The Sinister Secrets of the Enchanting Blaze Page 5
“Definite stink to the lack of response.”
“I talked to Henry Riley.”
“The DCU lieutenant. I know him.” Pete squinted his very blue eyes at her. “What did he have to say?”
“That there was a rat in the unit selling the cops out to the cartel.”
“Aha.” The lieutenant sipped his coffee. “That might put the kibosh on looking hard at Will Cartwright’s death. Let me guess—the ratting stopped after Will died.”
Grace nodded and finished off her sandwich. “That make sense to you?”
“It would, if Will wasn’t nearly shot to pieces by guys with AKs. Why would he put himself through that?”
She chased the sandwich with coffee. “Maybe to put the cops off his scent?”
“Maybe. Kind of extreme.”
“Do you think Paisley found out?”
Pete nodded. “Paisley may be weird...A.F., but she’s not dumb. When you think about it, she probably quit because the PD just wrote off her brother’s death.”
“A.F.?”
He smiled. “Gotta maintain a professional demeanor. Even in the New Carfax Dunks.”
“So why get all crazy about it two years later?”
“When you find her, you can ask her.”
Grace made a face. “I’m no closer to finding her now than I was two days ago.”
“Have you checked out the Goth clubs? Maybe she has friends who know where she’s at. Darq Salem, Wonderbar, Xmortis?”
“No. But not because I didn’t think of it. Paisley doesn’t drink, first of all. And secondly, do you think she’s the kind of person who would hang out with people just because they dress like her?”
Pete thrust his lower lip out and raised his brows. “She is kind of a free spirit. Which is a nice way of saying she’s a bit antisocial.”
An older couple wandered over from the cashier. Grace noted lime green pants on the man, the woman in a lilac track suit, but with a Peter Pan collar on the top. Her voice was a little shaky. “Officer Willoughby, have you caught those people who are blocking the bridges? I have book club tomorrow night and I don’t want to be trapped in Salem.”
“Those bastards,” the old man snarled. His remaining wispy hair and wattled neck made him look like a baby vulture.
“I’m not really in the loop on that, but I know the state police are watching the bridges carefully. You should be fine,” Pete said.
“Oh, good. We’re discussing ‘The Kiss Quotient.’ Steamy stuff,” the old lady said.
The elderly couple shuffled off to their avocado-green land freighter.
“Haven’t seen a Riviera in a long time.” Pete watched the old man back the twenty-foot-long car by millimeters out of the space. “Classic.”
“They’ll put it in the garage when the snow starts,” Grace said. “Bust out the Hummer.”
Pete eyed her. “I was thinking Escalade.”
“With the optional four-wheel drive, maybe.” Her cell phone rang. She looked at the contact, and gazed across the square at the New Church. “Thanks for doing all this for me,” she said. “But I better take this.”
Chapter 11
She walked through the square, noting the fat, puffy fall clouds gathering in the deep blue sky behind the dark brick church. “Hey, Reverend, I’m crossing the square right now.”
“Meet you at the door, Grace.”
He led her through the church to his office. With the warmth of the day, he wore a short-sleeved shirt with a minister’s collar. She noted the corded muscles in his forearms. Grace looked at the science fiction toys decorating the desktop. The reverend was full of contradictions. She took the seat across from him.
“So. I finally heard back from Sam. He was finding the Lord at his favorite fishing spot.”
Grace raised her brows. “Did he know about the candle?”
“Yep. He called it a vela sin miedo, which translates roughly into a fearless candle, or candle without fear. Mi Español no es bueno.”He shrugged.
“Mi Español no es bueno tampoco,” she said: My Spanish is no good, either. “So what does it do? What does it mean?”
He folded his hands. “Well, there’s no two ways about it. This is a candle dressed for sympathetic magic. Witchcraft. And it’s dressed to the nines.”
“Uh-huh...?” Grace prompted. “I don’t know much about witchcraft.”
