed past them and out the front door. Cat. Ellie’d deliberately been provoking. Once in her car, Maggie glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted Josh and his old friend walking in the opposite direction. The blonde seemed very lively, and Josh was hanging on every word.
Maggie gave a snort of disgust and pulled into traffic, forcing another motorist to slam on his brakes. If that’s what Josh wanted, more power to him. He’d hinted he wouldn’t wait long for her to make up her mind, but she’d assumed it would be more than a couple of hours.
She continued to grumble about Josh’s fickle behavior as she headed home. At the last moment, she yanked the wheel in a detour to the shooting range and spent two hours riddling targets with bullet holes. If she secretly named the targets in her head, she didn’t mention it to anyone.
When she finally drove home, she found the parking spaces along the narrow street in front of her building were filled, and she parked two blocks away. The worst of her anger had dispersed at the range, but her mood was dark, brooding over Josh and her own erratic behavior.
The last thing she wanted to see was Valerie Preston and her ghostly friends, and she scowled when they popped into view directly in her path.
Maggie glanced swiftly around the darkened street, then crossed her arms over her chest. “I hope you’re here with a purpose this time. Popping in and out on a whim isn’t acceptable. Why are these other two here? I’m not looking for additional business, you know.”
Maggie glowered at Preston. The woman’s features were less distinct now—the eyes forming pools of deep shadows—but the overall fading seemed slower than with Hurst. And the other women still retained some humanoid shape even though their deaths had been months ago…if she’d pulled the right files. Were female ghosts different than males? Or were these women just stronger or more determined than Hurst had been?
When Preston failed to react, Maggie tried again, addressing the other two spirits directly. “If I’m going to help you, I have to know who you are…or were. I’m aware you can’t say your former names, but I can. Just give me some sign if you were once known as Bernice Shayre and Judith Gundermann.” Maggie took a ha
sty step back as Preston’s companions flared into flashes of bright light before receding again. Wow! She peered around nervously. It was hard to believe someone hadn’t seen that. “I guess that’s a yes,” she said. “But I still don’t understand. What’s the link between you? Your deaths were very different. Murderers tend to stick with one method.”
She watched as the three figures huddled in a circle on the sidewalk, Preston crouching down, the other two weaving in and out around her. What were they doing? Suddenly, they disappeared in another burst of light. Maggie blinked, and a chill crept down her arms at what they’d left behind.
A pentagram. Drawn on the sidewalk in a ghostly glow was the distinct outline of a five-pointed star, not pointed upward as used in Wiccan or white witchcraft but in the downward position…satanic.
Maggie stared at the fading marks, sucked in a sharp breath, and whipped out her phone.
Dalia’s response was immediate. “What’s wrong? You’re upset—”
“Selena said these ghosts weren’t evil, but I asked them how they were connected, and they drew a devil’s pentagram. What am I looking at? A threat? A clue?”
“Oh, my dear. That isn’t good.”
“I didn’t suppose it was.”
“It’s not a threat, Maggie. It’s a warning.” Dalia sounded frightened. “They’re telling you someone—the killer, I assume—has embraced black magic and is using the dark forces of evil against you.”
* * *
Perspective came with daylight. As the sun drew pink ribbons across the sky, Maggie concluded the three ghostly victims would naturally think of their killer as evil. But it was a human kind of evil, the kind she’d faced before in varying degrees in every murderer she’d hunted. While she’d accepted that contact with a supernatural world was possible, there was no proof that anything from the Beyond, good or evil, could have a direct effect on this world.
Bad guys were just bad guys.
The old rules still applied—motive, means, and opportunity. They were rarely equal, and in this case, the means appeared to be an unreliable element, placing greater importance on the motive. She’d never understand why the killer killed until she knew what the victims shared in common.
Maggie pulled on white shorts and a T-shirt and pushed herself to a cathartic five miles in her morning run. When she arrived at District 13 just before seven-thirty, she was calm and resolved. The squad room was quiet with only a few detectives already checking overnight developments and drinking coffee. Josh was at his desk, skimming through a stack of reports.
She detoured to the break room for coffee before approaching him. “You’re in early. Anything new?”
“Nothing remarkable, but I have a few things to follow up on Shayre. How about you?”
She took a seat and told him about last night’s visit, including the pentagram. “I think that confirms their identities. But I have to admit the glowing pentagram and Dalia’s interpretation gave me the creeps.”
“Evil is a strong word,” he said, eyeing her doubtfully. “You’re not thinking…”
“That we have a supernatural killer?” She twisted her lips, hating the fact it had crossed either of their minds. “The idea gave me a bad moment, but no. I doubt that’s what Dalia meant either. In fact, it could be a more practical clue…like pointing us to a coven of Satanists. A rogue group that’s using the occult to justify their violence. A snake is often used to symbolize the devil.”
Josh gave a frustrated snort. “This case gets weirder by the minute.”
“You’re a master of understatement this morning.”
“It’s the lack of caffeine.” His lips twitched as a he stood. “Before we get into deep voodoo, I need more coffee. Can I bring you a refill?”
