Murder Most Witchy (Wendy Lightower Mystery) (8 page)

Wendy arrived at the library a full hour later than her usual time. Carrie was there already, holding down the circulation desk, and her eyes widened in surprise at seeing Wendy stroll through the door at such an unusual time.

"Good morning." Her eyebrows lifted towards her hairline. "I thought you were in the back."

Naturally, it would never occur to her that Wendy simply hadn't arrived yet. Wendy was always there, bright and early, long before anyone else.

"I had some errands to run this morning," Wendy replied airily. "How was your weekend? Did you enjoy the party?"

Wendy saw a spasm of pain, followed by confusion, flit across the girl's features. She must have heard about Benny.

"I suppose. I hadn't really thought about it." Carrie paused, "How are you?"

Wendy knew that Carrie hadn't meant the question as a platitude, but as she wasn't in the mood to discuss the murder, she pretended to have misunderstood. "I'm fine, thanks. How are you?" Without waiting for an answer, she pressed on, "I have an appointment with a possible donor in an hour. I'll need you to take care of anything out here while I'm in my office."

"Sure."

"Thanks, Carrie."

Back in her office, Wendy shut the door and leaned heavily against it. She didn't mind talking to Detective Milton about Benny's death; he combined silent understanding and productive action in a way that appealed to her. She hadn't thought ahead enough to consider that coming to the library would mean having to answer a thousand questions, from the painfully sympathetic to the morbidly curious.

A pounding at her door made Wendy jump away from the wooden panel. The knock was rapid and insistent.

"Wendy," Carrie's voice came muffled through the door, "I think you should come out here."

Knowing that Carrie wouldn't ignore her express wishes without a very good reason, Wendy opened the door. The sight of what awaited her made her want to shut it again - and lock it.

The steps leading up to the library's glass doors, which were mercifully still closed prior to the opening hour, were jammed with a swarming mass of people. When they spotted her, the mob began moving very quickly and pushing themselves closer to the glass doors, which now that she looked closely at them seemed very flimsy and in desperate need of reinforcement.

"What is going on?" she asked, even as a bright flash of light answered her question.

Dozens of voices mingled together outside the portal, all shouting a variation on the same phrase.

"Miss Lightower, a question!"

"Reporters," Carrie unnecessarily declared. "I think they're here to see you."

Wendy sputtered, the sight of the growing sea of bodies flustering her, "Why?"

Carrie pushed a newspaper across the table towards Wendy.

The headline stopped her breath. It read:

LOCAL LIBRARIAN CONSULTS ON UNEXPLAINED MURDER.

SAYS WITCHCRAFT MAY BE TO BLAME.

Beneath the headline was a large color photo of Wendy exiting the library with Detective Milton. His head was tilted towards hers, lending the pair an air of confidentiality.

"Do you really think a witch killed Benny?" Carrie couldn't hide her incredulity.

The newspaper wavered before her eyes, blurring the words on the page, and Wendy realized that it was her hands that were shaking.

"I didn't say that. I didn't say anything!" Her voice rose to a shout. "Where did this story come from?" Her eyes scanned the article, but her rising anger made it difficult to make anything out.

"The writer claims to have a source who overheard you talking to this detective."

At that point, Derek came striding into the library. "What is the hell do you think you're doing?" he fumed at her, his face stormy with anger and irritation.

He stopped directly in front of her, hovering over her in a not very subtle attempt at intimidation. "Why would you say such a ludicrous thing in front of the press?"

Although he towered over her, Wendy stared the larger man down, and he took a step back. "I didn't. That story is completely false." Actually, she was certain witchcraft was to blame, but she would never be foolish enough to say so out loud in front of a random stranger.

Somewhat mollified but not yet ready to surrender his indignation, Derek sniffed. "Regardless of the veracity of this story," he managed to convey that he wasn't entirely convinced of her innocence, "those people are here looking for you. Until you leave, neither will they, and they are blocking the entrance to my exhibit."

Wendy glanced again at the glass doors. The group didn't seem like they were thinking about taking themselves off any time soon, and they would probably storm the place once the doors were unlocked. "So," she began slowly, "you want me to go home?"

Derek took her by the shoulder and directed her towards her office. "Go home, go shopping, go get your nails done. I really don't care. Just go away."

Carrie followed Wendy into her office, her eyes wide and a little frightened. When she spoke, it was hardly above a whisper, "So you don't really think that a witch killed Benny, right?"

Wendy shook her head. The girl was still scared of witches, and in this case, she might have good reason to be. "Like I said, Carrie, I never said that. That police officer and I talked for a grand total of two minutes. He knows one of my relatives, that's all."

Though she hadn't really answered the question, it seemed good enough for Carrie. When she asked her next question, she sounded more like her normal self. "You aren't going out the front, are you?"

Wendy remembered the throng of people waiting, some with cameras. She shuddered, "Any other suggestions?" As far as Wendy knew, and she knew everything about her library, there was no back door aside from the fire exit, which set off the alarm.

"Maybe," Carrie answered, looking embarrassed. "The window in the bathroom is big enough to squeeze through."

Wendy gaped at the girl. "Do I even want to know why you know that?"

Carrie blushed to a painful shade of red. "Let's just say, there was a time when I wanted to avoid seeing someone, and that was the only way out."

Since she was about to pursue the same course for the same reason, Wendy didn't feel like she could press the girl. "Thanks," she said instead.

