Vera #2
“My aunt was a florist, master gardener, and the occasional maker of herbal teas,” says Ana.
“My father ingested the death cap mushroom by accident. Common, really. Thousands of people die each year from accidental ingestion. My mother had a garden and was known to forage for herbs and mushrooms. It was a simple mistake that resulted in the tragic death of my father.”
“But your mother was convicted of the crime.”
“Which doesn’t mean she was guilty.”
“She then died in prison after a visit from your aunt.”
Unbidden, the familiar rush of emotion I feel when conversation turns to Agnes and my parents washes over me. Anger, guilt,
and a terrible crushing sadness that I’d do just about anything not to feel. When I was younger, I used to try to drink it
away. Now, I breathe, let it flow through me.
“I think our mother died of a broken heart,” says Ana, dabbing at her eyes.
“It could have been poison,” says the detective.
“Well, that was never considered. My mother was a heavy smoker. She was under tremendous stress and grief-stricken at the
death of my father, the loss of her children, and facing life in prison.”
The emotions pass and I feel a distance from them, from the current situation. There are few topics of conversation I hate
more than those about this chapter in our young lives.
“Once again,” says Victor, tone sterner now. “What does this have to do with Paul Hayes’s murder? Are you just dredging up
unhappy memories to rattle my client?”
Bandeau is undeterred.
“Now Iggy Rose is in a coma. Another person connected to you. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Ignatia Rose Caine is a dear, longtime friend of my client’s. Ms. Blacksmith has no motive whatsoever to harm Ms. Rose.”
“Isn’t she married to another ex-boyfriend of yours? Brock Caine?”
Victor issues a sigh. “Again. Absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand. As far as we know, Ms. Rose has a bad case of food poisoning.”
“After brunching with the sisters Blacksmith, descended from a long line of—what are we calling them—herbalists?”
We choose silence. That’s always best. The less you say the better. A dim panic is rattling deep inside me, reminding me that
I am more than willing to kill to defend the people I love. And this detective represents an imminent threat to my family.
Breathe, I tell the beast in its cage. Calm down.
The detective opens a file. I catch a glimpse of Paul’s dead body and my stomach turns a little. Ana looks away, wipes again
at her eye. I wonder if anyone else notices that she isn’t really crying. Her eyes are dry as stones.
“We have determined time of death as approximately forty-eight to seventy-two hours before the discovery of the body. We have
also determined that Paul Hayes was killed in a remote location, transported to Black River Park, and buried there. This would
likely have required the work of more than one person.”
Ana is about to speak, but Victor puts a gentle hand on her arm.
“It is my understanding that Paul Hayes had a number of enemies both personal and professional,” Victor says. “That he was
unethical, a womanizer, and some say was almost sociopathically competitive. He had numerous charges of sexual harassment
lodged against him, as well as a domestic assault charge on his criminal record. This was a bad guy.”
“So, my question is,” says the detective, undeterred. “Where were you on Wednesday night?”
“On Wednesday, I was at my niece’s school event—a student art show. We then had a family dinner, not returning home until
after 10:00 p.m. My neighbor Tina saw me come in.”
“Do you confirm this?” he asks, looking at me.
“I do.”
It’s a lie. I have no idea where Ana was on Wednesday.
“And Thursday?”
“Girls’ night out with my good friends Payton and Esme. Martini night. It was a late one. I met someone at the bar, took him home. I was with him all night.”
She smiles at the detective. Is she flirting with him? I tap her with my foot under the table. She ignores me.
“Did you happen to get his name?” he asks, unimpressed.
“I’m afraid not. Chad? Chuck?”
“Is that a common thing for you? That you pick up a man, sleep with him, then forget his name?”
“Zero relevance,” says Victor with a roll of his eyes.
I love this man so much.
“Are you slut shaming me?” she asks, mock offended with a hand to her heart.
Detective Bandeau has the good grace to blush, clears his throat again. A nervous tick? Do we make him uncomfortable?
“My point is,” says Ana, “I had moved on from Paul Hayes.”
“Do you have any way to get in contact with your new friend?” Scribble, scribble.
My back is aching in this hard metal chair. And I’m struck again by how much more I feel like Ana’s mother than her sister.
