Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mother took the clipping from my numb fingers. Frowning, she looked at the word written on the back.

"I thought you and Mother had been more careful than this."

"We have been. We are," I exclaimed. Jumping up, I paced the room. "I don't understand this. Who would have this clipping? How did they get it?"

"Someone who was in Iowa City five years ago," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I skidded to a stop. "Maybe Harley. Maybe the killer," I exclaimed, my eyes darting to Abby's bed.

"Shh, keep your voice down. You're in a hospital. Do you want the nurses running in here to see what the commotion is?" she said sternly.

Ignoring her, I flipped my cell phone open and punched in some numbers, numbers I knew by heart after the past few months.

"Yes," I said when the voice answered, "this is Ophelia Jensen. May I please speak to the sheriff?"

Raking my hand through my hair, I waited for the call to be transferred to Bill.

"Sheriff Wilson," his gruff voice answered.

"Bill, Ophelia. I can't explain now, but I think you need to have a guard posted on Abby's room."

"What? What's happened now?"

"I told you I can't explain, but if you could send someone over," I said in a rush, "my mother will fill them in." I snapped the phone shut. Pivoting on my heel, I headed for the door.

"Wait right there, young lady," my mother commanded. "What am I supposed to say when Bill shows up?"

I stopped midstep and raised a shoulder. "I don't know—make something up. You're creative. But don't tell them about the clipping." I ran back to her, grabbed the clipping, and gave her a peck on the cheek. While I moved toward the door, I looked back over my shoulder at my mother. "I'm stopping by the cafeteria for coffee and I want Comacho to meet me at the spot where I found Gus."

While I waited for the elevator, I dialed Comacho. He answered on the fourth ring and I turned my face to the wall, speaking softly into the phone.

"Will you meet me at the spot I found Gus?"

"Now?"

He sounded irritated.

"Yes, now. Why? Are you tied up?" I asked.

"I'm fishing."

"What?"

My voiced echoed down the hall.

"I said 'fishing.'"

" 'Fishing'?" I hissed. "You're supposed to be finding the killer."

"Hey, it's my day off. I'm trying a couple of the spots Bill's been bragging about. This is the second time today you've interrupted me."

"I don't believe it. A killer's running loose and you're"—my voice raised a notch—"FISHING!"

Okay, maybe more than a notch. I lowered my cell phone and saw two nurses at the station, watching me. Lucky for me the elevator door opened at that instant. Calmly smiling at the nurses, I moved inside the elevator and hit the down button.

I put my cell phone back to my ear in time to hear Comacho say.

"…nothing wrong with that. I do my best thinking fishing. It's quiet. I don't have to listen to crazy people."

I think he meant me. If he did, too bad for him. I had more crazy stuff I intended to tell him.

"Look," I said impatiently, "meet me at the ditch." Not waiting for him to say "no," I rushed ahead. "How long will it take you to get there?"

A long sigh answered me.

"Forty-five minutes," he said, resigned. "And Jensen, this better be good."

Oh, it was
, I thought while I strode down the hall to the cafeteria. I checked my watch. Plenty of time to grab a coffee and meet Comacho.

The cafeteria was full of the late lunch crowd. I hesitated at the door and scanned the room. My eyes darted back to the man standing by the condiments.

Fletcher Beasley, dumping sugar in his coffee. Like he didn't have enough—the counter next to him was littered with empty sugar wrappers.

I made a move to go, but I was too late. He spotted me and came toward me at a jog, spilling coffee all over the floor.

"Jensen, Jensen," he hollered.

I turned around and walked away from him.

"Heard your grandmother was here. Tough break."

His voice followed. "But you've had several tough breaks lately, haven't you?"

"Go away, Beasley," I said with a quick look over my shoulder.

He was right behind me.

Beasley scooted along until his steps matched mine. "Can I get a statement from your grandmother?" he asked.

"No," I said, increasing my pace.

"How 'bout you? Want to tell me about your new boyfriend?" he asked, bouncing along next to me.

"He's a friend," I said without slowing my steps.

"You got yourself a big catch there. Only kid, mother was sickly, father too busy. Wound up being raised by a governess, a poor relation. Doesn't your heart just ache for him?" he asked snidely before continuing to run his mouth. "Has money up the wazoo. Family's a big deal in Massachusetts."

"You're slime, Beasley."

I had to think of a way to ditch this guy. I didn't want him following me.

"Just doing my job," he panted.

"Do your job somewhere else," I said while I turned the corner in the hallway.

Glancing at my watch again, I saw that I had thirty minutes before I met Comacho. Maybe I could lose him once I reached my car? If he tried following me, I'd drive around the country roads till he was dizzy. The thought made me smile.

"Maybe you don't want to talk about your new boyfriend 'cause you're worried he might turn up dead too? Or maybe your grandmother?"

I jerked to a stop, accidentally hitting Beasley's coffee cup. The cup flew, flinging coffee all over him, the wall, and the floor.

"Whoops," I said with a grin.

Big wet spots of coffee covered Beasley's cheap suit. He wrenched a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to pat the spots dry. Raising his head, his face wore an expression of fury.

