Murder Most Witchy (Wendy Lightower Mystery) (18 page)

Wendy gaped at her. “Investigating? What were you investigating?”

Magda opened her mouth to answer, and Detective Milton cut her off. “Excuse me. I should probably go first. I came to give you an update on the case, but I have a feeling I don't want to hear what she has to say.”

Magda's smug smile confirmed that he was probably right.

“By all means, Detective,” Wendy waved a hand. It was obvious, to her at least, that she was not in control of this investigation, so she wasn't sure why it had seemed like he was asking her permission.

“Autopsies are back on both victims. I can confirm cause of death – strangulation in the Jacobi case and the burns for Braun. There were interesting points about both, though.”

Everyone waited quietly for him to continue.

“ As for Braun, there was some smoke in his lungs, as you would expect from a burning victim, but not enough. The M.E. couldn't explain it except to say that the fire burned a lot faster than most she had seen.”

The three witches at the table exchanged a knowing glance. Fire from magic would be much hotter and faster than natural fire, especially if there was rage or pain directing it.

“What about Benny?” Wendy had to ask.

Detective Milton shrugged. “Not much else to share. The M.E. said the internal damage was consistent with someone who had been hung or garroted. She still couldn't find any bruising or visible damage to his neck.”

If it hadn't been completely out of place, Gerry would have smiled. “How did you explain that one?”

Milton stood to leave. “Luckily I don't have to. Yet. Anyway, that's it. No other forensics found. No witnesses have come forward. Both of which are weird enough on their own. It's a rare killer, even in this age when everybody with a T.V. knows about forensics, that leaves behind no trace whatsoever. From my end, this case has hit a brick wall. I hope you all do better.” With a brisk nod at each of them, he was gone.

Magda perked up as soon as he left. She wouldn't admit it, but the talk of 'cause of death' had turned her a bit green. “My turn.”

Wendy glared at her. “Seriously, what have you been investigating? Who told you that you could investigate?”

Magda pouted. “No one. I did it all by myself. As for what, it is actually a 'who.'”

“Fine,” Wendy snapped, not yet ready to let go of her ill humor, “tell us already.”

Mollified by Wendy's apparent interest, Magda brightened. “Douglas Fry.”

The silence that met this pronouncement was not the reaction she had been expecting. “He's a suspect, trust me.”

There was a lull as Wendy thought about how to respond. She hadn't realized that Magda's desire to avoid a relationship would stretch to accusing her date of murder. “I'm sorry, Magda. Other than a rather tenuous connection to the place where Benny was killed, I don't see how he is a suspect.”

“Then I shall elaborate,” she declared.

“Please.”

Ian and Gerry were following their exchange with unconcealed amusement, and Wendy had to fight the urge to kick them both under the table.

“Fry never wanted to display his family's collection at all. He was extremely resistant to the whole idea, but someone pressured him into it.”

Wendy asked the question she knew that Magda was expecting. “Who?”

“Well, Derek, of course,” she brushed aside the museum director like an annoying fly, “but it wasn't until Mayor Braun got involved that Fry actually agreed.”

This time Ian broke in, “How do you know all this?”

Magda studied her fingernails nonchalantly, but it was obvious that she was bursting with excitement. “I talked to Fry's secretary. She's quite chatty.”

“Oh, Magda, what if he finds out?”

Wendy thought for a moment that her friend actually looked sad. “He won't. And it doesn't matter, he may have killed two people!”

“But Magda,” Wendy said quietly, “what if he didn't?”

Hearing her own words echoed back to her shut Magda up completely.

Ian broke the silence. “What made him finally change his mind about the collection?”

It took Magda a long moment to answer. “She didn't know,” her confidence returned as she spoke, “but she did tell me that when Fry got off the phone with Braun, he ordered her to call a shipping company to come pack the collection, and he was not happy. 'Totally pissed off' was her phrasing, I believe.”

“What about Benny?”

Magda shrugged. “I found a motive for one. Isn't that enough for you people?”

Wendy had to admit that she was right. Her own list certainly featured suspects who had a motive for one but not both murders. She removed the neatly folded pieces of paper from her bag and flattened them out on the table.

Ian looked over her shoulder as she added Fry's name to the list labeled with Braun's name. “Nice list,” he commented.

Wendy pointedly ignored him. She made sure to look directly at Magda after she had written the name. Magda refused to meet her eyes, and she was fidgeting in a way uncommon to her. Wendy bit her bottom lip but decided not to say anything in front of the others. “Who else?” she asked of the room at large, her pen poised over the pages.

“I got to thinking about the magic element,” Ian began. “We've been thinking too much like regular investigators. What about the people involved who we know have magic?”

Wendy frowned. “Like who?”

“That reporter. Jack Crosby.”

Wendy shook her head. “What possible reason would a reporter have for either killing?”

“I don't know,” Ian admitted, “but it's a lead. At least we know he
could
have done it.”

“As opposed to our other suspects,” she acknowledged, “but I don't like the idea of suspecting someone simply because we think he's a witch. Sounds very 1690s to me.”

For the first time, Gerry spoke up. “He definitely is a witch. The Crosbys have been around North Harbor since the beginning. A little ancient history for all of you young folks, one William Crosby was the first death in our own local witch trials.”

Wendy remembered that part of the exhibit, recalling a description of the horrors perpetrated by one William
Crosby on a broadside. “I restored that piece in the exhibit. According to the broadside, he was hung based on the evidence of two young girls in the household where he was a groomsman. He left behind a family.”

Ian took the pen from her hand and added Jack Crosby's name to both lists. Under the Motive column, he filled in a question mark. “He's as good a suspect as any of them.”