“The candle is molded by a bruja, or brujo, that’s Spanish for witch, for someone living in fear. The candle takes that fear away.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Magic.”
“I mean, does it get rid of the fear inside you, or does it get rid of the thing you fear?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know much about witchcraft, tampoco.”
Grace smiled. “Maybe the ’shrooms make you too high to be afraid?”
“Heat destroys psilocybin, so there wouldn’t be a high. But this is sympathetic magic, so I’m guessing the mushrooms in the mix are to alter your perceptions. You know, change your point of view regarding whatever fear you’re experiencing. The feather represents the fear flying away, and so on. I have only a basic understanding, but that’s usually the way it goes.”
Grace tapped her fingers on the armrests. “That doesn’t sound like black magic.”
“Perspective, like I said. And like you asked, does it take away your personal fear, or eliminate the thing you’re afraid of, or both?” He held up his palms. “That would define whether this is black or white magic.”
“Okay, so you burn the candle, and your fear goes away. Is that it? You just light it like any candle?”
“There might be a prayer said, some kind of invocation. It didn’t come with instructions, but the owl on the bottom of the jar was familiar to Sam. He says if the owl on the label was perched, and the wax was red, it would be for protection or vengeance. If the wax was gold and the label depicted the talons of an owl, it would be for gathering wealth, etc.”
Grace turned the idea over in her head. “If someone lit this, say, for a departed loved one, and didn’t know about the magic, would they be—what’s the word? Charmed?”
“Spellbound, maybe,” Rev. Swift said. “Bewitched. I’m not sure. But Sam did say that the brujos who mold these candles are considered powerful sorcerers by those who believe. Not just anyone can throw some junk in a jar, pour wax over it and make it magic. When we strained it, I also saw blood meal in the wax.”
“Blood meal?”
“Powdered blood. You can use it for fertilizer. I don’t think it was fresh blood, because it wouldn’t hold up in molten wax. It would just make everything pink, I think. But blood is sort of the power source for magic, and I’m sure that crushed black stone has some power in it, as well. Magically speaking.”
Grace wasn’t following. “What are you getting at?”
“Just that, given the little I know, that candle was ready to go. It might well be that whoever lit it, if they stayed in the same room with it, would be influenced. That being said, it’s really just a matter of how much you believe in magic. The more you believe, the better it works.”
“What if you didn’t know it was magic?”
His mouth made a moue. “I’m a Christian minister. While I have an open mind, while I have studied comparative religion, while I believe that there is a measure of magic in the world, my faith isn’t with witchcraft or Santa Muerte, but with God. So I’m going to say that, no, I don’t think a non-believer, or an innocent bystander, would be hexed by burning a candle with feathers, rocks, blood meal and bones in the wax.
“On the other hand, Horatio...”
Grace nodded. “Gotcha.”
“You said this was part of a case you’re working on. Can you say more about it? I might be able to offer some insight.”
“My trainee, Paisley. She’s disappeared.” Grace related her steps in the investigation. Rob Swift listened to her story in silence.
When she finished, he said, “So, you found this
half-burned candle in her room, and you think she’s under its spell?”
“I don’t know what else to think.”
“Well, the anniversary of her brother’s death; that could lead someone to find a solitary place for contemplation. It could be that that’s all this is.”
“Except she was really focused on the drug bust in the locker full of Santa Muerte,” Grace argued. A terrible idea occurred. “Ah, man—does that make her more of a believer?”
“You say you don’t think she knew the candle was dressed?”
“Well, I’m assuming. Where the hell would you get a black magic candle like that, anyway?”
“If you live in Salem, there are probably a dozen shops where you could get a black magic candle like that,” Rev. Swift said.
“And Paisley lives in Salem.”
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing.
Chapter 12
Grace parked outside the big brick Federal house, staring at the façade. The clock on her dash said there were thirteen hours remaining until the anniversary of Will’s suicide. She felt her heart race at the thought. Paisley wouldn’t hurt herself, would she? Grace thought her trainee had a strong sense of self-preservation, evidenced by her list of “rational fears”: sharks, needles, blood borne pathogens, bridges, bees, dogs, germs, clowns and hospitals. Paisley repeated the list often.