Did she really have a one-night stand with a stranger?
Ana taps a French-manicured finger on her toned thigh.
“He left before I woke up. It was just a one-night thing. We both knew that. I mean, I suppose I could cast around and see
if he turns up.”
“Do that.”
The detective is quiet a second, clicking his pen.
“When was the last time you saw Amanda Alessi?”
“Who?” she asks stubbornly.
“Paul Hayes’s new girlfriend. The missing woman.”
“Never.”
The expression on the detective’s face makes my shoulders tighten.
He slips a photograph from another manila folder, slides it across the table.
There we all are. Me, Ana, Iggy. Regina is there, too, toward the back.
Some other women; faces I know but their names elude me.
Friends of Iggy’s I think. I barely remember this night.
If I was there it would have had something to do with Ana, or she begged me to go for some reason. I am not the girls’-night-out type.
Ana shakes her head, confused. She squints at the image. “Is one of these women his new girlfriend?”
He puts his finger on the image of a pretty, busty blonde with thick eyelashes and berry-pink lips at the center of the selfie.
I recognize her then from the news coverage.
“That’s Amanda Alessi,” the detective says.
Ana shrugs, looks down at her fingernails, then up at the image again. “This is an old picture. Maybe she was a friend of
Iggy’s? She might have been there . . . but girls’ night is a more-the-merrier proposition, bring friends, co-workers. She
could have been at the bar, and I wouldn’t necessarily have met her.”
“Amanda Alessi had this photo framed in her house. It meant something to her.”
Ana doesn’t speak again, holds the detective’s gaze.
“My client,” says Victor, “has answered your question. Is there anything else?”
The detective slides a wrinkled piece of paper across the table. I recognize Ana’s handwriting, and her phone number.
“Amanda Alessi’s neighbor said that you dropped by, asking questions.”
Oh, Ana. For fuck’s sake.
“You don’t have to answer that,” says Victor quickly.
“I was looking for evidence.” She leans forward. “To prove that I didn’t kill Paul.”
“How did you know where she lived if you didn’t know her?”
Ana rolls her eyes like an annoyed teen, leans back with folded arms. “There’s this really cool thing? It’s called the internet. If you know where to look, you can find almost anything.”
“Did you kill Paul Hayes?”
Huh, I guess he’s decided on the direct route. My shoulders hike; my head is pounding now.
“No,” says Ana, with an emphatic shake of her head.
The detective is annoyingly clicking his pen; the room is so cold my hands feel stiff. “Do you know where Amanda Alessi is?”
“I thought she was in Aruba, fucking my ex. Otherwise, no. I got an earful from her nosy neighbor, though. How she was a party
girl. Slept around. Maybe she killed Paul, took off. Ever think about that?”
“Are you responsible for Iggy Rose’s sudden illness?”
“No.” Her voice quivers a little here. “She’s . . . my best friend.”
He pushes out a breath. “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
Seems like a stupid move, but maybe he’s losing his patience.
Ana pushes her chair back angrily. “Fuck off,” she says quietly. She rises. Victor does, too.
The detective, unflappable, keeps on.
“What’s this?” He pushes a photo across the table. A doll. An effigy made from sticks. My heart nearly stops in my chest.
It’s exactly like the one I found on my porch. Except mine was a protection effigy. This one has barbed wire wrapped around
its neck. It’s a doll meant to bring harm to an enemy.
Victor, Ana, and I lean in to stare at it.
“We found this in the woods near Paul’s body,” says the detective. “Any idea what it is?”
“No,” Ana says simply. Victor nods, looks back to his notes.
Dolls and effigies have been used in rituals since the beginning of humanity. In popular culture, they are seen as evil, a
harbinger of black magic. But most often they are used for healing, for protection, fertility, attracting love, and empowerment.
White magic.
Of course, there are some who have used them for cursing or binding enemies.
But black magic comes at a high price for the practitioner.
I have seen dolls like this one. I have made them myself.
Many times. I assume the sticks are bound with hair, crystals, charms, perhaps small personal effects.
I could give the detective a lesson on this particular item, but naturally I stay quiet, lean away with a shrug.
