Witch Woman Page 4

  Except for the dead, and the trees ablaze with fall colors, the cemetery was empty, a quiet, lifeless world of gray sky and gray graves whose stones stood tall and perpendicular to the ground, a typical New England cemetery, nothing like California where cemeteries were hidden behind antebellum mortuaries and tropical waterfalls, where stones were buried discreetly in the grass so that passersby would see gently rolling hills and not be offended by the morbidity of the inevitable.

  According to the map the gatekeeper had given her, Thomas's grave was directly in front of the wooden bench just ahead. Maggie pressed on. The weight of the box now seemed oppressive. She looked around. Sure enough, there it was, a pale gray stone standing upright with a simple, tasteful inscription: Thomas McBride, beloved husband, 1918-1974. Rest in Peace.

  Maggie stared at it. No wonder Annie had kept her away. The absence of the words, beloved father, would have been too conspicuous. She sat down on the bench, setting the box beside her. It occurred to her that this might be the very bench where Annie had found her. Tucking her icy hands into the pockets of her coat, she looked at the box, all that was left of the only mother she'd ever known. How sad and senseless that Annie felt she had to keep such a secret. What guilt she must have carried.

  Carefully, Maggie untied the string and opened the box. The ashes were sand-colored, fine to the touch, like silt. She scooped up a handful in her palm and let them sift through her fingers. A few floated away on the wind. The action soothed her. She repeated it. Her fingers struck something solid. She lifted it out of the ash. It was a stone, a crystal, bright green and beautifully undiminished by its dusty bed.

  Maggie lifted it to eye level and stared into its center. Her head ached. Waves of dizziness passed through her. She closed her eyes. Words, a mantra, flowed from somewhere within her:

  This crystal I hold with intentions clear

  To contain the magick within its sphere

  Make it last and hold it long

  Enhance the magick, make it strong

  Shocked and more than a little afraid, she dropped the stone, opened her eyes and looked around. Nothing. Nothing at all around her, but the wind and the silence, and the dead. Tentatively, she picked up the crystal and set it on Thomas's grave. Then she began sprinkling the remaining ashes, one handful at a time, until the box was empty and the air around her gray with what had once been Annie.

  Tears streaked Maggie's sooty cheeks. "Goodbye," she whispered, "and thank you."

  Again the words came, but this time from somewhere else, a voice from her earliest memory:

  Guard this circle with strength untold

  Protect it from harm with courage of bold

  She pressed her hands against her temples. Was she losing her mind? No. It was this place and her newly found knowledge and the task to which she'd committed herself. Anyone would question her own sanity under the circumstances. She would head back to her Bed and Breakfast, layer on more clothes and find a cozy restaurant that served clam chowder. Picking up the crystal, she slipped it into the zippered pocket of her handbag.

  Behind the wheel of her rental car, Maggie felt more in control. Salem was a harbor town with a lovely marina dotted with sailboats, charming gabled houses and street signs in the shape of witches. The Bed and Breakfast recommended by Frommer's Guidebook was a scene from a postcard, a three-storied, wooden house with silver-gray shingles, a widow's walk and sparkling windows facing the ocean. Sarah Busbee, a soft, round little woman with bright blue eyes and white hair, was the proprietor. She spoke in the manner of all coastal New Englanders, with a flat, nasal accent that lost the 'r' consonant at the end of her words. She sounded just like Annie.

  "There's a little place at the end of the street," she told Maggie. "They don't close until nine o'clock."

  "Thanks, I'll try it," Maggie replied, starting up the stairs. "Maybe I'll take a nap first."

  "You do that. Have a nice cup of tea in your room. There's no rush. In another week or so, the streets will be climbing with the Halloween tourist crowd, but not now. You'll probably have the place to yourself."

  Maggie stopped and turned around. "Tourists, this time of year?"

  Sarah nodded. "It's the witch-Halloween thing."

  "Of course."

  "The fall colors are nice, too, but it's the witch memorabilia that brings them."

