Witch Hunt Read online

  THE PRIME SUSPECT

  “So what, now she’s trying to blame me? That’s just like her. So what are you going to do? Let her file a complaint about me? Because I can file one too. And mine will have more merit.” I crossed my arms defensively over my chest. Whatever. Let her file a stupid complaint. She’d be the one who looked unstable.

  Haliburton and Denning exchanged a look.

  “Did you see her again?” Denning asked. “After this altercation?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re positive?” Haliburton asked.

  “I’m positive, seeing as I was here and she didn’t come over.”

  They both looked like they didn’t believe me. But why wouldn’t they? What was Carla saying about me now? I felt a rush of anger at this woman. Why didn’t she leave me alone?

  “And you said you were asleep?” Denning asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” he said, although his tone suggested he didn’t. “Have you been down to the courtyard today behind the Steelworks building?”

  I was confused at the change of direction, but shook my head no. “I was at yoga down there this morning, but I didn’t go into the courtyard for anything,” I said. “Why?”

  After a long moment of silence, Haliburton said, “Ms. Fernandez is dead.”

  Witch Hunt

  CATE CONTE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE PRIME SUSPECT

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Liz Mugavero

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Kensington Books Mass Market Paperback Printing: July 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1760-3

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1761-0 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1761-9 (ebook)

  For Riham,

  You are the very definition of a strong woman.

  Thank you for always believing in me.

  CHAPTER 1

  Witch: One who connects with the earth; wise person; shape bender

  Something was in the air.

  I could feel it as soon as I paused in the open doorway of my cozy loft apartment, even though everything looked the same. The same dark-gray hall carpet, the same welcome mat in front of my door with the arch-backed black cats, the same pair of boots my across-the-hall neighbor and good friend Sydney Santangelo always casually kicked off, strewn outside her door. Nothing seemed amiss.

  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it—it was just a subtle shift in the air, a feeling that something, somewhere in the Universe, had been knocked out of alignment. And as an empath and overall sensitive person, the feeling was pretty overwhelming.

  Although it could simply be that I’d gotten crap for sleep last night. My insomnia was back with a vengeance lately, wreaking all sorts of havoc on my psyche. It had been like this a lot since Grandma Abigail’s unexpected death last month. I hadn’t been myself since, which wasn’t surprising. Losing her meant losing my last family member, and it had left me feeling completely alone.

  Plus, it was Monday, and that itself explained a lot. If that weren’t enough, a glance at my moon calendar this morning told me we were still in Pluto retrograde in Capricorn, which could yield all kinds of upsets. Pluto was all about our shadow side, and brought about unpredictability and change. And I was a firm believer that everything in life followed the cycle of the moon, which meant some sort of problem waited on the horizon.

  A lot of angst for a Monday morning. I could hear Grandma Abby’s voice in my head: “Violet, you get out there and face Pluto head-on. There’s nothing you can’t handle. You’re a Mooney, aren’t you?”

  Wherever she was, I believed she had her eye on me right now, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I’d dragged myself out of bed with every intention of being at my crystal shop, The Full Moon, promptly at nine with a smile and some good vibes, ready to help anyone who needed it.

  But first, yoga.

  I made a conscious effort to shake off the mood as I squared my shoulders and stepped into the hallway. I could hear Presley, Sydney’s four-year-old daughter, shrieking with laughter in their apartment. I didn’t bother knocking to see if Syd wanted to go to yoga. She’d tried it for a while after she moved to town two years ago, then gave it up. She’d told me that the whole experience left her overwhelmed and feeling not good enough. “I can’t handle those super skinny yogi chicks eating their Buddha bowls and twisting themselves into impossible shapes,” she’d told me. Although I think her hesitation was more about her crow pose going awry during her first and only class, resulting in her falling on her face. At the front of the room, no less.

  I thought she was missing the point, but it was none of my business. Besides, everyone falls over when they’re learning crow pose.

  I made for the elevator, even though I just wanted to go back inside and snuggle up with Monty. My fat orange cat was planning on an exciting day of sleep, and I thought longingly of joining him. I’d seen the gloom of this early January day from my full-length windows, and it was a perfect day to stay in bed.

  “Knock it off,” I commanded myself out loud. “This is a bad attitude. Today is going to rock.”

