Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (24 page)

But I had my fingers crossed.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

After Darci left, I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. One last disgusted look at all the flowers and I headed to Abby's.

I'd been in the greenhouse yesterday with Comacho, but I hadn't gone in the house. I walked up to the wide porch and unlocked the door.

It had been less than a week since I'd been inside the house, but much had changed. Gus Pike was dead, Abby in the hospital. The familiar walls were no more than a shell, a body without a spirit, without Abby's presence to make the house a home.

I felt a growing tightness in my chest and a thickness in my throat made it hard for me to swallow. Not wanting to linger, I walked with my head down through the kitchen and out the back door toward Abby's summer-house.

Taking the key from Abby's hiding place, I unlocked the door and let it swing wide. The faint smell of Abby's special candles reached out of the darkened room and drew me in. Lighting several of them, I scanned the room for Abby's journals.

Moving quickly to the bookshelves, I withdrew several of them and carried them to a chair by the window where the light was sufficient to read. Sitting, I carefully placed the top journal on my lap. With a rag from my pocket, I gently wiped the dust from the cover and opened it. I recognized at once the spidery handwriting of Abby's grandmother, the first owner of my runes.

Tracing the handwriting with my finger, I sensed the woman who'd written these words. I saw her as she toiled by candlelight writing down each spell, each healing. What she'd used, how successful it was. A woman similar to Abby. A strong woman, gentle, but not willing to suffer fools gladly. A woman accustomed to hard work. A woman who spoke her mind and, when she did, expected people to listen.

While I carefully turned over each page, I noticed the handwriting change as she aged. The handwriting became harder and harder to read as I looked further into the book. I knew these yellowed pages represented her life's work and had only been set aside when her eyes could no longer see well enough to write.

This is my heritage, part of who I am
, I thought, my hand gliding over the smooth surface. Whether I accepted it or not, I carried a fragment of this woman's spirit inside me. I wondered what she'd think of me.

Settling back in the chair, I read how to make a wand for witching water and how to cure horses of poll-evil, whatever that was. She wrote of destroying warts by using roasted chicken feet.

Yuck. I skipped reading the details for that spell.

She had a tonic recipe for babies with colic. The recipe called for "good" rye whiskey and tobacco smoke.

I shook my head, chuckling. Of course, any baby forced to drink rye whiskey would sleep better.

For weakness of the limbs, she recommended a tea made from white oak. Cotton soaked in camphor oil was good for both an earache and a toothache.

One spell prevented fires in the home. Chicken heads and a piece of cloth, worn by a virgin, were necessary items.

I skipped that one too.

I read about dyeing cloth, using juice from plants I'd never heard of; rendering lard; brewing beer; keeping weevils out of the flour bin.

Not once did I read any spell that required a bottle containing urine, nails, and human hair.

I looked down at the other books on the floor by the chair. I knew I wouldn't find a spell in them either.

Closing the journal, I picked up the rest of the books and walked over to the shelf. After placing them one by one on the shelf, I stroked the spine of the book I'd read; written by a woman whose name I didn't even know. Her book had held the spells she used to heal her neighbors, cure their livestock, and make their lives easier.

Whatever had been used to create the energy in the wine bottle wouldn't be in her book.

That spell was created out of evil.

On the drive home I thought about the killer. I knew he'd left the bottle in the ditch, but for what purpose? And where was he now? I hadn't dreamed about him since Abby had been hurt. Did the lack of dreams mean he'd left Summerset? No, the clipping proved he was still around. Was he watching, waiting to catch me off-guard?

A shiver slid down my back.

What about Harley? Could he have been in Iowa City five years ago and witnessed the girl's seizure? Harley in a library? The thought stretched my imagination.

Shaking the image away, I concentrated again on Harley as a suspect. How superstitious was he? Enough to kill? Did he
hate
enough to kill?

The images of Brian and Gus floated in my mind and I felt a twinge of guilt spring to life. I extinguished it. Darci had been right. Guilt could cloud my thoughts and I couldn't afford to let that happen.

Once home, I changed into my sweats again and checked with Mother on Abby's condition. No change. I prowled the house, but avoided the living room.

I had to do something about those flowers.

