Pall in the Family (17 page)

My room hadn't changed much since high school. I'd left everything behind when I moved to Ann Arbor. The color scheme was sky blue and dark brown, very trendy at the time. The bedspread was a swirly floral thing in brown and blue that I had loved when mom brought it home. Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie still dominated the bookcase. My shelves were cluttered with the combination of my current life and my previous one. My holster shared space with stuffed animals. Softball trophies had been pushed aside to accommodate my laptop and printer. The desk faced the large window that looked over the backyard and was cluttered with phone chargers, dog treats, and extra leashes. Alex and I sat on the bed while Diana set up her items on the desk.

“I should have done this after you found Sara's body, but now the situation is out of control. We need to do a few different rituals, but they're all simple. Don't worry.” She fished around in the bag and pulled out a small glass jar, a package of needles, a package of razor blades, a paper bag, and a drinking glass.

I had seen this setup before.

“I don't want to do this one,” I said as she put the glass in the bag and smashed it with the base of a trophy from the desk.

“What are you doing, Diana?” Alex wiped his mouth and passed the bottle to me.

“I'm making a very strong protective spell for Clyde if she'll stop whining and just do what I say.” She dumped the broken shards, the needles, and the razor blades into the glass jar.

“No, forget it. That's disgusting.” I held up my hand to ward off her offering of the jar filled with sharp objects.

“It works, Clyde. You've been close to murder twice in the last couple of days. You need protection, and this is one of the simplest spells I know that you can do for yourself.”

“Then let's do a complicated one.”

“What does she have to do, put her hand in there?” Alex asked, taking the jar and peering inside.

“She wants me to fill it with urine,” I said.

Alex made a face and shoved it back at Diana.

“Wiccans are sick!” he said.

Diana rolled her eyes at both of us.

“Okay, fine. But this protection lasts at least a year, maybe longer. As long as no one digs it up, you're good.”

“You have to bury it?”

“Yes, you say the spell and you bury it and then you are protected, but you need the urine of the person you are trying to protect, and that person is not cooperating.”

“Okay, moving on. What else did you bring?” I said.

Diana took a moment to glare at both of us.

“I expected this. We can do a short spell to try to control the situation and then another one to help clear your mind and focus on solving Tish's murder.”

Alex started giggling. He had no tolerance for alcohol, and was not always on board with Diana's magickal approach to life.

“Shut up, Ferguson,” Diana said.

Diana groped in her bag and pulled out a brown candle, a piece of paper, and a small bottle of oil. She wrote on the paper, and then turned to us.

“The current situation is that Sara and Tish have been killed. What should we ask for as an outcome?”

“That we figure out who did it?” I asked.

“Yeah, but we have to be really specific. Do we just want the person caught, or do you want to be the one who figures it out, or do you want the police to catch them?”

“Oh, come on. If that worked, I'd be burning brown candles every day asking to win the lottery,” Alex said.

Diana sighed. “You can't ask for something like that. And you need to know the spell.”

“I don't really care how the murderer is caught, as long as they pay for what they did,” I said.

“Okay. I'll write that we want the murderer brought to justice.”

She wrote on the paper, slipped it under the candle, put a few drops of oil near the wick, and then began to talk quietly to it. Alex leaned forward to try to hear what she was saying, but other than the lilting cadence, we couldn't make out the words. Diana lit the candle and said, “So mote it be.”

Alex leaned over and whispered to me. “What's a mote?” He typically avoided Diana's spell-casting if he could.

“It's like saying ‘must' or ‘may,' but it's very old.”

“That's it then? Can we all have a drink now?” Alex asked.

“I think we should do one more thing—a banishing spell. I used it after my parents died, and it helped a lot.” Diana thrust her hand back into her bag.

“What do we do?” I sighed, resigned to a night of Wicca and whiskey.

Diana pulled a small velvet bag out of her tote and tipped it onto my palm. A black stone landed in my hand. She set a bowl on my bedside table and poured water into it, then stirred in some sea salt.

