Heather Graham - The Hexed

“Well, I can assure you that my friend Beth Fullway, who owns the shop where I bought my medallion, isn’t involved. She and I were thirteen when the first murder occurred. We went to school together.”

“But did she create the piece?” he asked.

“No,” Devin admitted.

“What’s the name of her shop?”

“The Haunted Dragon. It’s right on Essex.”

He picked up his cup and finished his coffee. It was excellent. Black and strong, with no bite or aftertaste. He set the cup down regretfully.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Rockwell.”

“Rocky,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Please, just call me Rocky.”

“Your name is Rocky Rockwell?”

“Craig Rockwell. But I’ve always gone by Rocky.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and extracted a card from his wallet. “Please, call me if you think of anything.”

She accepted the card and slid it into the pocket of her jeans. “I will.”

“And keep your doors locked.”

“Of course,” she said again, stepping forward and opening the door for him.

He had started toward his car when she called him back.

“Agent Rockwell. Um, Rocky?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I could come with you. I’ve known Beth all my life. I’m afraid if you just go in and start questioning her...”

“You think I come on too tough?” he asked her.

“Well, when you first asked me about the necklace—the medallion—I thought you were going to arrest me.”

He was thoughtful for a moment, not sure how much he wanted to involve this woman.

“I really can help,” she said. “You’ll find out more if you let me introduce you and play it cool.”

Maybe she could help him. Like Jack Grail, she was a lot more closely tied to the area than he was.

He let out a breath.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

“Wait, give me a second,” she told him.

She ran into another room and came out with a large box. He reached to take it from her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I have it.”

“Please.”

She let him carry it. “Crown jewels?” he asked her.

“Books.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t elaborate.

“Of what?”

“You mean you don’t just assume that because I live in Salem, I must write about ghosts or monsters?”

“You could write anything. Fiction? Nonfiction?”

She blushed. “Witches—for children.”

He grinned knowingly, and her blush deepened.

“They’re based on my great-aunt.”

“The good witch.”

“The Wiccan. As you know.”

Once they were in his car, she turned to him curiously. “Don’t you think it’s awfully coincidental that you came back to town just in time to be on the road when I ran out?”

“Not really. I’m here because of the murder in Swampscott.”

“Ah,” she said, looking at him. She was waiting for more.

“And because of the murder thirteen years ago. Because of the similarities.”

“You must be pretty high up—to be able to pick your assignments, I mean.”

“I got lucky,” he said simply. He should have added that he wasn’t sure he was even official yet, he just happened to be friends with the lead detective on the case.

They headed to the pedestrian mall on Essex and he parked in the public garage. As they walked out to the street Rocky looked at the old Civil War building that was now the National Park Visitors’ Center. When he’d been growing up, it had been under reconstruction. As they reached Essex Street he reflected that while specifics changed, the town didn’t. Shops had different owners and offered different delights, but the overall effect was still the same. He paused, allowing himself a small moment of pride. Yes, the town was commercialized. But even so, most places—even the shoddy museums with less than stellar mannequins—made a point of getting the history right. They offered theories on what had caused the mass hysteria that led to the witch trials, but they didn’t profess to have the definitive answer. They reported history.

He listened to the chatter on the street. Some of the tourists were talking about the news—about the fact that a second woman had been murdered in just two weeks.

“Young women,” one man said. “Out alone.” He looked at the teenage daughter walking next to him. “You won’t be going anywhere alone.”

“Dad!” she protested.

“How dreadful,” a woman passing by said to her friends.

“Yes, but we’ll all stay together and be safe,” offered one of them.

Devin undoubtedly heard them, too, but she just watched him instead.

“Beth’s shop is this way,” she finally told him, taking the box from his arms and starting to walk away.

He followed her. When they entered the shop, a little bell rang and a pretty petite woman behind the counter looked up.

“Devin! You have my books. Thank you,” she said. “I had a mom in here a while ago asking about the new Auntie Pim. I have her number. Now I’ll be able to call her back and— Oh, hello.” She was clearly surprised to notice that Devin wasn’t alone.

“Devin! Who is this?” she asked.

“Rocky. Um, Rocky Rockwell,” Devin said.

She’d probably already forgotten the “Craig” part, he thought.

Rocky took Beth’s hand in a firm grip and said it was a pleasure to meet her.

“A friend from Boston?” Beth asked.

Before Devin could answer, Rocky seized on the opportunity.

“Yes. And Devin has told me that you have the best shop in town.”

Beth flushed, while Devin stood silent.

“Thank you, and welcome to Salem,” Beth said. “I hope you enjoy our city.”

“Thank you. Your store looks to be as wonderful as Devin said.”

“Thank you again. And where are you from, Rocky?” Beth asked him.

He grinned—charmingly, he hoped. “Peabody.”

Beth laughed. “Of course you are. No one who isn’t ever says it right.”

While the rest of the world pronounced all the syllables, locals said it more like Peab’dy.

“Small world,” Beth went on, delighted. “I wonder if we ever met at a concert or something, somewhere along the line.”

“He’s older than we are,” Devin said. “And he’s been gone a long time. He and I never knew each other locally, either. Until now.” She blushed. “I mean, he’s here now.”

“Oh,” Beth said. “Ohh.”

Clearly she had heard an implication of intimacy that Devin had never intended. Rocky was amused. Devin wasn’t. But Beth quickly went on to other matters.

“Devin, you have to be careful. Have you seen the news? Another young woman has been killed. They haven’t identified her yet, but...it sounded as if she was found not far from your house.”

“Yes, I know,” Devin said.

“Want to come and stay with me?” Beth asked her. “I mean, I live right here in the middle of the city. A lot safer, don’t you think?”

“I’m okay right now. But thank you for the invitation.”

“I guess you need to be home in the cottage to write. I mean, Auntie Pim is Mina. Did you ever meet her, Rocky?”

“No, I’m sorry to say that I didn’t,” Rocky said.

“That’s too bad. She was a remarkable woman.” She turned back to her friend. “Devin, please be careful,” Beth urged.

“I will be. I promise.”

“Buy some pepper spray or something.”

“I’ll think about it.”

They were interrupted as two women, one noticeably tall and the other much shorter, walked toward them from the back of the store. The tall woman appeared to be about fifty. She had shoulder-length snow-white hair that curved around an attractive face and wore a black dress that fell to the ground. The other woman was clutching a number of shopping bags. She thanked her companion, waved cheerfully to them at the counter and left the shop.