Death Before Facebook

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    In the end, what she thought was that Kit was right. It was her job to guide the course of the investigation and out of that course had come consequences—inevitable ones, some bad, some horrible. But it truly was part of a process and she was pleased that these women saw it this way. She had invaded their privacy. She had nearly killed Neetsie’s father. They had plenty to be mad about if they wanted to be.
    She found she wanted to see them. This often happened to her on a case. She liked the people she met; she missed them later.
    And she certainly needed to say good-bye to Lenore.
    They had set the ritual for the new moon, to symbolize new beginnings.
    I could use a few of those
, she thought as she drove to Suby’s. They were meeting there instead of Kit’s because Caitlin, though it was partly her ritual, wasn’t invited. The witches thought the part about her mother might be too sad for her.
    They had asked Skip to dress in black and white, but they were in their black robes. This time the altar had on it, not a skull, but some baby gifts and pictures of Lenore and Caitlin.
    They cast the circle and called the directions, as they had done before. Once again, Skip was struck by the beauty and simplicity of the ceremony.
    Neetsie took the role of high priestess. She called Hecate, goddess of the crossroads, who presumably would preside over both Lenore’s and Caitlin’s journeys.
    “Sisters, we’ve come to say good-bye to one of us. Lenore was someone we loved. She died so suddenly we had no chance to say what we felt for her. Let’s say it tonight.” She picked up a talking stick. “Lenore, thank you for being a good friend to my brother.” She passed the stick to Kit.
    Kit thanked her for having Caitlin and taking care of her, and for letting Kit be part of the family. Each person said something similar.
    Skip thought she wouldn’t say anything, she’d hardly known Lenore, but when the stick came to her, she couldn’t stop herself. She wondered later how magic worked, if the stick had some sort of spell on it, but the witches said not. “Forgive me,” she blurted. “Forgive me for not being there, for not knowing. For not being able to stop it.”
    To her everlasting horror, she started to cry in front of a roomful of potential witnesses.
    Oh, God, I shouldn’t have come. I must be crazy.
    Kit came and held her until she stopped, and they went on as if nothing had happened.
    When Lenore had been thoroughly bidden good-bye, the witches took off their robes. Their white ones were underneath.
    Neetsie said, “We’ve celebrated Lenore’s life and now we’ll celebrate Caitlin’s.”
    Skip hadn’t thought of death as quite so festive, but suddenly she realized that what they were doing was like the end of a jazz funeral, when exuberant music is played to celebrate the release of the soul.
    For Caitlin’s part of the ritual, Suby brought out a huge basket tied with ribbons. Inside were more ribbons, which she explained would represent symbolic gifts to go in the basket. Each person was to tie a ribbon and give Caitlin something for her new life—wish her something, Skip thought, because it was easier to grasp that way.
    But when it was her turn, she didn’t say it like that. She had been thinking what she wanted for Caitlin, and it surprised her what it was. By the time she said it she wished it with such conviction that she believed she could marshal her energy and somehow give it to her, and so she said it as if it were more than a wish: “I give you the freedom to be Caitlin Marquer, always, no matter what your mother says or your teacher says or anybody says.”
    It was a simple thing, but she wanted Caitlin to have it.
    After they had all given their gifts, they did the spooky chant to raise what Neetsie called a cone of power, which they sent across the city for Caitlin. That was what made the magic, the ladies said; you could project energy that way.
    Someone had made chocolate chip cookies—Lenore’s favorite—which they washed down with milk out of deference to Caitlin’s kid status. This was the part of the ritual Kit was pleased to call “sacred bullshit.” As the witches chattered lightly about restaurants and movies, Skip, who after all barely knew them, dropped out of the conversation and went into a reverie of her own.
    The next day was Saturday, she was thinking. She could shop for some plants and a rug, see about getting that watercolor she wanted.
    Or maybe,