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Chapter 18

“Missing?” Peter Scofield asked.

“Yes,” Dashiell replied. “We believe the killer took it after finishing with your mother.”

Peter Scofield thought about this, then nodded. “Well there you go. Elizabeth would have taken it, so that its details would never see the light of day. While she has her flaws, lack of intelligence is not one of Elizabeth’s failings. She would know Mother’s death would only fuel interest in her book. Therefore, it can never be allowed to see the light of day.”

“You realize,” Regina said, “that means she’s probably destroyed the manuscript.”

“Of course,” Peter Scofield said. “That would stand to reason.”

“Well, absent that manuscript, there’s nothing, other than your theory, which ties your sister to your mother’s death.”

Peter Scofield half smiled. “As I said, Detective, Elizabeth is not lacking in intelligence.”

“There’s another problem,” Regina said. “The timeline doesn’t fit. We know your mother was alive when the reporter and photographer from Washington Woman left at 11 a.m. Watson didn’t report seeing your sister at all this morning. That doesn’t seem like the sort of detail he’d leave out.”

This time, Peter Scofield did smile. “Detective Robins, all of us children have been sneaking in and out of the house without disturbing Watson for years. It was the only way we could indulge in our various youthful discretions. It even became a game. I assure you, Elizabeth was quite capable of coming and going from the house without alerting anyone to her presence.”

“As are you?” Regina asked pointedly.

“Of course. But why would I want to harm my mother? And more importantly, why would I tell you I had the ability to do so undetected?”

“That seems to be a question we’ve been running into a lot today,” Regina said.

Dashiell had his arms crossed, one hand stroking his chin, deep in thought. Finally, he spoke. “Mr. Scofield, you know why Mr. Watson hired me, don’t you?”

“Because you’re reputed to be the best occult detective in the Metropolitan area. You had an exemplary record of government service and the police routinely hire you to help in cases involving the occult.”

“Exactly,” Dashiell replied. “Which leaves me wondering…even assuming your sister had a motive to kill your mother, how she would have accomplished it? Specifically, how she would have done it in a way that required my services?”

“Oh that’s easy, Mr. Aldridge. Elizabeth has been interested in the occult for years.”

Chapter 17

Silence reigned for several seconds.

Finally, Dashiell broke it. “Your sister? Why do you think that?”

“I think it had to do with her autobiography. My mother was being quite frank. Some of the information may have been….less than flattering.”

“So you’ve seen a copy?” Regina asked.

“Not as such, no. But mother was completely open about her book with us. She called each of us in and told us what she planned to write. I didn’t speak directly with Elizabeth about it, but I know she was quite upset when she left Mother’s office.”

Dashiell and Regina exchanged a look. Dashiell spoke next. “And when was that, Mr. Scofield?”

Peter paused for a moment and thought. “It must have been….about two weeks ago now is when Mother spoke to me. She spoke to Elizabeth just before me. I passed her on my way in. She appeared to be in tears.”

“What sort of information was your mother going to reveal about your sister?” Regina interjected.

“I don’t know all the details of my sister’s youth. But I understand there were some….indiscretions. Things that would be quite embarrassing for someone in our social circle.”

“Embarrassing?” Dashiell commented. “There’s a far cry to being embarrassed by something and being willing to kill over it. Especially when the victim is your own mother.”

“Mr. Aldridge, you need to understand. My sister has a certain reputation among her friends. She was held up by all of our friends' parents as the ideal to which they should strive. That image has carried with her to this day. If it were to be tarnished, or worse yet, flat out destroyed, it would devastate her.” He paused. “Sad to say, yes, I believe that protecting her reputation would be enough to drive her to this desperate end. Especially given….”

“Especially given, what?” Dashiell prompted.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Aldridge, Detective Robins. There are some things we just don’t discuss outside the family. Certain topics we are ingrained not to mention. It is a habit that is hard to break, especially after so many years. But then, there’s no need to hide it from you. You’ve doubtless already read, or will shortly read, Mother’s book.”

Regina and Dashiell exchanged another look. “Actually….” Regina began, letting her sentence trail off.

“What?” Peter asked.

“The only copy of the manuscript is missing.”

Next>

Chapter 16

The doors opened on a plush lobby area. Dashiell and Regina stepped out and turned to the left. There, behind a set of glass doors sat a reception desk. The desk was backed by dark wood paneling. Gold letters spelled out the name of the firm, Scofield and Associates.

Dashiell shook his head. Leave it to the old man to hog all the glory. Most other law firms had at least two partner names on the wall. Crowell and Moring. Powell Goldstein. Wilmer Hale. But William Scofield, the family patriarch, had insisted on top, and only billing. It was a subtle reminder that even though other lawyers might make partner, compared to the Scofields, they were merely associates.

Dashiell stepped forward and held the door for Regina. She walked up to the reception desk and Dashiell stood next to her. “Dashiell Aldridge and Regina Robins to see Peter Scofield,” he said.

“Yes, of course Mr. Aldridge. If you’ll please have a seat, I’ll let Mr. Scofield know you’re here.”

Dashiell looked over in the indicated direction. There was a large slab of white tiled floor, upon which sat several large plush chairs, upholstered in what looked like calf leather. There was a large table, upon which sat a variety of legal publications, as well as copies of the Economist and Foreign Affairs.

“Mr. Scofield will be with you in just a moment,” the receptionist, a young man in his early twenties said. “May I get you something to drink? Water? Soda?”

“No thanks,” Regina said. The young man looked at Dashiell, who shook his head.

Dashiell settled into one of the large chairs as Regina paced around.

Two or three minutes passed. Dashiell was just about to grab the copy of the Economist when movement caught his eye. There was a spiral staircase in the middle of an open area, off to the left of the reception area. A well dressed man was walking down it. He appeared to be dressed in well tailored slacks, an Oxford blue shirt, dark tie and suspenders. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.

When he reached the lobby floor, Dashiell noted expensive-looking black leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine. He coughed lightly, and when Regina looked his way, he thrust his chin toward the man. She turned to look at him as he came up, extending a hand.