Maybe I should go to the hospital. Anything would be better than this feeling of being at loose ends. I stopped and looked out the window. No. What if the killer, the witch hunter, came after me there? It would put Abby and Mother in danger.

Staring out the window, I felt the sudden change in air pressure and smelled the ozone. A storm was coming. Might as well curl up in bed and watch an old movie.

After checking all the windows and door, I climbed the stairs to my room. Queenie ran ahead, but Lady stayed close to my side.

"It's okay," I said, scratching her ear. "We'll watch
The Thin Man
. You like that one. I know Asta's your hero."

I popped the movie in the DVD/VCR and crawled into bed. Searching for the remote that had somehow gotten buried under the pillows, my hand fell on the bag of runes. I pulled them out and weighed the old leather pouch in my hand.

Hmm, I haven't worked with them since the night I thought I saw the killer across the street. Maybe I should tonight?

I lit a candle and shut off the lights. I sat cross-legged on the bed and, breathing deeply, thought of my question.

How can I find the killer?

I reached into the pouch and drew a rune. After placing it facedown on the bed, I repeated the process two more times. Slowly I turned each one over.

I said each name aloud enunciating each syllable.
Laguz.Law-gooze. Thurisaz. Thoor-ee-saw
.

Dang, not him again. The one with the brambles.

Wunjo.Woon-yo.

I grabbed the journal on my nightstand and looked each one up.

Laguz
—
represents water; calm surface with hidden mystery lying beneath; secrets; stormy sea: possible loss
.

Laguz
described the situation as it stood now. A mystery definitely lay hidden beneath the surface. Or did it mean the killer hid beneath a calm appearance?

Thurisaz
—
giant, troll, demon, torturer of women, said to be used to evoke those from the underworld. The hammer of Thor. A rune indicating challenges, tests
.

Well, I was facing a challenge all right.
Thurisaz
didn't tell me anything that I didn't already know.

Wunjo
—
peace; prosperity; a hard battle well fought and won; partnership flourishes
.

Wunjo
was the result if I followed the advice of the rune
Thurisaz
. But what was the rune's advice?

Abby had told me I needed to think outside the box.

Picking up the three runes, I closed my eyes and thought about them.

In my mind I walked past the fires burning in the Viking longhouse. The air was filled with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. I heard men laughing while their women served them. From the dark corners came another sound, the sound of growling dogs as they fought over scraps of food. Without a word, I moved through the door and out into the clear cold night.

A thousand stars glittered in the black sky and the light of the full moon guided my way into the woods. Soon I found myself next to a pool, the sky reflected in its still waters. Kneeling, I touched the smooth surface with my fingertips and the moon and stars danced upon the ripples.

Amazed, my eyes followed the ripples across the pool to where they washed against the feet of a dark warrior, staring at me from the other side of the pool. My gaze flew to his face, but it was masked by shadows. He was dressed in black and his dark hair gleamed in the moonlight. I watched while he stepped around the edge of the pool, his soft leather boots silent on the rocky rim. I felt no fear.

Without speaking, he knelt next to me and took my wrist with his gloved hand. I gasped when he plunged both of our hands into the cold water. Guided by his hand, my fingers trailed over the moss-covered rocks beneath the pool's shallow surface until they rested on a piece of wood. His hand curled my fingers around the thick wood. And releasing my hand, he placed his hand above mine and together we lifted the piece of wood.

With a
whoosh
, the wood came out of the water, pulling us to our feet. We stood side by side, our arms extended as we held the wood aloft.

Droplets of water rained down on me and the air sizzled with steam. I tilted my head back to see what it was we held above us.

The iron head attached to the rough wooden handle burned red-hot against the night sky. It was a Norse war hammer.

It was
Mjolnir
—the hammer of Thor.

Chapter Thirty

The next morning Comacho called to inform me he'd pick me up at eleven. A quick glance at the clock told me I'd have time to pop by the hospital and check on Abby. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater, I hurried over to the hospital.

Her condition was the same, except she grew more restless. Abby would respond to loud noises and occasionally open her eyes for a second. The doctor indicated the restlessness was a good sign. Mother and Arthur continued their vigil. Satisfied, I returned home to wait for Comacho.

