Autumn Alibi

Book 6: Wiccan Wheel Mystery

by Jennifer David Hesse

Genres: Holiday books; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Fall & winter reads

Synopsis

After a hectic year, Edindale, Illinois, attorney Keli Milanni is ready to welcome autumn by counting her many blessings. But a case of murder could cause her to fall behind . . . Keli is hoping that Mabon, the Wiccan Autumn Equinox, will bring balance back into her life. But it’s death that comes calling when she’s asked to consult on an estate case. Recently passed, Elaine Turnbull left everything, including her valuable art and antiques collection, to her granddaughter, Lana. But Lana has been missing for years, ever since a tragedy tore her family apart. Also missing may be Elaine’s most recent will. Then there’s the not-so-small detail that Elaine’s death by natural causes may not have been so natural after all . . . With the help of her boyfriend Wes, who knew Lana in high school, Keli starts digging into Elaine’s past—and her journals. Soon she discovers that everyone, from Elaine’s caretaker to her curator, had a motive for murder—along with a seemingly rock-solid alibi. Between missing people, missing documents, a string of vandalism against her friends, and the sense she’s being stalked, Keli is feeling a disturbing chill. Now not even her Wiccan protection rituals may save her from a killer with a cold heart that’s far from grateful . . . Praise for the Wiccan Wheel Mysteries “A perfect read.” — Library Journal “A good atmospheric read for fall.” — Parkersburg News & Sentinel “A good atmospheric read for fall.” — Parkersburg News & Sentinel on Samhain Secrets

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 375

Sample

The weathered stone bench made a perfect backyard altar. I knelt on the soft earth and arranged the items I’d gathered: rocks, twigs, leaves, acorns. Part of me felt a little bit childish, as if I were playing with toys. I might as well have made a corn dolly. Come to think of it, I might just do that later. The other part of me knew it was best to approach spirituality with a childlike heart—especially for a Wiccan like me. Open-mindedness was vital in Wicca. How else could one expect to receive messages from the Divine? Besides, when it came to magic, a sense of playfulness was a definite plus.

I cupped one hand over a smooth, angular rock and felt for its vibrations. It was subtle, but it didn’t take long before I sensed a definite movement of energy. After a moment, I replaced the stone and picked up the next one, and then the next, noting their similarities and differences. The exercise was grounding. It helped calm the faint nervousness creeping around the edge of my awareness.

Why am I nervous? The lack of an obvious cause only added to my uneasiness.

Of course, I was always slightly anxious when performing rituals outdoors. I didn’t want to be caught. Although I was fairly secluded by the fat pine trees and shrubbery in my backyard, not to mention our new cedar fence, the neighbors on both sides were mere yards away. More than once, I had been interrupted by the St. Johns’ curious pug. How he managed to breach the fence was a mystery to me—and a source of annoyance to my cat, Josie. She prowled nearby now, like a faithful feline bodyguard.

At the moment, though, all was quiet in my little green alcove. Only the wind rustled the orange marigolds and feathery fronds of the tall ornamental grass behind me. I lifted my chin as the breeze washed over me. There was a hint of change in the mild, early-morning air. A foreshadowing in the slant of the sunlight. Summer was giving way to autumn.

In fact, maybe it was the impending change that was making me feel restless. With the birds flying south and small creatures scrambling for extra food, there was a sense of urgency in the atmosphere. A race against the clock. Yet, somehow, I felt that wasn’t all. Something else jangled at my nerves, like the echoing chains of an ancient ghost. Something else was coming, and it wasn’t just lengthening nights and colder weather. It was something from my past.

I shook myself and laughed under my breath. With a firm resolve, I focused once more on my altar. I was here for a reason. I’d roused myself out of bed early this Saturday morning to give thanks to the Goddess. And I had quite a lot to be thankful for. I had a loving boyfriend, a nice home, a good job—and a deep appreciation for the divinity in nature.

I picked up the paring knife I’d brought from the kitchen and the honey crisp apple I’d bought at the farmers market. There was so much symbolism in an apple, from its beautiful exterior to the very center of its core. With a steady hand, I sliced it horizontally in two, revealing a perfect five-pointed star in each half. It always gave me a thrill to find the secret pentagram in the heart of an apple. Holding a piece in each hand, I lifted my arms skyward and softly recited a spell I had written and memorized.

I lowered my arms and closed my eyes. For a few moments, I simply breathed, basking in the peace. I felt safe now. Inhaling the aroma of trees and dirt, and listening to the chirping birds, I felt I was enveloped in the arms of the Mother Goddess. All was well.

