Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (2 page)

But like Brian, Grandpa wasn't here any more. He had died of a sudden heart attack when I was fifteen. Abby's magick hadn't saved him, just as mine hadn't saved Brian. Regret tugged at my heart and some of the peace I felt dissolved. So many losses, so many people I loved—gone. It wasn't fair.

The door swung wide suddenly and Abby stood in its portal, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. The light from inside the house shone around her till it seemed to be a part of her. The light reached out to me, pulling me up the walk and into Abby's waiting arms.

"Hi, sweetie. How are you tonight?" Abby whispered.

The faint smell of wood-smoke, mixed with the scent of her favorite perfume, Lily of the Valley, tickled my nose. And the warmth of her body seeped into mine, restoring the peace I'd felt earlier.

"Fine, now. I was standing on the walk remembering. You, Grandpa, the dinners you always made on my last night. The memories made me sad."

Abby's arms tightened around me. "It's okay, honey. Sad is good sometimes. It means we haven't forgotten," she said, stepping back and placing her arm around my shoulder. "And as long as we remember, they're really not gone, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but sometimes it's hard. The remembering."

With her arm still draped around my shoulder, Abby shut the door. "Let's go eat, but before you leave tonight, I have something I want to give you." She gave me a light squeeze.

When I entered the kitchen, the aroma of Abby's dinner once again transported me back to my childhood. All I had to do was close my eyes and the images would materialize. Abby was right. Someone you have loved is never gone as long as you remember. The thought eased my spirits.

"This smells wonderful. What can I do to help?"

"Nothing," Abby said, waving me to the table. She went to the oven and began taking out plates full of food.

"What are we having?" I asked, pulling out a chair and sitting.

The steam in the kitchen had caused little silver tendrils of hair to escape the braid she wore wrapped around the top of her head. She swiped one away from her face with the back of her hand and peeked at me over her shoulder.

"Your favorites, of course," she said with a quick grin. "Roast beef, carrots, potatoes and gravy. And cherry pie with ice cream for dessert."

"Wow," I said, feeling my appetite jump. "I need to go away more often."

"Oh, by the way, your mother called," Abby said in an even voice and set my plate in front of me.

A groan slipped out. My mother, Margaret Mary McDonald Jensen, a former English professor, had retired several years ago and was living in Florida with my father, a retired history professor. A small, fine-boned, almost frail-looking woman. But looks are deceiving. I ought to know; I lived with the woman for eighteen years. She had the energy of a small tornado and the subtlety of a ball-peen hammer. When you'd least expect it, she'd hit you with some remark, some observation.
Boing
, right between the eyes. She was a force not to be ignored and one that often overwhelmed me.

"Everything okay?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes," she said, removing her apron and hanging it on a hook by the back door.

"Umm—she's not coming for a visit, is she?" I watched Abby carefully.

"No, she's not coming for a visit. She hadn't been able to reach you and she wanted to know how you were. You should call her."

I winced. My phone conversations with my mother usually involved a lot of questions—hers—and a lot of mumbled, semicoherent responses—mine. There wasn't a single aspect of my life she wasn't interested in and the idea of personal boundaries did not exist for Margaret Mary Jensen when it came to her only child. It wasn't that we didn't get along, we did, but I had always related better to Abby and my father than to my mother.

Abby saw my expression and gave me an amused look. "Come on, you know your mother loves you and wants what's best for you."

"Yeah, well, I love her too," I said as my finger traced the pattern on Abby's tablecloth. "It's just easier to love her when she's in another state."

She laughed. "Don't worry. She and your father are staying in Florida for now. They're both busy, but they might come to Iowa later on this summer."

Oh, goody. At least I'd have a couple months to prepare, to build my stamina so I could keep up with my mother. Forget it. If I wasn't able to stay ahead of her when I was a teenager, I doubt, now that I'm in my thirties, I'd be able to now.

Abby took a seat across from me at the table. "Quit worrying and eat. Your dinner will get cold."

Everything tasted as good as it smelled, and I ate as if it were my last meal. Abby watched me while she ate, with a benign look on her face. Finally finished, I pushed my plate away, only to have it replaced with another plate filled with pie and ice cream.

I held my stomach and tipped back in my chair. "Jeez, Abby, I don't know if I can eat any more."