She suppressed a chuckle at the bad pun. “That’d be great. I’m going to call Liz Porter. Hopefully it isn’t too early for her. Now that we have the other victims’ names, I’m eager to know if she’s heard of them.”
Maggie watched Josh walk away, appreciating the compact way his body moved. If they could maintain this casual friendliness, maybe their partnership could survive the current upheaval. Not all that she wanted, but better than nothing.
She picked up the Preston file, found Porter’s number, and tapped in the numbers. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” Maggie said when the woman answered.
“Oh, not at all. I’m on my second cup of coffee. Have you caught Val’s murderer?”
“Not yet, but we’ve discovered two unsolved deaths that may be related. Were you acquainted with Bernice Shayre or Judith Gundermann?”
Lizzie’s gasp was audible. “I’ve met them both. They were murdered too? Oh my. What’s going on? I didn’t even know Judy was dead. Were they killed in the same awful away?”
“Not the same details, no. Where did you meet them?”
“The Witching Hour Masquerade. They were among last year’s final contestants for High Priest or Priestess of the ball.”
Maggie straightened. “Was Valerie Preston also in the competition?”
“No. But she was planning to enter this year. I was helping with her costume. It was gorgeous, and she was excited about the possibility of winning.” Lizzie paused. “But this couldn’t have anything to do with her death. The ball’s just a fun evening of food, drinks, and socializing. An elegant Halloween celebration.”
That didn’t preclude someone bad from attending. The event was widely advertized and open to anyone willing to buy an upscale costume. A perfect killing field if you were stalking witches.
“Do you know the organizers? Who would have a list of ball attendees and especially those in the competition?”
“I can’t help you with that. Last year was my first time, but you might ask Fiona. She’s attended several years and might know someone on the committee.”
Fiona? After her obvious disapproval of her sister’s activities? Or had she just objected to Lizzie talking about it?
“Thanks. I’ll give her a call.”
Maggie hung up and turned to find Josh standing beside her desk with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. He lifted a brow. “What kind of competition?”
“Top witch or warlock of the Witching Hour Ball. It might be the link between our victims.”
He handed her the coffee and sat down. “I thought it was just another of New Orleans’ many reasons to party.”
“In a way, it is. That doesn’t mean someone couldn’t use it for darker purposes.”
“You’re thinking a serial killer might have used it as his hunting grounds.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Where does that leave Sutter? He looks good for the Preston murder but doesn’t strike me as a serial killer.”
“At first I thought he might have blamed Shayre and Gundermann for helping with the alleged curse, but they died in April and May respectively, before the June car accident, so that doesn’t work.” Maggie slumped back in her chair. “The ball could be a coincidence. We’ve assumed the three women are victims of the same killer. But that first night, Preston didn’t seem to know who killed her. There could be different link between them that we haven’t found.” Maggie let out a discouraged sigh. “It’s all too tenuous.”
“Then we need better info. I don’t think we’re off track.” The corners of Josh’s eyes creased in thought. “How many women attend the masquerade ball? A few hundred, or maybe a few thousand, out of a metro population of over a million people. The odds are too low for all three victims to attend without it being significant. We need to learn more about the witches’ ball.”
The first thing they discovered was the Witching Hour Society, the sponsoring organization listed on the website, didn’t keep a list of ball attendees. “It’s deliberate,” their spokesperson, Stephanie Michaels, admitted. “We don’t want anyone labeled or criticized simply because they joined us in celebrating a holiday event.” Nor were they willing to share the Society’s membership rolls without a court order.
W
hat a pain. But at this stage, a judge wasn’t likely to sign a warrant either. Even if the fall party proved to be a point of contact for the victims, the membership list didn’t equal attendees or necessarily include the perpetrator. And the risks to members from revealing their names were high, ranging from ridicule to harassment or worse. Even in New Orleans—or especially in New Orleans—fascination, fear, and hatred of the paranormal could walk hand in hand.
CHAPTER SIX
Josh studied the District 8 detective’s reaction to his request for background and personal insight on the Shayre case. Sometimes cops were territorial, even hostile, about other cops poking around in their cases. So far, his expression was non-committal.
“You don’t say.” Chaz Marshall, a black, forty-five-year-old veteran on the force, leaned back in his swivel chair. “I knew there was something the family wasn’t saying, but I had no hint Shayre was into the occult.”
Josh shrugged. He had to be careful not overstating the case. “Not sure she is. She might just like to party. But I noticed in your report you remarked on the number of crystal objects in her house.”
Chaz gave a soft chuckle. “I didn’t remember I’d put that in. But, yeah, the place sparkled. Now that I think about it, there were candles too. So you think my victim ties in with yours? The ME called it a probable homicide, but the possibility remains that a hydrocodone overdose could be a suicide, even accidental. What’s the link to your case?”
This was the tricky part. Josh stayed with the facts. “Witnesses put both victims at the witches’ ball and as entrants for the top witch competition. We also have a third possible victim. Doesn’t add up to much yet, but we’re still looking.”