Beignets and Broomsticks Page 10

  ‘If he had proof, do you really think he’d share it with me?’ Brad asked with a grin.

  ‘Not without having to slit your throat afterwards.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The road split in two and Brad followed the branch to the right.

  ‘Look.’ I spotted a big rock that the elements had carved to resemble a cactus and another that looked like a coffeepot, and said so.

  ‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Brad replied.

  ‘You were telling me about the City of Gold.’ I wanted to hear more.

  Brad resumed. ‘According to legend, in 1539, the Viceroy of New Spain sent an expedition, led by the Conquistador Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, to investigate the claims of a Friar Marcos de Niza, who reported seeing, albeit from a distance, one of the purported Seven Cities of Gold. The expedition spent years looking.’

  ‘And they failed.’ The good friar had probably been suffering sunstroke.

  ‘That doesn’t keep the legend from living on,’ replied Brad.

  And it never would. The lure of lost cities and vast hidden treasures kept many a dreamer forever searching. Like Herman the Swede. ‘Where did you meet this Herman guy?’ I couldn’t picture Brad hiking around the upper desert in search of a story.

  ‘I literally bumped into him in town one day. He was at Mother Earth/Father Son picking up supplies.’

  ‘My sister’s grocery?’ She had never mentioned a Herman the Swede, a memorable character if ever there was one. Then again, Donna was a bit on the quirky side herself and probably never noticed Herman’s out-of-the-normal behavior and appearance.

  ‘We got to talking, hit it off and he told me his story for the paper.’ Brad turned off the radio. We were getting nothing but static out here. ‘He agreed to show me around his camp as long as I agreed that I would take no pictures there or tell anybody where his camp was.’

  ‘He sounds a bit paranoid.’

  ‘Aren’t all treasure seekers?’

  I supposed that was true. ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘I don’t know. When I interviewed him for the article, all he would tell me was that his name was Herman. When I pressed him, he said to call him Herman the Swede. He didn’t even want his picture in the paper.’

  ‘Maybe he fancies himself a modern-day Dutchman,’ I said, making reference to the well-known tale of the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine.

  ‘Could be. I guess he might seem a bit of a nut at first, but when I interviewed him for my article he seemed pretty normal.’ Brad grinned. ‘Except for the whole turning your back on society to go treasure seeking thing, of course.’

  ‘I think he may have been out in the sun too long, if you ask me. But, in a way, I can appreciate what he’s doing. Not that I’m about to join the expedition.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Brad pointed through the windshield. ‘His camp is over near those hills. That’s all I can tell you. Because,’ he said with a lopsided grin, ‘if I told you more …’ He ran his finger along his neck like a knife.

  ‘Very funny. You and Herman should take your act on the road.’

  ‘This road?’ Brad twisted the steering wheel.

  ‘Ouch!’ I complained as we bounced in and out of another deep rut. ‘You did that on purpose!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Brad was quick to reply, though there was no hiding the big, stupid grin on his face. ‘Almost there,’ he promised.

  It was about time. I didn’t think my butt could take much further abuse.

  We bounced along for another half mile or so until we came upon a complex of buildings that left me gasping for breath.

  ELEVEN

  ‘I had no idea this place was even here.’

  ‘Not everybody does. There’s a lot of empty space in these parts. And, as you saw, access isn’t easy. You could hide a whole city out here.’

  ‘They practically are.’ I looked around. The Sacred Church of Witchkraft complex consisted of perhaps a dozen brown adobe buildings. It was impossible to tell exactly how many from our perspective on the ground.

  The buildings were of similar design but varying sizes with the largest, central edifice capped with a bright gold spire rising thirty or more feet above the roof of the structure.

  Figures clad in white cloaks roamed the grounds, mingling with others like us dressed in civilian clothing.

  The wide parking area had been graded as smooth as a runway and was covered in a fine layer of light brown and white pebbles. Brad parked in an empty space near a large tour bus.

  An air-conditioned adobe-walled booth stood at the edge of the parking lot. The white-robed figure inside welcomed us. ‘Good afternoon. Are you members of the Sacred Church?’

