Carroll—Tammy—how long have you known Walter Givens?”
Tammy swallowed her tears, drew herself up. “Walt and Sparky and I grew up together. I met them when I was in the fifth grade and they were in the eighth. Despite the age difference, despite the fact I was a little girl, we all became friends. We were together all through high school. Walt wanted me to go out with him in high school, but Sparky and I were already getting serious. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t break anything up, we were still friends, you know? That’s what doesn’t make any sense. Walt is— was —one of Sparky’s groomsmen at our wedding.” She paused, then raised tear-filled eyes to Savich. “That was four months ago. Four months. I’m only twenty and I’m a widow.” She lowered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Sherlock walked to the big chair and sat on the wide leather arm. She pulled Tammy against her, rubbed her hands up and down her back. Tammy’s arms came up around Sherlock’s back. She pressed her face against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered against Tammy’s shiny hair. “So very sorry. We will find out what happened, I promise you. But you need to help us, Tammy. Can you do that?”
Slowly Tammy quieted, finally released Sherlock. She raised her face. “I’m sorry to fall apart again. It’s just that—”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Sherlock patted her arm and walked back to sit down on the brand-new burgundy leather sofa. “Have you ever heard of an Athame?”
“Yes, sure. My mom has two she made herself. She buried the first one she made to ground its energy.”
This was a surprise. Savich said, “Your mom’s a Wiccan?”
“Yes. Like my grandmother and one of my sisters. My mom’s Athame has a plain flint black handle, ugly, really, but she keeps it sparkling clean for all her rituals, won’t let anyone else touch it, says she couldn’t connect to the spirit of things if she didn’t have her Athame. I don’t really know how she believes all that stuff, and to be honest, I don’t really care.”
“What’s your mom’s name?” Sherlock asked her.
“Millicent, Millie—Stacy, that’s my maiden name.”
Savich handed her his cell phone. “Do you recognize this Athame?”
She looked at the knife, raised stricken eyes to his face. “This isn’t the Athame that killed—”
“No, no, it’s one that’s similar, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “The only Athames I’ve seen are my mom’s. This one looks old, really old, doesn’t it, back to when knights were riding around and knocking each other off their horses, right? Are those dragon heads?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock asked, “Are there many practicing Wiccans in Plackett, Tammy?”
“I’ve heard my mom say she wishes there were more around here and that many of them go back at least two generations. She said my grandmother raised her in Wicca, told her Mr. Gardner from England taught them everything way back in the fifties. Gwen—she’s one of my sisters—well, neither of us ever got interested in any of it, so Mom didn’t force it on us. She and my other sister will celebrate Litha—that’s the summer solstice—next month. It’s a time of great joy for them, it’s a popular time for handfasting. That’s a Wiccan wedding. I know that because she said she wanted Sparky and me to celebrate a handfasting with them next month, at Litha. Sparky didn’t know what to say when she asked, but he agreed.
“My daddy thinks it’s all crazy nonsense, so she doesn’t push it. He told her he’d join her at Litha if they could have wild sex in front of the fire.” Tammy smiled, a ghost of a smile, but still a smile. “She smacked him. For her, Litha is a time of celebration, a spiritual time.”
Savich asked her, “Is Walter Givens a Wiccan? His family?”
“Not that I know of. Wiccans don’t advertise, you know? That’s what my mom told me. Most people around
Tammy swallowed her tears, drew herself up. “Walt and Sparky and I grew up together. I met them when I was in the fifth grade and they were in the eighth. Despite the age difference, despite the fact I was a little girl, we all became friends. We were together all through high school. Walt wanted me to go out with him in high school, but Sparky and I were already getting serious. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t break anything up, we were still friends, you know? That’s what doesn’t make any sense. Walt is— was —one of Sparky’s groomsmen at our wedding.” She paused, then raised tear-filled eyes to Savich. “That was four months ago. Four months. I’m only twenty and I’m a widow.” She lowered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Sherlock walked to the big chair and sat on the wide leather arm. She pulled Tammy against her, rubbed her hands up and down her back. Tammy’s arms came up around Sherlock’s back. She pressed her face against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered against Tammy’s shiny hair. “So very sorry. We will find out what happened, I promise you. But you need to help us, Tammy. Can you do that?”
Slowly Tammy quieted, finally released Sherlock. She raised her face. “I’m sorry to fall apart again. It’s just that—”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Sherlock patted her arm and walked back to sit down on the brand-new burgundy leather sofa. “Have you ever heard of an Athame?”
“Yes, sure. My mom has two she made herself. She buried the first one she made to ground its energy.”
This was a surprise. Savich said, “Your mom’s a Wiccan?”
“Yes. Like my grandmother and one of my sisters. My mom’s Athame has a plain flint black handle, ugly, really, but she keeps it sparkling clean for all her rituals, won’t let anyone else touch it, says she couldn’t connect to the spirit of things if she didn’t have her Athame. I don’t really know how she believes all that stuff, and to be honest, I don’t really care.”
“What’s your mom’s name?” Sherlock asked her.
“Millicent, Millie—Stacy, that’s my maiden name.”
Savich handed her his cell phone. “Do you recognize this Athame?”
She looked at the knife, raised stricken eyes to his face. “This isn’t the Athame that killed—”
“No, no, it’s one that’s similar, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “The only Athames I’ve seen are my mom’s. This one looks old, really old, doesn’t it, back to when knights were riding around and knocking each other off their horses, right? Are those dragon heads?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock asked, “Are there many practicing Wiccans in Plackett, Tammy?”
“I’ve heard my mom say she wishes there were more around here and that many of them go back at least two generations. She said my grandmother raised her in Wicca, told her Mr. Gardner from England taught them everything way back in the fifties. Gwen—she’s one of my sisters—well, neither of us ever got interested in any of it, so Mom didn’t force it on us. She and my other sister will celebrate Litha—that’s the summer solstice—next month. It’s a time of great joy for them, it’s a popular time for handfasting. That’s a Wiccan wedding. I know that because she said she wanted Sparky and me to celebrate a handfasting with them next month, at Litha. Sparky didn’t know what to say when she asked, but he agreed.
“My daddy thinks it’s all crazy nonsense, so she doesn’t push it. He told her he’d join her at Litha if they could have wild sex in front of the fire.” Tammy smiled, a ghost of a smile, but still a smile. “She smacked him. For her, Litha is a time of celebration, a spiritual time.”
Savich asked her, “Is Walter Givens a Wiccan? His family?”
“Not that I know of. Wiccans don’t advertise, you know? That’s what my mom told me. Most people around
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