“My middle name isn’t May, like you’re expecting, it’s Lorna, as in Lorna Doone. My mother was a witch like me, but she loved her classical romances, even though she was always muttering about how foolish the characters were, how if they knew some witchcraft, they’d be less stupid.”
“So you’re from a long line of witches, Mrs. Alcott?” Savich asked her.
“Oh, yes, we go back further than the silly Wiccan stuff Morgana spouts.”
“My name isn’t Morgana, Mother.”
The old woman shrugged scrappy shoulders. “Sounds better than Deliah. Morgana was a wicked woman, a powerful woman. Look what she did to poor Arthur, twisted him up but good, didn’t she?”
Down the rabbit hole. Savich said to Brakey’s mother, “Mrs. Alcott, may we come inside, speak to you alone?”
She looked out over the four children now hooting and hollering again, Tanny throwing the football to Jenny. She called out, “Time to go home, kids.” The kids whined about it not being dark yet, but Mrs. Alcott held firm. She turned back, eyed them. “Very well. My boys are in the den. We can talk in the living room.”
“But what about Daddy?”
“Jenny, he’ll come when the TV newscast is over,” Mrs. Alcott said. “Go now, scat, your mama is waiting.”
One by one, the children trailed off, splitting up into pairs as they went to their own houses, each looking back over their shoulders. Deliah looked down at the old lady.
“Go on with the agents, Morgana. I like it out here alone, no more noise from the children. The crickets will be out soon. A fine time of day.”
“I’ll be right inside if you need me,” Deliah said. “Don’t call me Morgana.” Her daily litany?
She led Savich and Sherlock through an ornately carved front door. There was a brass pentacle hanging from it, at least a foot long, the five brass points of the star within the circle polished to a high shine. Some kind of protection charm? Sherlock wondered, and saw a pentacle hanging in each of the front windows, smaller than the one on the front door, but as highly polished. Fresh flowers adorned the entryway, set inside a large iron container with three legs that looked like an old-fashioned cooking pot or cauldron. There was a smell of incense in the air.
Mrs. Alcott waved them into a country-style living room filled with oversized furniture. Sepia photos dating back to the late nineteenth century covered the walls. The impression was charming, in spite of the strange bric-a-brac scattered around the room—feathers, seashells, jars full of herbs, an incense burner, and a crystal sphere set in isolated splendor on top of an antique marquetry table.
Behind a big television Sherlock saw a set of bookshelves with a mishmash of paperbacks. She could make out some of the titles nearest to her—The Magic of Crystals and Encyclopedia of Herbs. She saw a box of tarot cards on a table by the sofa, more Wiccan trappings.
Deliah noticed them looking around. “The objects you see are part of our tradition. We call them tools. We’re proud of them, have no reason to hide them.”
She went still, faced them, arms at her sides. “I know you believe my son is a murderer. You’ve terrified him. Now, if you would tell me what you wish to know, perhaps we can be done with this, you will leave, and I won’t have to call my friend Eileen over.” Her voice rose. “Eileen is the family lawyer. Believe me, she wanted to be here, and is willing to act as Brakey’s lawyer.”
Savich saw the weight of the world looking out at him through Deliah Alcott’s eyes. She was tense and angry and was no longer hiding it. He knew her husband had died only six months before, and now her son was in deep trouble. He said, “We’re here to gather information, Mrs. Alcott. We realize you’re a Wiccan. We also know that one of a Wiccan’s tools is a ceremonial knife, an Athame. I’m sure Brakey told you that each of the murdered men were killed with an Athame. Brakey said he doesn’t remember anything about last night. Can you help us with that?”
Her look was suspicious, as if she was parsing each word Savich said, but she nodded. “Yes, Brakey told me about the Athames. I can’t begin to understand that. All I can say is that someone is trying to throw the blame on us. There’s no other answer. As to his not remembering anything from last night, this complete loss of conscious self—I have no answer for that. Believe me, I wish I did.
“But for anyone to think that Brakey, or any Wiccan, would murder someone with an Athame—it is unthinkable, impossible. Using an Athame for violence is anathema to us.” She actually shuddered, looked faintly ill. “Listen, I’m not lying to you. Both my husband and I come from families of Wiccans, so all of us are quite familiar with those traditions, even those of us, like Brakey, who have chosen a different path. My husband was an amazing man, he . . .” Her voice fell off, her grief too close to the surface. She caught herself, cleared her throat.
“The first rule of Wicca is to practice kindness, to do no harm so that no harm will return to us. We believe our karma guides each of us to use our powers to heal ourselves and others, not destroy them, not murder them.”
“What sort of powers do you mean?”
“You believe energy exists in a physical sense, Agent Savich. We believe everything in the natural world is a form of energy, people included. Wiccans strive to become ever more aware of that energy, more at one with that energy, by celebrating the rhythms of the moon and the sun, the seasons, the powers within nature and ourselves that people have worshipped as deities through the ages.
“You’re looking at some of our tools around you; many are common everyday items you are familiar with. We use them in our rituals—dance, music, chants, all to heighten our awareness of how we fit into the spirit of the natural world.
“Sure we believe in magic, but even magic is natural. Did you know that, Agent Savich? There’s nothing supernatural about it. Our magic is about using our own personal power, and with the help of the divine power, we direct energy toward what we visualize, perhaps something we desire, something we need. Despite the prejudices and fairy tales about us, we are not so different from you as you think.”
Savich said, “Mrs. Alcott, perhaps you are right and someone is making it appear a Wiccan is responsible for these murders. Perhaps it is someone who doesn’t share your values, perhaps someone you unwittingly harmed.”
“Yes, yes, that is obvious to me.” She paused, drew a deep breath. “We are not idiots, Agent, we fully recognize there are those who profess belief but do not believe. But Brakey is not one of them. He has harmed no one, on purpose or without realizing it. It cannot be a question of revenge. We strive to focus on what is life-affirming and positive. We do not attempt destructive magic, nothing intended to hurt or exploit anyone. There may be someone capable of violence in any group, but for me? The evil of what was done, it terrifies me. And it terrifies Brakey. And that is how I know Brakey simply could not have done this, that it must be someone outside of us.”
“Mrs. Alcott,” Sherlock said, “you said your husband was a witch. We understand he was killed by a hit-and-run driver?”
Deliah looked away from them. They knew she was trying to hold herself together. She swallowed, turned back. “My husband—Arthur—was a gifted man, a spiritual mentor and a powerful witch, but he was kind and honorable, he never hurt anyone. I think Brakey learned that from him. I’ll never understand why the person who hit him didn’t stop, why he didn’t help Arthur.”
They heard Ms. Louisa’s creaky laugh from the doorway. She was waving a knitting needle toward her daughter-in-law. A balding man in his early thirties stood behind her wheelchair, pushing her in. “You speak of Dilly like he was the grand poobah of witches, Morgana. Dilly swayed and twisted like a clothesline in a stiff breeze, you know that. Yes, he was a good witch, but he had no backbone. Weak as water, was Dilly.”
Dilly?” Sherlock asked her.