Wendy gathered up her bag and coat and headed for the bathroom. Sure enough, though she had hardly ever noticed it before, the window in the back wall was a fairly decent size and not too far off the ground. The trashcan was empty, since the museum hadn't even opened yet, so she upended it. By putting it under the window and standing on top, she had only to lift the sill and climb over one leg at a time. She was even able to hang on to her bag throughout the maneuver.

"That was easy," she said aloud. The chatter and knocking from the front of the building told her that her entourage awaited her there. Instead of heading out front, she turned her back on the library and walked down the alley, eventually popping out on the blissfully quiet street behind the building.

Wendy figured that she had less than five minutes before Derek ratted her out to the press to get them all away from his front door. She walked quickly, periodically looking behind her and to each side. She made it home without being spotted, let herself into her cottage, and proceeded to pull down all the shutters and lock all the doors. Soon enough, she assumed she would have her share of unwanted guests.

Throwing her bag onto the couch, Wendy moved toward her kitchen, feeling that a cup of coffee and one of Gerry's leftover pastries were now overdue. Something fell out of her bag and slid across the floor to land at her feet. Wendy stared at it without comprehension, and then she realized that it was the copy of the newspaper that Carrie had shown her. She had thought she'd returned it, but in her hurry to get away, she must have slipped it into her bag by mistake.

In the library, she had only had a chance to read the headline and skim a few words before Derek had interrupted her. Now, she waited until she was settled with coffee and croissant before she sat down to read the article in its entirety.

The body of janitor Benjamin Jacobi was found early yesterday morning in the North Harbor Museum and Historical Library by local librarian Wendy Lightower. Sources cite strangulation as the cause of death, and Jacobi is now considered the victim of homicide by the North Harbor Police Department. A source close to Miss Lightower, who asked to remain unidentified, claims that Miss Lightower is working with the police in a consultant capacity. During a conversation between Miss Lightower and Detective Kenneth Milton of the North Harbor Police Department, Miss Lightower was quoted as saying that the death appeared very mysterious and could be the work of an individual attempting to perform occult ceremonies. “She said it had all the markings of ritualistic witch murder,” our source revealed, continuing, “Wendy is an authority on witchcraft and the occult. It's her
specialty.” The North Harbor Police Department will be issuing a statement later today. Miss Lightower could not be reached for comment.

Wendy crumpled the newspaper into a tiny ball and hurled it across the room. She couldn't remember when she had last been so furious. She looked around for something to punch. Not finding any newspaper reporters hiding behind her couch cushions, she had to be content with letting out a single scream at the top of her lungs.

She had to admit; the scream actually helped.

Her next move was to pick up her phone. It immediately began ringing in her hand. She didn't need her caller ID to know who was on the other end of the line.

“How do you keep doing that?” she demanded, her irritation making her words sharp and pointed.

“Interesting story,” Gerry ignored her outburst completely. “Do you plan on making our way of life common knowledge? I do wish you'd told me first.”

Wendy wanted to scream again. “I didn't say any of this. It's all lies! Don't newspapers need some kind of confirmation before they print this kind of nonsense?”

Gerry's dry reply crackled over the line. “I don't think the
North Harbor Examiner
holds the highest standards of journalistic integrity.”

Wendy looked at the story on the next page, which still lay whole at her feet. He was right; every article in the rag was at best inflammatory and at worst libelous.

“So I shouldn't be worried about this?” she asked wearily. The past few days were starting to take their toll on her, and she was feeling exhausted.

“No,” Gerry chuckled, “The
Examiner
once printed that I somehow gave this scumbag I was investigating stomach cramps that landed him in the hospital. These things happen if you enter into the public life.”

Her library was sounding more appealing by the second. Then she remembered the dead body that had been found less than ten feet from her sanctuary, and the fantasy vanished like so much smoke.

“I suppose you're right. Nobody reads that rag, and even fewer people believe what it says.”

Gerry chuckled. “Don't fool yourself too much. Everyone reads that rag. It has the highest circulation in town. Nobody will admit to believing it, but everyone will wonder.” He continued, “No, the best thing you can do is deny everything in the simplest terms, and then ignore it completely. People will forget before long.”

Thoroughly depressed, Wendy was about to hang up the phone when an idea formed in her mind. “Wait,” she could hear that Gerry was still on the line, “
did
you give that guy the stomach cramps?”

“He had this sweet wife. Made great cookies, by the way. He was stepping out on her while she was carrying his child,” Gerry answered. “Of course, I did.”

After hanging up, Wendy walked across the room to pick up the crumpled piece of paper. Her hand hovered over the recycling bin, but she stopped before the paper fell into the gaping hole. Out of pure curiosity, she flattened out the newspaper and read the byline.

Jack Crosby.

When the hounds descended, she would at least know which one to avoid. She threw the rest of the newspaper in the recycling bin and looked around her incredibly tidy little home. It had been so long since she had been home on a work day that she really didn't know what to do with herself. Wendy hadn't even taken a sick day in over three years. Faced with an entire day with nothing to do and nowhere to go, unless she wanted to brave the reporters, she was completely out of her element.

There was a polite knock on her door, not the harsh rapping she expected from the reporters, and Wendy checked the visitor through her peephole. She saw a man, and it took her a second to place him.

“Ian,” she said, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

Ian smiled at her, showing that dimple on his chin. “I thought you could use some help.” As he walked inside, Wendy saw that he carried a soft leather bag over one shoulder.

“Help with what?”

Ian sat down at her kitchen table and began unpacking the bag. “Your investigation.”

“I'm not sure I have an investigation,” Wendy replied truthfully. “At least I haven't gotten anywhere with it if I do. I did the Last Breath spell, but that showed me nothing. I don't really know what to do next.”