The Line (Witching Savannah #1)

The Line (Witching Savannah #1) Page 13

“At least let me fetch you something to drink, Detective. Some sweet tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I don’t anticipate taking up too much more of y’all’s time. I appreciate this is a trying time for the family, especially Miss Taylor here.”

“All right then. You call out if you change your mind,” Aunt Ellen said and quietly shut the door behind her.

“That’s her way of saying that she’ll have her ear pressed to the door,” I joked and then realized that any number of my cousins could use their powers to listen in on our discussion. Many witches have the ability to project their consciousness to a place—even somewhere on the other side of the world—and witness the events happening there. Spying on our library would take no effort at all. I suspected that Aunt Ellen was even now rounding up someone with this ability.

Detective Cook smiled. “Do you mind if we sit? I really won’t take up much of your time, but I’ve been training for the upcoming marathon, and frankly my middle-aged legs are beat and my dogs are barking.”

“No, of course not.” I sat down in the upholstered wingback and motioned toward the love seat that faced it.

Cook ignored my gesture and pulled an ottoman toward my chair instead, sitting directly in front of me. Up close I could make out a shadow of stubble that was reclaiming the territory it had lost when he shaved that morning. His appearance, his every move, demonstrated the easy type of masculinity that Uncle Oliver found so attractive. Cook leaned in toward me and began, “I grew up here in Savannah. Not two miles from this very house. I am loosely acquainted with your family. I even used to hang with your uncle from time to time when I was young. Now I know y’all have your own ways and such, but I do have to ask.” He leaned back as if to take me fully in. “You walk in to your elderly aunt’s home. You find her bludgeoned to death on the floor, and the first call you make is to your aunt”—he flipped open a small black notebook—“Iris? Didn’t it occur to you to call the police first, or maybe an ambulance?”

“I didn’t call for an ambulance, ’cause I could tell she was dead.”

“Oh, so you’re medically trained then? From what I have gathered from talking to your family, you are quite the student. A class or two at Savannah College of Art and Design qualifies you to determine if someone is beyond medical assistance?” His sudden aggressive turn took me by surprise, as he’d no doubt calculated it would.

“No,” I shot back, suddenly angry. “Seeing the top of her skull lying across the room and her brain popping out the top of what was left qualified me.”

Cook leaned back a bit further, attempting to look more relaxed. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it to. I’m just incredibly frustrated with the tampering you all did at the crime scene.”

“I never touched a thing,” I replied.

“Maybe not with your hands, but you passed out on top of the body. You knocked it a good foot away from its original placement, and got your hair and clothing fibers all over.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” I mumbled, now understanding his consternation. I couldn’t believe that no one had told me, but then again, I would have preferred never to have found out.

“Okay. Let’s talk about the facts of life here, Miss Taylor. I really, really do not suspect that you had anything to do with your great-aunt’s death.” He bent back in and looked me squarely in the eye. “Really,” he repeated. “But I am sure you are aware that in most cases someone is murdered by someone they know. And more often than not, by someone in their own family.” He paused.

“Looks to me like whoever did the old lady in hated her,” he said. “It took three blows to take her down. She was one tough old bird. But that last blow, as you witnessed, took the top off the roof, so to speak.” He leaned back toward me and in a lowered voice, he asked, “You didn’t like her much, did you?”

“No. But I sure didn’t hate her. Not really. Certainly not enough to kill her.”

“Why did you hate her?” he asked, completely ignoring my statement to the contrary.

“What does it matter? I sure would never have hurt her.”

“I believe you, I do,” he insisted. “But if she inspired hate in you, it is likely she did the same in other family members. Maybe someone else hated her for the same reasons you did. And maybe sharing those reasons with me will help me bring her killer to justice.” He hesitated. “I know you Taylors have your own way of thinking about how things should work, but you do believe in justice, right?”

“Of course, I do. Ginny didn’t deserve to be killed, especially like that.”

“Then tell me why you hated her.”

I stopped resisting and spoke a truth I had been waiting my entire life to share. “I hated Ginny,” I replied, “because she made me feel like I was a mistake. Like I didn’t have the right to exist.”

“Go on.”

“My mother died having me. You know I have a twin sister. Maisie,” I informed him, sparing him another peek in his black book. “Ginny adored Maisie. Me, not so much. She thought my mother might have made it if there hadn’t been two of us.” Hot tears burst from my eyes, and I gasped with the pain as the words ripped out of me.

“And she made you believe that, didn’t she?” he asked. He reached out and nearly touched my hand, but he must have thought better of it because he gently pulled his hand back.

“Yeah, I guess she did.” And I realized it was true. I did believe it, and I always had. I swiped at my tears with my bare hands and tried to pull myself together.

“Well, she was wrong. I suspect Ginny Taylor was wrong about a whole lot of other things too,” he said, pulling a tissue from a pack in his jacket pocket and handing it to me.

“Really, like what?”

“Like thinking it was a good idea to leave her doors and windows unlocked. The door was unlocked when you got there, right?”

Again, I felt myself tighten up. “Yes. Aunt Ginny never locked up. She didn’t need…” I started, but then realized that if I explained how Ginny thought she could keep the bad guys out, I might be opening another whole can of worms. Cook smiled and let my faltering statement pass. He had known my family for years all right.

“So it was common knowledge among your family members that Ginny never locked her doors.”

“Well, yeah, it was common knowledge to everyone. The dry cleaner, the grocery delivery guy. Everyone, not just family.”

“I see,” Cook said, briefly flipping his black book open and then closing it again just as quickly. “So tell me, Miss Taylor. Why did you call your Aunt Iris rather than the police? Were you maybe trying to protect someone? Someone like your Uncle Connor, that is? He’s a big man, with a big temper. He’s well known for it, right?”

“Uncle Connor”—I began almost choking on the “uncle” part—“had nothing to do with Ginny’s death.”

“You sure about that? You can give him an alibi?”

“I saw him at breakfast. I’m sure he was with Iris all morning. You can ask her if you haven’t already, but I know he never would’ve done it.”