The Witch of Agnesi (19 page)

Rhiannon covered Bonnie’s hand with her own. Her dark eyes were full of gratitude. “Just when I think you might be the biggest queen asshole in the known universe, you go and say something like that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She patted Rhian-non’s hand. “You’re not such a royal sphincter yourself.”

Rhiannon chuckled and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. “I think part of the reason I got so mad at you is because Ali chose her uncle over me.”

“That makes perfect sense. No point getting mad at Warlock Winston when I’m available.”

Rhiannon’s smile faded. “I’ve got to tell you. I’m more than a little scared.” She gave Bonnie an up-from- under glance.

“I know.” Bonnie patted her hand again.

No one spoke as they made their way through Colo-rado Springs. Eventually, Armen turned Alice onto the street which fronted Jade Hill. The large concrete and pale brick edifice sprawled the entire block and towered four stories above them. “We’re here, boys and girls.”

A FEMALE OFFICER CRADLED A PHONE ON FRANKLIN’S desk as Bonnie, Armen, and Rhiannon approached. Jesse Poole sat with his back to the trio, but turned at their footfalls. In his left hand he held a glazed donut, in his right a cup of coffee. He stood.

The female officer—her nametag ID’d her as Zettlemoyer—came around the desk. “Are either of you Missus Griffith?”

Rhiannon raised a hand.

“Would you come with me, ma’am?” Zettlemoyer walked off without waiting to see if Rhiannon was in her wake.

Rhiannon followed.

Bonnie leaned her crutches against the desk and plopped into a seat next to Jesse. “You don’t look any worse for wear. How are you holding up?”

The boy shrugged a things-could-be-worse shrug. “Those cops, Valsecci and Keene, asked me a lot of ques-tions, mostly about where I was last night. They also wanted to know what time you guys came by. I kept telling them I had no idea how or why Edmund ended up under my trailer. I think they believe me now.” He sighed and took a monster bite from the donut.

I’m starting to believe you myself.

Armen pulled up a chair and sat to the other side of Jesse. “Of course they did. You’ve got one of those believable faces, or maybe it’s just the bald head.”

Jesse hooked his thumb at Armen. “Is he giving me sh . . . a hard time?”

It was Bonnie’s turn to shrug. “I’m not always sure. Are you giving him a shahard time?”

“Absolutely not. Do I look like a shahard time-giver?”

Bonnie waggled her hand. “Around the eyes.”

She slapped Jesse’s knee. “You ready to go, or will you be having another donut?”

Jesse shoved the last bit into his mouth and licked his fingers. “This was the last one in the box, but we can’t go yet. Valsecci wants to talk with you.”

He does, does he?

She leaned past Jesse to peer at Armen. “We can spare Franklin a smidgen of our precious time, can’t we?”

Armen leaned back in his chair. “I have no desires but to await upon your pleasure.”

“I suspected as much.”

Smiling, Jesse looked from Armen back to Bonnie. “Are you guys—”

“Don’t ask, young man.” Bonnie nodded past the desk in the direction Rhiannon had gone. “Did you see Ali Griffith in your travels?”

“I know she’s here somewhere. Valsecci told me. I think he wanted to see my reaction.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I was surprised. Ali wouldn’t hurt anyone. One of Wicca’s first rules is that you never do harm.”

There was something in the way Jesse said Ali’s name that made Bonnie regard the boy for a long mo-ment. She tried to get a handle on the boy who had fooled her all this time into thinking he was a throw-back to a prehistoric ancestor. Evidently, he knew a thing or two about witchcraft.

“Rhiannon tells me she’s spotted you once or twice hanging around her place.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Jesse stared down at his shoes, his arms folded tight across his chest.

Not if you don’t count trespassing.
“No one’s say-ing you did. I’m thinking you could have just told Ali or Rhiannon you were interested in their beliefs.”

“Who says I am?”

Why does everything have to be so hard?
Another time she might have bandied words with Jesse, perhaps cajoled him into admitting his interest, but right now she was too tired to play games.

“Have it your way.”

Bonnie looked up at the sound of approaching foot-falls. Appearing decidedly less dapper than he had last night or even this morning, Franklin sat heavily at his desk. His tie was loosened, his collar open. Even the normally perfect thinning red hair was mussed.