“Mr. Aldridge? Detective Robins?” Dashiell nodded an affirmative. “Peter Scofield. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but under the circumstances I think you’ll understand my lack of enthusiasm.”

“Of course, Mr. Scofield,” Regina said, shaking his hand. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Dashiell levered himself out of the chair and also shook Scofield’s hand. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Right to the point, I like that,” Peter Scofield nodded. “Please, come to my office. What I need to tell you needs to be said in private.” Dashiell nodded and Peter Scofield headed back for the stairs. Dashiell and Regina followed. He led them down a hall on the upper floor to a large set of heavy oak doors. He held them open as they walked in to a large office. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, with a view out over the downtown area. Thanks to the height restrictions in the D.C. building code, Dashiell could see the Capitol.

Peter Scofield shut the heavy doors and came around to his desk, leaning against it.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I understand that in murder investigations, the first twenty four hours are the most important.”

“Well, Mr. Scofield, you should know,” Regina said, casting a sidelong glance at Dashiell. “We haven’t officially ruled this case a homicide yet.”

Dashiell opened his mouth to protest when Peter Scofield made it unnecessary. “That’s why I called you here, Detective Robins. I wanted to tell you I think I know who killed my mother.”

Dashiell and Regina both froze. They looked at each other for a moment, before turning their eyes back to Peter Scofield. He answered the obvious question.

“I believe it was my sister, Elizabeth.”

Next>

Chapter 15

He fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, trying to control his irritation. “Hello?

“Yes, this is Dashiell Aldridge, who’s this?” Dashiell listened for a moment and then looked up at Regina, his eyebrows raised in surprise. She looked at him questioningly in response.

“Hello Mr. Scofield. How can I help you?”

Regina mouthed “Mr. Scofield”? Dashiell nodded in response. “Yes, I’ve spoken with Mr. Watson….No, none of the suspects have panned out so far, sir.” He looked down at his watch. “Yes, sir. I can be there in half an hour. Do you mind if I bring my partner?” He paused. “Detective Regina Robins, Metro PD…..Very well, sir. We’ll be there soon.”

He closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. “What was that about?” Regina asked.

“That was Peter Scofield, the elder son. He told me he’s got some information that might be helpful. He didn’t want to say what it was over the phone, so he invited us over to his office.”

“And you told him we’d be there in half an hour? Dash, it’s rush hour. And his office is back downtown.”

Dashiell smiled. “Relax, Regina. Most of the traffic is heading out, it being so close to the end of the day. And his office is down on K. We could walk there in less time.”

“Not in this heat, Dash.” She shook her head, the hint of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth.

He chuckled. “Of course not. But let’s go. His office is on 17^th and K. Finding parking won’t be easy.”

Dashiell slid into the passenger seat as Regina got behind the wheel. She pulled out into traffic and headed back downtown.

“So what do you think he has to tell us, Dash?”

“I have no idea. But hopefully it’ll be a motive. If we can figure out why Mrs. Scofield was killed, we might be able to figure out who did it.”

Regina nodded. They sat in silence for the rest of the ride. The tension of their fight had been broken, but it still hung in the air. Dashiell wondered what would have happened if his phone hadn’t rang when it did. He didn’t like fighting with Regina. She was his best friend and the only person he spent a considerable amount of time with.

She pulled into a garage near the corner of 18^th and K. She flashed her badge at the attendant and he waved her in. She grabbed a spot on the topmost level.

Dashiell exited the car and walked with Regina back up the ramp. They entered the glass doors of the building into a massive lobby and approached the reception desk.

“Dashiell Aldridge to see Peter Scofield.” The guard handed over a roster, and Dashiell and Regina signed in. He then walked them over to an elevator, pulling out a Kastle Key. He pressed the up button and when the golden doors opened, he leaned in, flashed the key over a sensor and pressed the button for the 8^th floor. He headed back to his desk as the doors closed.

Next>

Chapter 14

Dashiell and Regina walked back towards Regina’s car. “So where does that leave us, Dash?”

“That’s a good question. Jessica and Carolyn backed each other up. So unless you believe they are part of a conspiracy, that counts both of them out. And as we’ve discussed previously, it makes no sense for Watson to have done it.”

“It’s possible that the death was natural, Dash.”

“But that doesn’t explain the absence of a soul.”

“Well, Dash, do souls always hang around for a full six hours?”

“Typically yes. And as far as we’ve been able to determine, we were there within three hours. And I’m not aware of any cases where a soul departed in that short a time absent outside influences.”

“Well, Dash….” She hesitated, stopping outside the door to her car.

“What is it, Regina?”

“Is…is it possible Watson was right? Is it possible that something went wrong with the spell?”

Dashiell shook his head. “No Regina. I followed the proscribed spells. I’ve done them successfully before. Something took her soul.”

“But Dash….even you admit it’s been a while since you’ve performed the spell.”

Dashiell stiffened a bit. “Regina, the spell was cast correctly. You haven’t doubted one of my spells since the first time we worked together.”

“I know Dash, but….”

“But what?”

“But unless we get something from the toxicology report, there’s nothing to indicate this death wasn’t natural, except for your inability to raise her soul. And all of our suspects have alibis. They don’t have opportunity, except for Watson, and he has no motive. And none of them have the means to make her soul disappear. Occam’s Razor says—“

“I don’t want to hear about Occam’s Razor, Regina. It rarely applies in my line of work, because Occam didn’t deal in the world of the occult.”

“I know, Dash…but we have to face facts.”

“And what fact is that? That I screwed up?”

“I’m not saying that Dash….”

“Then I’m not sure what you’re saying. Either I screwed up or someone killed Mrs. Scofield.”

“Well, Dash, if you come up with a suspect, be sure to let me know!”

Dashiell looked like he was about to respond when suddenly, his cell phone rang.

