Stitches In Time (12 page)

What had he meant by that remark about getting their stories straight? She had nothing to conceal from the police; was he going to ask her to keep quiet about where he had been the night before? Maybe the meeting had been illegal. Maybe it hadn't been as harmless a gathering as he had claimed. From a former roommate, she had learned more than she wanted to know about "Wicca," as it was called; a religion, a spiritual path, a way of developing psychic and
magical powers? Whatever, Rachel had thought, trying to think of a polite excuse to cut the lecture short. According to her enthusiastic friend, the religion of the "new witches" was not only harmless but positively high-minded, seeking the higher paths of understanding and self-development, looking to the good and abjuring evil. But there were other groups that weren't so well-intentioned, cults that sometimes made the news by sacrificing animals and desecrating churches, that might hold greater interest than a bunch of innocent white witches for a student of magic and religion like Pat MacDougal. If Adam had been playing nasty games with people like that. ..

She had no opportunity to demand further elucidation from Adam. Tom was early.

She didn't hear Adam coming, but he made it to the door first and moved her gently but firmly out of the way before he opened it. "Hello," he said amiably. "You must be the fuzz."

Tom stared at him, then at Rachel, then back, and up, at Adam, who hadn't stopped talking. "Interesting, the colloquialisms people invent for the police. Do you know the derivation of fuzz? It comes from—"

"Perhaps you could tell me some other time," Tom said politely. "May
I
come in?"

Adam nodded approvingly. "Correct procedure. Yes, Officer, please come in. We were expecting you."

He stepped back. "Have a chair. How about a cup of coffee? Or tea, if you prefer. Nice to meet you."

"We haven't met," Tom pointed out. "You must be Dr. Nugent."

"That's right, though
I
only use the title when I'm forced to. Call me Adam. I'm a friend of—"

"Tony told me. Yes, thanks, I will have coffee." Tom settled into a chair and took a notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket. "Ms. Foley—"

"Milk, cream, sugar, sweetener?"

"Black, please. Now, Ms. Foley—"

"How about a muffin?"

"No, thank you," Tom said. "Rachel, tell me again what happened last night."

He took notes as she spoke, thanked her, and turned to Adam, who was twitching with repressed speech. "All right, Dr. Nugent."

If Adam had intended to lie about his noctural activities, he had changed his mind. He told all, ignoring— probably unaware of—Thomas's raised eyebrows.

"Wicca," he repeated, his voice carefully expressionless.

"You know about them?" Adam asked.

"Yes. They have to apply for permits to meet, like everyone else. Harmless bunch," he added with the air of a man who could have added other adjectives if he had been expressing a personal opinion rather than a professional judgment.

"Oh, sure," Adam agreed. "Some of them are very well informed, you know—not only about the history of the witchcraft cult, but about the various anthropological theories. Murray's work is generally discredited these days, of course."

"Of course," Tom murmured, making a note. "You saw no one near the house, Dr. Nugent?"

"Nope. I wasn't looking for anyone, though. The bushes by the front steps are evergreens, they're thick enough to—"

"Right. Where exactly did you find the knife?"

Adam looked uneasy and his answer was uncharacteristically brief. "Top step. Driven into the wood."

He had placed the knife on the table. It was an ordinary carving knife, the wooden haft polished and worn by use. Tom touched the blade with a careful finger. "Razor sharp."

"A good cook keeps his knives sharp," Adam said.

"I know. You handled it? How? Don't touch it, just show me."

Looking mortified, Adam demonstrated. "I didn't think—"

"No. It's unlikely there would have been usable prints, but of course we'll check. We'll need yours for comparison."

"I was wearing my mittens," Adam said.

"Mittens?" Tom's control slipped momentarily.

"I'm not used to this climate," Adam said. "The average temperature of Saudi Arabia—"

"He doesn't care about the climate of Saudi Arabia," Rachel said sharply. That would explain the sweaters, though . . . She went on, "You said you had planned to call me, Tom. What about?"

There was a cat on every lap by now; Tom, who seemed to be quite accustomed to this arrangement, carefully shifted his before leaning back in his chair. "We've identified the victim."

"Victim," Rachel repeated. She could have used one of Adam's sweaters; the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a good ten degrees. "Of the burglary'?"