“When do you sleep, youngster?”

As if he felt her staring at his hair, he ran a freckled hand through it. “I’ll sleep when these cases are in the bag.” He peered momentarily at Armen and nodded by way of greeting.

“Officer,” Armen shot back.

Good God. I can’t go through this testosterone
nonsense again.
“You wanted to see us?”

Franklin hoisted himself to his feet, fixing his gaze on Jesse. “Jess, I need to speak to these two privately. We won’t be long.”

Armen mugged at Bonnie as if to say, “Look who’s being included.”

Bonnie gathered her crutches. “Lead on, Sergeant Valsecci.”

She and Armen followed Franklin into a glassed-in office.

Once in, Franklin shut the door behind them. He offered them a pair of seats, but stood himself. A yellow legal pad sat on a gray vinyl desk. Franklin flipped past the first page then extracted a pen from a shirt pocket. “What time did you visit Jesse Poole last night?”

Bonnie glanced at Armen, and he silently replied with a your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine look.

“About eight, make it eight-thirty,” she said.

“You don’t sound too sure.”

She frowned at her former student. “Let’s just say before nine.”

Franklin wrote on the legal pad. “And what time did you get back to the trailer park after going to the morgue?”

Before she could answer, Armen spoke. “Some time after one in the morning.”

Bonnie shot him a questioning look, and he said, “I remember because when I took the casserole out of the fridge I saw the clock on the stove. In fact, now that I think of it, it was exactly one-twelve.”

A half smile made a brief appearance on Franklin’s face as he wrote again on the pad. “Very precise. Did either of you, by chance, catch a glimpse of Jesse’s trailer when you got back?”

Bonnie and Armen both shook their heads. The ramifications of Franklin’s question sent a chill up Bonnie’s spine. While she was luxuriating in Armen’s canopied bed, there was a good chance, not five hun-dred feet away, someone was cramming Edmund Sheridan’s lifeless body into the crawlspace beneath the Poole trailer.

“Do you know what time Edmund died?” she asked.

Franklin blinked, looking like a man who desper-ately needed a few hours sleep. “Our lab has placed the time of death around eight o’clock Saturday night.”

Bonnie gave Armen a quick glance.
So much for
the theory Edmund died the same night as Stephanie
and Peyton.
She sorted through the hours of the previ-ous evening realizing as Edmund breathed his last she was dancing to Van Morrison.

“Do you have any idea how long Edmund lay be-neath Jesse’s trailer?”

Franklin shook his head. “Not really. Jesse says he went to bed around midnight. If he’s to be believed, then the body was probably hidden after that.”

If he’s to be believed?
“Youngster, you don’t re-ally think Jesse killed Edmund then did that incredibly sloppy job of hiding the body . . . under his own trailer, no less?”

Franklin stared at her and shook his head again. “Truth be told, I have my doubts, and not just because of the body’s placement.”

His eyes went soft as a yawn stretched his face. “When Poole eventually murders someone, he’ll prob-ably beat them to death with his bare hands.”

Bonnie studied Franklin’s face, wondering if he re-ally believed, as she once did, that Jesse was a loose cannon just waiting to explode. “That boy’ll surprise you someday, youngster. Do you know he wants to be a fireman?”

“I knew his father was one. I met him a few times at the Service Olympics. Good man.”

“Do you know how the father died?” Armen leaned forward.

Franklin fixed Armen with a blank gaze then nodded. “About a year and half ago, around Christ-mas, remember that big fire at the Salvation Army? A ten-year old girl in a wheel chair was trapped in the building. Todd Poole and another fireman went back in after her. The roof collapsed. All three died.”

Bonnie sat quietly wondering, not for the first time, how much grief a young man was supposed to endure.
How would I have turned out if both my parents were
taken from me while I was still in high school?
She reaffirmed her decision to move heaven and earth to help the boy.

Armen raised a tentative hand like a child who might or might not want to voice a question.

“You implied you didn’t think Jesse killed Edmund because Jesse would have beaten him to death. Are we to assume that Edmund wasn’t beaten to death?”

Franklin looked uncomfortable at this new ques-tion. “No, Edmund wasn’t beaten to death.”

