Authors: Maralee Lowder
“Just tell us if it was a ritualistic killing, Sheriff.”
“How many of those witches do you figure participated in the murder?”
“Have they been having orgies out there in the woods?”
“Have you seen a rise in animal mutilations since the witches moved here?”
“Hold it, hold it!
I didn’t come out here to make a statement.
As soon as we’re sure we have our facts straight, I promise to call a press conference and tell you everything I legally can.
But until that time, I must ask you to disperse.
I won’t have you disrupting my town.”
When he had come to
Port
Bellmont
from the Houston,
Texas
,
police department five years earlier
,
folks had described Walt Whitaker as a bull dog in uniform.
It was an apt description.
Whit was not a man to take any guff from anyone. The local citizens had quickly learned that when Walt Whitaker said something he damn well meant it, earning him the respect of everyone in town, whether they be law abiding citizen or not.
After giving the assembled reporters a look that said he meant what he said, the sheriff stepped back into the courthouse, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Yeah, sure, blame all the fuss on us,” a woman reporter next to Mac grumbled.
“As if a coven of witches killing and ripping the heart out of a nice old minister wouldn’t cause a little disruption.”
Mac turned a sardonic smile on the woman.
After she’d been in the business as long as he had, she’d be used to being dumped on.
If she couldn’t take it, she had better get herself another job.
He glanced at his watch as he walked down the steps away from the courthouse.
Nine-thirty.
A cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes sounded good.
He glanced in both directions, figuring that some enterprising soul would have opened a coffee shop within easy walking distance of the police station.
“Hey, there!
Haven’t we met before?”
The question was directed at Mac by a tall, slender man leaning against a Ford Bronco that was parked directly in front of the courthouse.
About forty-five to fifty, the man’s casual
,
yet obviously expensive
,
clothes somehow didn’t fit in with the regular
citizens of the city, nor did it reflect the general appearance of the members of the third estate who had swarmed into Port
Bellmont
for the murdering
witches
story.
Attached to the side of the car was a magnetic sign proclaiming it to be the property of
The Port
Bellmont
Sentinel
.
Mac put on his professional ‘
I’m your new best friend, why don’t you tell me everything you’ve ever known
’
smile as he reached out to shake the other man’s hand.
“Could be, buddy.
I’ve been around a bit and I suppose you could say the same, right?”
Mac couldn’t believe his luck.
Getting in with the local newsman was better than striking gold.
These small town reporters were usually more than willing to share all they knew about the locals just to be able to rub shoulders with a pro such as
himself
.
“Quite a show,
heh
?” the man made an indication toward the disbursing crowd with his pipe.
“That it is.
Say, you wouldn’t know where a guy could find a good cup of coffee in this town, would you?
Somewhere close by?
Maybe you’d like to join me.
Give us a chance to remember where it was we met, talk about old times.”
“Why, sure!”
The man’s eagerness was pathetic as he insisted on giving Mac a lift to the caf
é
, though it was only three blocks down the street.
Mac was pleased to accept the man’s invitation.
He knew reporters well enough to bet that every last one of them would soon be crowding into that little caf
é
.
By the time the others got there, he figured he’d have already ordered his breakfast and be sipping his second cup of coffee.
“Been living here long?” Mac asked his benefactor as they slid into a narrow booth.
“Not long by local standards, which
is
all your life and a couple generations of ancestors to boot.
I settled down here about five years ago.
You know how it is with us newspaper junkies.
I had always dreamed of owning my own weekly.
Saw that
The Sentinel
was up for grabs, so I figured, why not?”
Kind of a funny guy
, Mac thought, quickly assessing the man who sat opposite him.
He had a classy air, with his tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and perfectly creased woolen slacks.
He looked like the kind of guy who
would n
ever trust his thick, perfectly-styled prematurely-
gray hair to a mere barber.
“How rude of me”, the man exclaimed after the waitress had brought them both steaming
mugs of coffee and taken their
order.
“I haven’t introduced myself.
I’m Alan Boatwright, the editor and owner of the local rag.”
Mac reached across the table to shake the man’s hand again.
“Glad to meet you, Alan.
Mac McCormick.
I’m with a, uh, national tabloid.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me who you are, Mac.
I remember you from your days on the
Washington Post
.
I’ll never forget when you uncovered that story about the Senator and the Mafia.
Man, that’s what I call a story!”
Mac took a sip of his coffee.
The man’s obvious hero worshipping was beginning to get on his nerves.
Next thing you knew the guy would
be wanting
to know why Mac was working on a cheesy tabloid like
The Inquisitor
, and that was a story he would just as soon keep to himself.
“
What do you know about these so-
called witches?” Mac asked, hoping to lead the guy back towards the story and away from himself.
