“Mother? What—oh. You’re the federal agents, aren’t you?”
Savich nodded, introduced himself and Sherlock again, showed her their creds. Unlike the old lady, Mrs. Alcott took each of their IDs and studied them carefully. “Brakey told us he saw you on television yesterday, Agent Sherlock. And now you’re here.”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re Brakey’s mother? Mrs. Deliah Alcott?” It was an unnecessary question because it was obvious. The resemblance was pronounced—the same pale green eyes, the same tilt of the head, only Mrs. Alcott’s hair was a much darker brown than her son’s. Her hands were like Brakey’s, too, slender and fine-boned, with long, tapering fingers. She was a handsome woman, yes, that was the word for her. She was taller than her boy, Brakey, and straight as a sapling. She was dressed casually in a long, gauzy summer dress, with sandals on her narrow feet, her toenails unpainted. There was no gray in her dark brown hair, though Sherlock knew her to be fifty-five years old. She wore her hair in a thick braid that hung nearly to her waist. The necklace she was wearing caught Sherlock’s eye—a necklace made of different stones. Did the stones have a particular meaning to her? She looked, Sherlock thought, like a Wiccan should—no artifice, natural, and proud of it.
“Yes, I’m Deliah Alcott. Brakey had a moment to call me, tell me he’d made a deal with you.” Her chin went up. “We will talk to you, but if you make any threats against Brakey, I will call our lawyer. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. We understand. No threats.”
“Why do you drive an expensive car like that?”
Savich merely smiled. “Is Brakey here?”
“Yes, he is. He’s with his brother Jonah. We’ve been watching the news channels about the investigation of the terrorist attacks in New York City, and then these murders happened—Sparky Carroll and Kane Lewis—and both live right here in Plackett. It’s hard to believe—horrible, really. What is worse is that an Athame was used in each. That makes it unbearable, because it makes everyone in town look at us differently, with suspicion, and it’s not right or fair.
“I understand why you would think Brakey was involved because of where Kane’s body was discovered. But there is simply no reason for Brakey to do such a terrible thing to Kane Lewis. Brakey’s known him all his life. He liked him. Listen, Brakey’s only a boy, twenty-four years old.”
“Now, Morgana, I knew a twelve-year-old girl who smacked her own sister with a shovel, killed her dead. Age doesn’t have anything to do with it. I already told them Brakey wouldn’t hurt a living thing. He’s like you, now, isn’t he?” And again, a wide, full smile with all those gleaming teeth. Was that mockery in those rheumy old eyes?
Don’t call me Morgana, Mother,” Deliah Alcott said. “You’re going to confuse these agents. I don’t know if you’ve properly met. This is my husband’s mother, Ms. Louisa Alcott.”
The old woman gave them another big smile. If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, there was a twinkle in her faded old eyes. “No, you don’t want to put shackles on poor Brakey,” she repeated. “If you’re wondering, I’m not Louisa May Alcott. I’m not that old. Maybe someday.”
“It’s a fine name,” Savich said, “a name to be proud of.”
“My middle name isn’t May, like you’re expecting, it’s Lorna, as in Lorna Doone. My mother was a witch like me, but she loved her classical romances, even though she was always muttering about how foolish the characters were, how if they knew some witchcraft, they’d be less stupid.”
“So you’re from a long line of witches, Mrs. Alcott?” Savich asked her.
“Oh, yes, we go back further than the silly Wiccan stuff Morgana spouts.”
“My name isn’t Morgana, Mother.”
The old woman shrugged scrappy shoulders. “Sounds better than Deliah. Morgana was a wicked woman, a powerful woman. Look what she did to poor Arthur, twisted him up but good, didn’t she?”
Down the rabbit hole. Savich said to Brakey’s mother, “Mrs. Alcott, may we come inside, speak to you alone?”
She looked out over the four children now hooting and hollering again, Tanny throwing the football to Jenny. She called out, “Time to go home, kids.” The kids whined about it not being dark yet, but Mrs. Alcott held firm. She turned back, eyed them. “Very well. My boys are in the den. We can talk in the living room.”
“But what about Daddy?”