Tom avoided her eyes. "I'm afraid it's not simple burglary any longer. She wasn't found till last night, but the coroner says she's been dead for almost a week."

"I don't want any brandy," Rachel said, pushing the glass away. "
I
don't need it."

"You're white as a sheet," Adam said.

"So are you." "Muddy brown" would have been more accurate; the climate of Saudi Arabia had produced a heavy tan.

"It was a shock." Adam drank the brandy. "Murder!"

"It wasn't premeditated, or violent," Tom said. "I'm sorry, Rachel, I shouldn't have broken it to you so abruptly."

"And I shouldn't have let it upset me.
I
didn't even know her. It's just that. . . Tell me."

"She was an old woman," Tom said. "Eighty-three. Lived alone, in a big old house a few miles south of here. It used to be in the country, but the town is spreading in that direction; there's a whole subdivision of new houses around hers. According to the neighbors she was active and independent despite her age, and her hearing was excellent. The thief may not have known that—or maybe he didn't care. We think she heard him rummaging around and came downstairs to confront him. She was in her nightgown and bathrobe. He tied her to a kitchen chair, gagged and blindfolded her, and then proceeded to take what he wanted. Except for tying her up he didn't molest her. The cause of death was a heart attack."

Adam's face faded from muddy brown to muddy gray. It was an ugly picture, as ugly in its way as brutal bloody assault. The thought of the old woman, blinded and mute and helpless, struggling to free herself, turned Rachel's stomach.

"How long," she began, and couldn't finish the sentence.

Tom wrenched the bottle of brandy away from Adam and splashed some into a glass. This time Rachel didn't refuse it.

"Not long," Tom said. "It may have been outrage rather than fear that brought on the attack. She had a reputation as a sour, unpleasant person. That's why she wasn't found for several days; the neighbors had given up trying to befriend her, they left her strictly alone, as she wanted."

"Nobody should die that way," Rachel whispered. "Nobody."

Tom patted her hand and then took his away, as if conscious of unprofessional behavior. But his voice was very gentle when he spoke. "Don't think of it as worse than it was, Rachel. The house was cold, she'd turned the thermostat down before she went to bed, so the body wasn't . .. And if she had been friendlier, more neighborly, someone would have found her sooner."

"Even so." Adam said no more, but Tom nodded.

"Even so, the charge will be murder, of one variety or another. Depends on the state's attorney, and on what we can wring out of him when we catch him."

"Did you find any fingerprints?" Adam asked.

"Too many. The place was filthy, every surface smeared with grease and dust. Most of the prints seem to be hers, but there were a few smudges that suggest he was wearing gloves. Every two-bit crook who watches television knows enough to wear gloves; you can buy 'em by the box in any drugstore. However," Tom added, "thanks to you and Tony, we know what he looks like."

"How do you know it's him?" Rachel asked. The question wasn't well phrased, but Tom knew what she meant.

"Took us a while to figure out what was missing from the house; that's why I didn't inform you earlier. She was no more friendly with her kin than with her neighbors, but we finally located a grand-niece who had visited her occasionally and was familiar with the inventory. The inventory," Tom added sardonically, "was the reason for the visits. She hoped to inherit a number of things, including the quilts. Her description of them was detailed."

"Will she inherit?" Adam asked.

"I don't know," Tom said. "I haven't seen the will yet. Her lawyer has been notified of her death, so the customary procedures are under way. I'll keep you informed, of course, but I thought you'd want to know about this right away."

"Does Tony know?" Rachel asked.

"Yes, I called him first thing this morning. He offered to come back—"

"No need for that," Adam said, squaring his shoulders. "I'm here."

"He seems to have great confidence in you." Tom's expression suggested he did not share Tony's opinion. "Anyhow,
I
convinced him we didn't need him, not at the moment. Rachel can identify the guy—"

"And he has identified her," Adam interrupted. "What are you doing about protection for her?"

"We feel sure Rachel is no longer in any danger," Tom said. "At least she won't be after the story hits the evening news broadcasts. She's not the only one who can identify him; Tony saw him too. It won't do him any good to retrieve the goods, half a dozen witnesses, including me, can testify to the fact that they ended up here. The news stories will emphasize the fact that they have been impounded by the police—"

"What?" Rachel's voice rose. "You're taking them?"

Tom looked at her in surprise. "They're stolen goods, Rachel. Evidence."