Next>

Chapter 13

The office was sparsely furnished, the chairs and desk all slick black matte and chrome. The walls were painted a deep blue. Along the wall to the left of the doors was a large set of shelves on which sat a variety of cameras. Some were old-fashioned, while others were brand new. They ranged from old film 35mm cameras to ultra-modern digitals, with formats ranging from Polaroid to large format.

Dashiell and Regina stepped forward as Carolyn Bartlett allowed the doors to close and walked around the desk to take her seat. Dashiell and Regina sat as well. “I was terribly sorry to learn about Elaine. And to think I saw her just this morning.”

“That’s what we’d like to talk to you about,” Dashiell said. “We understand you may be one of the last people to see her alive.”

“I guess so. Jessica Hill and I went to see her on behalf of Washington Woman. But of course, you know that. I’m sorry. I’m a little shaken up.”

“You knew Mrs. Scofield well?” Regina asked.

“Not really. Elaine and I travelled in some of the same social circles. I’ve done some work for her and the family before. But it was a professional relationship.”

“Yet you call her Elaine,” Regina pointed out.

“Well, as I said, we’ve seen each other at parties and such. That was the limit of our social interaction.”

“Can you tell us about the interview?” Dashiell asked, trying to get the interview back on track.

“We arrived just before ten a.m. and I set up my lights while Jessica asked some preliminary questions. The interview got going in earnest and I went to work. I’m known for my documentary style when it comes to photos for interviews and other profiles. Just before eleven we wrapped things up and I packed up my equipment.”

“You don’t work with an assistant?” Dashiell asked.

“No, not in these situations. Having assistants around tends to hamper the flow of things and that affects the pictures. And I’m still fairly spry for my age.” She smiled.

“And that was the last time you saw Mrs. Scofield?” Regina interjected.

“Yes. Jessica and I left. I came back here and I assume she went back to her office. I’ve been here working ever since.”

“Yes, I wanted to ask about that. You said you were in the dark room. You still shoot with film?” Dashiell asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “For some shots, I do. Elaine Scofield was writing an autobiography. It was a look back at her life and I wanted to evoke that feeling by using an older style of photography. I lit her like they used to light Eva Gardner and other starlets. It was all very 1950s. So I went with three cameras. A digital for archival purposes, as well as medium and large format cameras. Nothing in the digital world can touch the sheer quality of a larger negative.”

Dashiell nodded. Regina was flipping through her notebook.

“Well, that matches up with what Miss Hill told us,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Bartlett.”

“Happy to help in any way I can, Detective. May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“How did Elaine die?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bartlett, but we can’t discuss those sorts of details in an on-going investigation,” Regina answered.

“Of course, Detective. I was just curious, since the police were involved.” She paused. “It’s probably best I don’t know.”

Regina looked at Carolyn Bartlett’s face, and her own softened. “It was nothing gruesome. Mrs. Scofield was a powerful figure in Washington life and by all reports in excellent health. Her sudden demise was unexpected, and thus we felt it best to investigate pending a cause of death.” Regina hesitated. “I’d appreciate you not repeating that to anyone.”

Carolyn relaxed. “Of course, Detective. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Regina said.

“Well, we should get going, stop taking up your valuable time,” Dashiell said. He had been examining the various cameras on the shelves. He turned to go.

“Just one more thing,” Dashiell said, pausing at the glass double doors. “Did you happen to listen to the interview?”

Carolyn’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Detective, no. I was there while Elaine and Jessica were talking, but when I’m looking through the camera my mind is wholly focused on my work. I tend to tune everything else out. Why?”

Dashiell shrugged. “Just curious. It’s possible she said something that could be of use to us.”

“I’m sorry Detective. You’d have to ask Jessica for her notes.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time.”

Next>

Chapter 12

Regina drove them the short distance over to Dupont Circle. While the gallery district hosted a great deal of Carolyn Bartlett’s work, her studio was located in an out of the way building not too far from Dashiell’s own office.

They entered the building and were confronted by a massive granite desk, behind which sat an officious looking man with close-cropped hair. He had a headset on with a microphone perched before his mouth. Behind him was a massive print of a still life, done in black and white. It featured a large white lily in a dark vase. Underneath were the words “Carolyn Bartlett Photography.”

“Carolyn Bartlett Photography, how may I help you?” Dashiell was about to say something when the man behind the desk spoke again. “I’m sorry, she’s not available at the moment, may I take a message?” He typed something on his computer keyboard. “I’m afraid she’s booked on the 17^th. It looks like she has an opening on the 23^rd.”

Dashiell turned to Regina, who raised an eyebrow, then flashed her badge at the man behind the desk. He gave it the barest glance and then finished typing. “We’ll see you then, Senator.”

He clicked a button on his desk and turned back to his computer, typing rapidly. It appeared for all the world as if he had forgotten Dashiell and Regina were standing there.

Regina began to tap her nails on the granite. After about thirty seconds, the officious little man turned his eyes toward her. “Yes, officer? How can I help you?”

“We’d like to see Ms. Bartlett,” Regina said, her tone a bit snappish.

“And do you have an appointment?”

“THIS is my appointment,” she replied, laying her badge on the desktop and tapping it.

“So that’s a no,” the little man said.

Regina’s upper lip began to curl in an expression Dashiell recognized as trouble.

“Please tell Ms. Bartlett that the police would like to see her,” he intervened. “We have some questions about her photo shoot this morning at Scofield Manor.”

The man’s eyes darted to Dashiell and looked him over. Dashiell felt as if the man could correctly guess the cost of his outfit and how much change he had in his pocket. “I’m sorry, sir, but Ms. Bartlett is very busy—“

“Oh send them back, Geoffrey,” a feminine voice arose from the air around the desk. Whoever had installed the hidden speakers had done a very good job.

“Very well, ma’am. You may head back.” He indicated with one hand a path to the right of the wall behind him.

Regina picked up her badge and stalked in the indicated direction, Dashiell hurrying after.

They walked behind the wall with the large painting and the hallway turned to the right, heading into the building’s interior. The walls were lined with various photos of famous people and beautiful places. Dashiell recognized some of them from magazine covers and others from art museums. There were a set of glass double doors at the end of the hallway and a woman who appeared to be in her early sixties was stepping out from them.