“Hold the stone in your right hand and close your eyes. Visualize your grief for Tish moving into the stone.” Diana's voice was quiet and soothing. Even Alex was paying attention.

I held the stone and felt it begin to warm up in my hand. I imagined it taking on all the pain I felt today after Tish died and added all the sadness I had been carrying around for Sara and Jadyn. When I was done, the stone felt quite warm. She handed me a piece of paper and indicated that I should read it.

“Banishing stone, take my grief as your own. Banishing stone, set me free, so mote it be,” I read.

She pointed to the bowl and I dropped the stone into the water.

“Okay, stir it three times. Then we can take it outside and you have to throw it as far as you can away from the house.”

The stone was still warm when I took it out of the water, and I started to feel like maybe just the ritual of throwing my sorrow away would help. We trooped quietly through the house and out the back door. I threw it as hard as I had ever thrown anything. The stone arced high in the air and caught a glint of moonlight as it flew. I never heard it land.

The woods feel damp and close. My chest is tight and I
gasp for breath but keep moving. The darkness makes the familiar woods threatening. Twigs and roots grab at my feet and legs. My hand flies up to block the branches as they slap past my face and shoulders. I am holding a leash and it is pulling me forward, but I know I will be too late.

My feet crunch over the fallen leaves and suddenly I am in a small clearing. All I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. I stop to catch my breath. It comes ragged and harsh. I see Baxter up ahead as moonlight bursts into the clearing. Mac is there, shouting something. I run toward his outstretched arms, his eyes warm and inviting. I feel, rather than hear, an explosion. Mac looks surprised just before I fall. When I stand up again, Mac is gone and my hands are covered in blood. Baxter starts to howl and, as I wake up screaming, “Nooo!” I realize I am the one howling.

My room felt like an alien place as I awoke. I looked around for any lurking threat, but it was all just as I had left it. My laptop sat closed on the desk. Diana's bottle of sharp objects sat next to it, patiently waiting for me to change my mind about the protective spell. The curtains were drawn, but sunlight leaked through the cracks. The dream left me feeling disoriented and confused. My T-shirt was damp and my heart was thumping, but I began to calm down once I realized I was home and safe. That had been one of “those” dreams. The kind I wished to banish; a dream that warned of disasters to come. I went through it again in my mind—Mac, the blood, and me running toward him through the woods. It could only mean one thing: being with me would put Mac in danger. Even though I had never had success in altering the outcome of these dreams, I thought that, if I avoided Mac, I could keep him safe. I would have to figure out a way to maintain my distance.

* * *

I stumbled downstairs
in search of coffee, glad that it was Saturday and I didn't have any responsibilities. My brain was still foggy from the dream and probably from all the whiskey Alex had supplied. Mom greeted me by tapping her watch and giving me the look I used to get when I was late for the school bus.

“We have to leave in fifteen minutes,” she said.

“Leave?” I rubbed my forehead, trying to remember what we could possibly have to do this early in the morning.

She sighed. Then I noticed the black dress, pearls, and high heels. My mother only wears high heels to weddings and funerals. The funeral!

“I can be ready in ten.” I poured a cup and raced back up the stairs.

She followed me out of the kitchen. “Make it quick. I'm not waiting for you.”

Twenty minutes later, Mom, Dad, Vi, and I piled into Dad's 1980 Buick Regal. It was held together by rust and a prayer, but he refused to consider a new car. This one had “history.” Seth stayed behind with the dogs.

The packed parking lot gave testimony to either Sara's popularity or the lure of violent death. Most of the town milled about on the church steps and courtyard. Diana and Alex stood off to the side under an oak tree. I hugged Mom and told her I'd see her after the service. I didn't want to sit with my family. Vi whispered loudly about everyone around her when she was in public, and my mother was sure to sob through the whole thing—she was already welling up. As for Dad, I felt a little guilty about leaving him to fend for himself with the sisters, but not bad enough to stay.

