Evan expected to find Rhiannon sitting lost in contemplation on the floor of her mediation room. Instead, she came out to meet them before they had reached the building. She was dressed again in jeans and a black sweatshirt with a silver Celtic knot design. She looked like any middle-aged woman about to go hiking or even shopping.
“You’ve found something, haven’t you?” she asked, in her deep, rather masculine voice. “I knew you would. It was only a matter of time. Please, come inside. I’ve made conee—good and strong, not like that revolting decaf nonsense they drink up there.”
Hughes gave Evan a quizzical glance as they went inside.
“Why did you expect us to find something?” Hughes asked as she went ahead of them to a little kitchen. There were three hand-thrown pottery mugs waiting on the table. One of them had sugar and milk in the bottom. Rhiannon poured coffee without answering.
“Did you have a premonition or some sort of psychic message that something had happened to Randy Wunderlich?” Hughes insisted.
Rhiannon handed him a coffee cup. “I assume you take it black.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And the constable here no doubt likes coffee only when it is disguised with milk and sugar.”
Evan laughed. “Yes. I do. Thank you.”
Rhiannon ushered them out of the kitchen to a small sitting room with comfortable chintz-covered armchairs.
“Now,” she said. “To answer your question—it had nothing to do with intuition or second sight. It was merely observation. The man was incredibly fit. I used to watch him jogging along the beach, swimming in the sea. He was a powerful swimmer. There’s no way he’d have let himself be drowned in a cave—without outside intervention.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Hughes asked in a rather subdued manner for him.
Rhiannon nodded graciously.
“Your full name is?”
“Rhiannon.”
“And last name?”
“Just Rhiannon. Having a last name implies owning or being owned or belonging to the tribe. I don’t subscribe to that idea. I am my own free person, belonging only to the universe.”
“So when you file your income tax forms, you just put ‘Rhiannon’ on them?”
“I don’t file income tax forms. I don’t believe in money. Useless commodity. Nothing good ever comes of owning it.”
“So you’re not paid to be here?”
“I made what I thought was a good agreement. My own cottage on the grounds, my meals, and running expenses in return for my presence here and my endorsement of the center.”
“So that’s what made you come here?” Hughes asked.
“When I first heard about it—a center for Celtic spirituality and myself a key part of it—I thought I’d died and gone to what you Christians call heaven. Later I found that the reality didn’t exactly measure up to the promise.”
“It wasn’t what you’d hoped for?”
“It was all a sham. They were playing at these things. Not a serious New Age believer among them. It was just another way to attract tourism.”
“But Randy Wunderlich was a world-renowned psychic.”
“Randy Wunderlich was a charlatan, or a showman, if you like. He wanted me to hold weekly ceremonies on the lawn for the guests, and could I throw in some more visually dramatic elements—a chalice or two, flaming brands, swords, probably sacrifice a white cockerel, for all I know. I asked him if he’d suggest the same to the minister of the local chapel. He looked surprised—stupid man.”
“So you didn’t like him?”
“I
“But you didn’t leave.”
“If true seekers came here, I wanted them to find at least one person who could guide them. And I do get a chance to hold my ceremonies in a real sacred grove. We have one of the most important ceremonies of the year approaching, you know. Galan Mai, we say in Welsh. In English it’s called Beltane. The spring festival of the new fire. You should come to it. I hope I’ve already persuaded Constable Evans to come—since he’s one of us.”
Hughes glanced at Evan.
“A Celt, she means,” Evan said quickly.
“To get back to Randy Wunderlich,” Hughes said. “Can you think of anyone who wanted him dead? Apart from yourself, of course.”
Rhiannon did not return Hughes’s grin. “What makes you assume that I wanted him dead? Negative thoughts are never productive, you know. They surround the thinker with her own negativity until it stifles her. I have never wished anyone dead. I wished him enlightenment—and a few brains wouldn’t have hurt either.”