He crammed his hands in his pockets and walked to the window, his back to the rest of the room. “Missus P, do you remember remarking on that snarl contort-ing Edmund Sheridan’s face.”

The image came clear in Bonnie’s mind. “How can I forget?”

“Well, the coroner thought that significant as well, and confirmed what I suspected—poison. Edmund Sheridan ingested a significant amount of arsenic.”

CHAPTER 16

B
ONNIE STRUGGLED FROM THE SUBARU, the stained-glass windows of Geraldine’s Café shimmering and beckoning like a long hoped for oasis.
God, I’m so hungry I could eat vegan
road kill.

Winston’s white-on-white caddy slipped into an adjacent parking spot. Rhiannon powered down the window and called, “I trust this place ain’t as hoity-toity as it looks, Pinkwater.” Her smiling face belied the mock hostility in her voice.

“Give it a rest, Mother.” Ali Griffith emerged from the Cadillac looking like someone who’d been pulled through a strainer and stretched out to dry. Dark circles outlined the girl’s eyes. She let Winston take her arm as she dragged her feet across the parking lot. “Let’s just eat lunch in peace.”

Rhiannon hurried to catch up with her daughter. “Sure thing, baby.”

A moment of regret captured Bonnie’s thoughts.
Was it really a good idea to invite the Griffiths to
lunch? I definitely don’t need this drama.
The tim-ing had seemed so right. Ali had been released from questioning almost to the minute that Franklin finished with Bonnie and Armen. Now Bonnie wasn’t so sure. She tried to dispel the negative thought, telling herself it had been a long morning for everyone, especially Ali and Rhiannon. Some good food would set everything to rights.

Armen and Jesse caught up with Bonnie, and Armen laid a hand on the small of her back. Funny how such a small gesture could feel so right. She wished she didn’t have to contend with these damn crutches so she could take his hand in hers.

As they approached Geraldine’s, the double oak and stained-glass doors swung open toward them. Molly Sheridan in her wheelchair sat squarely in the doorway. Awkward second piled upon awkward second as the girl glared first at Ali then at Bonnie. Rue and Jack Sheridan, Molly’s short and solidly built parents, stood behind the chair trapped in the restaurant’s foyer.

Ali had often gone toe-to-toe with goat-ropers who made the mistake of criticizing her beliefs, but right now she seemed to shrivel under Molly’s hard gaze. “I’m sorry about your brother, Molly.”

“I’ll bet you are, witch girl, but you’re going to be a whole lot sorrier.” Molly spit the words out as though they tasted sour in her mouth. She grabbed the rims of her wheels and without a look at anyone else, spun past Bonnie, jumping the curb into the parking lot.

Rue Sheridan, clinging tight to her husband’s arm, nodded and followed her daughter.

Bonnie turned to Armen. “Go on in, I’ll be along in a second.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“You kidding? I haven’t been sure about anything since I woke up this morning.” She rubbed his arm. “Find us a seat. I won’t be long. I promise”

Armen held the door, and one by one Jesse, Ali, and Winston disappeared from view.

As she shuffled past, Rhiannon gave Bonnie a ques-tioning look. “You’re wasting your time. There’ll be no changing that girl’s mind. She’s hurting too much right now.”

“You’re probably right.”

Rhiannon just shook her head and patted Bonnie’s face. “Knock yourself out, Pinkwater.”

I must be some kind of glutton for punishment.
She caught up with Rue and Jack as they neared a white Econoline van. Rue tugged on her husband’s arm, and they halted.

Rue Sheridan stood a full head shorter than Bonnie, but outweighed her by at least twenty pounds. She and her equally short husband were both almost as wide as they were tall with thick limbs, ruddy faces, and short-cropped gray hair. They even dressed alike in khaki pants and shirts. A decade ago the pair had been horse people, raising and showing Arabians, but Molly’s ac-cident had changed all that. Now only a black stallion embroidered on Rue’s shirt pocket hinted of that life.

Before Bonnie could offer condolences, Rue held up a silencing hand. “Edmund always spoke very highly of you, said you were the best teacher in East Plains.” The woman spoke each word with a measured precision as if she needed to keep a tight rein on her emotions.

