M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“No problem. I was just getting chewed on by my father-in-law anyway…” I paused and sighed heavily. “I could have asked for better circumstances for an escape, though.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Were you able to find someone to look after Starr and Karyl?” I inquired while watching him don his own pair of oversized latex gloves.

“Yeah, I got an off-duty copper friend of mine over there. Ended up costin’ me a box of Santa Damiana’s though. So, did Ackman and Hirst fill ya’ in?”

“Just that there was a body and that you would meet us here. Do you know who it is?”

“Not officially confirmed but looks like it’s the apartment’s occupant.” He referenced his notepad with a practiced flip of his wrist. “One Sheryl Keeven. Caucasian, thirty-four years old, divorced.”

“Was she…”

“…On the coven list?” Ben finished the question for me. “Yeah. She was on it. Martin was tryin’ to get a hold of ‘er earlier this afternoon. We were just gettin’ ready ta’ send a car by when the suicide call came in.”

“Suicide?” I puzzled aloud as I followed him through the open doorway, unmindfully scratching at my arm through my coat.

“Yeah, they didn’t tell ya’? The bastard left ‘er hangin’ off ‘er balcony. Neighbor called it in.”

“Did anybody see anything?”

“Hell no. Nobody ever sees anything any more.”

The third floor dwelling was fairly standard as apartments go, with a combination living room and dining area divided from the small kitchenette by a half wall lined with potted houseplants. A narrow corridor led back along the far side giving access to the bathroom, a closet with louvered luan doors, and finally, the bedroom. The walls were standard apartment complex white but had been cheerfully decorated with numerous framed pictures forming a silent gallery of what I assumed were relatives and friends. A faint odor of potpourri still permeated the room.

Bookshelves lined one end of the living area and were stuffed with novels, both paperback and hardcover. Anything ranging from mysteries to romances filled every available space. One set of shelves in particular held my attention as they were neatly arranged with non-fiction titles regarding herbs, alternative religions, and more specifically, WitchCraft.

My otherworldly senses were bombarded with random energies and sensations from the residence. The primary feeling in the room was one of abject fear and death. Not surprising at all, and I would have expected nothing less. The underlying impression that peeked out from behind the horror, however, was one of warmth and love. It told me that Sheryl Keeven had been the kind of person who dotted her i’s with smiley faces and went out of her way to help someone in need-even a stranger.

The ethereal touch slipped in and introduced itself. Now, I could no longer view her as an unfamiliar name. I could only see her as someone I wished I had had the opportunity to know. Even though we had never met in this physical plane of existence, the fact that she was dead filled me with the dull ache of loss.

I shook off the wash of emotion and forced myself back into stoic objectivity then continued to scan my surroundings.

In the corner, a nineteen-inch television with a severe chroma problem flickered mutely, displaying a weather update that warned of yet another approaching snowstorm. Though it was not expected to be anywhere near the strength of last week’s blizzard, we stood to accumulate a good two to four inches. At least, that is what they were saying.

A set of sliding glass doors at the center of the living/dining area’s back outer wall stood levered wide open. The frigid night air streamed in through the opening only to clash with the warmth being continuously pumped into the room through the furnace vents. One of them would eventually win, and I suspected it would be the cold.

A crime scene technician with a wind-chapped face stood quietly frowning as she expertly dusted the door handle and the glass surrounding it. When she slid the door partially closed for a moment, I could see a segment of a white, curved line decorated with hash marks. Encompassed within the arc, there appeared to be one side of a large X and possibly a piece of the vertical line that may form a capital P. It was apparent that the marking was large enough to spread across the face of both door panels.

At random intervals the room would brighten for a brief instant as the thyristor flash on another evidence technician’s camera exploded harsh white light out on the balcony. The runny lines of the large painted symbol cast an eerie shadow each time and left me with an oblique after-image branded on my retinas.

“They bring you in the front or the back?” Ben asked me as he stood surveying the room.

“Front,” I answered. “It was a mess.”

“Shit, you think the front’s bad?” he huffed. “Goddamned news vultures are all over the back parkin’ lot. That’s where the balcony is, and we can’t move the body until the M.E. gets here.”

Sarcasm gelled my one word response. “Wonderful.”

“And here I thought you were leaving all those messages at the office because you guys wanted to pay up on that dinner you owe me.” A feminine but distinctly authoritative voice issued from the doorway.

Constance Mandalay was holding forth a leather case containing her badge and FBI ID to the officer at the door while simultaneously scratching her name into the log. With a curt nod to the patrolman, she closed the wallet and thrust it into her pocket as she entered.

The brunette federal agent was clad in a wide-collared beige overcoat that now hung open to reveal her petite figure hugged in an intriguing fashion by a shimmery, metallic-blue cocktail dress. Completing the ensemble, she wore matching satin high-heels and a splash of unpretentious silver jewelry. Her shoulder-length hair was elegantly styled, and her face had seen a very tasteful brush with a handful of cosmetics.

Ben let out a blatant, teasing wolf-whistle as he stopped and did a double take. “Whoa, the Feeb’s wearin’ girl clothes! Nice legs, Mandalay.”

“Watch it, Storm, or I’ll call your wife!” she warned jokingly.

“I’ll risk it, ‘cause I’m just dyin’ ta’ know where you’re hidin’ your Sig in that getup,” he returned with a grin, referring to her sidearm.

“I’m afraid that’s a government secret,” she quipped then smiled over at me. “Hi, Rowan. I see he’s got you involved in this one up to your eyeballs.”

“Heya, Constance,” I acknowledged. “I thought you were on some kind of security assignment?”

“Visiting dignitary,” she said, as she nodded and held the front of her overcoat open wide for a brief moment. “Just finished working the farewell party. A real Yawwwn if you know what I mean.” With a quick nod she canted her head toward me. “What’s your excuse?”

“Felicity’s grandparent’s anniversary party.”

“Watchin’ after a vip, huh,” Ben snorted the acronym as a word instead of spelling it out. “I would’a figured that for a Secret Service gig.”

“Normally it would be,” she answered with a sigh. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say he’s gone, and I’m all yours now. Would you like to bring me up to speed? All I know is what you told Agent Bartlett and what’s been on the news. The only reason I knew you would be here is that I returned your call figuring I’d leave a voice mail and got a live person instead.”

Someone loudly cleared his throat nearby. Ben held up a finger to Constance and turned to the evidence technician. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“We’re all finished out here,” he said. “It’s all yours.”

“Get anything?” my friend asked.