While I waited, I used the time productively; I dumped all the flowers in the living room and stacked Charles's notes on my desk. I'd read them later.

The living room clock was still chiming eleven o'clock when Comacho pulled in the drive. Grabbing my bag, I rushed out the door, remembering to lock it as I went.

Comacho wore jeans, a dark red sweater, and his mirrored sunglasses. I caught a whiff of his cologne while I buckled my seat belt.

"I hope you don't mind, but I promised to stop by my sister's. She's having a birthday party for my niece," he said, backing the car out of my drive. "A bunch of little girls. Isabella wants me to meet them."

He said the name gently and with an accent. I noticed how the hard lines in his face softened as he did. Was it the same little girl I'd seen in his mind? I was dying to ask, but didn't think it wise to open a conversation about psychics and witches yet.

"I don't mind," 1 said, adjusting the strap on my seat belt.

I'd never paid much attention to Comacho's face before; I'd never looked past the disapproval reflected on his face whenever he looked at me. But now, out of the corner of my eye, I watched him while he drove.

He had a strong profile—a firm jaw, high cheekbones, and narrow lips. His nose jutted out from his forehead and, though a little on the large side, it fit his face perfectly, adding character. He appeared to be a man in complete control, and it was hard to imagine him at a child's party.

"You like kids?" he asked suddenly.

"I haven't had too much experience with them, except for babysitting as a teenager. I'm an only child. No nieces and nephews. What about you?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

He grinned. "Yeah, I've had plenty of experience. My dad died when I was twelve and I had to help my mom with my sisters."

"Where did you grow up?"

"Chicago."

"It must've been tough."

He gave a slight shrug. "Sometimes. We made out okay."

Finished with personal confessions, he reached over and switched on the radio. The sound of the Beatles filled the car.

Unwilling to share any more information myself, I turned my attention to looking out the window while I thought about the rune reading.

Should I mention the reading to Comacho? Nope, he'd reach for his handcuffs and haul me off to the nearest psych ward for evaluation
. Glancing at him, I wondered if he had them tucked in his belt.
What about his gun? Is he wearing it
? I squinted to see if I detected any lumps under his sweater.

"What are you doing?" His face wore a perplexed look.

Startled, I jumped. "Umm," I muttered, feeling my face get hot. "I was trying to figure out if you had your gun and your handcuffs with you."

"Why? Think I'll need them?"

I shrugged. "You like to pull out the handcuffs whenever you're around me. I wondered if you brought them, just in case."

He chuckled. "No, I don't think I'll arrest you today." He put emphasis on the word
today
.

Does that mean he might tomorrow?

He reached over and turned the radio down. "Lonely?"

"Huh?" I asked, puzzled.

"Were you lonely? You said you were an only child."

"Some of the time, I suppose." I tugged at my seat belt. "I spent a lot of time with Abby and my grandfather. I was never lonely with them."

"I know your mother's here now, what about her?" He frowned. "Is she, you know, a—"

"Witch?" I said, supplying the word for him.

His frown deepened. "No. Don't even go there," he said, glancing at me, my smiling reflection caught for a moment in his mirrored sunglasses. "I'm having a hard enough time with the idea of psychics, let alone witches."

"Oh, you wanted to know if my mother's one of them… psychic, I mean," I said, smiling broadly.

"Yeah," he answered in a disgruntled tone.

I decided to quit teasing him. Anyway, it isn't a good idea to tease someone with a gun.

"No," I answered. "The gift can skip a generation."

"Did you always know?"

"Yes, but from a young age, I was taught not to talk about it. Believe it or not, some people might think you're crazy if you tell them about the gift," I said, smirking.

"You know, you're kind of a smartass, Jensen," he said, glancing at me again. "Five years ago, I never would've suspected you have such a smart mouth."

"Five years ago, I was too scared."

"You're not scared now?"

I snorted. "Of course I am. Spitless."

Comacho drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What can you do? Read minds?"

"My particular talent is precognitive images," I replied, thinking about my gift. "And I seem to be good at finding things."

Comacho made a choking sound before he spoke. "Bodies, you mean."