  "But surely they know it isn't real."

  Sarah's forehead wrinkled. "I don't know about that. Whatever the case, it's a boon for people like me. I can use the business, no matter what their reasons. But it does seem kind of silly. We even have a few resident witches."

  "Really?"

  "Laurie Cabot is her name. She's the official high priestess, but she's very old and doesn't practice much anymore. I don't hold with all that nonsense myself, but it doesn't hurt anybody. Laurie and her sort aren't bad. They're good witches, and they do bring in the business."

  Annie's words came back to her, Your coming was a sign. Laurie Cabot said so. "Where can I find Laurie Cabot?"

  Sarah tilted her head, a skeptical look on her face. "I wouldn't have taken you for the superstitious sort."

  "Really? Why is that?"

  "You're a sensible looking little thing, even though you didn't think to bring gloves."

  Maggie didn't know whether to be amused or offended. Was it a good thing to be sensible looking?

  Sarah waved her hand. "Not that it matters. Laurie's card is on the table in the hall. She welcomes visitors. Lord knows she could use the money. It isn't easy to be a woman all alone."

  "No. It sure isn't."

  Again Sarah Busbee looked surprised. "I would've guessed you were married."

  "No."

  "Divorced?"

  Maggie shook her head. "I've never been married."

  "Now, that doesn't make sense. You're such a pretty girl with those dark eyes and all that hair. What's the matter with the men out in California?"

  "They prefer blondes."

  "That's hogwash. Hair has nothing to do with it."

  "Do you really think so?" Maggie was curious. Her hostess sounded so sure of herself.

  "It's true." Sarah nodded. "I read it on the Internet. Curvy women, that's what they like, not those stick thin ones that are all over the magazines these days. You're not very big but your curves are in the right places."

  Maggie laughed. "Thank goodness for that."

  Sarah shook her head. "It goes back to natural selection when men lived in caves. Without meat on their bones, women couldn't bear children. Survival was important. Mark my words. I know what I'm saying."

  Fascinated, Maggie stared at her.

  "You think I'm a crazy old lady, don't you?"

  "Not at all," Maggie replied politely.

  "My daughters do. They think I should move to one of those retirement communities. What do you think?"

  "Why, I don't know," Maggie said carefully, not wanting to offend her hostess. "There are some lovely retirement homes. My mother lived in one before she died."

  "It's not for me," Sarah said emphatically. "They can put me in one when I'm really loony, but not now. There's no sense in rushing things. I can pay my bills and get around and read my e-mail. That's all I need."

  "It makes perfect sense to me."

  Sarah's forehead wrinkled. "Did you say your mother was from around here?"

  "Yes. Actually, I just found that out. Have you lived here long?"

  "All my life."

  "Maybe you knew her. Her name was Anne McBride."

  The woman's mouth dropped. "You're not serious. Annie McBride? You're Annie's daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "But, that isn't possible. Annie was—" she stopped.

  Maggie sat down on the stairs. "I know she wasn't my biological mother. She told me shortly before she died."

  "So," the woman said softly, "you're the little girl, all grown up."

  "You knew about me?"

  Sarah nodded. "I certainly did. Why don't you chang
e into something comfortable and join me in the kitchen. We can share some of my corn chowder and brown bread while we talk."

  Ten minutes later, dressed in sweats and tennis shoes, Maggie sat down at the hand-rubbed oak table and watched while Sarah ladled steaming soup into bowls.

  "If you're handy with a bottle opener, you can pull the cork out of that wine. I've been waiting for someone to share it with. Normally, I'm not a drinker so a whole bottle is wasted on me."

  "I'm flattered. Your house is lovely. You must have a steady flow of guests."

  "None of them was Annie McBride's daughter."

  Maggie uncorked the bottle and filled the cut glass goblets half full. "How well did you know my mother?"

  "I thought I knew her very well, but after she found you she kept to herself. She didn't stay long after that. One day she disappeared. A month or so later, someone moved into her house. I assumed it was sold."

