“Your cousin Billy dealt them,” I pointed out. “And you inherited his property.”
“Which I sold three months ago,” she said, barely glancing at me. “Cleaning out that junk heap cost me a fortune, but it’s close enough to Boulder to still turn a profit. If I remember correctly, the buyers are currently building a new house on the property.” She stood up. “If that’s all?”
“‘If that’s all?’” I repeated, not bothering to keep the incredulousness out of my voice. “You’re trying to tell us you just . . . delegated the removal of hazardous and illegal materials, and we’re supposed to smile and skip out the door?”
Atwood crossed her arms, reddening. “I don’t care what you believe. That’s what happened, and you have no right to come into my home—”
“You have no rights here,” I snapped, taking a single step toward her. “You don’t get it, Ardie. We’re not the police, and we don’t answer to anyone but Maven. For anything.”
Something in my face scared her, and she swallowed whatever she had planned on saying. Quinn glanced at me, and I saw a flash of curiosity and amusement cross his face before he turned to Ardie. He wasn’t usually the one playing good cop. “Dr. Kazinsky, you must understand why we need to cover our bases here. Vampires were poisoned fifteen minutes away from your house. You work with plants, and at some point you had access to the herb in question.” He spread his hands helplessly, as if to say what choice do we have? “We would look awfully stupid if we didn’t at least come speak to you.”
Taking a deep breath, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands for a moment. When she lowered them, her gaze seemed clearer. “I suppose I can understand that,” she said with a rueful smile. “And I do want to help however I can. Let’s try this again, all right?” She gestured to the couch. “Please.”
She sat back down in the chair, and I followed Quinn to the couch, perching on the edge. I was immensely relieved to be sitting, but I tried not to let it show on my face. “Would you like something to drink, Lex?” she asked. “Hot chocolate, or perhaps something stronger?” Her eyes were eager, hoping to please me. But I wasn’t falling for the new ass-kissing strategy.
“No,” I said flatly. “But I would like to know where Billy Atwood got the belladonna.”
“Ah.” She leaned back in her overstuffed chair, getting comfortable. “Now there’s a good question. Unfortunately, most of Billy’s contacts were out of state.”
“How would you know that, if you weren’t involved with his business?” Quinn asked reasonably.
She didn’t take offense, just pushed up her glasses with one finger and explained, “You have to know a little about our family. The Atwoods, as I’m sure you’ve heard, have something of an unsavory reputation, but we weren’t always this way. Once we were as respected in this state as the Pellars, maybe even more so. We are trades witches, but we have a bit of a talent for growing things. Obviously I’ve inherited it, given my career choices.” She smiled again, her eyes sparking. For the first time I saw it: energy and joy, an enthusiasm that went beyond enjoyment and into the realm of passion. It made her beautiful. Okay, Lily, I get it. “Anyway, most Atwoods were farmers, but a hundred years ago, my great-grandfather Amos decided to set a new course. He set up shop as a spiritualist in Sterling, along a branch of the Oregon Trail.” Her smile fell away. “He made a fortune. At first, anyway.”
“Spiritualist?” I asked.
She winced. “‘Medium’ would be a better term, I suppose. He led séances.”
“Was he a boundary witch?” Quinn said.
“No, of course not.” She sounded disgusted, like Quinn had asked if Amos had married his favorite sheep. “He could do a little trades magic, but he was really quite weak.”
“So he duped people,” I put in. “Tricked them out of their money.”
Her eyes hardened, but only a little. “He wanted it to be real, though. He developed contacts in the Spiritualist community, but in those days it was easier to travel north and east than to venture into Denver and Boulder. Eventually he got hold of some mandragora.”
“Which brings people back from the dead,” I said quietly.
She sighed. “In theory. You need a hell of a lot of power to make it happen, though, and Amos didn’t have it, even with a coven of twelve behind him.”
“He died?” Quinn asked.
She nodded soberly. “And took all twelve witches with him.”
A chill ran across my shoulders. Thirteen people dead, just so Amos Atwood could prove there was life after death. No wonder people thought the Atwoods were idiots. “None of that explains Billy selling the fetters,” I reminded her.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “It does, in a way. What happened to Amos had . . . reverberations for us, for generations. No one in the Colorado Old World wanted anything to do with the Atwoods after Amos died. So my immediate ancestors became thieves and swindlers, taking Amos’s relatively benign calling and turning it criminal.”
“Why not just leave the state?” Quinn asked. “Start over somewhere else?”
“Some of us did,” she answered. “But there were a few who insisted that we had no reason to leave our territory. They were the same Atwoods who thought Amos was unfairly maligned. Billy’s father was among them.”