"You can't be absolutely certain yet. The—niece?— hasn't even seen them."

"Grand-niece. She's supposed to come in this afternoon to identify the objects." Tom hesitated. "If you're going to go by the book, I suppose
I
could bring her here."

"I'd prefer that. After all," Rachel said, "Cheryl left me in charge. I'm responsible, and I don't think I'm being unreasonable to insist that we follow the rules."

It sounded convincing, even to her.

Tom shrugged. "If that's how you want it..."

"What if this guy doesn't watch the news?" Adam asked. "Or draw the logical conclusions? Criminals are not, by definition, logical persons."

"Obviously you should continue taking sensible precautions. Don't go out alone. Keep the house locked and the dogs inside at night. Don't open the door to strangers—any strangers, he could be wearing a disguise. Call if you see anything out of line, and if I'm not there tell them to contact me immediately. Okay?"

Rachel wondered if he knew that the precise instructions and the gravity of his voice negated his earlier reassurance. "Okay," she said faintly.

"Don't worry, Rachel. This was a stupid, unnecessary crime but it means we'll be giving it top priority. We'll get him."

Adam had been eating doughnuts, assisted by the dogs. He offered the plate to Tom, who shook his head. "I have to get back. Come and show me exactly where you found this, Dr. Nugent." Wrapping a handkerchief around it, he dropped the knife into a plastic bag.

Uninvited, Rachel followed the men out onto the porch. I should sweep it, she thought, noting the smears of mud and dried grass. There was no danger of anyone slipping that morning; the cold snap had continued, and the ground looked hard as iron. She wrapped her arms around her shivering body.

"Go back in the house," Tom said, without looking directly at her. He had dropped to one knee and was staring at the top step.

Rachel ignored the suggestion—or was it an order?— and moved closer.

The place wasn't hard to find. A straight, inch-long slit broke the surface of the wood, which was dulled by a patch of dried mud. Flaking paint outlined the edges of the cut.

Tom took a thin steel probe from his pocket and inserted it delicately into the gash. When he withdrew it, his thumb marking the depth, he let out a whistle. "At least three inches. The blade went straight through."

"I had a hell of a time getting it out," Adam said.

The implications weren't lost on Rachel. "He must be stronger than he looks."

"Or very, very angry," said Adam.

Tom stood up. The look he gave Adam was decidedly unfriendly. "Is that the kind of theorizing anthropologists are taught?"

"Just a suggestion," Adam said meekly. "
I
was also going to mention—"

"Don't." Tom glanced at Rachel. "You'll catch cold. Go inside."

"Is that an order?"

"Just a suggestion." He smiled.

"Good-bye, then. And thank you."

"I'll let you know when to expect us. And don't worry."

After she had closed the door Rachel stood watching through the glass panel. The conversation didn't last long. Tom appeared to be asking questions and cutting off Adam's expansive answers in mid-sentence. Then Tom started down the steps, giving the slit in the wood a wide berth, and Adam came in.

"I'm chilled to the bone," he announced, with appropriate, exaggerated gestures. "Why anyone would choose to live in the so-called temperate zone—"

"What did he say?"

"Huh? Oh. Among other things, he wanted to know the address of the Esbat."

"So you need an alibi?"

Hugging himself and shivering, Adam watched her lock the door. "Don't be dense. What kind of alibi would that be? Nothing happened until I got here."

"Then why—"

"It's obvious, isn't it? He thinks
I
may have been the one who drove that knife into the step. I'm big enough and strong enough," Adam said, without false modesty. "Unlike your burglar."

"But why—"

"If you'll stop interrupting, I'll tell you. It's rather shrewd of him, in fact; he's got more imagination than your average cop. That patch of mud on the step could have been—most probably was—a footprint. The use of footprints in sympathetic magic is well documented; like a man's shadow or his name, they are extensions of his soul, and any harm done to the extension can—with the proper spells and rituals—be duplicated on his body. Stab a footprint, and you stab the man himself. It's common practice in—" He broke off, seeing Rachel's expression. "I guess you know that. Well, there I was last night, fraternizing with a bunch of people who call themselves witches. Who's to know I'm not a believer, instead of the detached observer I claim to be? I'm not, as it happens, and the group doesn't practice or approve of Black Magic, but Tom isn't familiar with the Wicca creed or with my personal beliefs. He's right to check it out."