Then I heard another sound. Footsteps crunched on the ground behind me.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and turned. It was Wes, the loving boyfriend I was just thinking about. Tall, dark-haired, and wickedly cute, he ducked his head beneath a branch and approached with an apologetic grin.

“I hope I’m not interrupting. Want me to go away?”

“Never. I’m just finishing up here.” I pushed myself to my feet and held out half of the apple. “Want a bite?”

He raised an eyebrow in mock fear, mixed with amusement. “Really? Are you tempting me with the forbidden fruit?”

In a split second, a million images flashed through my mind. Angels and devils and snakes; Michelangelo; women burning at the stake as punishment for the “fall of mankind.” Above it all, my most prominent thought was a jumble of questions: Could I tempt Wes? Did I have that kind of power? If I were really offering him the knowledge of good and evil, would he take it? Would he be the Adam to my Eve?

Would he be my partner forever, come hell or high water?

Though I wasn’t sure why, that was one question I had long been afraid to ask. Instead I waited. For nearly the entire three years we’d been a couple, including the past twelve months in which we’d shared a home, I waited. I waited for a firmer commitment. Waited for him to pop the question. Waited for a ring.

Wes must have taken my silence as a friendly challenge. With a gleam in his eyes, he bit into the apple. Smiling, I bit into the other half. Perhaps I had my answer.

It was on the tip of my tongue to pursue the topic, when Wes placed something in my empty hand. It was my cell phone.

“This has been buzzing for the past twenty minutes. I finally looked at it and decided I better come get you. Your pal Crenshaw is trying desperately to get a hold of you.”

“Crenshaw? What could he want?”

“According to the text I saw, he urgently needs your help. Sounds pretty dire.”

I frowned, as my nerves started tingling again. A sense of foreboding returned, and it didn’t have anything to do with the changing season. I sat down on the bench and punched in Crenshaw’s number.

An hour later, I was staring up at one of the grandest old mansions in Edindale. It was a sprawling, stately Georgian, standing proud and aloof at the top of a grassy knoll. The home was beautiful and well-kept. Yet something about it wasn’t quite right.

I lingered on the sidewalk and tried to put my finger on it. What was the problem? Why did I suddenly feel like the ground had turned to molasses? As I squinted in the midmorning sun, I studied the home’s clean lines, red brick, sturdy columns, and shining, black shutters. The no-frills elegance reminded me of Colonial times. Perhaps that was it, I thought. The house was slightly out of place. Edindale was in Southern Illinois, which, for Northerners, might feel like the American South—after all, we’re a mere fifty miles from the border of Kentucky as the crow flies. But this is hardly Dixie. Yet this house would have looked right at home on a nineteenth-century sugar plantation.

On the other hand, maybe it was the last-gasp-of-summer heat wave that put me in mind of more southern climes. Though we were only two weeks from the Autumn Equinox, today was shaping up to be unseasonably warm. As I approached the front porch, the stagnant air felt prickly and heavy. I fanned myself, a motion that had more psychological than practical effect, and glanced back at Wes, who was taking photographs of a giant yellow ash tree in the front yard. He sensed me looking and jogged over.

“Sorry. Are you waiting for me?”

Am I waiting for you? I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.

I kicked myself mentally and held out my hand, which he grabbed in an easy, strong grip. I gave him a self-conscious smile. “I don’t know what it is about this place. It gives me a funny feeling. Do you sense it?”

He raised his dark eyebrows. “Don’t tell me. Not ghosts again? We had enough of that last Halloween.”

I laughed uneasily. “No doubt. But I don’t think that’s it. It’s not like I’m a ghost whisperer or a psychic medium.”

“Yeah, but you’re awfully intuitive. Isn’t that what Mila’s always telling you?”

Before I could respond, the front door swung open revealing a tall, ginger-haired chap in a tailored three-piece suit. His trim beard didn’t hide the disapproving smirk above his rigid, square jaw.

“Were you planning on ringing the bell, Ms. Milanni? Or would you rather stare at the building’s facade all morning?”

“Well, it is a lovely house.” I was used to Crenshaw’s droll sarcasm and superior attitude. After working with him in the same law firm for seven years, I’d learned to overlook his more annoying habits in favor of his few redeeming qualities—such as unfailing loyalty and occasional kindness. It became easier when I left the firm to start my own law practice earlier this year.

Wes stuck out his hand. “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”

“Smashingly. Won’t you come in?” He ushered us inside and locked the door behind us. His heels clicked on the parquet floor, which gleamed with reflected light from the crystal chandelier above and the large, gilt-framed mirror on the foyer wall. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, and on a Saturday no less.”

