Chapter 4: The Woman of His Dreams
"This should be the place," Sam said, looking at his notes. "Twenty-four Barberry Lane."
Neal parked Peter's Taurus on the graveled drive in front of a yellow cottage. It had neatly trimmed flower beds. A small square of grass set it off from the woods surrounding it. "I looked Melissa up in the FBI database. She's thirty-two, an English teacher at the local high school. She and Scott were married for two years. How do you plan to find out if a witch could be involved in Scott's death?"
Sam shrugged. "Ask a lot of questions. If a witch is involved, sometimes you can tell by the person exhibiting abnormal behavior."
The woman who opened the door wore a handwoven loose gray tunic sweater over her jeans. Her long blond hair was loosely tied back in a ponytail. Neal noted the dark circles under her eyes.
Neal introduced himself and Sam and showed her his badge. "We appreciate you letting us talk to you."
"Come in, please," Melissa said, welcoming them inside. "I've been frustrated by the lack of answers." She led them into her living room. It was simply furnished with modular furniture. There were a couple of paintings on the walls. Judging by their style, Neal assumed Scott had painted them.
Neal let Sam handle the questions. She explained that her husband had died from what the doctors called a "wasting sickness" for lack of a better term. "He grew steadily weaker. All the specialists we consulted, all the tests they conducted—nothing helped. His heart finally gave out." Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
"When did you notice something was wrong?" Sam asked, passing her a tissue.
"He first saw a doctor four months ago, but, looking back, I'd have to say that the symptoms began to appear about nine months ago. At first, we just thought he was tired. But sometimes he'd wake up more exhausted than when he went to bed. Scott kept himself in good shape. He worked odd jobs as a carpenter to supplement our income. We used to enjoy taking walks in the woods. That's when we first suspected something wasn't right. He'd come back winded from one of our normal walks when he never used to be. It was as if his muscles were giving out on him. He had to give up carpentry. He could still paint, but for the last month was unable to do anything requiring physical strength."
"Did he have any unusual accidents or mishaps before the symptoms started appearing?" Sam asked.
She looked puzzled. "Like what?"
He shrugged. "Anything that seemed out of the ordinary."
She thought for several moments. "Once when I was away at a teacher's convention—this was about a year ago—I came home and found he'd cut his arm. He told me he'd gone out when it was dark to fetch firewood from the shed. He must have tripped over something in the yard and blacked out. He awoke about an hour later to find himself on the grass with a gash on his arm. He wasn't normally clumsy and that seemed a little odd to both of us. But the wound wasn't bad and it quickly healed." She looked at Sam questioningly. "That seems very minor, but that's about all I can remember."
He nodded encouragingly. "Anything you can recall like that is very helpful. Was he sleeping well? Did he complain of any bad dreams . . . or visions?"
Neal slanted a glance over to him at those words. Sam appeared unusually earnest.
"I don't know that you'd call them nightmares, but . . ." she hesitated for a moment.
"Anything you say will be treated confidentially," Neal added, hoping to reassure her.
Melissa brushed her hair back with one hand. "Scott told me he was having strange dreams about a woman. They started about nine months ago. I remember because it was right around the time the new school year started, and I teased him that it was because I wasn't paying enough attention to him. We made a joke of it. He didn't mention it again, but then I found a sketch he'd made of a woman—this was in February or so—and he admitted he was continuing to dream about her."
"Did he recall what happened in the dream?" Sam asked.
"All he remembered was the woman."
"Did the sketch look like anyone you know?" Neal asked.
Melissa shook her head. "I thought she was perhaps someone he'd read about. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Dickens movie. Her hair was swept up and she wore a Victorian tight-collared dress." She gave a faint smile. "She'd didn't look particularly sexy to me."
"Could we see the sketch?" Neal asked.
"It's in his studio in the back. I'll take you there."
"Is there anything else you can tell us?"
