Free The Witch of Agnesi by Robert Spiller Page A

the dying fire. “We have company.”
    Wearing a white terrycloth robe and Birkenstock sandals, Winston strode into the firelight. He car-ried another white robe in one hand and a silver cell phone in the other. A half-dozen people, including Ali Griffith, followed in his wake.
    Thank God none of them are nude.
    A purple robe covered Ali from her neck to the tops of her bare feet. White baby’s-breath was woven into her hair. Henna, in patterns that matched Rhiannon’s, decorated her hands and feet. Ali hoisted her robe and knelt in the sand.
    “Missus Pinkwater, are you all right?” She offered Bonnie a blue-gel ice-pack.
    Bonnie took the pack and catalogued the elements of her evening that separated her from being all right then set them aside. “I’m getting better, sweetie.” She laid the ice-pack against her aching head.
    Winston tossed the robe to Rhiannon and handed the cell phone to Bonnie.
    She flipped open the phone, ready to make a call, then cupped the receiver as if the connection was live. “Can anyone tell me the time?”
    A white-haired woman, who looked like she should be playing mah jong rather than attending a witch’s celebration, came into the firelight. “Look on the phone, dear.”
    Ten-thirty. Bonnie reddened. She knew damn well time was displayed on cell phones. She owned one, for pity’s sake. I’m more screwed up than I first thought. Normally, she never would have forgotten it.
    Bonnie nodded to the older woman. “Thank you.” She’d have to call Franklin at home.
    He picked up on the second ring. “Yo, it’s your dime.” He sounded sleepy.
    Bonnie pushed aside her guilt for waking Franklin. “It’s your favorite math teacher.”
    He groaned. “What time is it?”
    “I have it on the best of authority it’s past ten. A young man like you shouldn’t be sitting at home at ten o’clock on a Friday night, anyway.”
    “Then how could I be here to take your fascinat-ing late night calls? You know my only wish is to wait upon your pleasure.” He sighed. “What can I do for you, Missus P?”
    She drew a deep breath. All right, try not to sound like a crybaby. “Jesse Poole tried to kill me.”
    He hesitated, then said, “You got my attention. Tell me everything.”
    She told him everything.
    “This is screwy,” Franklin said. “What is Jesse Poole doing off road in the middle of the night? And why would he want to kill you?”
    Bonnie felt her anger grow through the telling, and now Franklin questioned her integrity. “I know what I saw, God damn it. How am I supposed to know why that little shit does what he does?”
    “Settle down, Missus P.”
    Her throat contracted. Hot tears welled in her eyes. “Settle down yourself, youngster. He toyed with me, like a cat with a mouse. I don’t appreciate being made into a victim.” What she couldn’t bring herself to say was that Jesse Poole made her feel like a foolish old woman. And that she couldn’t forgive.
    Ali touched her arm. “Can I talk to the policeman?”
    Damn, I cursed in front of a student and her mother. Bonnie stared at the girl. “Ali, I need—”
    “Jesse was here earlier this evening.”
    She handed Ali the phone.
    Carefully, the girl pulled flower-woven hair away from her ear. “Officer, this is Ali Griffith. Jesse Poole broke into our house this evening.”
    Rhiannon Griffith had donned the white terrycloth robe. She stood several feet away smoking a cigarette and huddling with the members of her coven.
    “Jesse Poole was here?” Bonnie asked, trying not to shout.
    Six faces, including Rhiannon’s, turned her way. All nodded in agreement.
    “It’s not the first time the little miscreant’s come around here.” Winston’s deep-set eyes glowed red in the reflected firelight. “Rhiannon’s had to chase him off more than once.”
    Rhiannon took a long pull on her cigarette. “But this is the first time he’s been criminal about it. Up until now I’ve chalked up his trespassing to curiosity.