The compliment caught Bonnie off-guard. As much as she loved hearing accolades of this kind, the praise felt like a prelude to a larger statement. She didn’t have long to wait.

Rue took her arm and pulled her close. “Which is why I don’t for a minute believe that Edmund did this . . .” She nodded toward Bonnie’s crutches. “. . . thing to you last Friday evening.”

Bonnie wasn’t sure how to respond. What good would it do to bring up the evidence found in Jesse’s truck?

Rue must have taken her silence for agreement be-cause the woman nodded conspiratorially. “We’re not stupid people, Missus Pinkwater. We know things weren’t right with Edmund . . . hadn’t been right for months—the sneaking out to see his girlfriend in the middle of the night, the lying. But I know he was no murderer.”

Bonnie tried to give Rue her full attention, but her eyes kept straying to Molly. The girl had rolled her chair alongside the white van. She opened the driver’s door. In one fluid motion, with her left arm she pushed herself up and out of the wheelchair, then reaching a surprisingly muscled right toward the inner roof of the cab, she swung out of the chair onto the driver’s seat. Twisting as she leapt, she landed facing her wheelchair. She then reached back, hoisted up the chair, and with practiced ease, collapsed it flat. The entire procedure took less than five seconds.

Jack Sheridan hastened to open the side door of the van, but it opened automatically before he reached it.

Molly, with one arm, swung the flattened chair into a recess behind the driver’s seat. Jack strapped it into place.

My God, how could I have not noticed the phy-sique
on this child? That chair weighs forty pounds
if an ounce. Yet, she collapsed and maneuvered it in
mid-air as if it were made out of papier-mache’.

Rue must have watched at least part of the scene, because she said, “Molly’s quite an athlete. She played basketball this winter and wheelchair softball the sum-mer before.”

“She looks like she lifts weights.”

Smiling, Rue nodded the proud-mother-nod. “She does, and can bench press her weight.”

Molly slammed shut the driver door then, with a whir, the side door slid shut. Moments later the van’s engine turned over.

“She drives?” Almost as she said it, Bonnie felt fool-ish. Handicapped vehicles certainly weren’t unknown, even in East Plains.

Rue cocked her head as if Bonnie might be mentally challenged. “Why not? After all, it’s her van. We had it outfitted by a firm in Denver. I’m still getting used to her going off on her own.”

Bonnie returned her gaze to Rue. “You mean with-out any assistance?” Again she winced at how much she sounded like someone new to this century.
Oooo,
look at the tall buildings.

“You bet.” Rue leaned in conspiratorially. “I shouldn’t worry, I know. She’s a capable young woman. I couldn’t tell you the number of times I’ve seen her get that wheelchair in and out by herself.”

Jack Sheridan gave his wife an are-you-coming look.

“In a minute.” She waved him on.

He frowned and with hands jammed in his pockets, stamped around the far side of the van. The passenger door opened then slammed shut.

Rue turned an icy stare back on Bonnie. “I don’t care how it looks, Missus Pinkwater, Edmund is inno-cent. He had no reason to hurt that Templeton girl. As for Peyton, he and Edmund were best friends.”

Yet, this best friend saw to it that Peyton got his
thirteen-year-old ass kicked by Jesse Poole.
Bonnie studied Rue trying to see if the woman actually be-lieved the things she was saying. No doubt, she wanted her grief untainted by accusations of theft and murder. Bonnie wished she could help make that not-unreason-able desire a reality, but try as she might, she didn’t see any way to ease the woman’s pain.

“When was the last time you saw Edmund?”

“Friday morning. We let him sleep in and miss school after the late night he had Thursday.”

Late night?

Not a few bells and sirens went off in Bonnie’s brain. She’d dropped him off at the high school before ten o’clock. He should have been home easily by ten-thirty—not all that late for a teenager.

“What time did he get home?”

Rue must have caught the agitation in Bonnie’s voice. Like an aged Mister Spock in drag, she elevated her right eyebrow. “I can’t say really. Jack and I went to bed around midnight, but we knew Edmund would be late. He used your cell phone to call us from that church.”

