So that evening, Joanna conjured up a broomstick—she did not need it but it would be easier for Tyler to have something to hold on to.
They flew out of the hospital bed and to the stars, the boy’s laughter carrying over the treetops.
chapter forty
Twenty Questions
Since Freya had nothing appropriate to wear to a meeting with the police, it was her turn to borrow something from Ingrid’s closet.
“There,” Ingrid said. “Now you look innocent.”
“We are innocent.” Freya rolled her eyes. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a cashmere twinset, a plaid skirt that hit her knee, and low-heeled shoes. “Everyone thinks so.” She glanced at the cards that had arrived once the news had spread that the police were interested in talking to the Beauchamp women about their so-called magic.
Ingrid nodded. Many of their friends in town had sent notes of encouragement and love. There was a sweet note from Tabitha, a funny one from Hudson, and even though Sal was still in the hospital, Kristy had left a message on the machine earlier saying that if there was going to be a witch hunt, the Beauchamps were welcome to hide in her house until it blew over. They had nothing to fear; the town was behind them, unlike Salem, where they had been friendless and alone. It gave them courage to face the day ahead.
Forseti was waiting for them with his car. “Where’s Joanna?” he asked, when he saw it was only Ingrid and Freya.
“It’s better if she doesn’t come with us,” Freya said. She and Ingrid had decided last night that it would be better if they faced the questioning on their own. Joanna was too excitable and they did not want to upset their mother further; she was already inconsolable about Tyler’s sickness.
At the police station, they were ushered into the same small interrogation room where they had waited before.
“Where’s Matt?” Ingrid asked the detective who followed them into the room. “I thought we were here to talk to him.”
“Detective Noble is out on another job,” the detective replied with a smirk. “Shall we begin?”
Ingrid paled as she took her seat. Freya felt her stomach sink. The detective was a humorless type with a bad combover. He dismissed Forseti’s handshake and did not look either of the girls in the eye. Freya recognized him from the bar. (His secret sexual perversion: watching high-heeled women crush the life out of small animals. Sick.)
Freya was up first.
“Miss Beauchamp, I have here a cocktail menu from the North Inn bar. Is this the one that you made?” he asked, sliding over the laminated menu.
Freya looked at Forseti, who nodded. They had gone over the routine several times now and she was prepared. “Yes,” she answered. Admit to witchcraft, but emphasize theirs was a harmless magic.
“Allow me to read from this menu. ‘Irresistible: Vodka, pureed cherries, powdered cattail, and lime juice. Not for the shy. Prepare to lose your inhibitions.’ Can you tell us what this means?”
“It’s a love potion,” she said slowly.
“Obviously.” The detective sneered. “And it’s supposed to render the drinker—irresistible? How exactly?”
“The herbal remedies in it create a glow around a person; it heightens their pheromones—their attractiveness quotient, let’s say.”
“By magic.”
“Yes, if magic is the word that means making the impossible possible. I bring out the magic that is inside a person and make it visible. The potion lets everyone see the best parts of the person, and therefore makes them more attractive,” she said, using the carefully rehearsed words her lawyer had approved.
“So it works.”
“Yes.”
“Are there any dangers that could arise from being so attractive? For instance, could a person find someone so attractive it could lead to a loss of control on their end?” the detective mused.
Forseti coughed. “My client is not going to answer speculative inquiries like that one.”
“Excuse me. Let me rephrase it. . . . How do you quantify its power? How can you be sure that it had no adverse effects on the unsuspecting public? Could this potion, for instance . . . drive a man to do something he might not do otherwise?”
The defense attorney glared at the detective and turned to Freya. “You don’t have to answer that, either.”
“I know,” Freya said. “But I will. No, it could never harm the person who had taken it. I’m quite sure.”
“You can’t explain it, but you’re absolutely certain it could not lead to violence?” he barked.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“How does it work, then?”
“I told you, I don’t know. It’s just . . .” Freya sighed. “Magic.”
The detective nodded, scribbling his notes. “Exactly. Thank you, Miss Beauchamp.”
Ingrid was next. The unsmiling detective asked her to turn to the computer that had been set up on the desk. On the screen there were two photographs. One was the fidelity knot she had given Corky Hutchinson, magnified so that everyone could see each whorl clearly. On the other side was the noose that Todd Hutchinson used to hang himself. The knot on the noose was an exact replica of the one next to it.
“Tell me about your magic,” he said.
“Mostly I work with little charms, talismans, spells. A lot of the magic I work with is in knots. It’s how sailors used to divine the winds.”
“You gave this knot to the mayor’s wife, did you not?” he asked, pointing to the first knot.
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“She suspected her husband of cheating on her. I made her a knot and told her to put it underneath his pillow. It would keep him from straying; it would keep him home. But only if she was there as well.”
“Do you admit the knot on the noose looks a whole lot like the knot you made?”
“Yes, but . . . the knots don’t work that way,” Ingrid protested. “They would never drive anyone to suicide. At best, they would unravel—”
“So you’re saying that this little talisman, as you called it, did nothing to lead to the mayor’s death. That it was just a coincidence that it looks just like the one he hung himself with.”
“Yes.”
“That the knot you made did not drive him sleepless, or change his personality, or cause him to be estranged from his wife. So what does it do, then?”
“I don’t know, but I know it keeps people together if they want to be together. It makes something more visible that isn’t there.”
“And there is no possible way it can go wrong?”
“Well, I didn’t say that—”
“So there is!”
“I don’t know,” Ingrid said, slumped on the chair. “This has never happened before. We practice white magic. We don’t—”
“White magic!” The detective sneered. He slammed his notebook on the table. “I think we’re done here.”
As they walked out of the police station, Ingrid turned to Forseti, who was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “I can’t believe Matt wasn’t even there to help us. Do you think we did the right thing in admitting that we’re witches?” she asked.
Freya sighed. Her sister was so obtuse sometimes. “If it wasn’t, it’s too late now to change things.”
“You really think we’ll be arrested?” Ingrid asked, horrified, since their lawyer had gone mute.
Freya’s shoulders slumped. “What do you think?”
Ingrid had to admit that perhaps they had miscalculated their strategy.
chapter forty-one
The Poisoned Tree