51
JAGG
The full moon was like a massive spotlight illuminating the town in a silver glow almost as bright as day. You could feel the electricity in the air. Although the festival was raging miles away at Devil’s Cove, the town was a buzz of activity. Cars filled the two-lane roads that were normally vacant past nine o’clock. Storefronts glowed with life, staying open late to capitalize on the influx of boozy tourists. Loud music and laughter rang through the humid summer air. I passed a trio of young women in flowing skirts and tie-dye shirts, wearing crowns on their heads made of twigs and twinkling lights. Giggling, grabbing onto each other as they stumbled down Main Street. A duo of cowboys followed a few feet behind. I passed a patrol car, and another. BSPD was out in full swing, and unless I’d missed something—which at that point wouldn’t surprise me—Darby’s incident had been the only life-or-death emergency so far. There’d be plenty of DWI’s, drunk and disorderly’s, a few public intoxes, and probably a few indecent exposures but nothing they couldn’t handle.
Little did I know what was coming.
I turned off Main Street onto “Tourist Road,” the same strip where Kenzo Rees had shot Seagrave and where Sunny Harper had pulled off a heist right under my damn nose.
The strip was lined with people of all ages, each storefront lit and decorated with moons and stars, tinkling chimes and hanging trinkets. I noted a few pentagrams, a few other Wiccan symbols. A band played at each end of the street next to food vendors flanked by long lines.
I slowed as I neared the end of the row of shops, imagining Sunny slinking through the shadows on her way to steal the final Cedonia Scroll. Then, I imagined Seagrave responding to a “suspicious person” call minutes later. The man had probably just tossed the foil from the ham and cheese sandwich he ate every night while on duty and chugged a Dr. Pepper from the pack he’d always kept stocked in the community fridge before jogging to his car. He shouldn’t have died.
I slowed, visualizing where he’d parked, then, him getting out of the car, walking down the sidewalk, turning into the narrow alleyway that ran next to Mystic Maven’s Art Shop.
I honked at a pair of teens stumbling across the road, then whipped my Jeep into the only open spot. I cut the engine, hopped out, and ignoring a few whistles, I stepped into the alley. A shadow from the building next door stretched across the asphalt, making it difficult to see. I looked around.
There were still many questions about that night. Why had Sunny stolen the scrolls in the first place? Why hadn’t Briana Morgan given up Sunny’s name? What was the connection, or loyalty, there?
I was still missing something right under my nose. I felt it in my gut.
A wave of sparkles across the bricks pulled my attention. I watched Hazel De Ville flick herOpensign toClosed.
I crossed the alley and rapped on the door. Hazel turned, cocked her head, then padded back and pulled open the glass door.
“Hurry, hurry, son, I’m trying to get out of here for the night.”
She quickly closed the door behind me and turned off the lights to the main floor, leaving only a few dangling gold lights above the cash register in the back.
“Headed to the festival?” I followed her across the room.
“Every year. Good for business.” She slid behind the counter and began shutting down her computer. “I make almost half my revenue during the Magic Moon.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “But you’re not going only for business, Ms. De Ville.”
She glanced up and followed my gaze to the hemp bag sitting next to her purse, a wooden voodoo doll peeking out of the top. Exactly like the wooden dolls that had decorated the VooDoo tree at the beginning of this whole mess.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked back at me.
“You going to arrest me, Detective?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How honest you are with the questions I’m about to ask you. One, how long have you been practicing witchcraft?”
“I don’t practice witchcraft.”
I nodded to the bag. “Your dolls say otherwise.”
She huffed out an annoyed breath, neither impressed nor intimidated by my presence.
“I am Wiccan, Max Jagger. I practice Wicca. Is this illegal?”
“No. But I want to know why you erected a Wiccan shrine on the tree outside Lieutenant Seagrave’s funeral.”
She glanced back at the woven dolls, hesitated a minute, then met my gaze with slitted eyes.
