Wicked Witch Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

scared me, and I’d like to stay with your family a bit longer, but it would be a violation of the ordains for me to talk about Malcolm with either you or the cops. You’re really putting me in a bad spot.”
    Lucy decided to adopt Phyllis’s line of thought. “This has nothing to do with me. You’re the one who decided to become a witch. And what are ‘ordains’?”
    â€œOrdains are the rules all witches agree to follow. And you’re absolutely right. I made my choice—nobody made me become a witch. But what I could do is give you the name of Malcolm’s assistant—if you let me stay.”
    â€œHis assistant?”
    â€œYeah, he knows everything about Malcolm. He can tell you whatever you want to know.”
    Lucy was tempted. The police hadn’t released much information about Malebranche, and this could be a real scoop. She knew Ted would want her to go for it. “Just a couple more days, okay? Absolutely no witchcraft with the girls. And you’ve got to keep Piewocket in your room.”
    â€œOh, I will, I promise. Thank you so much! You’re a sweetie!” enthused Diana.
    Lucy knew she wasn’t doing this because she was a sweetie; she wanted to get the story. And she was uncomfortably aware that Bill was getting tired of having a houseguest. Just this morning, he’d been muttering about fish and company stinking after three days. “The name?” she asked.
    â€œWhat name?”
    â€œThe name of Malcolm’s assistant,” hissed Lucy, somewhat irritated. “That’s the deal, right?”
    â€œOh, yeah. It’s Peter, Peter Symonds, and he lives over in Northboro, near the river.”
    Lucy was jotting down directions to Symonds’s place when Ted arrived, dressed in full foul-weather gear. “I’ve been out at the river with the fire chief,” he said, removing his sou’wester and setting it on top of the coat rack. “If this rain doesn’t stop soon, we’re going to get some flooding. Even the creeks are rising.”
    Lucy thought of Scorton Creek that ran near her house but decided it couldn’t possibly be much of a threat. After all, the last time she’d crossed the bridge, it had been little more than a trickle. “I’ve got a lead on Malcolm Malebranche,” she said, watching Ted unzip his yellow slicker. “His assistant.”
    â€œYou could do a phone interview,” suggested Ted when Lucy pushed back her chair and grabbed her bag.
    â€œI think face-to-face would be better,” said Lucy, slipping into her jacket. “And this way I can take him by surprise.”
    â€œOr you can waste a lot of time when it turns out he isn’t home,” said Ted, but Lucy was already out the door.
    It was a fair distance to Northboro, and Lucy had to keep slowing to cautiously inch around the big puddles that were forming over every storm drain and low spot. It was warm and dry in the car, the wipers kept up a steady beat, and she had the radio switched to an oldies station. This was the part of her job that she liked best: tracking down a story that nobody else had. As she drove along, she was thinking of the questions she wanted to ask Symonds and the best way of posing them.
    She found his house without any problem, thanks to Diana’s directions, but there was no answer when she knocked. For a moment, she feared Ted’s prediction that Symonds probably wouldn’t be home was true until she noticed a car in the driveway and decided to try the back door. Maybe he was in the shower or had the TV on and couldn’t hear her knocking. When she went around to the rear of the house, she spotted him, as thin and awkward as a scarecrow, standing in the backyard and watching the river, which was overflowing its banks and rising.
    â€œI’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver, ” she yelled, approaching him through the downpour and pulling her camera