She was trim and dressed in well cut slacks, with a black turtleneck. Her hair was silver, not white, and hung loose around her shoulders.

“Good afternoon, officers. I’m Carolyn Bartlett. My apologies for Geoffrey. I was working in the darkroom and he knows I don’t like to be disturbed.”

“Not even for the police?” Regina asked somewhat sharply.

“I’m sorry officer. We regularly see agents from the Secret Service and U.S. Marshalls here, as well as numerous private bodyguards. Many of them try to intimidate Geoffrey and so he’s grown a prickly exterior. My services are in high demand and he’s very protective of my time.

"Now, I believe you said you had some questions about my visit to see Elaine Scofield this morning? Gayle Norton told me what happened. It’s just awful.”

Dashiell stepped forward before Regina said something she might regret. “Yes, a real tragedy. We just have a couple of questions. We’ve already spoken with Jessica Hill. We just need to confirm a few details.”

“Anything you need. I’m happy to help out in whatever way I can. Please, step into my office.” She held the door as Dashiell and Regina stepped inside.

Next>

Chapter 11

“What do you think?” Dashiell asked as they walked back to Regina’s car.

“I don’t think she did it,” Regina replied.

Dashiell nodded. “I don’t think so either. Her surprise read as genuine to me, and she didn’t act like someone who has been caught by the police.”

“That was my thinking. So where does that leave us?”

“Well, clearly it leaves us with Ms. Bartlett.”

“But they were together. Bartlett couldn’t have killed her without Jessica knowing. Besides, Carolyn Bartlett is a world-renowned photographer. What reason would she have for killing Elaine Scofield? And more importantly, how would she have done it?”

“Both excellent questions,” Dashiell acknowledged. “I suppose when we discover the answers, we’ll have solved the mystery.”

Regina stopped walking and looked at Dashiell. “Would you stop talking like Sherlock Holmes. Doesn’t it make much more sense to say the butler did it? He had opportunity. If Bartlett’s story matches the one we just heard, then we’ll know Mrs. Scofield was alive at 11 am. And by his own admission, the only other person to visit the office was Watson.”

Dashiell kept walking, forcing Regina to match his stride. “That leaves two problems. First, as you pointed out, there’s the question of how he did it.”

“That’s your department,” she cut in.

Dashiell nodded. “Yes. But more importantly, there’s the fact that Watson came to us, well me, in particular. If he did it, why would he come to me?”

“To make himself look innocent, of course.”

Dashiell shook his head. “No, he was already well on his way to that. He could have just contacted the police. There was no evident cause of death which could be tied to him. And if he used an occult means, then there is likely no evidence that the M.E. could identify.

“That means one of two things. One, either it gets chalked up to natural causes, and there is no investigation, or two, you call me and I tell you it’s too late, because more than six hours have elapsed and I can’t raise her soul. Either way, he’s got no incentive to even hint at the occult if he did it.”

They paused as they reached the car. “Alright then. So our only other suspect has no means, motive or opportunity, and an airtight alibi. The Captain’s going to love this.”

Dashiell couldn’t help but smile. “Forget about the Captain. What about the Chief?”

Next>

Chapter 10

“Dead?!” Jessica Hill’s eyes widened. Gayle Norton’s eyes narrowed. Dashiell could almost read her thoughts. She was redesigning the cover in her mind. Last interview with Elaine Scofield. But she was also clearly thinking of something else.

“What does this have to do with my reporter?” she asked.

“The information we have indicates that she was one of the last people to see Mrs. Scofield alive,” Regina replied. Dashiell hung back, leaning against the wall. He was watching Miss Hill while Regina was talking to Ms. Norton.

“Well, Jessica will be happy to answer any questions you have, so long as they don’t compromise any of her sources.”

Jessica leaned forward in her seat, nodding. Her hands were now clenched in her lap. She looked nervous, but Dashiell didn’t think it was the nervousness of someone who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It looked more like the nervousness of someone who felt the police thought she had her hand in the cookie jar.

“Very well,” Regina said. “What can you tell me about your interview with Mrs. Scofield?”

Dashiell crossed his arms across his chest, a silent mass leaning against a wall, eyes boring into Jessica. He was playing bad cop. He was also waggling his fingers under his arm, hiding the gesture with his elbow. It wasn’t a fool proof spell, even when done on a large scale. And as a small cantrip, it was likely to be almost entirely ineffective. But it would sharpen Jessica’s mind on key details and encourage her to speak the truth, if it worked, and it certainly couldn’t hurt.

“We arrived just before 10 o’clock. Research told me that Mrs. Scofield was very punctual,” Jessica began.

“We?” Regina prompted.

“Myself and Carolyn Bartlett, who the magazine had hired for this shoot.” Regina nodded and indicated Jessica should continue.

“I interviewed Mrs. Scofield for about 15 minutes, while Carolyn set up, then continued as Carolyn shot her. She likes to work with subjects in their personal spaces, and she likes to shoot them as they talk. Additionally, we’d only been given one hour for the whole affair, so we had to work quickly.”

“What was the interview about?” It was a classic policeman’s ploy, pretending not to know as much as you did, in order to try and catch a suspect out in a lie. Dashiell didn’t really think she was a suspect, but knew it was never good to jump to conclusions.

Jessica looked over at Gayle, who nodded. “Go ahead and tell them.”

“It was about her autobiography,” Jessica replied. “It was due to come out later this summer and this was a teaser interview.”

Gayle broke in. “Now, mind you, we don’t go for gossip. But Mrs. Scofield was one of the premier players in Washington life for the last forty years. Her book is going to be a best seller.”

Regina nodded, as if she didn’t blame Gayle Norton for descending into what was essentially tabloid journalism. Dashiell tried not to smile as he sensed Regina fighting not to roll her eyes.

“What happened next?” Regina asked.

“Nothing. We concluded the interview around 11. Carolyn got some great shots. We left.”