She hesitated a moment before answering. "About two months ago when he was acting very distant, I began to wonder if he were seeing someone else. My classes were keeping me away not only during the day but evenings too since I help out with the drama program."
"Did he give you any cause to think there might be another woman?" Sam asked.
She worried her lower lip. "Once when I came home from teaching, he wasn't in his studio like he normally was. I thought he might have walked into the woods for inspiration—we have a trail that goes into the woods from the studio. I walked down the trail and saw him standing with a woman. She had long, dark hair. They were standing very close." She reddened. "I took a photo. When I walked up to them, she said she was looking for early mushrooms and he'd given her directions."
"Do you still have the photo?" Neal asked.
"Yes, I kept it." Melissa went over to her desk in the corner of the room. Sitting down at the computer, she pulled up a couple of photos. "This first one is Scott." The photo showed a man of around thirty-five. His hair was as long as Sam's and his scruff thick enough to be classified as a beard. The photo must have been taken a while back as he appeared to be quite healthy. "This is Scott with the woman," she added. The two were both in profile. His face looked much more haggard. He appeared to be talking earnestly to her. The woman's had long coal-black hair. She could be the same person who was recorded at the prison.
"May I take a look at Scott's paintings?" Neal asked. "I saw some of his works at the inn where we're staying. He was very talented."
A wistful smile crossed her face. "I've been receiving many offers for them. I guess what they say is true. Once an artist is dead, he becomes wealthy. Scott never made much money from his paintings. That's why he worked as a carpenter." She offered to show them his studio.
Sam's phone rang as they rose to leave. It sounded like Dean was on the other end. Once the call ended, Sam said, "Something's come up. I'll have to leave shortly. Dean will swing by here to pick me up."
"Anything wrong?" Neal asked in a low voice. Melissa had gone on to the studio and wouldn't overhear.
"Vampires," Sam murmured back. "Bobby called us. He got word of a nest operating out of Hartford. That's about an hour away. Our best chance to take them will be while there's still light. We'll meet you back at the inn tonight."
Another nest? Sam had warned him vampires were on the increase. How long would it be before a nest was discovered in New York City? Was one already there?
Melissa was waiting for them at the studio entrance. A rustic A-frame covered in cedar shingles with large plate glass windows, it was set at the edge of the woods.
"The studio was his pride and joy," Melissa said softly. "He finished it only last year. Our future looked so bright back then." Neal was getting a better understanding of why Dean and Sam sacrificed so much to be hunters.
Scott had equipped the studio with track lights to supplement the natural light coming in from the windows. He had three easels set up with works in various stages of completion. He'd been a prolific painter. More paintings lined the walls. A ladder led up to storage space at the top of the A-frame.
Melissa first got out the sketch she'd found. Scott had prepared it in charcoal. It was as she described. The woman had on an elaborate ball gown. Her hair was coiffed high on her head with ringlets dangling down. She had a mesmerizing stare, almost hypnotic. It made Neal long to see his other portraits. Was this typical? If so, he had a remarkable gift.
Melissa offered to return to the house and make copies of the photos. She appeared relieved when they said she didn't need to stay. Neal suspected she found it too painful to watch them examine her husband's paintings.
Sam continued to study the sketch, his expression growing worried.
"Do you recognize her?" Neal asked.
Sam hesitated before replying. "No, but for a moment, I thought . . ." He cleared his throat. "The past month or so I've been dreaming of a woman. Same hypnotic eyes, but the one I see is different. A spider web of black lace covers her face. I can't get her out of my mind," he admitted reluctantly after a moment. "Her eyes blaze through the spider web. Long blond hair, ivory neck. I know she's beautiful even though I can't make out her features. . . " His words trailed off and he gave an embarrassed chuckle. "That sounds crazy, even for me. Forget it."
"Are you feeling okay?" Neal asked, only partly in jest.
