The Magic of Murder by Susan Lynn Solomon Page A

Careful not to crack the brittle pages, I turned sheet after sheet. About a quarter of the way in, I found something.
    Elvira’s mewing told me it might be important.
    I scanned the page, then the next. What I read was as much a diary entry as an instruction manual. Sarah’s heart seemed to be laid open on the vellum. 18 May, in the year of our Lord, 1692, it said:
     
    Minister Burrows has fled this Salem town, accused by girls he taught of stealing their affection through witchcraft. Their love was not stolen by George. It is mine that was, and no craft was needed to secure it for himself. Will I ever again walk with him through Salem’s fields? I fear not.
    Last night while all slept, I stole away into the barn, bringing with me three tapers of beeswax. In the candle flames, I sought to find where this precious minister of my heart lays his gentle head this night, and knowing where he is, perchance fly to join him. Alone in the dark I placed my candles in the sterling holders my mother sent as a gift when I wed Dan Poole. Around them I sprinkled leaves of rosemary, thyme, and bay laurel—one offering for each candle. Then I turned to the north, east, south, and west, praying to the earth, air, fire, and water. As I did, I said this prayer:
    Winds of the north rushing and mighty, bring me the sight of my love. Winds of the east, chased by the sun, show me my heart. Winds of the south, aglow with warmth, carry my sight to where he lays his head. Winds of the west, gentle and tender, show me the journey I must take to be with him.
    Alas, my rite did not end well. While indeed I saw dear George in a small room, too soon the candles sputtered and sparks flew skyward. Such a flight of sparks is an evil omen. I fear where I will end.
     
    The passage was difficult to read: S’ s looked like F’ s; Y’ s were placed where I’ s should be; E’ s were planted needlessly at the end of some words and missing from others. After I struggled through the old fashioned and faded handwriting to the last word of Sarah Goode’s entry, I leaned back and rubbed my eyes.
    “Seems our friend Rebecca might have been right,” I said to Elvira. “It was love that brought my grandmother’s, grandmother’s, grandmother to Gallows Hill.
    When I glanced down, I half expected the cat to congratulate me for correctly interpreting the true cause of Sarah’s demise. She didn’t. Her twisted lips told me to stop wasting time on such drivel. There was work I had to do.
    “Oh, that thing with the candles,” I said. “Right. Light three candles and I’ll see who shot Jimmy.” I nearly tripped over Elvira in my rush to leave my desk.
    As she jumped away, her expression said, Now you’ve got it!
    My unheated basement, with its dirt floor and cinderblock walls, was colder than frigid. No way to avoid going down there, I wrapped my sweater tight around me and flipped the light switch. A single bare bulb came to life. The raw wood steps creaked as I descended. The ritual materials Rebecca Nurse had told me to purchase were stored down here in a locked closet. If she were here now, Sarah would hold her ceremony in the basement, I thought as I scooted, quickly as I could, across the cement floor. After all, winter or summer, Sarah had worked her magic in a drafty old barn. I didn’t know whether the barn to which Sarah retreated had been drafty or old, but that’s the way I imagined it.
    Feeling the cold from my ankles to my nose, I mumbled to Elvira, “The original Goode had far more stamina than I.”
    The cat wasn’t at my feet. She hadn’t followed me down to the cold cellar. I turned back to the stairs. She stared at me from the doorway with her back arched and her hair raised, shivering.
    “Big sissy,” I called up to her. Apparently, Sarah also had more stamina than a well-padded albino cat.
    Alone, then, I unlocked the closet. From the top shelf, I took candles and the double-bladed ceremonial knife with which I would bless my