Free The Summerland by T. L. Schaefer Page A

indicated chair.
    Josie Galloway was a gypsy. There was no other way to describe her. She was all dark hair and flashing eyes, with pouty red lips and a lush figure. She ran a curiosity shop frequented by tourists and the occasional Yosemite employee. She was also the High Priestess of the Wiccan coven. They had dealt with each other before, Bill and Josie. And while she always felt she’d been treated fairly, Josie never stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. It looked like today was that day.
    Bill studied her for a moment. She just looked back at him with that stare that seemed to say ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking.’ And she probably did, he thought with a wry, inward smile. To be honest, when he’d returned to Mariposa he’d thought that the little coven was nothing more than a tax dodge of some sort. That was until he met Josie for the first time. After all, he’d studied the Wiccans in college and knew their background. A bunch of druid tree-huggers dabbling in white magick.
    The house the coven chose to meet in was a rambling but ramshackle colonial affair that someone within the group had purchased for a song. It was situated across the broad expanse of the Merced River and could only be reached by the narrow footbridge that swung precariously over the churning waters. There were no neighbors, and the main artery to Yosemite, Highway 140, whizzed past on the opposite bank. In past lives it had been a private home, a colony for artists, and more recently, a worship place of the B’nai B’rith faith.
    Growing up in Mariposa, Bill thought he’d seen it all when it came to that house, but he’d been wrong. He’d just returned to his hometown and was assigned as a deputy to routine patrol duty. The call had been for disturbing the peace. When he realized what address he was being dispatched to, he knew it was trouble. When he reached the remote site he saw that the disturbing the peace call had not been about the witches, as he’d first assumed. Instead, it concerned approximately 50 protesters parading up and down the highway, congesting traffic and generally being nuisances. And leading them all was none other than Wiley Goltree.
    He remembered how Josie had come across that bridge like thunder down the mountain once she’d seen she had backup. He smiled as he remembered the horror on Goltree’s face when she’d threatened to turn him into a tree frog if he didn’t leave them alone. Apparently her threat and the armed deputy at her side had dissuaded the protesters enough to disperse, but the talk that began that day had only enhanced the Wiccan’s inherent weirdness in a town primarily inhabited by ranchers and retailers.
    Yet somehow, Josie had ingrained herself into the community, building almost a network of sorts. He had no idea how she’d established herself with the respectable, God-fearing businessmen and women of the community, but establish herself she had.
    Shifting his mind from the past to the present, he focused on Josie again. He knew enough about her and her coven to know, deep in his bones, that they had nothing to do with the events of the last three days. Nevertheless, he still had to consider her a suspect, and had no problem pumping her for any and all information he possibly could. Dropping his feet to the tired linoleum, he leaned his tanned, muscular forearms on the table and spoke forthrightly.
    “ You’ve heard what we found, haven’t you?” At her nod he continued. “Shit, you probably knew before we did, with the contacts you have. Exactly what have you heard?”
    “ Blessed be and merry meet, Bill Ashton.” Josie began in traditional Wiccan fashion, then addressed the matter at hand with humor.
    “Sheriff, all I’ve heard since nine a.m. this morning is that I’m going to Hell. Apparently my wild-eyed witches and I burned ten young women at the stake, performing lesbian rituals all the while. At least according to the folks over at the Sugar Pine that