M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Basically it is just a tradition within The Craft,” I answered.

“The Dianic tradition places the focus purely on the feminine aspect,” Felicity expanded on my response. “The Coven will almost always consist only of women and will engage in Goddess worship with little or no mention of the God or male influence.”

“Humph.” He rolled his eyes as he grunted out the sound. “Guess that’d explain the whole Bi thing.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Felicity chastised. “Being in a Dianic Coven doesn’t automatically make you a lesbian or bisexual. But even so, what if she was? What difference does it make?”

“Hey, whoa!” He held his hands up in mock defense. “I’m just doin’ my job here. I don’t care what anyone does as long as they aren’t hurtin’ anybody, and I don’t hafta look at it…

“Unfortunately though, her bein’ Bi does set off a few alarms. Couple it with what ‘er co-workers had ta’ say, and you got someone at high risk for all kinds of shit.”

“So, to you, her lifestyle puts her in the same category as Brianna Walker,” I proposed.

“Hate ta’ say it, but yeah. Damn near, anyway.” He took a sip from his coffee cup and then set it back on the counter where he was leaning. “I should also mention that she was takin’ a couple of classes over at the U of M. Narcotics is payin’ special attention to that campus.”

“So are you coming back to the theory that this guy is only after hookers?” I asked.

“Not completely, but I do think his choice of victims so far does say somethin’.” He paused and let his gaze rest on me then added, “Don’t you?”

“Maybe.” I shook my head. “But I still think he’s after Witches not prostitutes.”

“Listen, white man…” He let out a frustrated sigh before continuing, “No one has thrown out your theory ‘bout the whole revival of the Inquisition thing, least of all me. But I’ve got a job ta’ do, and we hafta look at all the angles. Whether he’s after hookers, Witches, or…” He flung his arm out in a sweeping gesture as he searched for the elusive words. “Awww hell, whoever! I just want the bastard in a cell waitin’ for his last meal, that’s all.”

“I know you do, Ben,” I murmured half-heartedly, “I know you do.”

“Look, Row, we’ve got the Narcs workin’ the dealers, and personally I think that’s a hot lead. We’ve been over the Miller woman’s apartment with a microscope… Twice…” He held up two fingers to punctuate. “The place had been tossed, but all we found were some smudges. The guy was obviously wearin’ gloves. Shit, it’s the middle of winter! Everybody’s wearin’ gloves!”

He reached up to smooth his hair and then shook his head. He was already starting to show signs of stress over this case himself, and my unsupportive-sounding reply hadn’t helped.

“We’ve been canvassin’ the area around Meadowbrook Park, and so far nobody’s seen a thing. If we can figure out where she was last, we’ll be all over that place too. Other than that I don’t know what ta’ say…”

“I’m sorry, Ben,” I quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was doubting you.”

“S’okay, Kemosabe. I think we’re all a little wired. Kinda standin’ around waitin’ for the other shoe ta’ drop.” He folded his arms across his large chest and pursed his lips for a moment as he stared out through our atrium window then turned his attention back to us. “So, Deckert and I are s’posed to go talk to some members of ‘er group this afternoon.” He bobbed his head in our direction. “You two wanna come with?”

“What time?”

“Around four.”

Felicity shook her head and looked over at me, “I should really stay here and take care of a few things, but you could go as long as you’re back in time. We’re supposed to be at the party by six-thirty.”

“That’s right, I almost forgot,” I replied.

“Party?” Ben raised an eyebrow.

“My grandparents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary combined with a double family reunion,” my wife explained. “And being a daughter of the O’Brien clan, I’m expected to dance, so I have to put the finishing touches on my outfit.”

“You need a special outfit so ya’ can dance?” He shot a glance in my direction and jibed, “You got somethin’ pretty ta’ wear too?”

“Ceilidh dancing, Ben,” Felicity interjected. “Irish folk dancing. My cousins and I are providing the entertainment at my grandparents’ request. It’s like a family tradition.”

“So you mean ya’ do like that Lord of the Dance thing, then? Allison loves that stuff.”

“It’s pretty much the same thing,” she nodded. “Not exactly, but close. And there is the fact that we do it for fun and celebration. Not professionally.”

“Wow. Sounds like a big deal.”

“Regular Irish shindig,” I grumbled. “Lots of colcannon and whiskey followed closely by sightings of leprechauns and the traditional ‘dancing of the jig’ right on into the wee hours.”

“What the hell’s a cold cannon?”

“Colcannon. It’s a traditional Irish dish made of potatoes, onions and cabbage,” Felicity explained, then with her face bearing a broad grin, reached across the table and jokingly slapped my hand. “And you? Stop it! You’ll have fun and you know it.”

“You sure ya’ got time?” Ben questioned. “I’d really prefer to have ya’ there but it’s not like it’s your job. Deck and I can handle it.”

“He’s got plenty of time,” my wife answered for me. “He’s not the one dancing, I am. You just have to promise to have him back here in one piece by five-thirty, so I can get him dressed.”

“Deal.”

“That’s with a K,” a pretty young blonde woman with a neatly clipped pageboy haircut anxiously explained to Detective Deckert.

“K-a-r-o-l?”

“No sir,” she answered. “With a K and a Y. K-a-r-y-l. Karyl.”

“K-a-r-Y…” Carl muttered to himself as he wrote the name in his notepad emphasizing the K and the Y, “Gotcha. Last name?”

“Steinbeck.”

“Like the writer?”

“Yes, Detective.” She gave a slightly bothered sigh that was only partially masked by her obvious jitters. “Like the writer.”

“Any relation?”

“Not that I am aware of, Detective.”

“Great book, that Grapes of Wrath.”

“I wouldn’t know, Detective,” she told him, “I’ve never read it.”

“Too bad, you really ought to. Excellent book,” he told her then moved on to the woman seated at her side. “And your name again, Miss?”

“Miz.”

“Excuse me?”

“I prefer Miz,” she stated flatly as she brushed a shock of coal black hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

I couldn’t help but notice the lobe was decorated with a row of three rather significant diamond studs.

“My apologies,” Carl returned without missing a beat. “And your name again, Miz?”

“Starr,” she answered coldly, “with two R’s. Starr Winston.”

He mumbled softly as he scribbled, “Of course. Starr with two R’s…”

We had arrived at the upscale address in the historic section of Lansbury at ten minutes of four. Detective Deckert had driven himself and met us in front of the restored home. Though we were expected, the reception had been less than warm to say the least. Upon entering, we were quietly led to a sizeable sitting room by the young blonde who then excused herself and disappeared momentarily.

The room, like the rest of the interior we had seen, sported meticulously restored hardwood floors, three-member base accents and crown moldings. Throughout, eclectic paintings adorned strategic points providing embellishment for the muted colors of the walls. Otherwise, the furniture and decor seemed a paradox of feminine tastes driven by masculine undertones. The layout was nice, neat and altogether functional in design.