Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) by Elizabeth Shawn Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Shawn
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finally intoned, “You may call me Janice. I will not share my Craft name until I choose to do so. Lucinda has told me you refuse to share your name with us.”
“Sit down,” I invited, definitely at my most prosaic. Dramatic people tend to bring out the dullest side of my nature, almost as though I’m subconsciously trying to balance their behavior. “Lucinda misunderstood. I don’t have a Craft name.” I knew there had been no misunderstanding. The subject had never been broached. “What a lovely cape this is! It looks like real wool.”
For once, I’d managed to say just the right thing. She seated herself, momentarily forgot her role as the mysterious practitioner of Wicca, and told me more than I’d ever wanted to know about the cape. “I carded and spun the wool myself,” she explained with obvious pride. “Then I had an artisan weave the material for me, and then an excellent local seamstress cut and finished it for me. It’s exactly like the old capes worn hundreds of years ago by the people who lived on the moors. They used the black wool themselves, because it wasn’t considered to be as marketable as white wool. Nowadays, of course, black sheep are in great demand and specially bred for their coloring.”
“Well, it’s truly a beautiful cape. I’m a big fan of natural fibers myself,” I said honestly. The polyester look had not been good to me.
We chatted amiably over one cup of coffee, covering fads and clothing. These were safe subjects, and Janice behaved normally while we discussed them. It’s hard to be mysterious when you’re chuckling about the renewed interest in bell-bottom jeans and mood rings. Then I accidentally broke the easy feel of the casual chat by getting up to refill our coffee cups. As I poured, I could sense the mood change and wanted to kick myself for breaking the easy camaraderie we’d enjoyed.
“I have been tempted to call Josephine up,” she intoned, and her voice seemed to drop a full octave. For a moment I was startled, worried she wasn’t quite right mentally, or she’d simply forgottenthe obvious . Aunt Josie was dead, hardly available for a phone call. Almost as quickly as the thought passed through my head, I realized (both from her tone and the emphasis) that she was talking about calling her up, literally up from the grave.
“I doubt she’d come,” I managed to say, still caught in the web of good manners. “I don’t think she liked the idea of calling up spirits.”
Janice frowned, her smooth face suddenly displaying a network of tiny lines. “It might not be her choice,” she claimed, sounding both defiant and petulant. “I have ways of demanding the presence of the most reluctant spirits.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, my facade of politeness starting to melt right along with my patience. “But I have to wonder why you feel you have a right . I can’t say I’d care to have an angry, reluctant spirit brought forth.”
“She’d be bound,” she assured me, but looked a little uncomfortable at my disapproval of what I considered to be underhanded spirit-calling tactics. “And I haven’t decided yet, one way or the other. I have other more amenable spirits I can question if necessary.”
“Question about what?” I foolishly asked. I was a split-second too late in realizing that I’d fallen right into her trap.
“The murder, of course.” Her dramatic flair was back in full force. “Lucinda has her faults, but her reading of the cards is impeccable. She not only understands the symbols, but she can handle the nuances of what she sees. If she saw murder, then murder there was.” She flung her long, black hair in a swirling gesture for emphasis before becoming a little more human by adding, “And besides,
“Sit down,” I invited, definitely at my most prosaic. Dramatic people tend to bring out the dullest side of my nature, almost as though I’m subconsciously trying to balance their behavior. “Lucinda misunderstood. I don’t have a Craft name.” I knew there had been no misunderstanding. The subject had never been broached. “What a lovely cape this is! It looks like real wool.”
For once, I’d managed to say just the right thing. She seated herself, momentarily forgot her role as the mysterious practitioner of Wicca, and told me more than I’d ever wanted to know about the cape. “I carded and spun the wool myself,” she explained with obvious pride. “Then I had an artisan weave the material for me, and then an excellent local seamstress cut and finished it for me. It’s exactly like the old capes worn hundreds of years ago by the people who lived on the moors. They used the black wool themselves, because it wasn’t considered to be as marketable as white wool. Nowadays, of course, black sheep are in great demand and specially bred for their coloring.”
“Well, it’s truly a beautiful cape. I’m a big fan of natural fibers myself,” I said honestly. The polyester look had not been good to me.
We chatted amiably over one cup of coffee, covering fads and clothing. These were safe subjects, and Janice behaved normally while we discussed them. It’s hard to be mysterious when you’re chuckling about the renewed interest in bell-bottom jeans and mood rings. Then I accidentally broke the easy feel of the casual chat by getting up to refill our coffee cups. As I poured, I could sense the mood change and wanted to kick myself for breaking the easy camaraderie we’d enjoyed.
“I have been tempted to call Josephine up,” she intoned, and her voice seemed to drop a full octave. For a moment I was startled, worried she wasn’t quite right mentally, or she’d simply forgottenthe obvious . Aunt Josie was dead, hardly available for a phone call. Almost as quickly as the thought passed through my head, I realized (both from her tone and the emphasis) that she was talking about calling her up, literally up from the grave.
“I doubt she’d come,” I managed to say, still caught in the web of good manners. “I don’t think she liked the idea of calling up spirits.”
Janice frowned, her smooth face suddenly displaying a network of tiny lines. “It might not be her choice,” she claimed, sounding both defiant and petulant. “I have ways of demanding the presence of the most reluctant spirits.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, my facade of politeness starting to melt right along with my patience. “But I have to wonder why you feel you have a right . I can’t say I’d care to have an angry, reluctant spirit brought forth.”
“She’d be bound,” she assured me, but looked a little uncomfortable at my disapproval of what I considered to be underhanded spirit-calling tactics. “And I haven’t decided yet, one way or the other. I have other more amenable spirits I can question if necessary.”
“Question about what?” I foolishly asked. I was a split-second too late in realizing that I’d fallen right into her trap.
“The murder, of course.” Her dramatic flair was back in full force. “Lucinda has her faults, but her reading of the cards is impeccable. She not only understands the symbols, but she can handle the nuances of what she sees. If she saw murder, then murder there was.” She flung her long, black hair in a swirling gesture for emphasis before becoming a little more human by adding, “And besides,
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