Paul checked his watch. “We should head back now,” he said.
Callie was still shaken and didn’t question him as he guided her back to the car. She looked at the packet in her hand. On the side was a scrawled note: Put these herbs under your pillow each night to stop the evil spirits from invading your dreams.
Callie stared at it, then at the package Paul had placed on the console between them. She picked it up and smelled it. “Weed? The witch is a weed dealer?”
“She’s the intermediary. She gets it from the pirate. For medicinal purposes only.”
“Oh sure.” Callie laughed. “That’s what they all say.”
“It helps my mom with the nausea from the chemo.”
Callie was silent then, suddenly touched by the errand.
With his unquestioning acceptance of spectral evidence, Cotton Mather was largely responsible for both the scope and the duration of the witch hysteria of 1692.
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
“Working on Thanksgiving Day?” Rafferty said, recognizing the assistant district attorney’s number as he picked up the phone. “Should I be worried?”
“Right back at you, Rafferty. I was planning to just leave you a message.”
“What message?” Rafferty’s tone was suspicious.
“I’m hearing a lot of noise about this thing with Rose Whelan,” the ADA said. “I have a petition here in front of me, signed by almost a hundred people who want to reopen the Goddess Murder case. Helen Barnes and some of her friends have reportedly been calling the governor.”
“Great,” Rafferty replied. He’d told only a handful of people he’d been quietly investigating the case. The last thing he wanted was to make it official.
“And there’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“They told him that you’re biased and slowing things down because Rose lives with you. Is that true?”
“No! Not exactly,” Rafferty clarified. “Eva Whitney left Rose a tree in my wife’s—our—courtyard when she died. Rose sometimes slept under it. Before she was hospitalized this last time.” He took a breath. “And Towner gave Rose a room over the tearoom. She almost never used it, though.”
There was a long silence.
“What about Rose’s niece?”
Rafferty said nothing.
“She’s been visiting Rose at the hospital. Isn’t she living with you now?”
“Technically, she isn’t related to Rose.”
“But she is staying at your house?”
Rafferty didn’t answer.
“This doesn’t look good,” the ADA said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Rafferty admitted. He was more upset that people were beginning to question who Callie was than by the implied accusation of bias.
“Let me talk to a couple of people and see what they think. I’ll get back to you. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Rafferty hung up the phone. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought. He shouldn’t have dropped by the station; he should have gone straight to Yellow Dog Island with Towner. It was Thanksgiving, for God’s sake. What had he been thinking?
There was nothing he could do about his history with Rose. And nothing new was going to be resolved over this holiday weekend. At the moment, that was about all he felt thankful for.
Out on Yellow Dog, Rafferty had to wait for one of the women to lower the ramp so he could get to the island. It was May Whitney’s policy to pull up the ramp for security, since boaters were often eager to explore these border islands. The last thing they needed out here was unwanted visitors. To say the women at Yellow Dog Shelter were paranoid was an understatement, but they had reason to be. Though the place was considered a safe house, every so often an abuser was successful in locating his escaped partner, and the resultant rage had consequences the women here knew only too well.
Rafferty understood the need for security. Still, it seemed odd today, since they were expecting him. Usually, when they knew he was coming, they would leave the ramp down. Something was going on. He’d have to remember to ask May about it.
The women were gathered in the red schoolhouse, a place usually reserved for the lace makers, who would sit in a silent circle as they worked, their pillows in their laps, passing bobbin over bobbin. On those days the only voice heard—aside from the occasional call of a seagull on the wind—was that of the reader, often May Whitney herself, who would stand in front of the room reciting what she called “random acts of literature.” The most damaged women, the newbies, wore lace veils. The veils hid their identities, but they also did something else, something better. Looking at life through the handmade lace provided a different perspective. It filtered reality by making the ordinary beautiful.
Today, the place was bustling. The circle of chairs had disappeared, and tables lined the room for the annual Thanksgiving brunch. Rafferty looked at the women and felt bad about his earlier lack of gratitude on this special day of thanks. By the time you landed on Yellow Dog Island, you’d left everything familiar behind except life itself. The abusive spouse, certainly, but everything else as well, including your extended family and your daily life. And yet, they were all celebrating, thankful to be here and safe. This year, he noticed that the children’s table was set with more places than ever.
“The ones who have children do the best,” May had told him once, after he’d been called to the island to fend off a husband who’d managed to locate his estranged wife. “It gives them reason to hope,” she’d said. She’d been carrying a loaded shotgun, just in case the police didn’t arrive in time. “Something worth fighting for.”