"Am I getting weak?" He dismissed the suggestion with a laugh. "No, it's probably just a freaky coincidence. But that's why I acted a little spooked." He paused. "I haven't mentioned anything of this to Dean. Please don't discuss it with him. I'm sure it's nothing. I'm probably just horny."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No, there's no one in my life."
"Maybe this is a signal you should get out more. My girlfriend left for France a few months ago and already I'm dreaming about a blonde." Neal laughed. "What is it about blondes? Mine's sitting next to Mozart at a harpsichord."
Sam arched his eyebrows. "You have some elitist dreams going on."
"It's my own fault," Neal said ruefully. "I heard that listening to Mozart improves cognition skills so I've been giving it a whirl while writing my papers. Now that the term's ended and my papers are done, my Mozart babe will probably disappear as well." Sam smiled but plainly he was still bothered by his dream. "You and Dean deal in weirdness all the time. You sure you don't want to tell him?"
He scratched the back of his neck, looking even more embarrassed. "Last year I had visions for a while. I was going around like I was a medium. It was freaking him out, and me too. I don't want him to think I'm going psychic on him again."
"Understood." The way Sam described Dean reminded Neal of the way Peter acted. The man excelled at worrying more than anyone he'd ever known, and Neal seemed to incite his natural talent to new heights.
Neal photographed the sketch of Scott's dream woman with his camera and then began examining the paintings. Sam asked how he could help, and Neal asked him to search for other portraits while he checked the loft. Those paintings had been tagged with dates. Someone had taken a stab at cataloging them chronologically.
Neal was still in the loft when Peter and Dean arrived.
"We need to head out," Dean said. "We'll catch up with you tonight."
"Can we help?" Neal asked.
Dean glanced over at him skeptically. "Is there a new technique to take out vamps with a paintbrush?"
"Don't feel bad," Peter said. "He turned me down, too."
"You're amateurs," Dean said bluntly. "You'd both be liabilities. Besides you've got your case here." He scanned the room. "I'm no good at sorting through this stuff. We'll probably be back before you're finished."
After Dean and Sam left, Neal described Melissa's account to Peter. The sketch was the only portrait of her they could find.
Scott had one unfinished work still on the easel. Stylistically it was quite different from his earlier works. Neal returned to it several times as he compared it with other works. Would Peter see the same pattern? Neal chose ten paintings and placed them next to the unfinished work.
"What am I supposed to be seeing in these?" Peter asked.
Neal frowned as he studied them. "Look at this painting on the easel. His early works remind me of Peter Poskas. Rural scenes, clean lines. They're peaceful, serene, and timeless. Light is a key element—" He broke off. "Sorry, I didn't mean to deliver a lecture."
"That's okay. I see where you're going with this." Peter pointed to the one on the easel. "This is the polar opposite. If I were forced to describe it, I'd say chaotic and turbulent."
"Exactly. And you can see the progression in these paintings." Neal pointed to one after the other. "Scott's going dark side. The subjects become increasingly tortured. They're all landscapes, but by the time you get to this last painting, the trees are in the death throes of something profoundly disturbing. I admit I have Goya on my brain, but Scott's works remind me of Goya. He started in the light rococo and wound up with nightmarish surrealist visions."
Peter looked thoughtful. "I've read about Goya. He had a nervous breakdown and prolonged illnesses."
Neal nodded. "Critics have tried to explain that the horrific visions he painted are a result of mental illness, brain tumor, or lead poisoning. Scott appeared to be following the same destructive course." It had to be a freakish coincidence but it was disturbing all the same.
On the drive back to the inn, Neal continued to think about what could have made Scott pursue such a bleak path in his painting.
Peter wheeled into the parking lot. "What's bothering you? You've barely said a word. You didn't even mock my driving, and I deliberately took a turn too fast."
Neal smiled sheepishly. "You must have thought I'm sick. No, it's the case." He shrugged. "The artist."
Peter glanced over at him. "You identify with him."
