Leslie Meier - Wicked Witch Murder

D iana Ravenscroft was shivering but told herself it was not fear, but simply excitement. She had absolutely nothing to dread from the people standing in the circle, waiting for her. They were all Wiccans and had pledged perfect love and perfect trust. No, it was excitementand the cool weather.

Spring comes late in Tinkers Cove, Maine, and it was decidedly chilly on the last day of April, and even cooler as darkness fell. The full moon was shining brightly and the trees budding branches were a tangle of black scribbles against a navy blue sky. Her senses were sharper than usual, and she was aware of the cool breeze that fluttered her sacred garments, the salty tang of the coastal air, the prickly grass beneath her bare feet. The earth felt ripe to her, ready to burst into leaf and flower, as she approached the magick circle.

It was fitting, she thought, that Lord Malebranche had chosen this night, Beltane, for the ritual that would raise her to the third degree as a high priestess in the coven. Only a witch can make a witch and only a high priest can make a high priestess, and Diana had been his student for months now. It had been a demanding apprenticeship, and she had struggled to memorize the chants and magickal properties, the spells and rituals, all of which had to be performed precisely, because a simple mistake could unleash powerful destructive forces.

But the craft, as any witch would tell you, wasnt about destruction. It was all about the five elements in nature: fire, water, earth, air, and spirit. The practitioners sought ecstatic union with the forces of the universe and tried to live in harmony with natural laws. And now, just as she had spent the last months in quiet study and meditation in preparation for this night, so had the natural world been resting and gathering strength for the great season of rebirth, renewal, and growth that was to come.

Diana felt she was on the brink of something, and she hoped she was ready, worthy of taking the next step. Because tonight, for the first time, she would be celebrating the annual Beltane sabbat skyclad, demonstrating the commitment the craft demanded. And there was more. Until now, the mystic union of male and female had only been symbolized by the dipping of a finger in a chalice of water or by slipping an athame, the ritual dagger, into a cup of wine. But tonight it would be the real thing: Lord Malebranche would consummate her ascension to the high priesthood before the entire coven.

And now they were gathered, a small group to be sure, but they were none the less fervent for that. Lady Sibyl was casting the circle, clearing it of all maleficent forces and preparing this forest clearing for the midnight ritual. Diana took her place in the circle, planting her feet in the good earth and raising her palms and face to Goddess Moon. Then, with a flash of light, the great Beltane fire was alight and Lord Malebranche stood before her, magnificent in his horned nakedness. The members of the coven began chanting and drumming, and with a snap of his fingers, Lord Malebranche released the shoulder clasps of her ritual garment and it fell to the ground, around her ankles. He then took her hand and drew her toward the flickering fire in the center of the circle, her white body bathed in moonlight. When she arose, she would be Lady Diana, High Priestess of the Silver Coven.

The Ordains have spoken:

When winters icy grasp is broken,

When the warming sun returns,

Let the Beltane fires burn.

S he didnt believe in any of it, not for a minute, thought Lucy Stone. She was a hardheaded reporter for the Pennysaver, the local weekly newspaper in Tinkers Cove, Maine, and being skeptical was part of her job. No wonder, then, that all this nonsense about second sight and spells and magical powers didnt impress her in the least. It was all fakery and trickery; you couldnt fool her. So when Pam Stillings announced shed made an appointment for them all to have a psychic reading after their regular Thursday morning breakfast, shed been less enthusiastic than the others but didnt want to be left out either. But as far as she was concerned, the only reason she was going along with her friends on this late June morning to Solstice, the new shop in town owned by Diana Ravenscroft, was to see if she could figure out how it was done. That was the only reason. Period. She was happily married, had four well-adjusted children and an adorable grandchild, and she wasnt at all interested in meeting a tall, dark stranger or going on a long trip. And so far, none of her dear, departed relatives had tried to contact her, and that was the way she liked it.

Ive been dying to come here, ever since it opened, said Pam as she slipped her aged Mustang into a parking spot in front of the little shop. Its so cute. Pam was married to Lucys boss, Ted, and still retained the enthusiasm shed displayed as a high school cheerleader.

The shop was cute; there was no denying that, thought Lucy, reaching for the car door handle. It was located in a quaint antique building that used to be a shoe store, with a little studio apartment upstairs. It was a bit like a childs drawing, a cockeyed little square with a triangle perched on top. Even though it was at least a century old, maybe more, it had gone largely unnoticed, tucked behind an overgrown garden, until Diana moved in and painted it lavender with purple trim. The rampant vines and weeds had been tamed, window boxes overflowing with petunias accented the mullioned display windows that were filled with crystal pendants that caught the light, an assortment of bath and body products were arranged in pyramids, and there was a smattering of books and hand-made jewelry. A black cat was curled up on a thick green velvet cushion, asleep in a patch of sun.

This ought to be a hoot, said Sue Finch, flipping down the sun visor and checking her lipstick in the mirror before opening the door and gracefully exiting the car. Sue was the only woman in the little seaside town who consistently wore high heels, and she got her hair done in New York City when she visited her daughter, Sidra, who was an assistant producer for The Norah! Show. I hear psychics are all the rage now. All the stars have their favorite fortune-tellers, and Sidra says Norahs even doing a show on them.

That doesnt surprise me one bit, said Rachel Goodman with a nod that sent her black-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose as she scrambled out of the backseat. There are mental forces we dont understand. The mind is very mysterious. Rachel had been a psych major in college and had never really gotten over it.

Its just a lot of hooey, muttered Lucy as they trooped through the shop door. Unhappy, desperate people will cling to anything.