"You'd better listen to me. You think I won't find anything out, don't you? Don't you?" he yelled. "I've known from the start there's something weird about you. And I'm going to dig and dig until I know what it is. You're my ticket out of the minors, sister." His hard brown eyes glazed over. "With the story I'm going to do on you, I'll hit the big time. I'll have the respect I deserve."

"You're nuts," I said, making a move away from him.

Before I took a step, his hand shot out and grasped my arm, pulling me around to face him.

"By the time I'm finished with you, I'll know more about you than your own mother," he said, shaking my arm for emphasis. "You're going to be sorry you ever met me."

"I already am," I said and jerked my arm out of his grasp. I took a step forward. Beasley retreated, but I was still right in his face. "You're an annoying little twit. And a second-rate journalist. It would take more than a story on me for
you
to hit the big time."

His face flushed a dark red. "You'll see how second-rate I am. Your name's going to be plastered in every newspaper in the state. Everyone's going to know what a spook you are."

"Ha. You don't have that much clout, Beasley." I took another step forward till we were eye to eye. "You're not going to badger me the same way you did five years ago. This time you mess with me and you'll be sorry."

Furious, I pivoted sharply on my heel and walked out the door to the parking lot. On the way I noticed the hospital staff quickly looked the other way. I didn't care. If that little jerk didn't back off, I'd slap a restraining order on him so fast. And I'd call his editor and complain. By the time I'd finished with him, he'd not only be out of Summerset, he'd be out of a job.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I leaned up against the side of my car, my arms crossed at my chest and my legs at the ankles, while I watched Comacho's car pull to a stop behind mine.

He got out of his car. Dressed in the same jeans he'd worn this morning, he'd changed into a T-shirt and wore a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. And the aroma of dead fish hung around him like cheap cologne.

"Jeez, Comacho," I said, wrinkling my nose, "you smell like a bait house."

"I was fishing. When you're fishing, you smell like fish," he said defensively as he approached me. "This better be important."

I handed him the note I carried in my pocket and watched while he examined the envelope.

"Pretty fancy," he said, flipping it over and looking for a name. "Where'd you find it?"

"Abby's room. A nurse found it on the floor while we were gone. She thought it had fallen from the flowers Arthur had sent Abby. But I don't think Arthur sent it," I said and stood straight.

He pulled the clipping from the envelope and, turning it over, saw the word witch written on the back. A puzzled look crossed his face. He opened the clipping and read the article.

Finished, he looked up at me. "Any idea why whoever left this article about you wrote
witch
on the back?"

"They have a fascination with witches?" I asked not meeting his eyes.

"But why would they pick an article about you?"

" 'Cause I am," I said, still not looking at him.

"Are what?" he asked, puzzled.

I looked straight into Comacho's eyes. "A witch."

"Je…" He choked the word back and stomped to the front of my car. He stomped back to where I stood. Shaking his finger in my face, his brown eyes drilled into mine. "You
are
pushing your luck, Jensen. First you expected me to swallow that psychic BS and now this. Next you're going to tell me you worship the devil and fly on a broomstick."

Insulted, I closed the distance till we were only inches apart. "We do not worship the devil, we
fight
evil," I said, poking my finger at his chest. "We don't fly on broomsticks." I took a step back and folded my arms. "And one other thing, we don't wear pointy hats either. We wear cowled robes."

"'We'?"

"Abby and me."

"You're kidding, right?" he asked, throwing back his head and laughing.

His laughter stopped when he saw my face.

"You're not kidding." His jaw clenched and he took a step forward. "I should've locked you up when I had the chance. You are nuts. But hey, maybe it's not too late." He reached behind him for his cuffs.

I scooted away, putting my car between us. "Wait. Let me explain. The women in my family, Abby's family, were healers; granny women, in the mountains of Appalachia. We have the talent of tapping into energy—"

"And shoot fireballs from your fingertips, I suppose," he interrupted.

"No, that's crazy—"

"Like you're not?" he interrupted again.

"Shooting fireballs, making people disappear, that stuff's only on TV. It's not real."

"Real?" he scoffed. "Okay prove it."

Prove it? How can I prove something that can only be felt, not seen?

I kicked the tire of my car in frustration. "This isn't to be used for parlor tricks. You have to have a need."

"Oh, you have a need," he said, nodding his head. "Either prove it or I'm taking you back to town for some serious questioning." I stopped and stared up at the blue sky, where a hawk circled.

Earlier today, I had called the elements, but now, the angry passion I'd felt was gone. Without the passion, I didn't know if I could call them again. My need wasn't great enough. And how stupid would that look, standing in the ditch, my arms stretched above me and have nothing happen? He'd arrest me for sure.

I looked back up at the hawk. Last fall I'd used energy to set pigeons flying and rats scurrying. But I didn't see any rats or pigeons—only the hawk. Suddenly I had an idea.

"Okay, you want proof," I called over my shoulder to Comacho. "Stay where you are and don't move till I do."