"I guess. His life was snuffed out just when he had everything to live for."
#
"More vampires?" Chloe asked, shocked. "I thought Dean said they were nearly extinct. Don't tell me a 'Save the Vampires' group has been reintroducing populations. I'm all for saving wolves, but vampires?"
Peter shared her dismay. On the drive to Simsbury, he'd been comforted by the thought he only had witches to deal with. How did vampires reenter the equation? This was one job he was happy to leave to Dean and Sam. They could even use their fake IDs, and he wouldn't say a word.
He and Neal had returned to the inn to discover Chloe was already back. She'd pulled up a side table next to a wing chair in the parlor and was working on her laptop. They sat down on the chintz sofa opposite her. Neal seemed to have shaken off his moodiness about Scott. Peter was surprised how much he'd been affected, but it was his first time to investigate the death of an artist and he appeared to be taking it personally.
"How did your foray into the woods go?" Neal asked. "You thought you'd be out all afternoon."
She nodded. "I assumed I'd search the sanctuary until dark with nothing to show for it. Instead, I immediately found the colony. I've never heard of such a healthy stand of pogonias. There must have been at least eighty plants. I checked the native plant database, and the largest reported stand found in the last thirty years was twenty-two plants. This is unprecedented and I have no explanation. A sister in my coven has a friend who's an herbalist here, Sage Racinda. I called her and am going to meet her. She may know more about it."
"We should go with you," Neal declared.
"An herbalist," Peter repeated. He didn't have to say, Are you nuts. He was sure his face already broadcasted it.
"Yes, an herbalist," Neal said firmly. "We have a photo of someone who could be the witch. If she is, wouldn't an herbalist know about her?" Neal seemed to be much more comfortable about investigating witches than Peter was. Wicca, herbalists, witches . . . Real estate fraud would seem so sweet after this case.
The Angelica Herb Shop was only a few blocks from the inn. The title made it sound fancier than it was. In reality, the "shop" was the kitchen of a small cottage on a rural lane in Simsbury. Peter needed to wait for the chickens to scatter before pulling up on the gravel drive. A small black-and-white goat was grazing on the lawn. It raised its head to check them out but evidently decided they were harmless and resumed munching grass. Extensive herb gardens extended along the sides of the cottage.
"You're a farm boy. You should feel right at home," Neal said as they got out of the car.
"My parents live in suburbia, not on a farm. No goats or chickens in our neighborhood. The horse farms are a few miles away."
He shrugged. "Compared to the sparrows and pigeons of Manhattan, that sounds like a farm to me."
"Chester, come here!" A woman stepped out of the cottage. Not exactly a shepherdess but she did have a peasant air about her. She looked to be in her late twenties and was wearing a long chintz peasant dress with sturdy sandals. She walked up to the goat and stroked it while smiling a greeting at them. "Chloe?" She cupped her right hand into a C-shape. "Merry meet."
Chloe gave her the same hand greeting. "Blessed be," she said and introduced Peter and Neal to Sage.
Was he supposed to do the same thing? Chloe hadn't mentioned any Wiccan rituals. Peter opted instead for the comfortable flash-your-badge greeting.
The shelves of Sage's kitchen were lined with canning jars filled with dried herbs. More herbs dangled from ladders that had been suspended horizontally from the ceiling to make drying racks. The pungent air made Peter long for herbal goat cheese and bread. He made a mental note to find out if Sage sold cheese.
Sage was amazed at Chloe's description of the pogonia colony she'd found. "I'd visited that site last summer and could only find one or two plants. I'm at a loss to explain why there are so many pogonias there now, but we need to inform the Connecticut Botanical Society. They'll be overjoyed at the news."
Neal pulled out the photo Melissa had taken of Scott and the woman in the woods and asked her if she recognized them.
She pointed to the man. "That's Scott Pembroke. Such a shame what happened to him. Scott and Melissa have been friends and customers for many years now. He used to come by regularly for my goat cheese."
