Autumn Alibi Read online

  The Wiccan Wheel Series

  by JENNIFER DAVID HESSE

  Midsummer Night’s Mischief

  Bell, Book & Candlemas

  Yuletide Homicide

  Samhain Secrets

  May Day Murder

  Autumn Alibi

  AUTUMN ALIBI

  Jennifer David Hesse

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  The Wiccan Wheel Series

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S MISCHIEF

  BELL, BOOK & CANDLEMAS

  SAMHAIN SECRETS

  MAY DAY MURDER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer David Hesse

  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.

  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.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1775-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1775-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1776-4 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1776-7 (eBook)

  For Scott, the yang to my yin

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With a heart full of gratitude and love, I thank my wonderful family, my fabulous agent and editor, and the entire publishing team at Kensington. Thanks also to all the readers and fans of the Wiccan Wheel Mysteries. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Mabon: A modern Wiccan holiday coinciding with the autumn equinox, Mabon is a time of thanksgiving and a celebration of the earth’s bountiful harvest. It is also a time to reflect on the balance of opposing forces, as day and night become equal, until darkness overtakes the light for another season on the Wheel of the Year.

  Another year gone, leaving everywhere

  its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

  the uneaten fruits crumbling damply

  in the shadows . . .

  —Mary Oliver, “Fall Song”

  Chapter One

  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.

  Oh, Great Mother, bearer of sacred fruit,

  You nurture all seeds and watch dreams take root.

  You sanctify the earth; you bless the sky.

  You’re the fire within; you’re the tears I cry.

  Goddess of Nature, you’re the wind, rain, and thunder.

  Your awesome power fills me with wonder.

  Our bounty below reflects what’s above.

  A life enriched with magic and love.

  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 l
istening 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.

  Chapter Two

  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 an
d 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—”