Page 28 of Household Demons (Hedgewitch 3)

“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

That settled, we headed downstairs, bringing Brant’s luggage with us. As we went down the stairs, I found myself stiffening, as if expecting the unholy racket my parents had reported to start up as soon as Sasha and I passed by the landing, but everything remained silent.

Maybe the demons really had decamped once their unholy work was done.

We took the suitcase and overnight bag to the Subaru and stowed them in the back. “The police station is only a couple of blocks away from the store,” I told her. “You can follow me to the parking lot.”

“Sounds good.”

I got in my car and maneuvered it around so it was pointing in the right direction, then waited while Sasha did the same. From there, we headed back downtown, passing my store as we went. I noticed someone peering in the window, their dejected stance telling me they weren’t happy about the shop being closed.

No point in worrying about it. If they really wanted to buy something, they would come back. Still, I was glad I didn’t have to rely on the income from the store to maintain my lifestyle.

The parking lot at the police station only had a handful of cars in it. Not surprising; Globe wasn’t exactly what you could call a hotbed of criminal activity. I got out of my Beetle and went to meet Sasha, who surprised me by saying, “I’m glad you came with me, Selena, but maybe you should wait outside. You’re not exactly besties with Chief Lewis, right?”

I couldn’t help smiling. “There’s an understatement.”

“Then I’ll just go in and get Brant’s stuff and come right back out.” She hesitated, then added, “But I’d really like it if you could come with me to the funeral home. Chief Lewis said I needed to go over there to make the final arrangements.”

“Whatever you need,” I assured her. Although I knew none of this was my parents’ fault — or mine, despite my feelings of lingering guilt over calling in Brant for a consult — I felt as though I needed to do what I could to help Sasha out.

She nodded and headed off toward the entrance to the station. I lingered by my car, praying that Henry Lewis was inside working and wouldn’t choose that moment to pull up to the station and spot me lurking there.

Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. It sounded as though the storms today were going to make an appearance sooner rather than later, and I hoped we’d be able to get our business handled before the rain showed up in Globe. I’d come to love monsoon season, but it was definitely better enjoyed from inside the comfort of your own home or business, rather than hanging around in a parking lot.

To my relief, Sasha emerged from the station only a few minutes later, carrying what looked like a brown paper shopping bag. “Brant’s stuff,” she explained briefly. Then she reached into the bag and handed over a small voice recorder. “I thought you might want to listen to what’s on this.”

“Don’t you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He was holding it when — when it happened. It might have recorded his fall. I don’t want to hear that.”

Ouch. I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. I didn’t really want to listen to it, either, but I knew I needed to, just in case there was something I could pick up that no one at the police station had caught. They probably had analyzed the recording to see if they could detect any sounds of human foul play; I’d be looking for something entirely different.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll listen to it after I close up the shop. If I hear anything that might provide a clue, I’ll let you know.”

My words obviously were a relief, because she sagged a little. “Thanks, Selena.”

“It’s the least I can do.” I hesitated, but I knew I had to ask. “Do we need to go to the funeral home now?”

“Yes,” she replied. “The deputy told me it’s over on Hill Street.”

“That’s only a couple of blocks away,” I told her. “You can follow me again.”

With those arrangements made, we both got in our cars and drove to White Funeral Home, Globe’s one and only mortuary. It was a brick building with white shutters and columns, vaguely Southern colonial in appearance, and sort of out of place among the town’s Victorian and Craftsman architecture.

The rep who greeted us was a cheerful-looking woman in her late fifties, with a friendly round face and ginger hair piled high on her head. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Young,” she said as she ushered Sasha and me into her office. Clearly, someone at the police station — maybe the same deputy who’d handed over Brant’s effects — had called to let the people at the funeral home know we were coming. “I’m Janice Hollowell. Please take a seat.”

We both sat in front of Janice’s big mahogany desk. The place was decorated in what I thought must be typical funeral home style — dark wood furniture, heavy faux satin curtains at the window, subdued tones of cream and wine and deep blue.

“I want Brant to be cremated,” Sasha blurted out, as if she needed to get that part of the process over with as quickly as possible.

Janice sent her a friendly smile. “Of course. You’ll need to choose an urn.”

And she pushed a binder full of photographs across the desk.

Sasha took it and leafed past a couple of pages, then bit her lip. “These are all really expensive,” she murmured, clearly dismayed.

“Don’t worry about that,” I said quickly. “Choose whichever one you want. I’ll take care of it for you.”

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