ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA, WAS HOME to the Biltmore Estate. At nearly 180,000 square feet it was the largest private residence ever constructed in America, and it was still owned by the descendants of the Vanderbilt heir who built it. It was now open to the public for tours and other events, and it brought a great many people to Asheville every year. The town also possessed a thriving arts and wine and food community. The western part of the Tarheel State was picturesque, with the Blue Ridge Mountains providing a brilliant backdrop to the town.
As Pine and Blum rode into Asheville, neither one was thinking about any of that.
They had in their sights one person and one person only.
As the FBI had finally told Blum after some delay—probably because it wasn’t connected to an official case—the phone number that Pine had seen Wanda Atkins input to her phone was attached to a specific address in Asheville. The Bureau had now provided that information, and Pine meant to make good use of it.
Dusk was coming quickly, and the streets they passed were filled with people sitting in outdoor restaurants with gas-fueled heaters providing warmth; art galleries were ablaze with light and activity, and cars and pedestrians were making their way to a flurry of destinations. People of means seemed to be having a good time trying to figure out where to plunk down their hard-earned cash.
“I’ve never been here,” said Blum. “It looks quite lovely.”
“Only we’re looking for the dark side right now, not the lovely,” replied Pine. Following the navigation instructions, she turned right and then left and slowed the Porsche. “And that’s it, up on the right with the white siding.”
“How appropriate,” said Blum, eyeing the sign out front as they passed by. “Desiree Atkins runs an occult shop. I didn’t think she’d be baking cupcakes.”
“She goes by the name Dolores Venuti now,” said Pine. “At least the phone is registered in that person’s name. But it’s Desiree, I’m almost sure of that.”
They had previously gotten Desiree’s file photo from the Georgia DMV. The picture showed a stern-faced woman with protuberant eyes that Blum had proclaimed were “downright creepy.”
“But that photo is really old,” Pine had pointed out after seeing it for the first time.
“I doubt she would have changed that much,” said Blum. “People like her never do. Except to get even creepier.”
The occult shop was in a small bungalow that one reached by going up a set of warped wooden steps. The large sign out front read in exaggerated calligraphy: THE DARK MOON RISING OCCULT SHOP: PSYCHIC READINGS, CLASSIC WITCHCRAFT PRODUCTS, POWER CRYSTALS AND CANDLES, PROTECTION SCARVES, LARGE APOTHECARY SELECTION, AND MUCH MORE.
“Protection scarves?” muttered Pine. “People really buy that crap?”
“More than you think. There’s a large occult business in Arizona, in fact.”
“How do you know that?”
“One of my friends is in the business. She’s also a tarot card reader, has a psychic hotline, and does workshops for aspiring occultists. She makes far more money than I do.”
“Then the world is truly upside down, Carol.”
Pine pulled to a stop down the street. “The place looks dark.” She checked her watch. “I don’t see the hours posted, but she’s probably closed for the day.”
“It doesn’t look large enough for Desiree to live there, too. And I doubt this area is even zoned for residential.”
“You’re probably right—she may very well live somewhere else. And she may not have a home landline. More and more people don’t.”
“I guess there are ways we can find out where she lives.”
“It’s all a matter of speed and finding the point of least resistance.” Blum eyed her keenly. “Why does that make me think you’re about to do something not quite legal?”
“Oh, Carol, you know me like a book. Wait here.”
Pine hopped out of the SUV and walked back down the street. She looked around and found this section of the street pretty empty. Good. She tried the shop’s front door and found it locked. She looked through the door glass for evidence of an alarm system, but didn’t see any. Maybe Desiree had put a protection spell on her shop in lieu of contracting with ADT, thought Pine.
Pine walked around to the back of the building and sized it up. One door, two windows. Large, mature trees ringed the small, park-like area that ran behind all the shops here. An old picnic table sat under the tree canopies.
She tried the back door but it was locked, as were the windows. Until Pine worked her knife through the gap on one of them and pushed the simple lock back. She slowly lifted the window, ready to run if an alarm sounded, but fortunately none did.
She slipped through the opening and closed the window, after lowering herself softly to the floor. Her nostrils were instantly breached by mingled pungent scents. She slipped a small flashlight from her pocket and manipulated the lens opening so that only a small, core beam was produced. She shone it over the walls. They were covered with shelves, which, in turn, were loaded with all sorts of things, many of them grotesque, at least to Pine. A bottle of fake shrunken heads was a real eye-grabber.
At least I hope they’re fake.
Boxes of tarot cards were stacked haphazardly on a table. And they were on sale! A full-sized skeleton coated with dust hung from a holder in one corner. One could take it home for the sale price of $599. Astrological charts in various sizes and colors hung in lopsided, chaotic patterns on the walls, along with prints of creatures that Pine did not recognize. There were books with titles like Witchcraft at Home and Self-Healing Tonics. Pine looked through the latter one and doubted that the FDA would have approved. The place was disheveled and unorganized and there was junk piled around, including unopened cardboard boxes with the shipping labels still on them.
She moved into the next room. It was small and looked to be the office. This space was also littered with papers and boxes; a laminated desk was wedged into one free corner with a computer on it. The computer required a password, so Pine ignored it and went through the desk drawers. She found some stationery with the store’s name and address. And under a stack of junk she also found a checkbook with the name Dolores Venuti printed on it, along with another address in Asheville.
Pine certainly believed that Desiree and Dolores were one and the same, although she would have liked absolute confirmation of that. She found it when she looked at some photos taped to the wall. One was of a person who could only be Desiree. She fit the description Pine had been given and, more important, the DMV photo. She was standing in front of the occult shop and was smiling. Written in Sharpie at the bottom of the picture was the inscription, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Dolores.” It was signed by various people, and the shops named under those signatures were probably part of the local retail community.