He addressed me and barely looked at Wes. There had always been an odd sort of jealousy between the two of them, which was utterly ridiculous. I had never dated Crenshaw, and he’d never asked me out—not even before I’d met Wes.

“You don’t mind that Wes came along, do you?” I asked. “He thought he’d take photos of the grounds outside while we talk.”

“As long as the photos won’t appear in the Edindale Gazette, I suppose it’s all right.”

“I’m off-duty,” said Wes, with a grin.

“Very well. I’ll show you to the back door, which leads to the English gardens. You’ll find the topiaries quite whimsical, I believe. Keli, you and I can sit in the conservatory, while I explain my proposition.”

Wes gave me an arch look behind Crenshaw’s back, as we followed him through the art-filled great room, past a sweeping circular staircase, and through a vaulted doorway. I had no idea why Crenshaw wanted so badly to see me today. All he’d told me was that he had been appointed executor of the Turnbull Estate, and that Elaine Turnbull passed away a week ago. This had been her home.

The interior of Turnbull Manor was as graceful and charming as the exterior. Glancing around, I couldn’t help but admire the antique furniture, polished and plush, with plenty of curves and ornate finishes. I didn’t know neoclassical from rococo, but I could tell it was refined whatever it was. And expensive.

As we passed the open French doors of what I supposed was a parlor or drawing room, I felt the same strange, prickling sensation I’d felt outside. My feet stopped of their own volition, and I looked into the room. The first thing I noticed was the strong scent of fresh-cut flowers—and no wonder. The room was filled with bouquet upon bouquet of heady, blooming flowers, from roses, lilies, and carnations, to exotic varieties I couldn’t begin to name. Then my eyes fell upon something else that pulled me forward like a magnet. An enormous portrait hung above a stone fireplace. But it wasn’t the size of the painting that caught my attention. It was the bright vividness of the colors and the striking loveliness of the subject.

“Is that Mrs. Turnbull?” I asked.

Wes and Crenshaw followed me into the room and stood on either side of me, gazing up at the portrait. It depicted a petite woman sitting tall on a velvet-cushioned, straight-backed chair. Her heart-shaped face, delicate bone structure, and rose-colored cheeks gave her a youthful appearance, even as the silver highlights in her light brown hair and the fine lines beside her eyes indicated a woman in her late fifties.

“That is she,” answered Crenshaw. “Probably twenty or twenty-five years ago. It’s quite a good likeness, actually.” He crossed his arms and tilted his chin thoughtfully. “Except for the hair, which had become entirely gray, this is largely how she looked when I first met her a few years ago.”

“Were you very close?” It suddenly occurred to me that all the flower arrangements had probably been transported here from Mrs. Turnbull’s funeral the previous day.

“We were acquainted through the local theater scene. I can’t say we were exceedingly close, but I was fond of her. She was a friend.” Outside of his law practice, Crenshaw was proud of his second calling as an amateur actor. I was sure he spoke the truth.

Wes raised his camera, then lowered it. It was reflexive for him, I knew, to want to photograph interesting things, but he never wanted to be disrespectful. “Sorry for your loss, man.”

Crenshaw nodded in acknowledgment, then looked up at the portrait again. “Elaine had a fiery spirit. You can see it in her eyes. She was an especially passionate and generous patron of the arts and an avid supporter of the Edindale Community Theater. She will be greatly missed.”

“I’ve seen the Turnbull Foundation mentioned in the papers,” I said, “but I thought it was usually in conjunction with the fine arts rather than the performing arts. There’s Turnbull Hall at the university and the Turnbull Prize for Visual Artists.”

“That was her late husband’s foundation,” Crenshaw explained. “Harold Turnbull made his fortune in coal in the middle of the last century, before turning to his real passion as an art collector and sometime dealer. He was a renowned collector in his time, amassing an impressive array of works from early twentieth-century American paintings, including Grant Wood—he did American Gothic, you know—”

“I know.”

“—to sculptures by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, to Lalique glass and jewelry. I daresay Harold enjoyed the thrill of the hunt and subsequent bidding wars nearly as much as he enjoyed possessing the pieces themselves.”

Wes, who had begun wandering the room, stopped behind Crenshaw’s back and rolled his eyes. It was a natural reaction to Crenshaw’s habit of speaking like an English lord. I tried not to laugh as I tuned back into Crenshaw’s speech.