I'd never tried this before, but Abby had explained it to me when I was a child. I only hoped I remembered all she'd said.

With a deep breath, I emptied my mind and imagined a circle, above and below me, protecting me. Tilting my head back and with arms opened wide, I focused on the sky and called to the spirit of the hawk, wheeling on the currents above me. Inside the circle, I heard the breeze stir the weeds and felt it lift my hair. I watched the hawk dip lower and lower till I could almost see the feathers on his wing.

I shut my eyes and imagined the strength of those wings. The muscles as they moved the wings down in a graceful arc. The heart as it pumped blood to power the muscles. I saw, I felt, the freedom the hawk had always known. I envied him.

All at once, I was with him, one with his spirit, and together we rode the air currents high above the earth. We swooped and dipped, without effort, through the clouds, across the sky in a graceful dance.

We spiraled lower and lower, and again I stood in my circle. I heard the breeze stir the weeds. I felt it lift my hair. Looking up, I saw the hawk moving away in the distance.

Mentally, I withdrew my circle and the breeze died. Turning, I looked at Comacho.

He was where I'd left him, but his expression had changed. His sunglasses hung from his limp fingers and his jaw had dropped. With an effort, he closed his mouth and shook his head, as if to clear his mind.

"Well?" I asked, moving toward him.

"That was the damnedest thing I've ever seen," he said, shaking his head again. "How did you get the hawk to land on your arm?"

"He landed on my arm?" I asked, frowning.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled my arm out in front of me. "See, on your coat sleeve, you can still see the marks of his talons. Don't you remember?"

"Not exactly," I said, pulling my arm back.

"The hawk came down and landed on your outstretched arm. He perched there for a couple of minutes while you stared into the hawk's eyes."

"Ah, must've been when I thought I was flying," I said softly while I moved down the ditch.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. You wouldn't believe me," I said over my shoulder.

Comacho caught up with me. "I do believe anyone seeing you pull a trick like that—"

"It wasn't a trick," I broke in.

"Whatever it was," he said with a wave of his hand. "Might've freaked someone out bad enough to think you're a witch." He hesitated, twirling his sunglasses in his hand. "Any suspects?"

"Not really. Abby and I don't do
tricks
and I can't think of anyone who would fear us. The only enemy I can think of is Harley Walters. He hates my family and it's possible he was in Iowa City five years ago. It's where his boys live with his ex-wife."

"I'll check into it," he said, settling his sunglasses back on his face.

The breath I didn't know I'd been holding escaped in a long sigh. Finally Comacho was beginning to believe me. I decided to make the most of his cooperation and tell him why I wanted him to meet me here.

"I want to take a look around—if you don't mind?"

"Why?"

"I want to see if I can pick anything up. Maybe my fear the day of the demonstration prevented me from seeing the whole thing."

"You want to…" He stopped and hung his head. "Oh well, what the hell. Like I said, right now you're the only game in town, Jensen." Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he faced me. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before. Walk with me, I guess. If I feel anything, I'll let you know."

"Okay."

We tramped slowly through the weeds to the spot where I'd found Gus. While we did, the air around me hummed, getting louder when we reached the section where Gus had been buried.

I paused, trying to see the killer's face. No good. The energy I'd felt the day of the demonstration was only a faint whisper now. Too many people had been here, leaving remnants of their energy behind, diluting what had been.

I moved on, in a way, relieved. I hadn't looked forward to repeating my experience. But the killer. I clenched my fists. I had to find him, had to protect the people I cared about.

A different sound caught my attention and I walked toward it, Comacho following behind me. The sound became louder as I walked.

Then it hit me: the energy I'd felt at Abby's meeting. Striking against me with such force that I staggered and would've fallen, but Comacho reached out and steadied me.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice concerned.

Shaking my head and not speaking, I pointed toward a spot thirty yards away.

Comacho left me, taking careful steps through the weeds. But he veered too far to his left.

"No," I called out in a shaky voice. "To your right."

He moved to the left.

"No, your other right."

He stopped and fisted his hands on his hips. "What are we doing? Playing hot and cold?"

"Just follow my directions."

"Give me directions I can follow. How far to my right?"

"About five feet," I called out again.

"There, right there," I yelled when he moved five feet away.

Comacho squatted and brushed back the weeds. Shaking his head, he grabbed a rag from his pocket. Using the rag, he reached down and picked something up. Standing, he walked back toward me. He carried what looked to be an old wine bottle.

With every step he took, the force assaulting me got stronger and stronger. I couldn't get near whatever was in that wine bottle without getting the psychic crap knocked out of me. I hustled back.

"Wait," I said, holding up my hand to stop him. "Give me a minute."

I had an idea. I removed the talisman, which was made from a fire agate that I'd worn for five years, from around my neck. Holding it in my left hand, I let the stone's protection wrap around me. As it did, the force hitting me subsided. Satisfied I was safe, I waved Comacho forward.

"I'm not even going to ask what that was all about," he said, holding the dirty bottle away from him.

Comacho shook the bottle gently from side to side and I heard liquid sloshing. I also heard something rattling against the glass.