"Sure you can." She stopped and watched me scoop up a large bite of pie and ice cream.

A small smile crossed her face before she continued. "Ophelia, I want to talk to you about something."

"Okay. Shoot," I mumbled, my mouth full.

"It's about your training. I have something to give you."

The fork hesitated between the plate and my mouth. "What?"

Abby stood and crossed to the kitchen cupboard. Opening the door, she removed a small leather pouch from the shelf. She placed it by my plate and then took her seat again.

My eyes narrowed while I focused on the worn pouch. "What's this?"

"Runes," she said with a slight shrug.

"What?"

"Runes. They belonged to my grandmother. I think they will help you focus," she said, sliding her own plate to the side and calmly folding her hands.

I picked up the pouch and drew out the small stones. Each was white and round and each had a symbol painted on it. My hand grew warm and it tingled while I held them. When their energy snaked up my arm, I quickly placed them back in their pouch.

"Abby, I don't know about this," I said, pushing the plate with the half-eaten pie away. "They make me nervous."

"Oh, don't be silly," she chided. "They're only rocks with symbols painted on them. It's how you use them that matters. And these stones will help you channel your intuitive abilities. I want you to keep them with you at all times, even sleep with them under your pillow. You need to get to know them, understand their meanings."

"Are you crazy?" I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. "I'm not sleeping with a bag of rocks under my pillow. That's nuts."

Abby's folded hands clenched. "I'm serious about this. I thought we'd have more time, but we don't. Trouble's coming and you need to be prepared."

My stomach did a slow slide to my toes at Abby's words.

"Not again," I said, leaning back in my chair.

"Yes, again," she said slowly. "I told you last fall that there were circles in your life that needed to be closed. The runes will help you do that."

"Look, what happened last fall is over," I said, shaking my head. "Adam Hoffman, Benny, Jake—they're all in prison. Adam was convicted of murder and manufacturing drugs. Benny and Jake were found guilty of conspiracy for helping him. None of them is getting out anytime soon. Rick won an award for his story about the bust and went back to Minnesota. Everything got tied up with a neat little bow, so there's nothing left to close."

Abby stared at me intently, not giving in even a millimeter.

"Oh no," I gasped, suddenly understanding what she meant. "Not Brian's murder. That's over and done with too." i "It was never solved," she insisted. "And you are going back to Iowa City the day after tomorrow. While " you're there, you could go talk to the police and see if they've had any more leads."

"It's been almost five years since it happened. I'm sure whatever leads they had are cold. The case is probably buried in their files by now."

Did my voice sound too desperate?

"Maybe, maybe not. You won't know if you don't talk to them."

"Well, I'm not going to do it," I declared and gave Abby a determined look. "At first they thought I was involved with his murder and their investigation made my life a living hell. That one detective, Comacho, was such a"—a quick look at Abby's face stopped me from saying the first word that sprang to mind—"a jerk," I amended, finishing the sentence.

Abby's eyebrows shot up anyway.

"Sorry, but he was," I said, looking away. Staring at the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They were right. I was involved, but not the way they thought. I'd seen it all in a premonition. Couldn't tell them that, though, could I? Do you remember the guilt I felt because I wasn't able to stop the murderer? The breakdown I had because of it?" I looked back at Abby. "No. I'm not opening old wounds."

Abby's face was full of compassion. "Sometimes we have to open them in order for them to heal properly."

"I'm not," I said stubbornly. "My life is getting better. I'm no longer living behind the emotional wall I put up after Brian's death.
I
have opened up. I have friends again. I've found some peace in my life. I'm not going to risk what I've gained over something I can't change. I've even accepted that I'm psychic, that it's my heritage, my path."

"Ophelia, this
is
your path."

"My path is to relive the worst time of my life?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"No, your path is to find justice for Brian. To find the truth," Abby said quietly. "It's your gift."

"Well," I said and frowned. "That gift sucks."

The discussion was over as far as I was concerned. I reached out and pulled the plate with the unfinished pie toward me. Picking up my fork, I gazed down at the pie. My fork stopped midswoop.

The juice from the cherries had mingled with the melted ice cream, turning it a sickly red. Thick, congealed, it reminded me of blood.