  ‘No, visitors,’ Brad replied.

  ‘That will be five dollars per vehicle for parking. It is ten dollars per person for entry and twenty dollars each extra if you would like the behind-the-scenes tour.’

  Brad pulled out his wallet. ‘I think we’ll stick with the self-guided tour.’

  ‘No problem. Twenty-five dollars, please, sir.’

  Brad slid a credit card through the slot in the window. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He tapped a sign on the corner of the glass. ‘Cash only.’ A silver pentacle medallion the size of a silver dollar hung round his neck.

  Brad handed over the cash.

  The man took his money and placed it in a cloth satchel. ‘Sign here, please.’ He tapped a lined page of a clipboard chained to the counter. We filled in our names and the time we had arrived.

  Afterward, the attendant handed us Sacred Church of Witchkraft visitor stickers, green background with purple cursive lettering, to wear on our shirts to show we’d paid, a trifold brochure and a one-page map for the self-guided tour. ‘The grounds and gift shop close at five. Seating in the restaurant is until four o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Brad pulled his cellphone from his pants and tapped the screen. He scrolled to a picture of Nancy and turned it toward the attendant. ‘Have you ever seen this woman?’

  The man blinked. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He motioned to the couple behind us. ‘Next, please.’

  Brad and I were forced to move on.

  ‘Where did you get the picture of Nancy?’

  ‘It was on her publisher’s website.’

  ‘What about her publisher? Have you spoken to anyone there? Surely her editor would know what she was working on.’

  ‘The publisher was a dead end. It’s a small press out of Brainerd, Massachusetts. A one-man operation. He basically published whatever Nancy sent him. He had no idea what she was working on beyond the fact that she was in Table Rock and promised him a book by the end of the year.’

  Flipping through the brochure, I discovered that the Sacred Church of Witchkraft contained a herb and vegetable garden, dormitories for students, classrooms, three altars and a restaurant called Cocina Magia. According to the pamphlet, the church was self-sustaining.

  The largest building was named the Church of the Sacred Vortices. I wanted to see it first so I led Brad straight for it. I tried one of the doors. It was unlocked. ‘Come on, let’s check this out.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Brad.

  A red-cloaked man, his bearded face half-hidden by a draping cowl, appeared from an alcove in the entrance and told us it was closed for a private service. We could hear chanting coming from behind four highly-polished wood inner doors.

  Stymied, we wandered deeper into the grounds. Following a path to a covered pavilion named the Altar of Many Times, we came to a purple-robed man with a flowing white beard, deep-set dark eyes and a purple conical hat covered in cryptic emblems. He sat cross-legged at the head of a low stone altar.

  He spoke in a low, singsong fashion and neither of us understood a word he was saying. He could have been speaking in tongues for all we knew. A group of a dozen or so students or acolytes sat in a semicircle around him.

  As Brad and I stood watching, a deep, soft voice behind us whispered, ‘That is Wizard Ethereal.’

  We turned
to face a tall man with a triangular face and high cheekbones. Like Wizard Ethereal, he wore a heavy purple robe and a cowl of satin. An outfit like that had to be murder in summer. The gnarly fingers of his left hand were wrapped around a bent cedar walking stick. Atop the stick rested an entwined milky white globe.

  ‘I am Wizard Silvermane.’ He bowed ever so slightly. A silver pentacle hung from his neck. Everybody seemed to be wearing them.

  ‘I’m Brad Smith. I’m with the Table Rock Reader. This is Maggie Miller.’

  The old man’s fingers swept lovingly around the orb on his walking stick. ‘I understand you ask about a young woman.’

  Brad and I exchanged a look.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Nancy Alverson.’ I nudged Brad. ‘Show him the picture.’

  The man placed his hand on Brad’s arm. ‘That will not be necessary. Accompany me, please.’

  We followed Wizard Silvermane down the dirt path to a small building set off from the rest of the compound. It too was built of adobe. A covered porch with an intricately carved wooden railing ran the length of the low structure. Amulets and talismans hung everywhere along the top rail and tinkled with the slightest gust of wind.

