Wicked Witch Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

out of her bag. “Mind if I take some photos?”
    â€œSee that stick?” he yelled, pointing at a little nubbin poking out of the water about twenty feet from the water’s edge. “That’s where the water was when I woke up this morning, about four hours ago.”
    â€œOh, my,” exclaimed Lucy, checking the distance from the water’s edge to the house, about fifty feet with a gentle slope. She raised the camera and framed her shot, featuring Symonds pointing to his stick. As she snapped the photo, she realized she recognized him: He was one of the members of the coven who had been rescued by helicopter, the guy with the prominent nose and receding chin.
    â€œHey!” he protested. “I didn’t say you could take a picture.”
    â€œOh, sorry,” she said, lowering the camera and deciding to play it cool, leaving her reporter’s notebook in her bag. “Do you have flood insurance?”
    â€œNo,” he replied. “It’s never done this before.” He was wearing fisherman’s waders and a camouflage slicker, and the rain had plastered his long, dark hair to his head. It wasn’t a good look, emphasizing his rather large nose, small chin, and splotchy skin. “I suppose all this rain is a big story?”
    â€œIt is,” said Lucy. “I’d love to interview you about it. Do you mind if we go inside?”
    â€œI can’t talk long. I have to start moving my stuff upstairs,” he said, giving her a funny look. “Do I know you?”
    â€œI get around, because of my job,” she said, following him into the little bungalow. Once indoors, she saw the furniture and decor were dated, as if he’d inherited the house from an elderly relative. Interviewing him about Malcolm Malebranche wasn’t going to be hard—a box full of posters and magic equipment was on a chair by the door. “Are you a magician?” she asked.
    â€œI was Malcolm the Magnificent’s assistant,” he said.
    â€œWhy’d you stop?” asked Lucy, watching as he knelt down and began gathering books and photo albums from a bookcase and packing them in a cardboard carton.
    â€œHe died unexpectedly.”
    â€œI heard about that,” said Lucy. “Were you close?”
    Symonds shrugged, dropping a couple more books into the box. “We worked together for six years.”
    Looking around the place, which had a forlorn air, Lucy suspected it hadn’t been a very lucrative arrangement. “Want me to carry this upstairs?” she asked, indicating the collection of memorabilia.
    Symonds again gave her a funny look, a sideways glance, that made her regret her offer. “If you want,” he muttered, sounding as if he was doing her a favor.
    Lucy was halfway up the stairs when she heard Symonds behind her and found herself stepping a little quicker. She went into the first room she saw, a bedroom with a dingy chenille spread covering the sagging bed, and set the box on a tall dresser. “The water can’t possibly rise this high,” she said, turning to face him with an encouraging smile.
    Symonds was staring at her, and she could practically see the lightbulb above his head switching on. “You were there, when we got off the mountain.”
    â€œLike I said, I’m a reporter. I get around.”
    â€œAnd you’re here because of the storm?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
    â€œWell, yes, and I also wanted to ask you about Malcolm,” said Lucy, perching uneasily on the edge of the bed and trying not to look as nervous as she felt, alone with him in this bedroom that was straight out of a horror movie. “The medical examiner thinks he died practicing some sort of Houdini-style escape trick.”
    Symonds sat beside her, leaning his hands on his knees and panting, and she resisted the urge to edge away from him. Up close, she decided he didn’t look too healthy. He was very thin