“Mrs. Stacy? I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI.” He handed her his creds.
“I know who you are, Agent Savich. Tammy called me right after you and Agent Sherlock left.” Mrs. Stacy gave him a small smile. “Agent Sherlock made quite an impression on my daughter, not because of her heroics at JFK, but because of her beautiful red hair.” A smile that he imagined curved up her mouth most of her life quickly fell off her face. She said in a flat voice, “This is about Sparky.”
“Yes,” Savich said. “May I speak with you, Mrs. Stacy?”
She stepped back and motioned for him to enter. “This way, Agent Savich.”
He followed her down a long hallway, past a formal living room on the right with heavy oak furnishings, an old-fashioned kitchen, and a half-bath painted pink, to a closed door at the back of the house.
“This is my own personal room,” she said, and opened the door. “Come in.”
Savich walked into a Wiccan’s fantasy. The room wasn’t large, but still it felt light, airy, and spacious. It was painted white, and had a white sofa and chair, white curtains on the windows. An entire wall was covered with white built-in bookshelves with bottles of herbs lined up on one shelf, each jar meticulously labeled. There were dozens of books whose titles he skimmed, from Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex, and Politics to The Spiral Dance to Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner. There were dried flowers in several vases sharing space with seashells and pearls and bowls of crystals. He saw a line of small, oddly shaped dolls on a long windowsill.
Mrs. Stacy said from behind him, “We call them poppets. They’re tools to aid in working magic.”
“How?”
“I can’t do justice to that with you quickly, Agent Savich, but I will say that poppets help achieve what you wish for, and are an integral part of some of our rituals.”
He didn’t understand, but nodded.
She smiled at him. “They aren’t voodoo dolls, there’s no evil intent. I will use them soon at Litha—our celebration of the summer solstice.” She raised her chin, as if daring him to mock her. “And I will set the powers within myself and the powers of the gods we summon to discover why Walter Givens murdered poor Sparky.” She shook her head, shrugged. “I doubt it will succeed, but I will have to try if you haven’t found out the truth by then.
“I’ve heard Walter has no memory of killing Sparky, no memory of why he did it in such a public place. If this is true”—she raised raised her eyes to his face—“it’s quite terrifying.”
“Yes,” Savich said, “it is.” He pointed to a collection of small square cloth bags piled in a basket on the floor beside the sofa.
“Those are plackets.” She fell to her knees and picked one up. “Yes, I know, it sounds like the name of our town, but it’s a coincidence. I’ve already prepared a placket with Walter Givens’s name on it. I will use that placket as well to help me.” She gently set the placket back in the basket and rose. “Please, sit down, Agent Savich, and tell me how I can help you.” She pointed to the white sofa. She sat in the single white chair facing him, placed her small hands on her jeans-covered legs.
“Tell me how Tammy is doing.”
“She’s a wreck, as you would expect. She’d been married four months and her husband didn’t simply die, which would have been horrible enough, he was viciously murdered. In public. She refuses to come back home, though. She wants to stay where she lived with Sparky.” Mrs. Stacy fell silent.
“Did Mrs. Deliah Abbott give you an Athame collection that belonged to her husband?”
“Why, yes, she did.” She rose and walked to a glass cabinet, opened it, and lifted out a beautifully carved wooden case. She brought it back to the sofa and opened it. Savich looked at a dozen Athames, some similar to the Dual Dragon, others also with incredible carved figured handles.
“It was soon after Mr. Alcott died—well, Arthur was killed, too, wasn’t he?” She sighed. “Deliah gave them to me about three months after he died, said he would have wanted me to have them.”
“Do you know if there were any Athames missing from the collection when Mrs. Alcott gave it to you?”
She wasn’t stupid. She swallowed. “You mean you believe Walter may have used one of Mr. Alcott’s Athames to kill Sparky?”
He nodded.
“If it was one of Mr. Alcott’s Athames, it wasn’t in this collection. It’s possible Deliah kept some of the Athames. I don’t know. She never said and I never asked.”
“Do you and Mrs. Alcott practice Wicca together, or in a group, to celebrate ceremonies like this Litha coming up?”
“No. Not for many years. I’ve become what Wiccans call a solitary practitioner.” She nodded toward a book on the shelf. “I imagine Deliah still shares the circle with her own family.”
“But she thought enough of you to give you Mr. Alcott’s collection.”
“Yes. Arthur Alcott and I got along very well. I thought he was a gentleman, a kind man. My husband liked him, too, trusted him. He was never mean about money like some folks get when they’re lucky enough to come into a windfall like the Alcotts did. No, Arthur always was down-to-earth and generous with what he had. I guess you could say my husband and I both loved him.” She sighed again. “We considered poor Sparky’s father a friend to us, too, until he started drinking so much. I don’t remember Arthur ever drinking alcohol at all.”
“I understand Sparky’s father, Milt Carroll, owned the catering company that Sparky inherited?”
“Yes. Eat Well and Prosper—rather silly, but both Milt and Sparky liked it. Now, Milt was a big drinker.”
“I understand Deputy Lewis was quite a drinker as well? Did they often drink together?”
She nodded. “Kane was an alcoholic; why, I don’t know. He and Milt became drinking buddies, you could say. No one minded enough to get Kane in trouble for it. He never drank on the job, and most everyone liked him.” She looked toward the small wood-burning stove in the far corner of the room. She raised her eyes to his face. “They’re both dead, too. Like Sparky. Agent Savich, what is happening here in Plackett?”
MAPLE LEAF INN
COLBY, LONG ISLAND
Saturday, noon
Everyone’s eyes were on the large TV on the wall behind the counter in the main dining room, where the news was reporting at the scene of the horrific TBV train wreck hours before, thirty miles north of Lyons, France. A massive explosion had ripped through five first-class cars and derailed them, hurling flaming debris over a mile of countryside, some of it still burning and smoking. As the camera panned over some of the wreckage, a reporter was saying what incalculable loss of life and property might have resulted if a bomb that size had exploded under the train in a town or city. So far forty-eight people were confirmed dead, more than a hundred injured. The count would continue to rise.
Pip Erwin raised his head from his bowl of vegetable soup, pointed his spoon at the TV. “I’m waiting for someone from the French government to even acknowledge that carnage was another terrorist attack. They’ll have to, eventually. I’d be willing to bet the rest of my minestrone it’s the same people who attacked us, that it was part of their Bella project. Not a cathedral this time, but certainly a national treasure, the famous French high-speed train. They were so proud of having built the fastest train in the world for the past thirty-five years.”