“And Mrs. Scofield? How did she seem?”

“Perfectly fine. She was the picture of health, as far as I could tell.”

Regina nodded and got up to leave. She turned toward Gayle Norton. “Would you mind setting up an appointment with Carolyn Bartlett for us? We’d like to speak to her as well.”

“Of course,” Gayle replied. She buzzed out to her secretary and began to make arrangements. Regina turned back to Jessica.

“Just one more thing, Miss Hill. Did Mrs. Scofield show you her manuscript?”

Jessica’s brow furrowed. “No. We talked about it, but that’s it.”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hill.”

Regina collected Dashiell with her eyes as she headed out the door. They stopped at the secretary’s desk to get Carolyn Bartlett’s address and a time when it would be convenient to drop by, then they left the offices of Washington Woman.

Next>

Chapter 9

Washington Woman was the premiere women’s magazine of the Metro area. And their offices confirmed it. The furnishings were rich and tasteful, if somewhat subdued. Dashiell sat in a comfortable chair, drumming his fingers on a plush armrest. Regina sat across from him.

A secretary had taken their names and offered them a beverage of their choice. Dashiell had taken a Diet Coke. Regina had declined to drink anything.

His eyes scanned the office, trying to pick out their subject. Washington Woman was modeled on the open air design. A series of desks laid out in a grid, no walls, not even cubicles. There were offices arranged along the outer walls of the building, and in between the offices there was art, heavily representing female artists. Dashiell was no art critic, but he knew a Georgia O’Keefe when he saw one. And he thought he recognized some Frieda Kahlo.

“Where do you suppose she is?” he asked Regina. “I can’t imagine she’s got someplace else to be, with a deadline coming up.”

Regina glanced around. “I imagine she’s closeted with her editor, wondering why a Metro detective is asking to speak with her. And deciding what it is they’ll say to whatever it is we ask.”

The secretary who had first seated them walked back up. “If you’ll follow me, Detective Robbins, Detective Aldridge. Ms. Norton will see you in her office.”

“Ms. Norton?” Regina raised an eyebrow.

“She’s the Editor in Chief. She and Miss Hill are awaiting you.” The young woman indicated with her hand the direction Dashiell and Regina should head. Regina turned to Dashiell with an “I told you so” look on her face.

Dashiell had agreed that Regina should take the lead in this interview. It had nothing to do with Regina being a woman. Regina had suggested it because she had a badge and that tended to cut through a lot of bullshit. They also left the secretary with the misimpression that Dashiell was a fellow detective. It would cut down on questions.

They walked through a frosted glass door and saw two women in the office. One, clearly Ms. Norton, stood behind the large desk. Framed images of various covers hung on the walls. Ms. Norton was tall for a woman, nearly six feet, with long blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She had black framed glasses perched on her nose, covering blue eyes.

“Gayle Norton,” she said, extending her hand to Regina, then Dashiell. “What can we do for you, detectives?” She included Miss Hill with a hand gesture.

Jessica Hill was sitting in front of her editor’s desk. She was dressed in a grey skirt suit. She had brown hair, hanging down around her shoulders. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap.

“We need to speak with Miss Hill,” Regina said. “About her interview with Elaine Scofield this morning.”

“Has Mrs. Scofield filed a complaint about something? I assure you, my reporter was entirely professional.”

“Mrs. Scofield hasn’t said anything,” Regina replied. “She’s dead.”

Next>

Chapter 8

“I assure you, Mr. Aldridge, Mrs. Scofield was in perfect health,” Watson said.

“Well, I’m convinced foul play of some sort is afoot. Otherwise, her soul would be here,” Dashiell explained.

“What if her death was natural?” Regina asked. “Would her soul still hang around? I thought it took a violent end to trap it here. That’s what the ghost stories all say.”

“Well, a violent end will prolong a soul’s stay. Sometimes well beyond the six hours that is typically observed. But any soul is able to be summoned for six hours after death in typical circumstances. Clearly, that’s not what we’re dealing with here.”

“So what’s your next step, Mr. Aldridge?” Watson asked.

“Well, the next step is to talk to the last people to see Mrs. Scofield alive. From what you’ve told me, that would be this reporter and photographer from Washington Woman. Who was it that came to interview Mrs. Scofield?”

Watson reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a small PDA. “The reporter they sent was named Jessica Hill. The photographer was Carolyn Bartlett.”

Regina let out a low whistle. “Carolyn Bartlett? She’s amazing. She’s done all sorts of work. Shot lots of famous people.”

“Yes,” Watson confirmed. “I assumed that’s why the magazine chose her. Mrs. Scofield would have insisted on the best. They sidestepped the need for her to ask by hiring Ms. Bartlett in the first place.”

Dashiell took some quick notes on a small pad. While he was well versed in using computers, for field work he still preferred the old fashioned way.

“Well, Mr. Watson, I don’t think there’s anything else we need from you at this time. I’m going to try and get appointments to meet with Ms. Hill and Ms. Bartlett. Although the second interview could be a bit tricky.”

“I may be able to help you out there, Dash,” Regina chimed in.

“You think the Captain will let you work with me on this?”

“My plate’s pretty clean right now. And you’ve convinced me there’s something funny going on. What with it being Mrs. Scofield, the Chief will want a full investigation, and the Captain will comply. I’ll give him a call on our way to the office of Washington Woman.”

Next>

Chapter 7

Dashiell stood there, his hand outstretched.

Long seconds ticked by.

Still nothing happened.

Dashiell let his hand fall to his side. “I guess we’re too late.”

“Impossible!” Watson exclaimed.

Dashiell turned his head to regard the butler, as did Regina. “And what makes you say that?”

“The spell should work for seven hours, according to my research!”

“Six, actually,” Dashiell replied.

Watson looked undeterred. “Six then. The point is, Mrs. Scofield was alive six hours ago.”

“Are you sure?” Regina asked.

“Of course I am sure. Mrs. Scofield had an appointment at 10 am. I assure you the people from Washington Woman would have mentioned if she was dead when they arrived.”

