Something as simple as rosemary was something I hadn’t tried. “And that worked?”
She cast me a wry glance. “We’re talking ghosts, Raye. They weren’t real in the first place, so it worked pretty damn good.”
It had never occurred to me to go to a witch and ask for a way to ward off ghosts. Probably because it hadn’t occurred to me that we had a witch in town. Until last night, witches had never entered my head at all.
My head had been too full of ghosts.
Chapter 11
The three men went across the street for breakfast, where they mulled the case and the autopsy results in between visits from the locals, who liked to shoot the breeze with both the doctor and the chief, as well as take the opportunity to meet the stranger in town.
The food wasn’t half as good as what John Larsen had served Bobby the day before, but the coffee was hot and plentiful. A few hours later, they returned to the basement of the funeral home as Bobby’s cell phone rang.
The FBI agent assigned to the case was different from the one who’d taken Chief Johnson’s call, then contacted Bobby. At least Nic Franklin appeared to know his job. He’d already interviewed the maniac’s widow and discovered no connection to the murders in New Orleans.
“Guy has an alibi for all your dates,” Franklin said.
“Have you checked similar murders elsewhere?” Bobby asked.
“Similar how? Where else?”
“Burned bodies? Anywhere?”
“That’s a wide net, Detective.”
“And the FBI’s just the one to cast it.”
Agent Franklin sighed. “I’ll get back to you.”
Bobby informed the chief and Christiansen of the maniac’s alibis for the New Orleans murders.
“That means there’s more than one of them,” Johnson said.
“More than one of what?”
“Murderers with the same damn ring.”
“A murder club?” Christiansen asked.
“There’s gotta be a connection somewhere,” the chief continued. “If not with the murderers then with the murderees.” He glanced at Bobby. “You wanna go with me to talk to Mrs. Noita?”
“Who?”
Johnson’s cell began to ring. “Dead woman’s aunt.” He lifted a finger in a “hold that thought” gesture and answered his phone.
Bobby needed a lead—something, anything. Although what connection there could be between Anne McKenna, a never-married hospice worker from Madison, and Raye Larsen he had no idea. Probably even less of one between Anne, Raye, and the dead people in New Orleans.
“Godammit.” Larsen shoved his cell phone into his pocket.
“What’s wrong?” Bobby feared another body.
“Cows,” the chief snapped.
Was that a local curse word, similar to bull hockey or H-E-double toothpicks? Although he hadn’t noticed the chief was too concerned about watching his language so far.
“They’re all over the highway. I gotta get out there.”
“You—uh—need help?”
“You any good at it?”
“I know how to use a shovel.”
Johnson’s face creased. “We don’t hit ’em, son, we herd ’em.”
“Hit?” Bobby echoed.
“With the shovel.”
They were speaking the same language, and then again they weren’t.
“When you said ‘all over the highway’ I assumed…” He let his voice trail off.
“Roadkill?” The chief shook his head. “Ever hit a cow with your car?”
Now Bobby shook his head. What kind of question was that?
“Like hittin’ a brick shithouse.”
Bobby opened his mouth, shut it again. He was lost.
Johnson saw it and chuckled. “A cow will total your car. My father-in-law hit one in the dark once. Thing was lyin’ right in the road. They do that sometimes when they get out of the pasture. Lie on the blacktop, try to soak in the heat. Angus cows, blend right in. Come over the hill and wham!” He smacked his palms together, the resulting crack so loud Bobby could have sworn even the maniac jumped. “But there ain’t gonna be a bunch dead on the road. Hittin’ one is a wake-up call.”
“Unless you wake up dead,” Christiansen said, gaze on his paperwork. “It’s happened before.”
Bobby eyed the maniac, then shook his head. He’d jumped, not the dead man. Dead men couldn’t jump any more than white men could. “So when you said they were all over the road, you meant—”
“Wandered through a hole in the fence and are now meandering across the highway stoppin’ traffic.”
“And you want me to help herd them back through the fence? Cows are huge.”
“That’s why we need them off the road. A few cows in traffic and there’s no more traffic. You got a traffic jam.”
The closest Bobby had ever been to a cow was on his plate. He wasn’t sure he wanted to change that.
Johnson slapped him on the back. “Cows won’t hurt you.” His smile turned upside down. “A bull is another story.” He pulled out his cell. “I should probably make sure there isn’t a bull.”