“The Turnbulls’ son and only child, Jim, shared his father’s interest in art. When Harold passed away—this was at least twenty years ago, or so—Elaine inherited the art collection and appointed her son to manage it. Jim moved back into the manor house with his wife and daughter. Sadly, Jim passed away only a few years later. That’s also when his daughter disappeared.”

“What?” I had begun to wonder why Crenshaw was telling me all this. Now I had an inkling. “Who disappeared?”

“Lana Turnbull. Jim’s daughter and Elaine’s granddaughter. She’s also Elaine’s sole heir.”

“She disappeared?”

“Well, she ran away, really. She was seventeen years old. That was fifteen years ago. In fact, that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. If you’ll follow me, let’s proceed to the—”

He broke off as a uniformed maid hurried into the drawing room.

“Ah, Celia,” said Crenshaw. “You found us.”

A tiny, gray-haired woman with sharp, black eyes, Celia marched up to Crenshaw with a tray held tightly in her knobby fingers. On the tray was a sweating glass pitcher of lemonade and two highball glasses half-filled with melting ice.

“You said you would be in the conservatory,” she scolded. “And you said there would be two of you!”

Wes moved to relieve Celia of the rattling tray. She deftly swerved from his reach.

“I’ll get another glass.” Quick as a bird, she whirled and stalked out of the room.

Crenshaw pinched the bridge of his nose as Wes and I exchanged an amused glance.

“Maybe we should sit here,” I suggested, pointing to a grouping of armchairs conveniently arranged for conversation. “Then she’ll know where to find us.”

“Very well,” said Crenshaw. He gestured for me to lead the way, so I did.

“So, you were saying that Lana Turnbull ran away when she was seventeen. And she lived here at the time, with her parents and grandmother? And this was right after her father died?” My curiosity was piqued already.

A flicker of concern crossed Wes’s face. He pressed his lips together and stood to one side as he waited for the answer.

Crenshaw nodded. “Lana’s mother reported her missing. Of course, Suzanne was already speaking with the authorities because of Jim’s death.”

“How did Jim die?” I asked.

“There was an accidental shooting. He collected antique firearms and apparently shot himself while cleaning one. No one knows if Lana witnessed the accident or if she came upon his body afterward, but people assumed she was traumatized by the event. Either way, she fled and did not return.”

“How awful.”

Wes spoke up in an oddly quiet tone. “Are you trying to find Lana now? To let her know about her inheritance?”

“Not only that,” said Crenshaw, “but also to settle the estate. Everything is in flux until she is found. Or until every effort has been made to find her.”

“So, that’s why you called me,” I said. Although I wasn’t in the business of finding things, I couldn’t deny the reputation I’d acquired. Somehow I had managed to locate lots of things over the past few years, from lost heirlooms and hidden tunnels to dead bodies—and the secrets, clues, and evidence that led to the persons responsible for the dead bodies. In other words, the murderers. Maybe it was my dogged persistence or my detail-oriented legal mind. Or maybe, as I suspected, it had something to do with the spells I casted and the divine guidance I received. As a Wiccan, I believed wholeheartedly in magic—a belief that was justified time after time.

I didn’t think Crenshaw knew the extent of my spiritual practices, though he did know I traveled in some unconventional circles. He also knew about the crimes I’d helped solve.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he admitted. “Of course, the firm already retained a licensed private investigator. I have the agency’s report in my briefcase.” He leaned over, reaching toward the floor, then straightened and rolled his eyes. “Which is in the conservatory. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Crenshaw left the room, I looked up at Wes. He seemed lost in thought. Then suddenly, he chuckled.

“What is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s just something so cinematic about this whole thing, you know? You’re called to this grand old mansion and presented the ‘Case of the Missing Heiress.’” He raised his fingers to make quotation marks. “It’s like the start of an old black-and-white detective flick, or a mystery novel or something.”

I grinned. “That sounds about right. Crenshaw does have a flair for the dramatic.”

I stood up and wandered over to a large vase of pink and purple hyacinth. Closing my eyes, I leaned down to inhale the sweet, luscious fragrance. It was a springtime scent, out of place on this early September day—which brought back the dreamlike, off-kilter sensation I’d had earlier.

A shadow fell across the floor in front of me. I looked up and gasped. Instead of Crenshaw, I was faced with a strange man, staring down at me in a dour silence.

Wes darted to my side. “Hey, there,” he said, in a casual, friendly way, but with an underlying guardedness I shared.

The stranger nodded his head stiffly and remained quiet. He was a tall, solid-looking man with icy blue eyes and a shock of short, white hair. I guessed him to be in his late sixties or early seventies.

