Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (17 page)

"Charles has holes in his aura."

"What about Comacho? I'd imagine he's got plenty of holes."

"No, he doesn't. He has a pleasant aura. A healthy one with a lot of orange and red, indicating passion and vitality."

"You read him? That's the second time you've read someone without their permission."

"I've heard so much about him from you, I wanted to see what kind of a man he is."

"The red should've told you about his anger."

"Red can also indicate a zest for life and a man of strong convictions. He also had a nice bit of green and indigo in his aura. Green shows his compassion and the indigo means he's highly intuitive. With the amount of indigo he had, it wouldn't surprise me if he's a touch psychic."

My mouth fell open and I made a choking sound.
Give me a break. Comacho, psychic
?

Abby continued, not noticing my expression. "His aura was a little muddy around the throat
chakra
. The color indicates he has trouble communicating his feelings."

"Yeah? Well, what color indicates he's a jerk?"

"Ophelia!"

"He is," I said and began to pace back and forth in the greenhouse. "I don't believe you. You're sticking up for Comacho—after everything he's done to me—"

"Ophelia, listen to me—"

"No. I won't listen. You're defending Comacho and don't tell me you're not," I said, stopping to point my finger at her. "But when a nice man like Charles comes into my life, you don't approve!" I started pacing again. "What's the deal? Are you jealous of Charles? Is that why you don't want him hanging around?"

Abby bristled. "What are you talking about? What jealousy? I'd never be jealous of a man who treated you well."

"What if he came between you and me?"

"How could Charles come between us?"

"If I became involved with him, I might ignore my training. You wouldn't want that."

"That
is
a nasty remark, Ophelia Jensen, and quite beneath you. I have never wanted anything other than your happiness, but you don't even know this man. And you're talking about a romance? What
are
you thinking?"

"I don't know what I'm thinking about Charles, but I did expect more from you than 'He has holes in his aura.'"

"That's enough, Ophelia. I think you'd better go before you say something you might regret. We'll talk again when you can discuss this matter rationally," Abby said, pivoted on her heel, and walked out of the greenhouse, leaving me alone.

Damn, my grandmother had kicked me out.

Chapter Twenty

Moping around the house for the rest of the afternoon, I thought about my argument with Abby. I hated arguing with her, but she was wrong about Comacho. Compassionate, a zest for life, psychic—ha. Should've told her his nickname was Iceman. Couldn't be too sympathetic if he'd earned a nickname like that.

Instead of worrying about my argument with Abby, I should be worrying about the Harvester stalking me. My house was secure; I'd checked all the windows and doors when I got home. And I hadn't sensed any strange vibes. While I was driving home, I had watched in the rearview mirror to see if anyone followed, but nothing suspicious. Just normal, everyday traffic, and I recognized most of the vehicles. Advantage of living in a small town.

Advantage of living in a small town
? I thought about it.
Everyone knows their neighbors and a stranger in town generates talk. How could a serial killer, a stranger, slip into town without anyone commenting on the new face in town
? I chewed the inside of my mouth.
Of course, until last night, I didn't know he was in Summerset. Maybe he showed up at night. Summerset is close to Des Moines. He could be staying there or in one of the other small towns nearby.

What about all the publicity the murder had generated? Yesterday a lot of strangers had been in town. Maybe one was the killer? I wonder if he had the audacity to stay in Summerset? I could ask Georgia, the owner of the local bed-and-breakfast, about any new guests, or Darci could ask her. Georgia was not only one of Darci's closest friends, she was one of the biggest gossips in town and she told Darci everything.

While I was standing in the kitchen pondering, Lady zipped by me, headed for the front door. Someone must be here. I followed her and saw Darci's car parked in my drive.

Darci got out of her car. She carried a pizza box in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other.
Is that a friend or what
?

"Hey, Darci," I said, opening the door.

"Hi. I didn't know if you wanted company, but I knew you wouldn't turn me away if I brought pizza," she said and walked in.

"I never refuse pizza. Do you want to eat in the kitchen or the living room?"

"Let's eat in the living room."

"I'll grab plates and forks from the kitchen," I said and headed down the hallway while Darci set our meal out on the coffee table.

"Hey, do you want a glass for your beer?" I called from the kitchen.

"Nope, out of the bottle's fine."

"This is great, Darci," I said, as I joined her in the living room.

"I figured you'd enjoy it. We can stuff our faces till our blue jeans pop," she said and dug into the pizza.

"How was it at the library today?" I asked between bites.

"The usual, I guess. Claire and I manned the counter and we didn't have much traffic till the afternoon. Everyone's talking about PP International and the dead hogs."

"Bill said they expected lab results back this afternoon. Did you hear if the feed was tampered with?"

"Yup, sure was—insecticide. Naturally, everyone thinks Harley did it. If Bill can prove it, Harley won't be causing any more problems. He'll be sitting in jail."

"Anything about the murder?"

"Nope. Dead hogs replaced the dead body as the main topic of conversation," she said, licking pizza sauce off her thumb. "Oh, some little man did stop by asking for you."

"Did he look like a ferret?"

She giggled. "Yeah, he did."

"Must've been Fletcher Beasley," I said and frowned.

"The reporter?"

"Yeah. I ran into him yesterday. I'd hoped he left town, but no such luck." I shook my head in disgust. "He can't get to me here, at least. I don't think he'd have the guts to come to my house."