  The wizard knocked once on the stone porch with his staff then pulled open a heavy plank door and motioned us inside.

  The smoky interior consisted of one large room with a smaller doorway to the right toward the rear. There were two desks side by side, spaced equidistant from each other in the middle of the room.

  An exquisitely carved metal chalice, a foot in diameter and half as tall, sat on a stone plinth between the desks. The chalice’s sides depicted a waxing and waning moon on each side of a large full moon with a pentacle in its center.

  A deep purple-robed man sat at the desk to the right. A forest-green-robed woman sat opposite him. Her hair was as long and hoary as his own. Where his nose was squat and bulbous, hers was narrow and long.

  Both the man and woman looked up from their massive dark-stained desks with piercing eyes.

  The entire room seemed deadened and far removed from the outside world. There were no windows. No external sounds penetrated.

  The sparse furnishings were heavy. A small wooden altar and lectern sat in the far left corner. There was a three-foot square black-and-gold rug at the foot of the altar with a large silver pentacle, matching the pentacle worn around the neck of each church member.

  The floor was covered with candles – the source of all the gray smoke – of all shapes, sizes and colors. All of them were lit, their short wicks dancing like ensnared fairies. Rows of roughly cut wooden shelves ran up the walls, held by heavy iron brackets. The shelves were bursting with books, chalices and dusty, intricately carved small chests of various woods and metals.

  There were several oil paintings on the walls, each depicting either a church building or something of the grounds. I couldn’t help wondering if these Sacred Church people were cutting out human hearts and filling the chests with them.

  I took a step closer to Brad. He was a man. His heart was bigger. Let him go first.

  I heard a click and turned. Wizard Silvermane had performed a disappearing act.

  ‘Sit.’ The venerable man was small but his large voice filled the room.

  ‘Thanks.’ I chose the high-backed chair to the left with its fancy dragon-footed legs. Twin dragon heads were carved into the top and the entire wood frame was made to look like dragon scales. The seat was green velvet with a gold-studded border.

  Brad was forced to sit in a chair that looked like it was intended to seat the Devil or burn an infidel to a crisp. The chair’s frame had been carved to resemble flames and its velvet cushion was blood red and orange.

  ‘I am Suryavayu, Head Master and High Priest of the Sacred Church of Witchkraft.’ His face was gray with deep wrinkles. ‘Meet Aditi Usha, Green Witch and Most High Priestess of the Sacred Church of Witchkraft.’

  The green-clad Green Witch’s only reply was a small wave of a hand clutching a short black stone wand that tapered to a dull point.

  ‘I’m Brad—’

  The headmaster high priest guy cut Brad off with a chop of his hand. ‘You are Brad Smith and you are a reporter with the Table Rock Reader.’ He turned his penetrating gaze on me. ‘And you are Maggie Miller.’ He grinned, revealing rows of uneven yellow teeth. ‘Maggie’s Beignet Café. Delicious.’

  He knew our names and our occupations. This guy was really good at parlor tricks. I turned to Brad but his eyes were on our host.

  The high priest nodded toward the high priestess. She rose with an accompanying rustle of fabric and disappeared wordlessly through the black-draped opening.

  ‘You are here about Nancy Alverson.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Brad answered. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of course. Nancy was a friend of the church.’

  ‘A friend?’ I shot forward in my chair. That couldn’t be right from what I’d managed to read of Nancy’s latest masterpiece.

  The high priestess rolled out a brass trolley atop which sat a black ceramic tea set. The oddly curved teapot and cups – they appeared half-melted – were decorated with white pentacles. The word Blessed was written along each thick handle. She stopped the tray between our chairs, poured us each a full cup and handed them carefully to us. She then returned to her seat.

  ‘Thanks.’ I took a sniff. It smelled like peppermint and cloves. I took a sip. It didn’t taste bad but they could have used sugar.

  I noticed Brad wasn’t drinking.

