The Hexed. Heather Graham

Not good. He wanted her help.

      She turned the tables. “So you’re from here?” she asked him. “You said something about Peabody.”

      “Born there. My mother could trace her family back to the Mayflower. She’s proud of it. I have more of a tendency to think the ship was filled with hypocrites. They wanted freedom, so they came here and persecuted others, and, as we both know, their descendants tangled themselves up with the witchcraft trials. My father was from Texas, but he loved my mom, so I was born here. What about you?”

      “I grew up in an old Victorian right here in Salem. I could see the House of the Seven Gables whenever I went outside.”

      “And you never left?” he asked.

      “No, I left. I was a reporter in Boston for a while, then I came back. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to chitchat about growing up in New England.”

      She had blue eyes—deep, direct blue eyes. The color of the sapphires on her pentagram. He lowered his head for a minute, hiding a dry smile. She was the perfect image of a witch, or of the Hollywood version, at least. Her hair was as dark as the wings of her pet raven. She was tall and slender, with elegant curves and perfect posture. She was in jeans today, and a soft sweater that hugged her form nicely, but—given a cloak and a scepter—she could have stood on a hill in the wind and, with an evil chant, lifted her face to the heavens and demanded that the lightning strike and the thunder roar.

      And there was something she wasn’t telling him.

      “I wish there was more I could tell you. I so wish I could have done something to help that poor woman. If I knew anything that might help assist you, I would be writing it down to make sure you had it right,” she told him.

      “Thank you. I do need the name of your friend—the one you bought that medallion from—and her store.”

      She nodded. “You know, there was another woman killed in Swampscott two weeks ago,” she said.

      “Yes.”

      “The police aren’t giving out much information. And they aren’t saying much about the woman I found, either,” she said. “It was the same killer, wasn’t it?”

      “They aren’t giving out information because they’re trying to weed out all the crackpots who want to confess to murders they didn’t commit. They’re also trying to avoid—” He stopped abruptly.

      “To avoid?”

      “Copycats.”

      “The officer last night asked me not to give out any information about the body,” she said.

      “And that’s important. Luckily, we managed to have the scene sealed off and most of the work done before the press showed up last night. They don’t know that you’re involved, so hopefully there won’t be anyone trying to get information out of you.”

      “I can keep quiet,” she assured him. She hesitated. “But...this is also like that other murder...the one that happened thirteen years ago.” She looked at him with that direct blue stare of hers. “In Peabody,” she said.

      “Yes,” he said quietly.

      “You...were there?”

      “I was a senior in high school at the time.”

      She rose and walked over to the mantel. “Were the other women found with medallions like mine lying on their breasts, as well?”

      He hesitated, then realized that having seen one victim, she was smart enough to draw conclusions.

      “Yes. But that’s something else I hope you’ll keep to yourself.”

      She turned and looked at him. “Are you thinking they’re some kind of Wiccan sacrifice? I ask because I know that might be a lot of people’s first impression. But you’d be really wrong. Half my friends are Wiccans. They’re...like flower children. They believe in good things. People have a tendency to think that Wiccans follow Aleister Crowley’s tenets, but you grew up around here, so you must know that’s not true. Crowley was a hedonist who used whatever suited him to create his own brand of religion. He even homed in on Masonic principles, and the Masons I know are great people. My dad is a Mason, and he and his friends bowled a lot and raised money for children’s charities. Trust me, no real Wiccan committed these murders.”

      She was passionate and clearly convinced of the truth of what she was saying. And of course, he hadn’t grown up in the area for nothing.

      “Do no harm to others lest it be returned to you threefold,” he said.

      She seemed a little startled. “Yes.”

      “No true Wiccan did anything like this, no,” he said. “But there are still other people out there who could have, and could have made it look like Wiccans were involved. Satanists, or plain old nutcases. We don’t know yet. But hunting down the source of the medallions will be important, and with three of them, we finally have a shot.”

      “Well, I can assure you that my friend Beth Fullway, who owns the shop where I bought my medallion, isn’t involved. She and I were thirteen when the first murder occurred. We went to school together.”

      “But did she create the piece?” he asked.

      “No,” Devin admitted.

      “What’s the name of her shop?”

      “The Haunted Dragon. It’s right on Essex.”

      He picked up his cup and finished his coffee. It was excellent. Black and strong, with no bite or aftertaste. He set the cup down regretfully.

      “Thank you.”

      “Of course, Agent Rockwell.”

      “Rocky,” he said.

      “Pardon?”

      “Please, just call me Rocky.”

      “Your name is Rocky Rockwell?”

      “Craig Rockwell. But I’ve always gone by Rocky.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and extracted a card from his wallet. “Please, call me if you think of anything.”

      She accepted the card and slid it into the pocket of her jeans. “I will.”

      “And keep your doors locked.”

      “Of course,” she said again, stepping forward and opening the door for him.

      He had started toward his car when she called him back.

      “Agent Rockwell. Um, Rocky?”

      “Yes?”

      “Maybe I could come with you. I’ve known Beth all my life. I’m afraid if you just go in and start questioning her...”

      “You think I come on too tough?” he asked her.

      “Well, when you first asked me about the necklace—the medallion—I thought you were going to arrest me.”

      He was thoughtful for a moment, not sure how much he wanted to involve this woman.

      “I really can help,” she said. “You’ll find out more if you let me introduce you and play it cool.”

      Maybe she could help him. Like Jack Grail, she was a lot more closely tied to the area than he was.

      He let out a breath.

      “Sure. Let’s go.”

      “Wait, give me a second,” she told him.

      She ran into another room and came out with a large box. He reached to take it from her.

      “It’s okay,” she said. “I have it.”

      “Please.”

      She let him carry it. “Crown jewels?” he asked her.

      “Books.”