First Baptist Church
The First Baptist Church of Montford was built in the 1880s under the careful eye of Richard Sharpe Smith, the architect of the Biltmore house. Constructed from limestone left over from the Biltmore estate, it started as a small wooden church for freed slaves who originally settled on the grounds of what would become the estate. George Vanderbilt purchased the land from the pastor and the congregation with a promise to rebuild their church in the Montford area just outside downtown Asheville. Lionel’s great-grandfather was one of the freed slaves who helped build the new church, stone by stone. Lionel would take me there and touch the limestone. He said it had healing properties and gave him the ability to reach into the past to touch his great-grandfather who he had never met. I stared at the cornerstone, missing Lionel.
Reverend Stillwater’s family had traveled the Louisiana yellow fever trail in the 1880s from the same parish Lionel’s family had come from. Lionel had told me that is why he felt a connection to Reverend Stillwater. I hoped I might find something in the parish records about Lionel’s bloodlines. Somewhere in Lionel’s past was magic, and that magic brought about his death, I feared.
I crawled my way through the broken basement window and up to the Reverend’s office. He was there with the two detectives who had questioned Abigail. They were now questioning the Reverend. I slinked into a corner and listened.
“Reverend Stillwater, you say you saw Lionel the night of his murder?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Lionel stopped in early evening. I’d say maybe 5 o’clock before heading to the park. That’s not so unusual. He would stop by often.” The Reverend sat forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the old oak desk.
“What did you talk about?”
“Lionel was troubled for the past couple weeks. His dreams were troubled. You have to understand I care for a lot of the homeless. Many end up on the streets because of mental illness, but I don’t believe that was the case with Lionel.”
“What about these dreams?”
“Lionel told me he had a recurring dream of a young girl in trouble. The dream ended the same way with the girl hanging by her neck from an oak tree,” the Reverend said.
“I see,” the young detective said, scratching notes in his pad. “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Lionel?”
After pausing for a minute, the Reverend shook his head. “Not at all. Everyone loved Lionel. You asked me all this already. Why are you really here?”
The young detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to the Reverend. “Do you know this man?”
The Reverend stared at the picture. “He looks like a kid.”
“Seventeen years old. His name was Bryson Wald.”
The Reverend shook his head.
The detective took back the photograph. “He was killed at 3 a.m. this morning, the exact same time of death as Lionel and with what we believe was the same knife, a silver knife.”
“That’s terrible. Did you say 3 a.m.?”
“Yes, according to the coroner.”
The Reverend scratched his beard and then said, “That’s the witching hour.”
“What do you mean?”
“Christ died at 3 p.m. The witching hour is directly opposite at 3 a.m.,” the Reverend paused.
“We’d like you to speak to the congregation and ask the homeless you work with. Anyone who might have known Lionel or Bryson,” the detective said, standing up. “We’ll have extra patrol in the area. One last thing.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and placed it in front of the Reverend. I could see it was a copy of Abigail’s driver’s license. “Do you know this girl?”
The Reverend shook his head.
“She’s homeless, been sleeping in her car. We found her name and phone number in Bryson’s phone.”
He looked at it again. “I have seen her. She was at Lionel’s funeral talking to Mrs. Twiggs,” the Reverend paused before continuing. “Do you think she had something to do with the murders?”
“For now she’s a person of interest but call immediately if you see or hear anything of her whereabouts.”
The Reverend took the detective’s card and nodded in agreement.
After the police officers left, Reverend Stillwater grabbed his Bible. I heard him reading the passage he read over Lionel’s funeral about the angels. I knew angels couldn’t protect us. They hadn’t protected us in Salem.
There are several ways to kill a witch, the Salem witch hunters were wrong about some. Drowning or hanging won’t kill a witch; they will only send her powers into a new vessel. Fire or silver through the heart will extinguish their life force. Whoever killed Lionel and Bryson knew, however, that both men were protected by magic and that they were watching over Abigail. If I am to save her, I must find out who killed them and why they want Abigail. For now, I needed to warn Abigail that the police were looking for her.
Dark Voices
I ran back to the Leaf & Page as quickly as my four little furry paws would advance me but I was too late. As I turned the corner, I saw the two detectives dragging a handcuffed Abigail out of the shop. She was kicking and screaming. Pixel was clawing at one of the detective’s legs and hissing. He shook him off causing Pixel to tumble down the crooked walk and crash into a garbage can. Mrs. Twiggs came out of the store, sobbing. “Wait, this is wrong. She had nothing to do with Lionel’s death.”
The detective ignored Mrs. Twiggs who put her arms around Abigail. “I’ll call my attorney. We’ll post bail.”
Abigail nodded her head and climbed into the back of the sedan. I ran up to her window. “Abigail, we’ll come for you. We will come for you,” I called to her. The car took off.
Mrs. Twiggs bent down and picked me up. Pixel ran up to her. She scooped him up also and hugged us both tightly. “I wish I could understand you,” she said, staring deep into my eyes. “Emma, We must get Emma.” Mrs. Twiggs carried us into the store and called Mrs. Tangledwood.
A short while later, a smoky quartz Bentley pulled up in front of the Leaf & Page, its window sticker still affixed to the passenger window. Mrs. Tangledwood leapt out of the car and flung open the front door. “Beatrice, this is outrageous. I’ve contacted my attorney. He’s meeting us at the police station.”
“Mrs. Tangledwood,” I said. “Abigail is not safe. We have to bring her home.”
Mrs. Tangledwood lifted me up. “Then let’s make that happen, shall we?”
Mrs. Twiggs grabbed her purple velvet coat and locked up the store. Pixel and I leapt into the back seat of the Bentley. When we arrived at the police station, I climbed into Mrs. Tangledwood’s Hermes Birkin bag. She peeked in at me. “Will you be OK?”
“I’ll be fine.” In my years, I had traveled in less comfortable and expensive ways. Her purse smelled of new leather. It was filled with many other different fragrances, a scented handkerchief, a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and the subtle scent of nettle leaves. Her heels clicked on the marble entry floor of the police station. There were muffled conversations. “Mr. Bridgestone, thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of, course, Emma,” came the soft-spoken slow speech of a southern gentleman.
“This is my friend, Beatrice Twiggs. Beatrice, this is my long-time family attorney, William Bridgestone.”
“Nice to meet you. I spoke with the desk sergeant. Abigail is being detained for questioning in detention. She has not been charged yet.”
Mrs. Twiggs interrupted, “We have to get her out of here.”
As I listened to the conversation, a shadow passed over me. I’m not much for premonitions. That is not one of my powers but I knew Abigail would not last the night in this place. She was vulnerable without her companions around to protect her. “May we see her?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“Yes, I’ve made arrangements.”