Trying again, Wes stuck out his hand and introduced us. “Wes Callahan. And this is Keli Milanni. We’re here with Crenshaw.”

With apparent reluctance, the man shook Wes’s hand. “Ray Amberly,” he said, in a gruff voice.

I waited for further explanation, but none was forthcoming. Luckily Crenshaw returned, putting an end to the awkward staring contest.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Mr. Amberly,” said Crenshaw.

“Sort of,” I murmured.

“Mr. Amberly was Elaine’s personal nurse and caretaker,” Crenshaw continued. “He also lives here at Turnbull Manor.”

“I was more than that,” cut in the older man. “I was Elaine’s companion. I looked after her for almost a dozen years. We were very close.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Amberly,” I said.

I thought I detected a slight softening in his rigid countenance. “Might as well call me Ray,” he said.

“Now then,” said Crenshaw. “I have some business to discuss with Keli. Would you excuse us, Mr. Amberly?”

“Is it about the will?” demanded Ray. “I need to talk to you about that.”

Crenshaw’s eye twitched. I recognized the impatient look. “We’ve already discussed it. The will Elaine filed a few years ago is her last will and testament, signed by witnesses, notarized, and never revoked. The probate court already established the will is legal and valid.”

“I tell you there’s another will. She changed her mind and made a new one.”

At that moment, Celia entered the room, once more bearing a tray of lemonade. This time there were three glasses, as well as a plate of cookies. She stopped short when she saw us.

“Now there are four of you!”

Crenshaw’s cell phone rang. He snatched it from his pocket and retreated to a corner, plainly relieved for the excuse to escape.

Wes reached for a cookie, but Celia pulled the tray away and whirled around, muttering something about preparing a fourth glass. I would have suggested that she leave the tray, but she was gone before I could open my mouth. Ray, meanwhile, had walked over to Elaine’s portrait over the fireplace. As he stared at the painting, his stony face took on a morose air.

My ears pricked up at the sound of Crenshaw’s deep voice, which was uttering notes of alarm. I sidled over to him as he wrapped up the call.

“Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.” He slid his phone into his pants pocket, then grabbed a handkerchief from his jacket and began to mop his forehead.

“Is everything okay?”

“Ah, yes. That is, no. I don’t know.”

“Who was on the phone?”

“That was Dr. Lamb, Elaine’s attending physician. He was out of town the night Elaine died, so he didn’t sign the death certificate. He was just reviewing the coroner’s report and became troubled by something.”

“Oh?”

Crenshaw’s already lowered voice dropped to a whisper. “Two things, actually. One, the report stated there was a bluish tinge to Elaine’s skin and lips, yet the coroner didn’t order a toxicology analysis. Elaine had cancer, so the coroner evidently felt an autopsy was unnecessary. However, there was another disturbing item. The list of Elaine’s medications in the report did not include the opioid painkillers Dr. Lamb had prescribed.”

“What does that mean? What does he think happened?”

“Dr. Lamb is convinced Elaine overdosed on the painkillers. And since the bottles were missing . . . he suspects foul play.”

Right after Crenshaw’s bombshell, Celia returned for the third time bearing her tray of drinks and snacks. The lemonade was watery with melted ice, and too sweet for my taste, but I still drank it in big gulps. The prospect of another unbidden murder investigation had made my mouth go dry. I was never particularly keen on practicing criminal law—preferring instead to focus on family law matters and transactional business. Unfortunately, the Universe often had other ideas.

Crenshaw invited everyone to sit and help ourselves to the refreshments. He gave me a knowing look and touched the side of his nose. I took the hint and remained mum about Dr. Lamb’s suspicions. Wes grabbed a cookie and squeezed my shoulder before sitting. Ray took a glass but remained standing. I had the impression he didn’t feel like being social but wanted to be part of any discussions concerning Elaine’s will.

Crenshaw steepled his fingers as if gathering his thoughts, then turned to the caretaker. “Mr. Amberly— Ray—let’s talk about this purported new will for a moment. Did you ever see it?”

“I saw Elaine working on it. About a month ago, she sat at her desk in the library, marking up the old will and drafting a new one. I didn’t see it up close, but I know that’s what it was.” He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh before continuing. “She even made a joke about it. She said, ‘Ray, do you know what a handwritten will is called?’ At first, I thought she was telling a riddle. She had a quirky sense of humor. I said, ‘What?’ And she said, ‘A holographic will’!”

“That’s correct,” Crenshaw put in. “It comes from the Latin holographus, meaning ‘written in full, in one’s own hand.’”

“Yeah, well, we joked about holograms. She said she would love to make a 3-D image of herself. . .