  The chowder was delicious, thick, sweet and creamy. Maggie alternated between sips of wine and spoonfuls of soup. "Actually, the house is mine. It's been maintained and rented out by a property management firm."

  "What will you do with it?" Sarah held out the bread basket. "Have some. It's homemade."

  "I'm not sure." Maggie took a piece, broke it in half and buttered it. "This is heavenly."

  "It's Annie's recipe."

  "This is the first time I've had it."

  Sarah frowned. "At first she told people you were her niece, but Annie didn't have any brothers or sisters. I thought you might be related to Tom, but he was the youngest of three children and the last one living. Besides, you didn't look like a McBride. Tom's people were tall and big-boned. Finally, she told me the truth. By then, people began to suspect something strange. I mean, you can't just produce a little girl out of the blue. We wondered who you belonged to. Some people even thought there had been foul play. Not me, of course. Annie wouldn't hurt a fly, but there are those who didn't hold with her practices. They still don't, even though Salem is more liberal than most towns, given our history."

  "Her practices?" Maggie looked confused. "What do you mean?"

  Sarah's eyes widened. "You don't know?"

  Maggie shook her head.

  "Before she married Thomas, she was a practicing wiccan."

  "That's impossible," Maggie said flatly. "I would have known. There were only the two of us for all those years. She didn't have an altar or candles or a pentacle or stones—" she stopped, remembering the crystal among the ashes.

  "I don't know what happened to Annie after she left Salem, but while she was here she was definitely a witch, although I don't think she practiced while she was married. She didn't belong to a coven or anything. Thomas knew, of course, but he never took it seriously." Sarah tilted her head. "I wonder whether that bothered Annie. Funny, isn't it, how our questions come when it's too late to ask?"

  "Annie and witchcraft don't go together. She was the sweetest woman. Witchcraft is associated with evil."

  Sarah sighed. "It isn't evil at all, Maggie. I don't know much about it, but I do know that. Annie was a good woman. She was interested in herbs and natural medicine. Her spells were innocent and she believed that to use her powers for evil would bring it back to her three times over. She probably didn't tell you about her beliefs to protect you. People don't hold kindly to bringing up children in the ways of the Wicca."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "Well, let's see." Sarah thought back. "It must have been at least thirty years ago. I remember because it was right after Halloween. Someone from Social Services left a card on her door. She told me she was worried they would take you away. Then—" She poured herself another glass of wine. "I guess it doesn't matter now."

  "Yes, it does. It matters. Please tell me everything you know."

  "It's been a long time. I can barely remember."

  "You must have been very good friends."

  Sarah shrugged. "She said some things that made no sense."

  The urgency in Maggie's chest was building.

  "What kinds of things?"

  There was a faraway expression on Sarah's face. "She had disturbing dreams. There was one about a woman. Annie was afraid of her. I remember she said the woman had unusual eyes."

  Maggie wet her lips. "Do you remember why they were they unusual?"

  Sarah looked directly at her. "It isn't something I'd forget. One was bright blue. The other was black as night. You don't see that more than once in a lifetime. It isn't something anyone would make up."

  For a long minute, Maggie stared at the older woman. "Thank you," she said at last, "for the food and the company."

  Sarah smiled. "There's an extra comforter in the chest at the foot of the bed if you get cold. I don't turn the heat on at night until November. There's a night light in the bathroom, but be careful on the stairs anyway."

  Maggie stood. "I'll do that. Goodnight."

  "Goodnight, Maggie."

  The moon was ripe and full outside her bedroom window. Maggie lit two candles and set them on either side of the bed. Pulling the comforter out of the trunk, she wrapped it around her shoulders and opened the French doors. The fog had lifted. Lights from the harbor twinkled in the darkness. A wind from the west stirred the wisps of hair around her face.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in salt air. Then she sat down at the vanity. The mirror reflected the flickering flames of the twin candles. Something tight inside her chest relaxed. Her time had come. She was home. If she cashed in her retirement and lived in Annie's house, her dream just might be possible.