  Deciding to make that my mantra for the day, I got in the elevator, tucking my red hair under my black beret and wrapping my new pink scarf tighter
around my neck. I loved my new scarf. I’d gotten it over the weekend when I’d treated myself to a trip to Nordstrom Rack. It was the softest, fluffiest scarf I’d found in a while, and a deal to boot.

  I pushed open the lobby door and stepped out onto Water Street into the winter air, flinching as it hit my face. Instinctively, I tugged my scarf higher, covering my nose. And nearly tripped over a black cat sitting right at the bottom of the steps.

  “Oh! I’m sorry.” I knelt down to pet the cat, who looked unfazed by my less-than-graceful exit from the building. He—or she?—arched and purred, looking for all the world like a model for a Halloween calendar, with piercing yellow eyes and a long slinky tail that twitched ever so slightly. The quintessential black cat. “Do you live here? Do you need to go inside?”

  The cat continued to stare at me until an approaching whistle distracted us. We both turned to see Mr. Quigley come around the corner. He whistled an off-key version of “Moon River” as he pushed his noisy shopping cart ahead of him. When I turned back, the cat was gone. Blinking, I looked around. No trace, not even a blur of black streaking away.

  Well, cats were fast. It was all part of their charm. I hoped the kitty found its way home okay.

  “Morning, Miss Violet,” Mr. Quigley shouted from halfway up the block, finally noticing me.

  “Morning, Mr. Q.” I waved and decided to wait for him because it was polite and because I did like Mr. Quigley. Today he wore his usual outfit—a giant flannel shirt, black vest, and a furry hat with earflaps that made me think of Alaska. His beard was getting longer. He liked to grow it in during the winter months, which left him looking a bit like Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings. “Where are you off to so early?”

  “Collectin’ my cans,” he said, drawing up next to me. He had his ever-present pipe clamped between his teeth, which gave his words a slight lisp. “You?”

  Every morning Mr. Quigley went around the neighborhood and collected any cans people had discarded. When he had a good stash, he cashed the money in and donated it to the local food pantry. It was a lovely gesture from someone who clearly could’ve kept the money for himself. I wasn’t sure where exactly he lived, but I guessed it was in one of the subsidized apartments around the corner. I felt a rush of gratitude for my own cozy apartment, and my business that made it possible. And all the little extras I got to enjoy. Like coffee and sushi. And yoga.

  “That’s nice,” I said. “I’m working today, but I have to go to my yoga class and get my coffee first. Walk with me?”

  He fell into step beside me. “Weird morning,” he said after a moment.

  I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Q shrugged. “Just feels weird around here. Like the calm before the storm.”

  I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Same feeling I’d had earlier this morning.

  Before I could ask him about it, Mr. Q’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of another man heading down one of the side alleys. “That’s my dumpster,” he muttered. “Shyster. Someone’s encroaching on my territory. Bye, Miss Violet.” He darted down the alley, almost as quick as the black cat, his cart jangling against the concrete.

  I continued on down the block, walking as fast as I could to escape the cold. North Harbor was quiet this morning. It usually was in these earlier hours, and then later in the day it turned into a mini Manhattan as the restaurants and bars filled up and people strolled the streets. The sound of seagulls filled the air ahead as they swooped in and out of the river just up the block. The Long Island Sound was so close I could smell the salty air, an added bonus I hadn’t expected when I’d moved here. The ocean was my happy place. It filled me with energy and cleared the muck out of my brain. Which was why I always wanted to be within smelling distance of it. And later, when my shop really takes off and I could afford it, I wanted to live smack on top of it.

  Something to aspire to.

  Shanti, the yoga studio around the corner from my building, had a steady stream of people pouring in despite the early morning hour. Natalie Mann’s early class was one of the studio’s most popular. Natalie’s approach both calmed and energized people, and she had a knack for infusing messages into her classes that always resonated.

  I joined the yogis entering the studio, intent on making it to my favorite spot in the back next to the wall. I wasn’t confident enough in my yoga abilities to take a spot up front. I fully expected to fall on my face one day also. Luckily, a lot of the early birds preferred the front of the studio, so the back was still blessedly empty. I unrolled my purple mat with a snap of my wrist and grabbed two blocks and a blanket. Natalie spotted me and smiled, making her way over with her burning stick of palo santo, clearing the room’s energy for class.

