Death Before Facebook

Leighton, Ms. Langdon. And I wouldn’t hurt Geoff. I’d rather cut off my arm.”
    I could believe the first part, anyway, the way this guy hates women.
    She thought briefly about letting him get away with the way he’d addressed her, just to avoid a confrontation.
    But why should I put up with that crap? He probably makes a career out of pushing women around.
    “Officer Langdon, Officer Kavanagh. Thanks for coming by.”
    “Well, sorry to offend you, Officer.”
    “Thanks for getting in touch.” She didn’t smile as she said it.
    “A lot of good this did me,” he said, and walked out of the room.
    “You, sir, are a grump,” Skip said to the air.
    Marguerite needed talking to, but Skip decided to leave her until after the funeral—Lenore needed talking to just as badly. If Geoff had told her things in confidence, she might be ready to come out with them. And how had she gotten that coroner’s report?
    Skip gave her time to get off work, get home, and put her kid to bed. She turned up about eight-thirty, and was dismayed to see that the house looked dark. The curtains were drawn, but one of them moved slightly, and she thought she saw a flash of something, maybe a TV screen. Or a candle. The motion made her sigh—if she was about to interrupt a romantic evening, so be it.
    She walked to the front door and raised a hand to ring the doorbell. But even as she started to press it, something stopped her.
    Chanting.
    Was it “Om”? Or just “Oooooooooooooooo”? She’d never heard anything like it. It made her spine tingle and her scalp prickle, made her want to get in the car, step on the gas, turn on her red light, and drive to Mexico.
    Come on,
she told herself
. It’s just voices.
What’s the big deal?
    The chant changed: “Maaaaaaaaaaaaaa…”
    The voices were women’s, she thought, and they were playing with the sound, drawing it out, some singing in different keys, at different pitches from the others. The effect was eerier than bagpipes.
    Shivering, trying to shake off what she knew was irrational fear, Skip moved to the side of the house. As she’d hoped, there were windows here whose curtains hadn’t been drawn. The trick would be to look in without being seen.
    She needn’t have worried. The people inside were standing in a circle, arms around each other’s waists, swaying, eyes closed, so deeply involved in the chant she could probably take her time.
    Candles burned at odd places about the room, some on what appeared to be an altar—or a coffee table that had been turned into one. In the light they cast, the ones on the altar were easy to see. There were two tall ones, one black and one green; and there were several votive candles, all black.
    Also on the altar was a candle snuffer, a knife or dagger with a fancy handle, and some kind of small round plate with a star engraved on it—Pentacle, she thought, not quite knowing where the word came from. A large ceramic chalice was filled with some kind of dark liquid—red, she thought. Or am I crazy? And oddly, a curiously mundane item nestled in the midst of the macabre—a china plate of cookies. Next to the cookies was a skull.
    Not a cow’s skull, or a cat’s skull.
    A human skull.
    The people chanting wore hooded black robes. Candlelight glinted on something shiny on one of the faces—something strangely metallic. Skip stared until, revolted, she realized it must be a nose ring. But she couldn’t tell anything about the face itself—that one or the others. Not even if the robed figures were men or women, black or white.
    Voodoo, she thought.
    But it didn’t seem right. She had been to the voodoo museum on a case, had read a little about it. This looked a little too stark for voodoo. There should be figures on the altar, perhaps. Offerings of rum and cigars. And she didn’t think the robes were right. Shouldn’t they be white?
    But the cookies must be an offering of some sort.
    Why cookies?
    They were creeping her out, those cookies, so plain and wholesome sitting there next to the skull. Had she come face-to-face with the infamous banality of evil? The phrase had always puzzled her.
    The chant was winding down.
    I’d better get out of here, or they’ll sacrifice me and drink my blood.
    She ran back to the car. It probably would have been safer to walk, but she couldn’t help it, she ran.
    Once inside, windows up, keys in ignition, radio at hand, she felt her heart beating as if she’d run five miles. It was cold