Could a black magic candle really take control of her? Of anyone? Grace had handled objects that did just that. Those things were generally ancient, cast in gold and precious gems, form matching dangerous function. Usually when she physically touched one, the cameo she constantly wore would spread a tingle across her skin. She’d experienced none of that. Still, her mother’s cameo was not a consistent source of information.
She let herself in. The housekeeper was vacuuming. When she saw Grace, she jumped about a foot in the air and let out a shriek. The vacuum cleaner crashed to the floor, brush whining in protest.
“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Grace held up her hands, the keys in her right. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Although the maid clutched at her heart with both hands, she nodded. “S’okay, s’okay.” The woman tried a smile that looked more like a grimace.
Grace hurried upstairs. Until she got halfway. What was she hurrying to? Did she have a clue how to find a clue?
Paisley’s room remained ultra-girly pink, save the black cloth over the snake cage. There was a stale smell that rooms get when they are closed too long. Grace opened the windows a crack. Blameless blue sky contrasted the remaining leaves on the trees, the sun warm. But today was cooler than yesterday. Sooner or later, a storm was coming.
She did the obvious thing, searching Paisley’s waste basket. Hoping to find a receipt for a magic candle from a local witch shop, she was disappointed. The room was spotless. Although she knew it was pointless, she grabbed the iPad from Paisley’s bag. She could get it to turn on, but she needed a fingerprint to unlock the device.
Staring at the phone icon, she had a thought. She sat on the bed, listening to Patricia slither around in her cage, and called Pete Willougby.
“What’s up, Grace? You find something?”
Had she? “Nothing concrete. I was wondering if you had Paisley’s financial records in front of you.”
“Yeah, I do. Hang on.”
There was some shuffling on the other end of the phone, and Pete’s voice talking to someone else. He came back on the line. “What are you looking for?”
“A purchase at a magic store.”
“Like, a rabbit out of a hat magic store, or a sage wands and crystals magic store?”
“The second one.” Of course, she didn’t add.
Paper flapped and pages turned. “This goes back to October first. I don’t see anything that sounds like a sage wand and crystals shop. Holy shit, she paid two hundred bucks for coffee on Amazon.”
Kopi luwak, Grace thought. Those were definitely Paisley’s financial reports.
“Twice!” Pete’s voice rose in amazement. “I remember her spending, like, fifty bucks at Judy’s, but seriously? This is coffee.”
Grace leaned forward on the bed. “Any spooky sounding Amazon shops?”
Pete hummed to himself for a moment. “Nope, just the coffee.”
“Dammit!” she said through her teeth. “I thought I was onto something.”
“Easy, Grace. You’ll find her. I’ve got guys looking for her vehicle. Something will turn up. Keep in touch, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”
She disconnected. Grace knew that Paisley might have paid cash for the candle. In which case, she needed that receipt more than ever. If there even was one. She stood up to find the housekeeper when something stopped her. A flash of light and the ding of a bell. Grace saw the screen of the iPad light up. Whatever message popped up disappeared by the time she looked. Maybe if she kept an eye on it, she’d find another clue.
She turned it on again, noting that it was almost out of juice. Grace knelt on the rug, searching until she found a lightning cable, and plugged it in. Even if she couldn’t get into the device, the pop up messages might give Paisley away somehow.
Leaving it to charge, she hurried downstairs to find the housekeeper. No vacuum sounds hummed through the big house. “Hello?” Grace called. When she got no response, she tried: “¿Hola?”
Finally, she found the housekeeper in the kitchen, washing dishes and placing them in the drainer. “Oh, hey, it’s me again. I’m looking for a receipt that might have been in Paisley’s garbage can. Or, maybe you saw a bag from a magic store in town?”
