“My grandparents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary combined with a double family reunion,” my wife explained. “And being a daughter of the O’Brien clan, I’m expected to dance, so I have to put the finishing touches on my outfit.”
“You need a special outfit so ya’ can dance?” He shot a glance in my direction and jibed, “You got somethin’ pretty ta’ wear too?”
“Ceilidh dancing, Ben,” Felicity interjected. “Irish folk dancing. My cousins and I are providing the entertainment at my grandparents’ request. It’s like a family tradition.”
“So you mean ya’ do like that Lord of the Dance thing, then? Allison loves that stuff.”
“It’s pretty much the same thing,” she nodded. “Not exactly, but close. And there is the fact that we do it for fun and celebration. Not professionally.”
“Wow. Sounds like a big deal.”
“Regular Irish shindig,” I grumbled. “Lots of colcannon and whiskey followed closely by sightings of leprechauns and the traditional ‘dancing of the jig’ right on into the wee hours.”
“What the hell’s a cold cannon?”
“Colcannon. It’s a traditional Irish dish made of potatoes, onions and cabbage,” Felicity explained, then with her face bearing a broad grin, reached across the table and jokingly slapped my hand. “And you? Stop it! You’ll have fun and you know it.”
“You sure ya’ got time?” Ben questioned. “I’d really prefer to have ya’ there but it’s not like it’s your job. Deck and I can handle it.”
“He’s got plenty of time,” my wife answered for me. “He’s not the one dancing, I am. You just have to promise to have him back here in one piece by five-thirty, so I can get him dressed.”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER 9
“That’s with a K,” a pretty young blonde woman with a neatly clipped pageboy haircut anxiously explained to Detective Deckert.
“K-a-r-o-l?”
“No sir,” she answered. “With a K and a Y. K-a-r-y-l. Karyl.”
“K-a-r-Y…” Carl muttered to himself as he wrote the name in his notepad emphasizing the K and the Y, “Gotcha. Last name?”
“Steinbeck.”
“Like the writer?”
“Yes, Detective.” She gave a slightly bothered sigh that was only partially masked by her obvious jitters. “Like the writer.”
“Any relation?”
“Not that I am aware of, Detective.”
“Great book, that Grapes of Wrath.”
“I wouldn’t know, Detective,” she told him, “I’ve never read it.”
“Too bad, you really ought to. Excellent book,” he told her then moved on to the woman seated at her side. “And your name again, Miss?”
“Miz.”
“Excuse me?”
“I prefer Miz,” she stated flatly as she brushed a shock of coal black hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.
I couldn’t help but notice the lobe was decorated with a row of three rather significant diamond studs.
“My apologies,” Carl returned without missing a beat. “And your name again, Miz?”
“Starr,” she answered coldly, “with two R’s. Starr Winston.”
He mumbled softly as he scribbled, “Of course. Starr with two R’s…”
We had arrived at the upscale address in the historic section of Lansbury at ten minutes of four. Detective Deckert had driven himself and met us in front of the restored home. Though we were expected, the reception had been less than warm to say the least. Upon entering, we were quietly led to a sizeable sitting room by the young blonde who then excused herself and disappeared momentarily.
The room, like the rest of the interior we had seen, sported meticulously restored hardwood floors, three- member base accents and crown moldings. Throughout, eclectic paintings adorned strategic points providing embellishment for the muted colors of the walls. Otherwise, the furniture and decor seemed a paradox of feminine tastes driven by masculine undertones. The layout was nice, neat and altogether functional in design.
Karyl had returned shortly with her partner, and the two young women were now huddled close together on a high-backed love seat holding hands, their fingers tightly entwined. Carl and I had taken up residence on the matching couch across from them. The short distance between was occupied by a spartan antique coffee table. Ben remained standing, hands buried in his pockets, quietly surveying the room. I knew he was using his size to, as he would put it, “compel full cooperation”; but in this case it was accomplishing nothing more than scaring the wits out of one of the women and putting the other on the extreme defensive. At least he was wearing a sport coat, so his sidearm wasn’t adding to the intimidation.
Having worked with me before, Carl had slipped easily into the habit of treating me as if I were just another cop; therefore, I doubted he was aware-or even concerned with the fact-that from my vantage point seated next to him, I could see everything he was putting on the paper. Next to Karyl’s name he made the notation, “blonde/blue nervous”-hair color, eye color, and demeanor. Next to Starr’s was the description “black/blue bitchy.”
On a separate line beneath the two names, he scrawled “lipstick lesbians” and double underlined it. I assumed this to be a reference to the fact that while they were obviously involved with one another, they were both very feminine in their appearance and dress. Yet another slang term born of the same misconstrued stereotypes of homosexuals that had given us such epithets as “bull-dyke” and “flaming-fairy.”
“Nice house you got here,” Carl observed aloud. “Must be one heck of a mortgage payment.”
“As if it is any of your business, Detective,” Starr hissed, “it is paid for.”
He let out a low whistle. “Nice. Have a good job, do you?”
“I am an attorney, Detective Deckert,” she returned. “A very successful one. Of course, I’m sure you were well aware of that before you ever came here.”
Next to her name on the notepad, he penciled in “lawyer/bucks.”
“Just the two of you live here, I take it?”
“Yes,” she huffed. “If I may, Detective Deckert, I am certain you were well aware of our names and countless other facts that are none of your business before you ever arrived here. So, if I may ask, is there a point to these questions other than a transparent attempt to antagonize me?”
“Just makin’ an observation, Miz Winston.” He shrugged. “That’s all. I’m not tryin’ to antagonize anyone.”
Her eyes quickly darting back and forth between Deckert and Starr, Karyl suddenly blurted, “Are we suspects?”
“Not at all, Miss Steinbeck.” Carl shook his head. “Not at all. We’re just tryin’ to get some information, so we can solve this case.”
The reply to her question was followed by a thickening silence. Information wasn’t going to flow freely from these two women, and being a Witch myself, I could fully understand their reluctance to speak. Considering the way the media had already begun sensationalizing their erroneous and unconfirmed rumors of “Cult Revenge,” the entire Pagan community in the area was probably running scared. Two of the local television stations had even started weeklong exposes titled something on the order of “WitchCraft: Saint Louis’ Hidden Evil.”
“Listen, Miss Steinbeck, Miz Winston…” Carl volunteered. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of this case except to say that the current speculation in the media is way off base… Don’t pay any attention to it.”
Their silence continued.
“Should we be expectin’ anyone else?” Ben finally asked from his station, semi-blocking the doorway. “Or is it