  “Hey girl,” she said, giving me a quick hug while managing to not set my hair on fire. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course. I need this today.” I sniffed the heady scent of wood appreciatively. Natalie arrived early to make the studio welcoming. I admired her dedication to yoga, which she’d said many times had saved her life. Today, though, she looked tired. I got a glimpse of muddy browns and greens in her aura, which was not like Nat. Reading auras was a skill I’d realized I had back when I was a teenager, and while it greatly helped my work, sometimes it gave me insights that I didn’t ask for. “How are you?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” Natalie said. Her cheerful smile seemed forced. “Busy week. I might need to come in and do a crystal session soon.”

  In addition to selling quality crystals, holding classes, and bringing in other energy healers regularly, I offered custom crystal consults and crystal “prescriptions” based on the session. It was what I loved best—one-on-one time with clients, using their auras and energy to create a menu of stones that could truly make a difference in their lives. “Of course! Anytime. Just let me know. I have a bunch of open slots this week.”

  “I will.” She flashed me a dazzling smile, looking almost like herself for a moment, then moved on to resume clearing the room and greeting students. When she’d finished, she waved her stick to put out the flame and sat up front, pulling her dark hair into an effortless bun and closing her eyes. “Welcome,” she said, and all the chatter quieted.

  I settled back and closed my own eyes, sinking into the mat and the smells and sounds of the room, hoping this practice would chase away this gnawing feeling of unrest.

  CHAPTER 2

  I felt much better after class. I popped into the studio bathroom to change into my work outfit—long, flowy purple skirt and an oversized black sweater—and dusted some glitter over my hair. I felt very strongly that everyone needed glitter in their life on a daily basis.

  I was actually looking forward to getting into my shop. I had a bunch of boxes to unpack—my new shipments from the gem show I’d gone to in Colorado had arrived last week, and I hadn’t had a chance to dive in yet. And then tonight my boyfriend, Todd, and I were going to try out the new Thai food restaurant that had recently opened in town. The grand opening celebration promised to be a good time.

  If he remembers to leave work, a nagging little voice reminded me. Todd had a one-track mind when it came to his bar, Luck o’ the Irish. And since the place was always busy, he usually worked late. But not tonight. He’d promised me a date night, and I had every confidence he’d keep his word. He had been trying to be extra attentive lately, because he knew how hard it had been for me to lose my grandma. And I appreciated it.

  Yes, life was definitely good.

  I packed up my yoga clothes and mat and left the studio, pausing in the lobby to step into my boots before I headed outside. When I stepped out the front door, I saw Sydney sitting on the steps waiting for me.

  “Hey, Vi.” Syd sprang up, adjusting her hot-pink velvet cape around her shoulders. Syd owned a vintage clothing store, aptly named Yesterday, that she ran both online and from a tiny house—a literal tiny house—currently parked in Charlie Klein’s parking lot the next street ov
er. Charlie, a local barber and lifetime North Harbor resident, thought it was great. He’d taken to boasting that her house regularly got him new clients, and called her his secret weapon.

  Syd believed in marketing her merchandise, so she always had the best outfits she put together from her selection. Today, she’d coupled her cape with leather pants and cowboy boots adorned with pink rhinestones. Her rhinestone-covered hat attempted unsuccessfully to tame her wild dark-blond curls. Which needed serious taming most days. When she put effort into it, she either had a beautiful head of shoulder-length ringlets, or blew it out into sleek waves. When she didn’t, she looked a bit like she’d narrowly escaped a lobotomy. Today was the latter.

  “Did you have a good class?” She snickered a little when she said it. Syd and I couldn’t be more different when it came to health and fitness. One of her lifelong goals was to lose that extra twenty pounds, but the reality was she got cranky without cake and french fries. And her main source of exercise was her five-minute walk to her shop.

  “I had an awesome class. I really needed that today,” I said, zipping my coat and shoving my hands in my pockets while refusing to partake in her yoga negativity. “Were you waiting for me?”

  “’Course. I need coffee and you know I hate going alone.” She pushed herself to her feet, stepping out of the way of the last of the exiting class goers. “Cold,” she muttered. “I hate this weather.”

  “Yeah. Where’s Presley?”

  “With Josie. I’m going to go pick her up after coffee. She was amped up this morning, so I was more than happy to let someone else get her dressed.”

  Josie Cook, my mentor and dear friend who worked part-time in my shop, also nannied for Syd. And worked at the art shop, the candy store, and sometimes the flower shop. She was like Mary Poppins, but with side gigs.