Free The Summerland by T. L. Schaefer

here this morning threatening to go to the press about the candle wax. His grandson is one of our deputies, and a total ass to boot, so I expect that information to be common knowledge by nightfall, but I’ll deal with that later.” He stated, waving a hand as if to swat away an errant fly.
    “ Anyway, when he was here, he was ranting and raving about the Wiccan coven that meets up the river. He was babbling about how these women had been sacrificed to the devil by this coven. It just clicked. The wax and its location are almost a perfect match for a Wiccan ceremonial circle and pentagram.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair, glancing up at the agent. “Don’t look at me like that, Drebin, I took Alternative Religions as an elective, OK? “
    Drebin sat back in his chair and watched as an impressive display of recollections flitted across the big cowboy’s face. “The dates, oh crap, the dates match almost exactly too. And the lavender, it means something, but I don’t remember what. OK, I’ll get Doug to bring Josie back here to the command post, quietly, so we can question her. When the locals or press get wind of this the shit will hit the fan. Umm, I’ll also need to get some info from San Jose State messengered in on the religion as a whole. Damn it, that’s it.” He glanced at Drebin, the wheels inside his head turning at something approaching the speed of sound. “What?”
    Special Agent Frank Drebin leaned forward in his chair and smiled, dangerously. “Sheriff, I cannot wait to see you interrogate a suspect. It’s going to be one of the finest days of my life.”
    * * * *
    Arden sat resolutely in the hard plastic chair of the public library, scanning the local weekly paper, The Dispatch . All fourteen pages of it. Damn, she thought, this is a small town. The incidents the paper carried mostly concerned cows getting loose and kids playing pranks. As she reviewed older issues, she noted that the absence of action covered in last week’s paper was hardly an anomaly. This was the type of town where the only war waged was between Seats Five and Six on the County Supervisor’s Board. What in the hell was her sister doing in a hokey little place like this? And, now that she had some time to think about it, what was so damned important about the sports bag they’d found in her car? And why did they need to keep her car through Friday? It didn’t make any sense.
    She mentally started a file in her head…all of the questions she would ask the good sheriff when she saw him next. Which, if she had her way, would be in the next hour. Cupping her hands around the small of her back she stretched then resumed her research.

 
    Chapter Eight
     
    Josie Galloway did not like cops. Never had and never would. It was rather ironic, given her past career choices. Nevertheless, here she sat, strapped into the front seat of a vintage GTO, wondering what in the hell Sergeant Doug Brewster wanted. She studied him furtively, glancing at him out of the side of her eyes. He looked uncomfortable with something, but she didn’t think it was with her, they’d known each other for far too long. They drove into town silently, taking the back route to the Sheriff’s Department, then curving, to her surprise, back up the hill behind the high school. She looked up at him questioningly, then hardened her expression as he shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the door of the library.
    Squaring her shoulders as if against some unseen attacker, she entered and found Sheriff Bill Ashton holding a cup of coffee and leaning back in a wooden chair with his booted feet up on a long oak conference table. He just looked at her for a moment, then smiled a lazy smile and motioned for her to be seated. She glanced over her shoulder for a look at the taciturn deputy, but he had disappeared as silently as he’d appeared that morning. Nodding her head hard enough to set the long, colorful spangles at her ears swinging, she sat down in the