Wendy had to admit that Ian was right. None of her suspects were looking particularly strong. Her attention was drawn to one entry, the least helpful of them all. “We need to find out the identity of that woman I heard with Braun the night of the party. Even if she didn't kill him, she might know something. Benny was killed later that night. Maybe she saw something.”

Magda was grim. The details of Braun's near attack on the unknown woman made her stomach turn. “I can go ask around his office again. Maybe he took calls from the women he was seeing.”

Wendy looked at Gerry, who sat leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “What about you?”

“Me?” Gerry was the picture of innocence. “I told you I haven't the time to help with this case. Besides,” he grinned, “you're doing fine.”

“What about you?” Ian asked Wendy.

Wendy looked down at the list in her hands. “I think it's time I paid a visit to Mrs. Braun.”

The Braun residence was within walking distance to his deputy mayor. When Ian and Wendy drove past Archer's house, Wendy squirmed uncomfortably against the heat that rose from the pit of her stomach. Ian pretended not to notice.

“How do you want to play this?” he asked instead. “I'm guessing, 'Hey, Mrs. Braun, who was your husband sleeping with this week?' probably isn't the way to go.”

Wendy agreed that it probably was not. “Maybe we just focus on getting her to talk to us first. I have a feeling that Sheila Braun won't be as accommodating as Jennifer Jacobi.”

From a distance, Wendy was surprised to see that the Braun residence was clear of press vans, until Ian slammed on the brakes and she saw the barricade. The cars and the uniforms did not mark them as police.

“Private security?” Wendy asked.

“I suppose being the wealthiest new widow in town has some perks.”

The blockade of paramilitary members didn't flinch, even when Ian nosed his car as close as he could get without actually hitting them. They stared at him through reflective sunglasses and waved at him to turn around.

“Thought,” Wendy said, her eyes resting on the intimidating mirrors of their glasses. She rifled around in her bag until her hand found lime green plastic. “I go. You turn around like the nice people asked.”

She didn't wait for his answer, which she knew would most likely be unfavorable, and she hopped out of the car with the bright sunglasses perched on her nose. She was around the cordon in seconds without drawing a single silvery glance.

Wendy drew off the sunglasses as she reached the door. Her knock was answered by a young dark-haired girl in an old fashioned uniform.

The girl's eyes, intelligent and wary, darted from Wendy to the security presence not far behind. Apparently deciding that getting past the barrier meant that Wendy had passed some sort of test, her expression became studiously polite.

“May I help you?”

Wendy flashed her most dazzling smile. “I'm here to see Mrs. Braun. She's expecting me.” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed past the maid into the foyer.

The maid didn't stop her, only shook her head and briskly retreated down the hallway. She was replaced moments later by a middle-aged woman with perfectly bobbed platinum blond hair and a thin, angular frame encased in a perfectly pressed cream pantsuit. Her face was overly made up, which still couldn't hide the beginning's of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Her perfectly pink painted lips were pursed in annoyance. She was the picture of a formidable woman, a bit past her prime but still beautiful.

“Do I know you?” she demanded when she caught sight of Wendy. “I know for certain that I wasn't expecting you, whatever you told Rose.”

Wendy wanted more than anything to shrink before the oncoming storm of Sheila Braun, but she forced herself to hold her ground. “My name is Wendy Lightower. I'm here to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

The woman stopped in the middle of her stride, and a small, vicious smile contorted her pink lips. “Another one?” her voice was full of mockery. “I haven't heard of Wendy. You've been more discreet than some, my dear.”

With horror, Wendy realized what Sheila Braun was suggesting. “No!” she almost shouted. “I'm a private investigator. I'm not here,” she shuddered, “for that.”

To her surprise, Sheila Braun actually laughed, a real, hearty laugh. “That's how I felt about him at the end, too, dear. Please, come in.”

Wendy followed her hostess down the hallway into a formal sitting room. The same dark-haired maid, Rose, entered with a coffee service on a serving platter.

“Coffee?” Sheila asked. She waved at Rose to pour the coffee without waiting for Wendy's answer. “How do you take it?”

Wendy's mind was still processing the unexpected turn of Sheila's personality. “Black,” she finally answered. Then she added, “Thank you.”

Sheila waited until the coffee was served and Rose had retreated before she spoke again. “So, what would you like to know?”

Wendy didn't know how to reply. All of this was so unexpected that every question she had prepared had fled from her mind. “I have to ask, Mrs. Braun,” she said instead, “why are you so willing to talk to me? The security presence outside didn't leave me with much hope.”

Sheila actually grinned. “I wasn't responsible for those people. I think my husband's underlings were worried about what I would say, so they have me secluded in here away from the press.”

Wendy imagined Archer giving the order to keep Sheila Braun out of the limelight. The thought made her sad for some reason.

“I'm quite pleased you got by them,” Sheila was saying. “It's actually a bit lonely out here by myself. Now that I know you didn't sleep with my husband, of course.”

“Of course,” Wendy agreed, since she didn't know what else to say. “You said before that you hadn't heard of me. Are there some names you could give me that you have heard?”

Sheila began nodding. “You think one of those tramps killed him? Possible. I know there was a Lisa, but that was several years ago.” She looked up towards the ceiling as though trying to remember. “And a Caitlin, maybe? Something like that. I don't really care to know, my dear.”

Though she was disappointed, Wendy nodded. “Can you think of anyone else who might want to hurt your husband?”

“Aside from me?” she laughed aloud. “Not really. And if I had wanted to kill him, I would have done it years ago after the first bimbo. I wouldn't have waited until he had slept with every young thing in a two-mile radius.”

“Who knew your husband's schedule, Mrs. Braun?”

“Call me Sheila,” she corrected. “Honestly, I don't know. The people at City Hall, certainly. It could have been broadcast on local radio for all I care.”