  ‘Yes, a friend. In fact, Nancy was writing some marketing material for us.’

  Having read Nancy’s book draft, I knew the man was either crazy or seriously deluded.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Brad.

  ‘Certainly. She was a gifted writer. We considered our investment in her a wise one.’

  ‘You were paying her to write about you?’

  ‘Yes. Does that surprise you? We believe that truth benefits us all. It is part of what we teach here. I have the cancelled checks here in my desk.’

  Even if that truth dug up dirt that might tarnish the church’s image?

  He opened a drawer to his left and removed a leather-bound ledger. He turned the pages slowly, then stopped. ‘Ah, here it is.’

  He turned the ledger toward us so we could read. Sure enough, there were several checks written out to Nancy Alverson. The total amounted to six thousand dollars.

  ‘What exactly do you do here?’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

  Suryavayu repeated much of what I’d read in the brochure. The church provided teaching, guidance and holistic medicine. ‘We offer degreed programs in a wide range of subjects, including cosmology, healing, divination and psychic arts.’

  ‘All at a price, I’ll bet,’ Brad ventured.

  The headmaster seemed unperturbed by the barb. ‘How much is too much to pay for universal enlightenment?’

  I decided to try a direct frontal attack to see if I could break his calm veneer. ‘I heard Nancy Alverson was writing an exposé about you.’

  His eyes flickered briefly. ‘Nonsense. I am afraid you heard wrong, Mrs Miller.’

  ‘It’s Ms,’ I replied. ‘My husband is dead.’ To me.

  That got the old priest guy’s interest. ‘Is he now?’ he said, leaning toward me with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Perhaps you would like one of our priests to try and contact him for you? We have a special rapport with the spirit world.’

  He probably did. And it was eighty-proof. ‘Thanks, but that isn’t necessary. If I want to contact him, I can reach him on his cellphone down in Phoenix.’

  The high priest and high priestess exchanged a look.

  I got a look from Brad myself. It said: Shut up.

  I did.

  Brad whipped out his notebook and pen. ‘So if I wanted to write a story about you …?’

  ‘The church would welcome you with open arms,’ Suryavayu said.

  ‘Great.�
�� Brad flipped to a blank sheet of paper. ‘Tell me, sir, where did you get the money for all this? What does it cost to attend one of your classes?’

  The high priest shook his head. ‘I’m afraid now is not a good time.’ He rose.

  The high priestess stood as well, clutching her black obsidian wand. I wondered if we were about to be turned into toads.

  The high priest said, ‘We are in the midst of a Summoning ceremony in the Earth’s Portal and—’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Brad, ‘but if one wants to get a degree in say, psychic arts, what are the fees—’

  The door flew open. Wizard Silvermane was waiting for us. ‘If you would, please?’ He extended his hand.

  We had no choice but to comply.

  ‘You didn’t try the tea,’ I muttered to Brad as we followed Wizard Silvermane back toward the entrance to the church grounds.

  ‘I was afraid it might be poisoned. Or drugged.’

  I stopped dead in my tracks. OK, so that was a poor choice of words. ‘You could have said something!’

  Brad paused to take a photo of a small group of robed figures seated in the shade of a Western soapberry tree, talking into cellphones.

  I caught up to Brad as he resumed walking. ‘How did that priest know who we were?’

  ‘We signed the register, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but that didn’t include our occupations.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Hey, those are the guys I saw having beignets at the café.’ I tugged at Brad’s sleeve and he paused once more. Wizard Silvermane had not yet noticed we were no longer following him.

  ‘So?’ Brad eyed the two men and the woman. They were dressed much as I had seen them before, business all the way. The taller of the two men I remembered chasing after Nancy. An aluminum attaché case hung from his left hand. A red-robed member of the church with a dense black beard was leading them. Where?

  ‘They were in the café the day Nancy was murdered. In fact, that man on the left,’ I said, ‘tried to talk to her. She blew him off at first. I thought he was trying to hit on her. Nancy probably thought so too.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he tried again. Nancy got angry and left. A minute later, he ran out in the street and they had words.’