Bonnie could feel her heart beating faster in her chest. Thursday evening, Edmund had told her he hadn’t been able to get hold of his parents. He’d used that argument to remain at the Interfaith Academy and cobble a ride home from her.
Why are you so sur-prised?
You knew Peyton spent Thursday night in the
Sheridan’s barn. Did you think the boy genius grew
wings and flew there?

“Did Edmund tell you he hid Peyton in your barn?”

Rue hesitated then shook her head. “I didn’t even know Peyton had been missing until the police found his body.”

Another hesitation followed, so long in fact that Bonnie was readying another question when Rue added, “But I’m not surprised that Edmund would hide his friend from that awful man.”

“You mean Colonel Newlin?”

Before Rue could answer, the white van reversed and pulled up next to Rue and Bonnie.

Both women had to step out of the way.

With an elbow out the window, Molly frowned at Rue. “Mother, I’m tired, and I want to go home.”

The statement was followed by a cold scowl aimed at Bonnie as if somehow she was keeping her mother prisoner.

Rue didn’t respond to the complaint or even look at her daughter. “In answer to your question, Missus Pinkwater, yes, I definitely mean Colonel Ralph Newlin. That man is a monster. I pitied his poor wife and son. I worried for Edmund every time he went to that house.”

Bonnie peered at Molly.
How much of what you
know have you shared with your mother?
“Had he been doing much of that of late?”

“Going to the Newlin house? Quite a bit, actually, why do you ask?”

“Do you want to tell her or should I?” Bonnie laid a hand on Molly’s arm.

The girl yanked her arm out of reach. “I knew I should never have talked to you. This is none of your business.”

Rue stared first at Bonnie then Molly. “Does this have to do with the e-mails Sergeant Valsecci asked about?”

Bonnie folded her arms across her chest. “Molly?”

The girl exhaled in exasperation. “I told you a dozen times, Mother, it’s that Griffith bitch. She’s the one Edmund had been sneaking out to see.” Molly glared an I-hope-you’re-satisfied-glare at Bonnie.

As for Rue, her already ruddy face turned two shades darker. Like a shot, she slapped her daughter. “I won’t have you using language like that.”

Rue approached the driver’s window as if she meant to pull her daughter through it. “And I told you time and again, I don’t believe Edmund was seeing Ali Griffith.”

Rue slammed a callused hand against the van door. “The same thing I told the police.”

Oh my, now this is getting interesting.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why don’t you believe your son was involved with Ali Griffith?”

“Because he told me he wasn’t, when I asked.”

That’s a tough one to refute.

Still rubbing her now-flushed face, Molly snorted and pointed an accusing finger at Bonnie. “But you know it’s true, and now you’re breaking bread with the . . .”

Rue shot her daughter a threatening glance.

“Witch!” Molly’s voice broke and her features contorted. Folding her arms across the steering wheel, she buried her face in them. Her body shook with her sobs.

A pang of guilt swept over Bonnie.
I should leave
this grieving family in peace.
She stood mute for a mo-ment then approached the van. This time when she laid a hand on the girl, she didn’t pull away. “You’re wrong, Molly. I don’t think Ali was seeing your brother. And I don’t think she murdered him.”

“Liar,” Molly said, but her accusation carried no conviction as if the girl had lost the energy to argue.

“I’m not lying, Molly. Ali has been busy all week-end with a witch’s celebration called Beltane. She simply hasn’t had the time.” Bonnie ignored the voice in her head that spoke of the missing time early Friday morning. After all, Edmund died Saturday night.

Molly sniffled and raised her head. Her eyes were no longer accusing. “What about the e-mails? What about Your Wicked Little Witch?”

Bonnie shrugged. “I haven’t worked all that out yet, but my gut tells me there’s another explanation for that
Nom De Plume
.”

She rubbed a soothing hand across the girl’s back. “The police will catch your brother’s killer, Molly. I promise.”

How in hell am I going to keep that vow?

BONNIE PLOPPED DOWN INTO THE CHAIR AS SOON AS Armen slid it out. “
Merci,
Mister Callahan.”

The rest of the troop sat arrayed around a large circular table. On her left sat Winston then Rhian-non. Ali was directly across. To Bonnie’s right, Armen resumed his seat. Jesse completed the scene, looking more than a little nervous next to Ali.