Dashiell checked his watch. It read 1:17 p.m. “Alright then. We have a case of a soul departed before its nature says it should depart. There must be another explanation.”

“I can think of one,” Watson said.

Dashiell looked calmly at Watson, not rising to the bait. Instead, he looked around the room. “Was there, by any chance, a cat in here between the time she died and when we arrived?”

Regina looked puzzled, but Watson just shook his head. “No. Mrs. Scofield was allergic to cats.”

Dashiell looked interested. “How allergic?”

“What does that matter, Dash?” Regina inquired.

“Well, if she was deathly allergic, she could have died of anaphylactic shock. And cats have long been believed to carry souls away to the underworld. It would be the perfect crime.”

“She sneezed in their presence. That is all. It was annoying, but not life threatening. Besides, does that look like the body of someone who died due to an allergic reaction?”

Dashiell considered this. “No, it doesn’t,” he conceded. “Then again, it doesn’t look like the body of a woman who died of any unnatural cause.”

Next>

Chapter 6

The room was immaculate. There was a large, yet undeniably feminine desk backed by a pair of French doors. The walls were lined with bookshelves which contained a variety of reading material and several pictures of Mrs. Scofield and well-known elites. Dashiell counted four, no five, senators as well as three former Presidents and their wives. Mrs. Scofield clearly travelled the circles of power.

The desk was dominated by an old-fashioned typewriter. “She typed the manuscript by hand?” Dashiell asked.

“Yes,” Watson replied. “She did not want details escaping before she was ready and she felt that computers could be hacked too easily. She kept the only copy locked in her desk, except when she was reviewing it.”

“And that copy is gone now?” Regina asked.

“It is,” Watson confirmed.

Dashiell had been moving slowly toward the other large piece of furniture in the room, the chaise lounge. Laying on it, like Cleopatra, was Mrs. Scofield. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. Whatever had caused her death had apparently not caused her any pain.

Dashiell walked slowly around the body and chaise, examining for any clues of occult practices. He chanted a cantrip under his breath, designed to detect the presence of any other spells cast by another. He felt nothing.

He stopped near Mrs. Scofield’s head. “Which direction is that?” he asked, pointing in a line from her head out the window.

Watson looked up. “West.”

Dashiell nodded. He’d have preferred north, but you worked with what the scene gave you. And on the plus side, it wasn’t south. That also spoke against someone with occult experience.

He reached into his bag and drew out eight candles. He was going to surround the body with two circles. Five of the candles would represent the points of the pentagram. Four were used to mark the four cardinal directions. He had eight candles because the candle at the top of the pentagram also represented one of the directions, tying the circles together.

Dashiell opened the book he had brought and flipped it open to a dog-eared page. Regina and Watson stood by the desk, watching.

Dashiell begin to chant words from the book as he placed a candle on the floor, near Mrs. Scofield’s head. He walked clockwise around the chaise, mapping out a circle. When he got to a point in line with her right hip, he placed another candle. He then placed one near her feet and one on a line with her left hip. He then moved back to her head.

He then touched the candle near her head and began a different chant. He moved counterclockwise this time. When he reached a spot in line with her left shoulder, he placed another candle. He walked around the circle, placing the other four candles in the pentagram. When he was finished, he touched the candle near her head a third time. You could draw a circle that would intercept all eight candles.

Dashiell then went back in his bag. He pulled out a small brass brazier and set up a small tripod. In the brazier, he placed three sprigs of dill. He then took out a taper of cedar wood and lit it with a lighter. Once it was burning, he walked around the circle, clockwise, lighting all eight candles. When they were burning, he placed the taper in among the dill.

A sharp smell began to dominate the air of the room as the herb burned. Dashiell blew gently on the smoke, urging it toward the body. He began a new chant from the book.

The smoke crept along the floor, surrounding the chaise, ringing the body of Mrs. Scofield. It danced up around her head, entering her nostrils.

Regina gasped as the smoke moved with an apparent intelligence. Watson merely looked on, his staid demeanor betraying no emotion.

Dashiell finished chanting. “Elizabeth Mallory Scofield,” he intoned. “Your work here on Earth is not quite finished. I call upon your spirit to come forth, that you may disclose unto us how you died.” He raised his hand imploringly toward the body.

Nothing happened.

Next>

Chapter 5

The car drew to a stop and Watson hurried out the door, holding it open for Dashiell and Regina. He then led them into the house.

“What was in the autobiography?” Regina asked.

“I am sure I would not know,” Watson replied.

Regina stopped in her tracks and gave Watson a look. “Come now, Mr. Watson. You might not know the particulars, but you’ve been working here how long? You must have some idea.”

Watson looked uncomfortable. “Please, Detective. You must understand. There are certain standards someone in my profession has to respect. If word were to get out that I was speaking out of turn…”

Dashiell held up a restraining hand. “Mr. Watson, from the sounds of things, if you are correct, this manuscript is probably at the center of it. We understand your position, but if you want us to catch whoever did this, we need some idea of who would gain from your employer’s death.”

Watson pursed his lips momentarily, looking for a moment as if he wouldn’t answer. But then his shoulders sagged. “Very well. In any woman of wealth’s life, there are bound to be skeletons in the closet. But of course, Mrs. Scofield was not born to wealth. Mr. Thomas Scofield shocked his family when he chose to marry her instead of another member of the upper classes.

“Since she was not raised to this world, she had more…’history’ than other women who typically inhabit the role Mrs. Scofield inhabited. From what little I heard of her discussions, she was being quite candid in the book. It did not appear that she was holding anything back.”

“And who knew about this book?” Regina asked.

“Quite a few people. The family all knew of course. And the publisher. And then members of the press. That is why Washington Woman was coming to interview her. It was a teaser interview and photo shoot to promote the book. It was to be the first of several such interviews, so it appeared that many in the media knew it was forthcoming.”

“And was she just candid about her past?”

“I am not sure what you mean, Detective Robbins.”