"Olive Martin was in too, but Claire and I ignored her. Golly, I think it stinks what she's trying to do to you." Darci picked up her beer and took a long drink.

"Don't worry about Olive. She can't cause me trouble."

"I did hear Olive talking about the guys from Chicago."

"I heard about them. Gladys called Abby and told her. Has anyone seen them?"

"Not yet. But I bet they're big, bad, and mean. Do you think they're mob?"

"I don't know, but Harley had better watch it. If he tries any more of his tricks, he'll wind up getting the crap kicked out of him."

I thought for a moment, spinning my beer bottle around. What would be the best way to broach the subject with Darci? I needed her help, but I didn't want her running off to investigate Harley.

"Ahh, Darci, speaking of Harley, what do you know about him?"

"Just what I told you the other day." Her eyes took on a gleam and she sat up straight. "Say, are you starting to think Harley could be the killer?"

Taking a drink of my beer, I didn't answer her.

"You are, I know you are. I can see it on your face," she said, her excitement rising. "What do we do now? Go toss his place? Find the evidence?"

"Whoa—stop right there.
We're
not doing anything. Especially 'toss' his place. God, Darci, you sound like
you're
in the mob."

She made a little pout. "Well, what
are
we going to do?"

"First you're going to tell me what you know about serial killers."

"Okay." She settled back on the couch. "Of course, there are always exceptions, but most are men, between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. Usually, they are the same race as their victims. They're manipulative and into self-gratification at any cost. They get angry easily, they enjoy the publicity their murders generate, and often they will taunt the police investigating the murders. Some killers develop an almost personal relationship with the investigators. Has that happened to Bill?"

"Not that I know of? He's not talking."

"Too bad." She sipped her beer before she continued.

"Cruelty excites them. Symptoms of their psychosis are shown even in childhood. Experts call the symptoms the
triad
: torturing small animals, setting fires to cause damage, and bed-wetting into adolescence. But the most important thing about a serial killer," she said, setting her beer down and looking at me, "they enjoy killing. They enjoy it. They enjoy the total control over another human being. In fact, the high they get from that control drives them and it must be maintained."

I watched Darci as she talked. She was amazing. I knew some people in town blew her off as a mental lightweight, but they were wrong. A bright and cagey mind hid beneath all that hair. A mind that soaked up information like the ground soaks up water after a rain.

"Did you hear me, Ophelia?"

"What? I'm sorry, I was thinking about something else. What did you say?"

"I asked you if any of the information I rattled off sounds like Harley?"

"The anger does."

"And the control part. You know he's jealous of Abby, don't you?"

"Yeah, kind of figured it out after talking to him today. He thinks he should be in charge, not an old woman, which is what he called Abby."

Darci choked on her beer. "He called Abby an old lady? He wouldn't call her that to her face. She'd take his head off." She pursed her lips. "Too bad we don't know if he showed any of the
triad's
symptoms." Her faced brightened. "Let's call Edna and ask her."

"Oh sure." I held my hand up to my ear as if I were holding a phone receiver. '"Hello, Edna. Would you mind telling me if Harley tortured small animals and set fires as a child? Oh, and by the way, did he pee the bed when he was a teenager?'"

Darci smiled broadly. "Okay, maybe we can't call Edna. You won't let me burgle Harley's." She must have noticed my face go white. "Silly, I'm teasing. I've read enough about these killers to know I don't want to get caught by one." Leaning forward, her face became serious. "What are we going to do?"

"You're an expert at worming information out of people. I want you to find out what route Harley took when he drove a semitruck. Find out what states he visited and what towns. We'll match up what you find with where the murders occurred. If there's a match, we'll turn all the information over to Bill and let him handle it."

"What are you going to do?"

"Umm, well," I said, looking down and picking at the fringe on the rug.

"You've been leaving information out, haven't you?"

I looked over at her. "Yeah. I was afraid you'd go charging off and get hurt. I know whose body was in the ditch."

"But how? Who?" Darci's eyes widened. "Sure, a vision. I keep forgetting you can do that. Did you see the killer's face too?"

"No," I said while I felt the tears gather at the thought of Gus. "The body in the ditch—it's Gus Pike."

Darci gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh my God, no. Gus was a harmless old man."

A tear slipped down my cheek. "I know. But Gus cheated the murderer out of his kill. He actually died of a heart attack, I think." I wiped away the tear. "And I feel guilty that I can't tell Bill who it is without explaining how I know."

Darci stared thoughtfully at the now-cold pizza. Lifting her eyes, she looked at me. "Don't worry about it. I'll go out to Gus's place tomorrow and I'll report to Bill that Gus is missing. He'll have to put two and two together and figure out the body's Gus."

"I also saw the killer's weapon."

Darci pulled her hand through her hair. "What a mess. Bill needs to know about Gus and about the murder weapon. But you can't talk to him without giving away how you know all this stuff."

"I know. I was going to write an anonymous note, describing the weapon. Yeah, I know, pretty lame, but I couldn't think of any other way."

"Hey, a note isn't a bad idea. Let's see," she said, tapping her cheek with her finger. "You'll need a piece of generic paper, one that can't be traced. Same with the pen. No, that's too complicated." She snapped her fingers. "I know, type the note on a computer. But not the library's or yours: It could lead back to you somehow." Darci grabbed her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. "Here," she said, handing them to me. "Write your note. I'll type it and get it to Bill."

"But if using my computer could lead to me, yours might lead back to you," I said, writing my note.