The maid hummed to herself, washing a tea cup and placing it on the rack. She ignored Grace completely. Dang. Grace brought up the translator app on her phone. She typed in “I’m looking for a receipt.” The Spanish part popped up. “Um... Estoy. Buscando un. Recibo. Por favor.”
Still, the housekeeper kept her attention on the dishes.
“¿Un recibo? ¿Hola?” Grace raised her voice. “Hello?”
The housekeeper turned slightly. Then whirled around. The plate in her hand went sailing, water splashing across the tile floor. “Aaaiii, Dios Mio!” she screamed.
Grace reached out in panic, grabbing the plate from the air. Her shoes then slipped in the water on the floor. She fell forward, conking her head against the maid’s. Holding onto the plate for dear life, she rebounded off the sink. The maid stumbled back, catching herself on the counter.
Feet finding solid purchase, the two stared at each other, panting. Grace noticed the ear-buds under the maid’s hair, but only as she pulled them free. “You. You are worse than The Old Lady. Sneaking! Always sneaking!”
“I was not sneaking! I was yelling at you!” Grace looked at the plate in her hand. She set it in the sink.
“She’s always sneaking in the house, trying to catch me at something.” The maid’s eyes went from fiery to soft as she watched Grace place the plate she saved safely in the sink. Her hand went to her head. There was a red mark there. Grace thought it would probably bruise. Then, she lifted her hand to the smarting spot on her own forehead.
Dammit, she hated having injuries on her head. It was where everyone looked.
“I can’t afford to lose this job. My boy’s in school here in Salem. A good school.”
Grace held up her hands in surrender. “I don’t want you to lose your job, either. I’m looking for Paisley.”
“I haven’t seen Señorita Paisley in weeks.” The maid smiled and gave Grace sly eyebrows. “Perhaps she has found a man?”
Grace gave her back the are-you-serious look. “I think that would be amazing. I think that would be so amazing that Paisley would want to tell someone. So no, I doubt she’s found a man.”
“She needs to stop dressing like a bruja.”
Bruja. A witch, according to Rev. Swift. “Yes, bruja. I’m looking for a receipt, um... un recibo from a bruja... she tried to dig up the Spanish word for shop. Grace came up with “Mercado?”
The maid frowned. “I might have an accent, but I speak English.”
“Sorry. I’m struggling here.” Grace held out her hand. “I’m Grace.”
“Esmerelda.” They shook. “I appreciate the effort. It’s sweet, but your pronunciation is terrible.”
“Sorry. Here’s what I’m looking for. I think Paisley bought a candle right before she went missing. A candle called vela sin miedo. Are you familiar with that?”
“A candle without fear? That makes no sense.”
“It didn’t make a lot of sense to me, either. It’s a brujo candle, magic. If I can find out where she bought it, maybe I can figure out where she’s gone.”
The maid waved her hand. “That sounds like Mexican B.S. I’m Puerto Rican—I don’t get involved in that kind of stuff. But why would Señorita Paisley need to buy a candle? There are boxes and boxes of them everywhere. The kind you light to remember someone.”
“I haven’t seen any. Can you show me?”
“Of course. There is a box in the attic. Follow me.”
In the room filled with cardboard boxes and plastic bins, there was one with the flaps loose. Grace followed Esmerelda inside. On prior inspection, she hadn’t noticed that all the containers were labeled with two words: Will’s Apt.
“You see? This is a full box of candles. Well, three are missing.”
Grace noted dust on the flaps, the formerly securing tape brittle with age. The box was a carton with spaces for nine tall, cylindrical jar candles like the one she and Rev. Swift had melted down. She slid one from the cardboard divider. An owl in flight decorated the bottom. The scent was off-putting. Could you order black magic candles by the carton?
“Are there more of these boxes?”
Esmerelda shook her head. “Señorita Paisley keeps one burning all the time. I remember putting an empty box in recycling the day she went missing. Maybe she ran out, and used one from this box.”
“The one in her room had burned out.” Grace had a sinking feeling. “Did you try to relight it?”