Chapter Two

I pushed back my chair again, stood, and walked to the window. Through the steamy window and past my shadowy reflection, I saw the crescent moon hanging over the treetops, waxing. The dark of the moon—the Planting Moon—had passed. I had planted the seeds for my soul's growth that night in the woods, but I didn't like the direction it was taking me. I turned around and looked at Abby, sitting patiently at the table.

"Abby, I want a nice simple life." I shook my head. "I don't want the responsibility."

"With every gift comes responsibility, Ophelia. You do have a choice. You can accept your gift and everything that goes with it or you can deny it. But if you deny it, you will never be the person you were truly meant to be."

"And my responsibility is to solve a five-year-old murder?" I asked, my tone bleak.

"Possibly."

I turned back to the window. My shadowy reflection was still there, staring back at me. The same reflection I saw every day, same brown hair pulled up in a twist, same brown eyes, same mouth. Yup, it was still me. But it was a
me
who was changing, going through a transformation, whether I liked it or not. Would I still be me when it was finished? The thought frightened me.

Abby's reflection joined mine in the window. Through the thin material of my shirt, I felt her warm hands on my arms.

She gave them a slight squeeze before dropping her hands to her side. "I know. You're afraid. That's all right. Your spirit guides will help you."

Puffing out my cheeks, I exhaled. "Okay, run this spirit guide thing by me again."

I watched her reflection in the window while she answered me.

"Your spirit guides are those who have chosen to help you, to guide you on your path. We all have them. They're the little voices in our ears, the thoughts that pop unbidden into our minds, our sudden inspirations. They won't tell you what to do. There are lessons you must learn on your own, but they will be there to help."

"Hey, I'm not going to start seeing dead people like that kid in
Sixth Sense
, am I?" I spun around. "I really,
really
, would not want that."

Chuckling, Abby crossed to the table and sat. "No, you're not going to start seeing dead people. At least, I don't think so."

"That's it? You don't think so?" I asked as I joined her.

She shook her head while she hunched forward and placed arms on the table. "You've never shown any talent for it."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, thank God for small favors."

"I'm told it's not that bad. Your great aunt Mary saw souls who had 'crossed over.' It never bothered her much. She always said it was a comfort."

"Ha," I scoffed. "Wasn't she the one you said did astral projection?"

"Yes."

"Peachy—seeing dead people and floating around. As if I want to do either one," I said in a derisive voice.

"Oh," she said, waving a hand as if to shoo away my remark. "Quit worrying about it. You have enough on your mind without worrying about abilities you may or may not have. Concentrate on those we know you do have."

"That's what I've been trying to do, but I don't seem to be getting anywhere," I huffed. "I think Darci's more perceptive than I am. And she's not the one who's supposed to be psychic."

"You're trying too hard. Relax and it will come. The runes will help."

My look flickered to the bag lying on the table. "Why runes?"

Abby smiled. "They're part of your heritage. You should have an affinity for them. It's believed your ancestors, the Vikings, not only used them as their alphabet, but also for magick. And the mysticism of the runes is steeped with the legends of the old gods—Thor, Freya, and Tyr. The Viking shaman, or
vitki
, would cast the runes, either on a cloth or the ground. He would interpret what they meant."

"But aren't the stones evil?"

"Humph." Abby frowned. "I told you, they're rocks with symbols painted on them. And the symbols represent that which the universe is made of. Is the universe all good or all bad?"

"Of course not."

"Neither are the runes. They can be used for good or bad. It's what's in the heart and mind of the person using them that make the difference. If you want to use them to curse someone, you can. But remember," she said and gave me a stern look, "whatever energy you send out into the world will come back to you three times over."

Abby lifted the bag and shifted it from one hand to the other. I heard the stones rattling back and forth in the pouch. Reaching out, I took it from her. The bag felt heavy and I felt the hum of their energy through the worn leather. I looked up to see Abby watching me.

"Ophelia,
these
are for you. You're one who's tied to the earth. You have the ability, through touch, to feel the earth's energy."

"You mean like what happened the night in the machine shed, after Jake, Benny, and Adam Hoffman caught Rick and me snooping around Adam's meth lab? When Jake and Adam were going to kill us?"

"That's right. The shed was built on top of a special place, a place of magick. You felt it moving beneath the surface and you were able to harness the energy and use the magick to distract the three of them long enough for you and Rick to escape."