"And the woman?" Peter asked.
She studied it at length. "She looks a little like Alcy Lancaster, although whenever I've seen her, her hair's been pulled back into a chignon. She lives in Windsor. She's also a customer—she particularly likes my skullcap."
"Skullcap?" Peter repeated, startled. Was skullcap a Wiccan headdress?
"American skullcap," she explained, breaking into a smile as if she read his mind. "It's a member of the mint family. I have the reputation of being the best source for American Skullcap in the Northeast. I visited Alcy's home once. She hosted an Herb Society meeting there last fall. She has a lovely old Victorian home in Windsor."
#
On the return drive to the inn, Neal rode with Chloe in the back. He hoped she'd satisfy his curiosity about Wiccan practices. "Is Sage a member of your coven?"
"No, she's not a member of the Alyssum Sisterhood, but my friend told me she's also a Wiccan. When I saw how she greeted us, it was obvious."
"Why did you join a Wiccan coven if you wanted to learn about witches?"
"I've been trying to join a witch coven but haven't had any success. The Wiccan ones have welcomed me with open arms. It seems that Wiccans like to think of themselves as witches, but you can't say the same for witches. I'm told a witch may be insulted if you call her a Wiccan."
"And why is that?" Peter asked, looking at her through the rearview mirror. "What's the difference between witches and Wiccans?"
"That's not easy to explain. Wicca started in England in the 1950s. Wiccans claim it's a pagan religion. The two main deities they worship are the Moon Goddess and the Horned God. Witches believe theirs is a spiritual practice, and that the magic of Wicca is very different from witchcraft magic." Chloe shrugged. "I haven't been able to do any magic of either kind, so I may not be the best judge. Recently Wicca covens have begun cropping up on college campuses. The Alyssum Sisterhood started at Yale University. Since many Wiccans also study traditional witchcraft, I've found them a good reference source."
"What's the significance of the hand gesture you used with Sage?" Neal asked.
"That's the symbol for the crescent moon. Covens often have custom gestures. In the Alyssum Sisterhood, we use gestures for the full moon and the crescent moon. Those terms we used, Merry Meet and Blessed Be, are also standard Wiccan greetings."
Peter joined Neal in plying Chloe with questions, but nothing she said had any bearing on the circumstances of Scott's death. As far as Neal could tell, the Wiccans were harmless.
When they arrived back at the inn, they fetched their laptops from their rooms and resumed their research in the parlor. At that hour of the day, no one else was using it.
"Alcy Lancaster's name is so unusual," Chloe mused. "It reminds me of Alse Young. She also lived in Windsor in the 1600s."
"What happened to her?" Peter asked.
"She was hanged for witchcraft. She had the misfortune of being the first woman executed for witchcraft in America."
"Alcy Lancaster doesn't have a criminal record," Peter said, looking up from his laptop. "Her fingerprints aren't in the database."
"She's lived in the house for the past ten years. No mortgage," Neal added. "Her occupation is listed as writer."
"While you were searching your files, I've been chatting with my Wiccan sisters," Chloe said. "One of them knows her, and it turns out I'm familiar with her too. She writes historical romances. They all take place in Victorian England."
"Under her name?" Neal asked.
"No. As Olivia Vernon. I didn't realize that was a pen name."
Peter typed the name on his laptop and pulled up a page. "According to the reviews, she mixes gothic horror with steamy romance. Supposedly she's attracted a small cult following among the steampunk crowd."
Neal leaned over to read the page. "That would explain her clothes. She dresses like the times she's writing about."
"Here's a publicity photo of her," Chloe said, swiveling her laptop around.
The woman looking out at them had her hair pulled back and was wearing more makeup—full red lips, smoky eyes—but she could be the same woman Melissa photographed in the woods with Scott. Neal looked over at Peter. "I've never been to Windsor. Shouldn't we pay her a call?"