He brushed aside the thought that he had
any special interest in the intriguing young witch, Cassie Adams.
“They aren’t for real, are they?”
“Oh, they’re for real, all right.
Those little ladies take their religion very seriously.”
“Religion?
I’d hardly call witchcraft a religion,” Mac commented.
“Since when did casting spells and whacking old guys become a religion?”
“Religion is an e
lusive concept, don’t you agree?”
When Mac responded to the question with only a slight shrug, Alan continued.
“As I understand it, there’s a great deal more to Wiccan, as they call it, than casting spells.
And as far as ‘whacking’ Reverend Elkins, well, that hasn’t been proved yet, has it?”
“Am I to understand that you don’t agree with that mob,
and that those
ladies
might actually be innocent?”
“I try to maintain an unbiased opinion, that’s all.
After all, though my paper is small by comparison to the ones you’ve worked for, I am still a journalist, and as such I owe it to my
readership to remain neutral.”
“Well said, Alan, well said,” Mac toasted the older man with his coffee mug.
“It’s a shame more journalists don’t adhere to your principles.
But I’m interested in these
women.”
Mac tried to push his special interest in one gorgeous young witch in particular to the back of his mind.
“Do you know any of them personally?”
“Oh
my
,
yes.
Why, I’ve known Myra Adams from the day she moved into town two years ago.
And a finer woman you’ll never find, I might add.
She’s beautiful, witty, charming and utterly fascinating.
And, of course, I’ve known her daughter
,
Cassie
,
for just as long.
A lovely girl.”
“But Myra Adams is a practicing witch, right?
In fact, isn’t it true t
hat she’s the leader of this so-
called coven
, w
hat they call the high priestess?”
Mac’s left brow lifted sardonically.
“Oh, you know how things are.
These women get their notions.
Believe me when
I tell you, it’s entirely self-
delusional.
Witchcraft!
Come on, this is the twentieth century - nearly the twenty-first.
We’re talking about a bunch of women who sit inside a circle of lit candles chanting rhymes.
Now what harm can there be in that, I ask you?”
A wry smile tugged at one corner of Mac’s mouth as he answered, “None that I can think of.”
He had not missed the fact that Alan Boat
wright had made a complete turn
around regarding his thoughts on the Wiccan re
li
gion, but decided to keep his observation to himself.
More was learned by
listening than by talking, he reminded himself as he continued the conversation.
“That is, I see no harm until someone comes up murdered, spread out dead center in a circle of candles, with a pentagram carved in his chest and an empty hole where his heart ought to be.
Given those circumstances, if a coven of witches should happen to live in the neighborhood, well then, I just might start taking their customs a bit more seriously.”
“Hog wash!
Not one of those little ladies would hurt a flea.
I don’t believe a word of it.”
Mac leaned back in his seat, appraising the older man with a studied eye.
He found it fascinating that the editor of the local newspaper would come out so strongly in defense of the accused women.
He couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t another twist to the story he hadn’t discovered yet.
“I try to keep an open mind,” Mac said slowly, letting the words settle between them.
“I’d really like to get an interview with Myra, but as long as the sheriff keeps her out of reach that’s not likely to happen.
You wouldn’t happen to have an in with the guy, would you?”
“Not enough to get myself in there at the moment.
But why don’t you drop in on little Cassie?
She works just down
the street in that little pet shop we passed by.
A pro like you shouldn’t have any trouble getting her to talk.
You ought to go down there and give it a try.”
Chapter 2
For the first time in Mac’s professional career he felt t
he unpleasant sensation of self-
doubt.
Reticence had never been one of his character traits.
And yet when he reached the pet shop he held back.
She was sure to remember him from that howling mob and would want nothing to do with him.
Yet she was his best hope for an inside track to the most sensational story he had come across in a very long time.
On his way to the shop he had toyed with the idea of using some sort of disguise but decided against it.
Not only was it not likely to work, it would probably offend her.
I’ll just have to rely on my charm and natural wit,
he thought, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The pet shop hadn’t been difficult to find.
Located a few blocks down the street from the restaurant, its boldly
striped awnings and flower-
filled window boxes beckoned to the passer-by.
‘Pets-n-Stuff’
was artistically blazoned across the large bay window in the same shade of purple as the words on the sweat shirt Cassie had worn as she had exited the police station earlier that day.
As he stood before the puppy-
filled window, putting off the moment he both dreaded and anticipated
,
Mac absent-mindedly patted the pocket where he kept his notebook.
Although he had no intention of dragging it out in the shop (that would be a sure way of getting him shown the exit)
,
its presence reassured him.
Like most reporters, that little black book meant more to him than a few sheets of paper held together by a twist of wire.
It was his bible, a bible of his own writing.
It held facts that, in
his own
style, he would turn into a story, and the story was what he lived for.