  Widening both eyes, she slid her finger carefully across the left cornea, removing the contact lens. She drew a deep breath and turned back to the mirror. Her right eye was dark as night. The left was a clear, ice-flecked blue.

  Chapter 5

  Salem, Massachusetts,

  February, present day

  Given Maggie's lack of substantial roots, leaving California shouldn't have brought on the surprisingly sharp pang that pierced her chest on moving day. It wasn't that she would miss the traffic, the smog, the crowds, or even the long, uninterrupted miles of white sand beaches, pink sunsets, streets raining purple jacaranda blossoms, sidewalks bathed in the lemony sun of a February winter, and trendy coffee houses thick with customers perusing the news, pecking away on laptops and sipping drinks that smelled of dark roast, cinnamon and mocha.

  No. What she would miss was the anonymity, the miles of faces, the serious, absorbed, occasionally smiling faces, so many that no matter how often she walked the same city street at the same time of day, shopped in the same market on Saturday morning, stood in line at the same movie houses on Sunday evening or ran the same path down Park Avenue, across Second Street to Ocean Boulevard past the Olympic Pool, across the bridge into the geriatric and equity-rich community of Naples, she would never see a person twice. It was humbling. The concept of six-and-half billion people became less remote. It was as if every day new bodies were created and deposited and the old models, the ones Maggie had seen the day before and the day before that, were rotated to some other location to be seen and noted by someone else.

  California was a land of expatriates. Second and third generations, even true natives, were nearly unheard of. Thirty-seven million people had drifted west or north to make a fortune in the Silicon Valley's dot com boom, to lap up sunshine on prime surfing beaches, to labor in the fertile fields of the Central Valley, to enroll in tuition-free community colleges sprinkled across the state, to while away time, growing ever older, ever more accustomed to the relaxed, anonymous, glitzy air of the Golden State, always intending the stay to be temporary, lulled into another week, another month, another year, by an unparalleled climate, a skyrocketing real estate industry, a plethora of temporary work that paid the rent until the big break in a film industry greedy for new young faces materialized.

  For someone who protected her privacy as carefully as she would a map that contained coordinates leading
to a stash of buried treasure, leaving California, the hub of all things solitary, was certainly a risk. But Maggie, heeding the yearning for something she didn't quite recognize, decided to assume it. What she hadn't counted on was the time it would take to remove all traces of herself from the west coast and move east. Not only was there Annie's estate to settle, the wait for death certificates and the transfer of the trust into her own name, but two new homicides had needed her attention and then there was finding a renter to assume the lease on her apartment. Nearly four months had passed before she could begin her new life.

  * * *

  The house she inherited from Annie McBride was a snug seventeenth century saltbox, painted white with marine blue shutters. It sat on a corner in the middle of a small lawn with flower beds that would bloom in spring and summer. The front door looked east toward the sea and the back opened into a large room with windows on opposite walls, a massive fireplace and a door leading to the street. According to the property manager, this was a recent addition. Someone in the house's history had used it as a playroom for children. It was located one block from the old village, once the outskirts of Salem. Now, it merited a spot on the walking tour.

  For Maggie, the addition was a Godsend, as was the garden, a full acre of fallow land that would benefit from morning light. The room, a rectangle with polished wood floors, meant she wouldn't have to rent a shop in town and, although it was too late in the year for a garden, she could envision tidy rows of vegetables and herbs blossoming under the rays of a future sun, a real garden, with room for onions and garlic, ginger root and passion flower, blackberries, rosemary and lavender, marigolds, lavender, licorice and flax.

  Maggie had a great deal more capital than she'd expected. The rent on the house had been accruing for years, but she couldn't squander it. The money would have to last until her business became profitable. She had a great deal to learn, and no intention of going back to her former profession, even if her learning curve took longer than she'd planned.