A slow shiver ran up my spine remembering that night, the
thrum
, of the energy I had felt moving beneath me, through me. The shed had exploded in sound when I forced that energy up and away from me. The wind howled, pigeons flew wildly around the rafters, rats rushed from the darkened corners. Jake and Adam began to shoot at anything that moved, while Benny, Jake's brother, knelt on his knees, sobbing his fear. All the confusion had allowed Rick and me to escape into the night. Unfortunately, Adam followed us.

Looking at the bag cradled in my hand, I thought of how we had stumbled across the rough fields in the blinding snowstorm—with Adam right behind us. I shuddered at the memory.

"Never mind that I still managed to get shot when Adam caught up with us at the old cemetery," I said and put the bag down, rubbing the healed wound in my side.

Abby reached across the table and stroked my other hand. "There's something else I want to give you."

What now?

She stood and walked to the cupboard, opened it, and removed a book. She placed it in front of me, its cover stained and faded. It was an old-fashioned ledger.

"This is the journal my grandmother used. It contains all her notes, her observations, descriptions of her work with the runes. It would be helpful for you to read it."

Opening the cover, I read the faint spidery handwriting.

Thurisaz
—
giant, troll, demon
…

I slammed the cover shut and my eyes locked on Abby. "Why? Why are you giving me these things now?"

Abby took my hands in hers. I felt the warmth, but it was more than simple body heat. Deeper, hotter, and the heat throbbed in my palms.

"Feel it?"

I nodded.

"It's the power, the gift you possess. Because of this gift, the stones will sing to you. And you will hear their song."

I smiled. "That's almost poetic."

Abby smiled back. "It can be, but the song won't always be a pretty one. Runes don't lie and the things shown might not be pleasant."

I released Abby's hands. "That's the part that scares me."

"I know, but true courage means facing the unpleasant in spite of the fear."

"Will the runes tell me what I'm to do?"

"No."

I scooted my chair back. "Well, that stinks."

Abby grinned. "What do you want? The runes or your spirit guides to tell you, 'Go to the corner of Fifth and Madison at two o'clock on Thursday and you'll meet your soulmate. He'll be wearing a red carnation'?"

"That would be nice."

She shook her head and her grin widened. "Honey, your gift will help you, allow you to help others. But in the end, it's your life, and you're the one who must live it. You can hear the song, but it's up to you to listen, to choose whether or not to follow it."

"And if I don't follow?"

"Like I said, your choice. Free will overrides all, even a gift as great as yours."

"If I don't listen, I won't be fulfilling my destiny. Right?"

Abby watched me steadily.

"Okay, I know when I'm beat. Other than sleep with a bag of rocks under my pillow, what else do I do?"

"Grandma's journal will explain. When I was a child, I watched her work with the runes. Sometimes she would cast all the stones and read them. Sometimes she would draw one at a time and place them in a specific position. Each position meant something and the meaning was affected by the rune next to it. It's all in her journal."

"Great. Sleep with the rocks and read the journal, then all will become clear," I said with no small dose of sarcasm.

Abby laughed. "Not exactly. Once you become familiar with the runes and their traditional meanings, you'll need to start thinking outside the box."

"Great," I said, throwing my hand in the air. "What's that supposed to mean? 'Thinking outside the box'?"

"Seeing beyond what's there, developing your own meanings for the runes. After working with them, you'll find certain stones represent specific things to you."

I arched my eyebrow. "And, no doubt, those meanings will be very cryptic."

"Ophelia, you're looking for certainties, and there aren't any. Not in life and not with your gift."

"Okay. Okay. I may accept this, but that doesn't mean I have to like it." I took a quick look at the clock. "It's late and I'd better get going." Picking up the pouch and journal, I stood to go. "Oh, do you still want me to come to your big community meeting tomorrow night, don't you?"

She nodded. "Yes. The meeting could get sticky. The Department of Natural Resources, state legislators, members of the County Board of Supervisors, and, of course, Dudley Kyle will all be there."

"What about Harley Walters and his gang?"

Abby pursed her lips. "Yes, they'll be there. It'll be a challenge to keep Harley's group from turning the meeting into a circus."

Harley Walters fit the definition of
redneck
perfectly. Baseball cap, shirt with sleeves ripped out, jeans, and work boots. The scruffy two-day beard was optional.