“Do you have anything to add, Vera?”
There’s something odd about the way he leans on my name, like we know each other. Which we don’t. I hold his eyes a moment,
then lower them to the worn and scratched tabletop.
“Mrs. Blacksmith-Kline, please.”
He gives me a deferential nod that is just north of condescending.
Then, from my bag, I withdraw an ecru correspondence envelope; inside is a folded piece of letter stationery.
“As per your request, the brunch menu, ingredients, who brought what, where we purchased some of the items that were served.
Everyone who was there and contact information.”
He takes it from me, and there’s a sizzle of bad electricity in the millisecond that we’re both holding the paper. Victor
agreed that this was the right thing to do. Provide all the information that was requested, hold back nothing.
“There’s a killer out there, detective,” I say. “I suggest you find him before he hurts anyone else.”
“Him?”
“Let’s be honest. Isn’t it usually a man?” I say. “Paul had a lot of enemies. He owed some shady people money from what I
understand, had questionable business dealings. There’s a pool of suspects a mile deep. Best get to work.”
He regards me a minute, then looks back and forth between Ana and me. His eyes rest on Ana; he tips his stubbled chin toward
her. “Regina Hayes says that you’re a witch.”
“She should talk,” snaps Ana. “That bitch never liked me. And the feeling is entirely mutual.”
“A Wiccan, a practicing witch,” he clarifies. “She claims that there are a number of them in the area. It’s a collective of sorts, isn’t it? A group called The Cove?”
My blood goes a little cold, but Victor lets out a derisive laugh.
Ana’s moving toward the detective. I grab her arm; we don’t need a violent temper tantrum in here. He doesn’t need to see
her at her worst, which I promise you is very, very bad.
“Are you seriously asking me if I’m a witch?” she asks, voice raised in indignation. “What is this—the fucking sixteen-hundreds? Are you getting the stake ready?”
“Detective, that’s quite enough,” Victor says, still chuckling as he rises, gathering his things. “We came here in good faith
to cooperate with your investigation. This interview has concluded. My client won’t be speaking to your ridiculous suggestion.”
Victor shuttles us toward the door and I can’t get out of there fast enough.
“A man is dead. A woman is missing. Another woman is in a coma,” says the detective, still seated, voice raised. “They have
one thing in common, Ms. Blacksmith. You.”
“What about the threats on his ConnectIn page? Or that blog I sent you? Did you even investigate? Who is Jezebel?” says Ana,
her tone sizzling with anger.
He looks at his notes. “The post came from an IP address masked by a VPN. Untraceable. It could have easily been you. The
blog was published anonymously, no one at the Jezebel site knows who wrote it. Again, it could have been you. But essentially, the leads you sent are dead ends.”
She has locked him in a dark stare, and he’s staring back with an equal amount of intensity.
“What about the texts with The Witch?” she asks.
“We’re still investigating,” he says vaguely.
“You know it wasn’t me,” she says. He lowers his eyes, closes his folder.
What is going on with these two?
“Time to go, Ms. Blacksmith,” says Victor. “The detective clearly has nothing to hold you. Call us when you have some actual
evidence.”
We exit the room, hustle through the station, and step out into the cold. Above us, the sky is gray. I’m finding it hard to
catch my breath, but I think I’m doing a good job of hiding it. There’s an unpleasant spin to the world, the ground and sky
tilting.
“They don’t have anything,” Victor says as we approach the car. He’s seemingly unperturbed. “They don’t even have theories
at this point. No leads. No suspects. They’re just fishing, making up silly stories to get a reaction.”
“I didn’t do any of this,” Ana says. “I swear.”
“Of course not,” he says easily, as if this is a foregone conclusion. “But I would avoid the urge to play amateur sleuth,
Ana. Or to communicate independently with the detective. It’s not going to serve you.”
Ana frowns but stays quiet.
He opens the door to his Range Rover, first for me in the front, then for Ana in the back. In the driver’s seat, he’s still
laughing. “Witches. Now I’ve heard everything.”
I lock eyes with my sister in the rearview mirror.
We are so very fucked.
My sister’s phone pings. She looks at it then shoves it in her bag. Is that the hint of a smile? What is she hiding?