I glared at him. "I don't understand why people have a hard time accepting what a psychic can do. Cops use dogs to find things: drugs, search, and rescue—"

"They're dogs, not people," he said, interrupting me. "They have a heightened sense of smell."

"Well," I huffed, "I have a heightened sense too. It's located in my brain, not my nose."

The set of his jaw told me that he was pondering my analogy.

"Lack of understanding, is that why you haven't married?" he asked, cocking his head.

Getting pretty personal, Comacho
, but I decided to answer him.

"Put it this way: The gift isn't the easiest thing to live with—for me or for someone who cares about me. I was engaged once," I said, turning and staring out the window.

"He didn't understand your gift?"

"You might say that. I think it embarrassed him and, deep down, scared him."

"Did he know about, you know," he said, waving his hand, "the other thing?"

I arched my eyebrow. "You mean the 'witch' thing?"

"Yeah," he said, gripping the steering wheel, "that thing."

"No. You're one of the few people in my life who's ever learned about 'that thing.'"

I saw him pull on his bottom lip and I think his eyes narrowed. Hard to tell with the sunglasses on.

"Did Brian Mitchell know?"

"Yes and I'm ahead of you on this one, Comacho. He was killed because of his knowledge."

"Okay. Why Gus? Gus know?"

I didn't answer right away. I was trying to decide if I should tell Comacho of my suspicions. While I thought about it, I noticed we'd turned down a street into a residential neighborhood. The houses were well kept with neatly trimmed yards. Bicycles and tricycles sat in many of the driveways and every backyard had a swing set.

Comacho whipped into one of the driveways. We'd arrived at his sister's.

I looked at Comacho quickly, my decision made. "Gus didn't know, I think he suspected. But I think Gus was killed because the killer thought he was a witch too. Gus had a squint." The words came out in a rush. "The star on Brian's and Gus's foreheads? I'm sure it's a pentagram, Darci figured it out. And—"

Comacho held up his hand, stopping me. "Okay. Okay. Sounds like you've been doing a lot of thinking. You can tell me all about it later." He got out of the car, opened the back door, and grabbed a present from the backseat. He stuck his head back in the car.

"Want to come in?"

"If you'd be more comfortable with me waiting in the car, I will."

"No, it's okay if you come in." He paused, thinking. "But don't let my sister pump you, okay?"

He walked around the car and opened my door for me.

Getting out, I looked up at him. "You didn't tell me I was crazy this time."

Before he replied, a little girl flew out the front door and flung herself at his legs.

"Uncle Henry," she squealed.

Balancing the gift under his arm, Comacho reached down and scooped the little girl into his other arm while an older replica of the girl stood in the doorway, watching.

His sister and niece.

His niece pulled his sunglasses off and, placing her small hands on his shoulders, planted wet, smacking kisses all over his face.

Comacho responded by burying his face in her soft hair and growled like a bear.

She giggled, her brown eyes sparkling. Those brown eyes slid down to the present, wrapped in Barbie paper and bright pink ribbon.

Comacho lifted his head and looked at her.

"Is the present for me?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Isabella," called the woman from the doorway, "don't be asking your uncle about presents."

He leaned in close to the little girl's ear. "Yes," he whispered.

Her eyes widened and she looked down at the present again. Looking past Comacho, she noticed me standing on the walk.

"Who's that?" she asked and pointed a little finger at me.

"Don't point, Chica. It's rude," he said, his voice kind.

She rested her head on his shoulder and watched me, her eyes never leaving my face.

"This is Ophelia," Comacho said to the little girl. "Ophelia, my niece, Isabella."

"Hello, Isabella. Happy birthday," I said, smiling.

Isabella gave me a shy smile and a tiny wave from the safety of her uncle's arms.

"What do you say?" He gave her a slight jiggle while we moved up the walk.

"Thank you," she said, giggling. "It's nice to meet you."

At the door his sister threw her arms around her brother and daughter, hugging them both.

"
Ki-kay
. You made it," she said, patting his arm.

Ki-kay
? Comacho's sister called the Iceman,
Ki-kay
! Wouldn't his fellow officers love to hear that one? I tried to hide my smile, but he caught it.

He tilted his head slightly and gave me a look that said:
Don't you dare say a word
.