Peter nodded. "We can question her about her whereabouts on Friday and also ask about Scott. But if she's a witch, the indirect approach may be better." He exhaled noisily and scratched the side of his head. "The FBI manual doesn't cover interrogation tactics for witches."
Neal snapped his fingers. "We'll stop at a bookstore in the Windsor mall and pick up one of her books. She's a local celebrity. The bookstores must carry all her books. Then we can ask for her autograph. If we flash our badges, she might turn us into toads."
Peter glowered at him. "That's not helpful."
"I'm going with you," Chloe declared.
Peter shook his head firmly. "Sorry. That's not happening. Someone needs to be here to explain the situation to Dean and Sam if we haven't returned by the time they come back."
"Why don't you simply call and leave them a message?" Chloe countered. "Alcy would probably much more likely talk to me. I could ask her for writing tips." Chloe pulled out all the stops, but Peter had his ears back and wasn't budging. He assured her he'd call with any news and he'd also inform Dean and Sam, but not until they knew something.
#
By the time they arrived at the suspected witch's house, Peter was having second thoughts. When he pulled to a stop along the curb, he sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel. In another minute he would turn the ignition back on. "We should have stopped by the local police and asked for their assistance."
"With what?" Neal protested. "A witch? They'd laugh us out of the station."
Peter huffed. "I know that. I was going to say with an escaped fugitive."
"But we have no proof Hagen's in Connecticut, let alone holed up in a Victorian mansion in Windsor." Neal opened the door before Peter could drive away. If he headed for the front walk, Peter would have to follow.
Was the place a witch-house? Neal would have pictured a witch-house as being creepier but this one would do. The house had good lines. With a little attention, it could be a showpiece. The ornate gables with their gingerbread and leaded glass lancet windows had potential, but the siding was badly in need of a paint job. In the light of a full moon with bats flying around the chimney, the atmosphere would be perfect.
They'd stopped off at a bookstore on the way and picked up a copy of Alcy Lancaster's latest book, The Scent of Laudanum. Neal opened the gate on the weathered picket fence. It gave a satisfying creak. Witch gates should always creak. Peter was still grumbling but he walked up the brick path alongside him. The front door needed a coat of varnish but the beveled glass pattern was striking. Neal didn't see any spider webs with black widows waiting to bite the unsuspecting visitor. After ringing the doorbell, he peered through the glass to see if anyone was inside. And if he happened to check for the presence of a security keypad, it was simply to see if she was home.
"Stop that," Peter ordered. "She'll think you're a peeping tom."
"No, just an eager fan." And no keypad in view. "What's your plan? Ask her if she materialized in a prison and teleported the Dutchman away?"
Peter glared at him. "No, hotshot. First I'll question her about Scott and if she knows anything about his illness. Based on her answers, I'll ask about her whereabouts on the twelfth and thirteenth of May."
"It doesn't look like we'll get the chance. No one's answering. I don't see any lights on inside."
"If she's away, she might have left lights on to give the appearance someone was at home." Peter grimaced. "She's probably down in the basement, stirring her cauldron."
"As long as we're here, we might as well check out the perimeter. We should keep an eye out for any black cats or broomsticks. Remember when your brother played the witch's broomstick trick on you when you were a kid? What was it about the broomstick that deceived you? Because, frankly, I'm shocked you couldn't tell the real thing from what must have been a dime-store prop. I thought your observational powers even at an early age were fully developed. It makes me wonder what I could pull off. Should we test the broomstick con on White Collar? I know. I'll call Joe and—"
"Enough!" Peter bellowed. "That's the last story about my childhood you'll ever hear. I'll head right. You circle to the left."
"Aye, aye, captain." Neal broke into a run as soon as Peter couldn't see him. It hadn't been difficult to be so obnoxious that Peter would insist on separating for the search. For what Neal had in mind, he didn't want a witness.