“Was she candid about the members of the family?” Regina pressed. “Some of them might not be too thrilled to see their dirty laundry aired for the world to see. If even a quarter of the rumors about some of the children are true, well, that’s a motive for murder right there.”

Somewhere in the middle of the interrogation, the group had resumed walking. Suddenly, they stopped outside a set of thick oaken doors with large brass handles.

“Inside is Mrs. Scofield, just as I found her. So far as I know, the only people to set foot in this room today are Mrs. Scofield, myself and the reporter and photographer. I have left the body as undisturbed as possible.”

Dashiell nodded. “Very well then. Let’s go in. Time’s a wasting.”

At this prompt, Watson threw open the door.

Next>

Chapter 4

Dashiell and Regina followed Mr. Watson down the stairs and saw a large black town car idling near the curb. He opened the rear door and held it open for them. It appeared to be a natural movement for him.

Dashiell and Regina entered the rear of the automobile and Mr. Watson joined them.

“Do you mind if Detective Robbins joins us?” Dashiell asked.

“Not at all. If I am correct, it will speed things along. Additionally, she can serve as a witness to the summoning.”

The car pulled away from the curb and into D.C.’s noon-time traffic. “So tell me, Mr. Watson. Exactly which member of the Scofield family passed away?” Regina asked.

“It was Mrs. Scofield,” Watson said.

“Which Mrs. Scofield?” Regina prompted, knowing there were three current Mrs. Scofield’s.

“I am sorry, Detective. Within the household, only Mrs. Elaine Scofield, the matriarch, was referred to as Mrs. Scofield. The others were known by more familiar names.”

Dashiell whistled. Elaine Scofield was the head of the family’s charitable trust. She sat on the Board of the Children’s Hospital, was a donor to Feed the Homeless and was renowned for her work with various charities around the city. A death within the Scofield family was noteworthy. The death of the matriarch was sure to be national news.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Dashiell asked.

“No one. I felt it best to be discreet in this matter, especially until we know for sure what happened.”

Dashiell nodded, somewhat relieved. Of course, the fact that the family was consulting him was another reason to keep this matter quiet. Many would look askance at the use of an occult detective.

“What makes you suspect foul play?” Dashiell inquired. “If memory serves, Mrs. Scofield was of a fairly advanced age. In her late seventies, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Watson confirmed. “However, she visited with a doctor just last month and he assured her she was in perfect health. I myself saw her just this morning when serving her breakfast and she looked quite vigorous.”

“And what did her morning consist of?”

“It was a full schedule. She spent a great deal of time on the phone with various charities. She had a photo shoot for Washington Woman magazine and then spent time alone in her study working on her autobiography. The publisher was expecting a copy of several chapters next week.”

“What happened?” Regina asked.

“I went to check on her, to inquire what she wanted for lunch. I found her laying on the chaise lounge. I tried to wake her, but to no avail. I checked her vital signs and found nothing.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you sought me out,” Dashiell said. “People die suddenly all the time.”

“A fair point, Mr. Aldridge,” Watson said. The car was pulling into a long driveway in front of a very large house. “However, when I looked around the office I realized that the manuscript Mrs. Scofield had been working on was gone.”

Next>

Chapter 3

Regina stifled a scoff as the impeccably dressed man made this statement, but she noticed that Dashiell merely looked thoughtful.

“How long ago was the body discovered?” Dashiell asked.

“About an hour ago. I would have been here sooner, but I needed to check your credentials,” the man replied.

Dashiell didn’t seem perturbed by this. “I take it they checked out.”

“I am here, am I not?”

Dashiell nodded and turned to walk back towards Regina. “Very well. I just need to collect a few supplies.”

He skirted past Regina into his messy office. He stepped over to a bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books there. He stopped on one, checked the title and pulled it out. He then moved over behind the desk and grabbed a small black attaché case that was there.

He opened the book automatically to a page and scanned it quickly. He checked the case, rummaging around a bit. He placed the book within the case. He then turned to the desk and opened the left hand drawer. He pulled out some chalk and a candle, placing them in the case as well.

He then turned and walked toward the door. Regina watched him throughout the whole process. She had a skeptical look on her face.

“Dash, can you really summon a dead woman’s soul?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.” He walked back into the main room as he said this.

The well-dressed man overheard the exchange. “Are you saying you might not be able to do this, Mr. Aldridge? I was led to believe….”

Dashiell waved a hand to cut him off. “Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I’ve done it, but I have successfully raised spirits in the past. But you’re right about the time constraints. The soul only remains with the body for a set number of hours. After that, I am powerless to do anything. Assuming the victim died shortly before you came looking for me, I should be able to call it forth.”

The man nodded and turned toward the outer door to Dashiell’s office. “Then let us hurry, Mr. Aldridge.” He opened the door and swept into the hallway, followed by Dashiell and Regina. “Pardon my lack of manners, Mr. Aldridge, but I have been in a hurry. My name is Charles Watson. I work for the Scofield family.”

Dashiell and Regina exchanged looks. The Scofields were one of the richest families in the city. There were Scofields on the board of the Kennedy Center, the Smithsonian and a variety of private foundations. They regularly hosted the crème-de-la-crème of the political elite in D.C. If Mr. Watson was right, this was going to be a media nightmare.

Next>

Chapter 2

Dashiell absorbed this. “You believe?”

“Yes,” the man replied. He didn’t appear like he was going to add any more.

“Wouldn’t that be a matter for the police?” Dashiell asked, aware that Regina was listening in.

“It would, Mr. Aldridge, if I thought they’d rule this case a murder.”

“You have reason to doubt they would?” Regina piped up from the hall.

“May I ask to whom I am speaking?” The man’s manners were as impeccable as his cleanly pressed suit.

“That’s Detective Robbins, DCPD Homicide. You can see why she might be interested,” Dashiell replied.

The man nodded. “Very well, Detective. What was your question?”

“I asked,” Regina replied, “if you had reason to doubt the police would rule this a murder.”

“I do. A cursory examination of the body shows no evidence of foul play.”

“Well, there are still plenty of ways that someone could be murdered. If you’re that concerned, an autopsy would reveal if any poisons or other non-obvious methods were utilized,” Regina said.

“That would take too long, Detective. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been led to believe that time is of the essence.”

“And why is that?” Regina inquired. “The body’s not going to get more dead.”

“May I explain on the way?” He directed the question to Dashiell.

“What is it you expect me to do?”

“Well, Mr. Aldridge, if I’m correct, I’d like you to summon the soul to tell us who killed her.”

Next>

Chapter 1

Dashiell G. Aldridge was a big slab of a man. He sat in a large chair behind a large wooden desk in his second floor walkup in downtown Washington, D.C. Across from him sat a petite redhead, Detective Regina Robbins, DCPD. They were sharing Chinese food and shooting the breeze.

“So then,” Dashiell said, “we hear this scream, and my partner slaps his hands over his ears yelling out ‘Banshee!’”

Regina laughed. “He didn’t!”

Dashiell shook his head. “He did. He fell to the floor, curled up into a little ball and cried like the world was ending. Good God, it was like he forgot it was a training exercise.”

Dashiell went to set the box of General Tso’s chicken he was holding and knocked a fork to the floor. He bent over and picked the fork up, examining it.

“You expecting anyone, Regina?”

She shook her head, wiping her eyes and trying to get her laughter back under control. “No, Dash. Why?”

“Well then, it looks like I have a client coming to visit. A man.”

As he finished speaking, there was a knock at the door.

“One of these days, Dash, you’re going to have to tell me how you do that,” Regina said with a smile.

“It’s fairly simple really,” he explained, rising to his feet and heading toward the front of the converted apartment. “It’s all in the silverware.” With this cryptic remark, he walked into the foyer and opened the front door to his office.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

Dashiell examined the man standing in the open doorway and one word came to mind – polished. The man was impeccably dressed, with a crisp white shirt, dark blue tie, navy slacks and polished brown shoes with a matching belt. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue.

“You are Dashiell Aldridge, the occult detective?” He had a slight New England accent. Old money, thought Dashiell.

“I am, sir. Would you care to come inside?” Dashiell stepped back and beckoned toward the interior and his office. Regina had stepped into the door, looking down the short hallway at the man in the door.

“There’s no time, Mr. Aldridge. I would like to engage your services and from what I understand, time is of the essence.”

Dashiell’s eyebrows raised. “And what sort of case do you have? Missing person?”

“Nothing so mundane, Mr. Aldridge. I believe there has been a murder.”

Next>

The End - For Now

This is the end of Superstition - Book 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes

I will be taking two weeks off, while I plot the next adventure of Dashiell and Regina. Please check back on Saturday, June 7, for chapter 1 in the next book.

Thanks for reading - I hope you've enjoyed it.

In the meantime, please feel free to check out my other on-going project, An Empire of Law.

Chapter 30

Dashiell was frozen in a moment of silent horror as that gaping maw came closer and closer to his exposed fist, held out for feeding on, as if the now dead zombie clamped onto his arm was holding it out for its still moving companion.

Suddenly, Dashiell heard a loud report and the zombie’s head was ripped off at the jaw line. Its lower jawbone, filled with rotting teeth, hit the ground in front of his knee, unmoving. He said a silent thanks to the Gods and to the police sniper hidden out of sight who had remembered to aim for the head.

Dashiell wasted no more time, prying the dead hand off his arm and regaining his feet. Shots were ringing out as the snipers opened up on the undead and Dashiell and Regina joined in, whenever a walking corpse got close enough to pose a threat.

As the number of undead diminished, so did the fog surrounding Dashiell and Regina. They stood back to back, facing out into the thinning mists.

“What the hell happened Dash? You threw salt in that thing’s face and it just kept coming.”

“Well, Regina,” Dashiell replied calmly, shooting another zombie through the forehead, “apparently these zombies don’t subscribe to Haitian beliefs. It was worth a try. But I didn’t really expect it to work. At that point, I was desperate.”

“And what about the flame? It went out at pretty much the perfect time. Did you do that?” By now the numbers of undead were dwindling.

“In a manner of speaking. One of the last calls I made tonight was to a friend of mine. I asked him to drop by the local terminal for the gas company and cut the feed to the cemetery. Apparently, he got past security.”

“He was cutting it a little close, don’t you think, Dash?”

“Well, he doesn’t exactly have access to the place. Also, I didn’t want him to cut the gas too early, or else the witches wouldn’t be here. They needed to be involved in the spell. Although I’ll admit, it was a little close for comfort.”

With a final crack from a sniper’s rifle, the last body hit the ground. Dashiell looked around. The plateau was littered with corpses, and two very scared women laying on thr ground. Regina went over and cuffed them, then called for an EMT team when she saw that the older witch was apparently covered with burned flesh.

“Dashiell, what the hell did you throw at this woman, napalm?”

“Holy water actually. Not sure if it was the holy aspect, or just the water that did it though. She should be okay, though. The burns don’t look that bad. Besides, she’s not my biggest concern.”

“She’s not?”

“No. I’m much more worried about the one who got away. From what I could tell, she was the leader of this coven. She took the lead in the spell and was clearly the most experienced at wielding magic. And she’s still out there, somewhere.”

“I got a pretty decent look at her face, when I bluffed the younger one. I’ll have the department put out an APB on her and I’ll pass it on to the FBI,” Regina said.

“We’ll have to hope that’ll work. Although something tells me, we’ll be seeing her again. At any rate, we’re not likely to find her tonight. Think you can handle the clean up, Regina? It appears my role in this affair is over. I think I’ll leave the rest to the real cops.”

Regina smiled at his sarcasm. “Get out of here, Dash. And thanks for your help. We’d never have solved this one without you. I promise, I’ll make sure the Captain knows how essential you were to the investigation.”

“Thanks Regina.” He turned to go when she called out to him.

“Hey Dash! Don’t you want your bead back?” She toyed with the item in question.

“Keep it, Regina. I think you’re going to need it.”