Organ music began as I reached Alex and Diana. We barely had time to say hello before the crowd swept us into the church. While my family took seats toward the front, I gestured at Diana to grab a seat at the back, on the aisle. I like a quick escape route, and I wanted to observe the crowd. Gary sat in front with his daughters, Harriet Munson took a pew with several psychics I recognized from the Reading Room, and I spotted Milo Jones alone halfway back on the right. The Starks arrived late and scooted into the last pew on the far side of the church. I recognized most of the people gathered to say good-bye to Sara. It was likely her murderer was sitting in one of the pews pretending to mourn.

Just as we got settled, everyone around us stood to sing “Amazing Grace.” I rolled my eyes thinking of how Grace had convinced me as a child that the song had been written about her. Once we were seated again, Reverend Frew began his eulogy. My eyes prickled and my throat felt tight as he described Sara's daughters, friends, and clients, who had loved her and who had lost Sara too soon. I couldn't sit sobbing in church like my mother. We had been trained in the police academy to hide emotion and keep our feelings to ourselves. I would never pull that off if I had to sit there and hear stories about Sara right on the heels of Tish's death. I tried not to listen to the words but just let the sound of the reverend's voice wash over me. Big mistake.

Reverend Frew had also performed my grandmother's service fifteen years earlier. I had hardly been to church in all that time, so the sound of his voice, the smell of the flowers, and the sounds of people sniffling brought back my grandmother's funeral in vivid detail. My chest tightened, and I felt tears forming behind my eyes. I breathed slowly and focused on the ceiling, willing myself to gain control. Spiritualists believe that the dearly departed are merely moving to a different place. That the dead are still with us. But I knew I had never seen or spoken to my grandmother since her death.

The summer before she'd died of cancer, she'd promised to teach me how to filter the impressions that bombarded me throughout any given day. She said she could help me understand my dreams and that I probably was having “good news” dreams but was not aware of them, because they were much less intense than the “bad news” dreams. I had been thrilled with the idea of learning how to control the images and feelings that came to me uninvited.

Then she got sick and, before I knew it, before I had a chance to accept that she might not be in my life forever, she was gone. All she left was a small handwritten journal of her advice for me. I'd flipped through it briefly after her death, looking for quick answers, as only a fifteen-year-old can do. Frustrated by her advice to meditate and keep a record of my “precognitive experiences” to better hone my talent, I latched on to the one or two sentences that would free me the quickest: “Ignore your guides and they will eventually become quiet, waiting for you to seek them” and “Discounting feelings in favor of ‘facts' will lead to unreliable and diluted information.”

I had done both. I ignored all input that wasn't based on the normal five senses, and I never followed up on any “feelings.” Only a few messages came through after that. I dreamed of Diana's parents dying and never told anyone, in a superstitious hope that by remaining silent I could stop it from happening. Dean Roberts had been the last straw. After Mac left for Saginaw, I told my mother I was done trying to develop any psychic ability, and our long feud began. This past May, I finally followed a hunch, and screwed up so badly that I ran home to Crystal Haven.

I must have spaced out during the eulogy, because my thoughts were interrupted by loud organ music. I didn't recognize the song, but the organist was dragging out the notes to lend a dirge-like cadence to the piece. The coffin made its way down the aisle and out the front door, carried by Gary and several men I didn't recognize. My mother had said some of Sara's lawyer friends would be in attendance.

“Let's get out of here,” said Diana. She clutched a damp tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

We slipped out along the side aisle, avoiding the reception line, where Sara's daughters, Alison and Isabel, looked like they were holding each other up. I didn't want to force them to make small talk with me and skipped the line. We stood blinking in the sunshine before the organist could begin his next song.

Alex beat us out of the church but got caught in conversation with Joe Stark. Joe's hair was slicked back and touched the collar of his dark, immaculate suit. He watched Alex walk away and said something to Cecile, who looked in my direction and quickly glanced away.

“What was that about?” I asked Alex when he caught up to us.

“Stark wants me back at the restaurant ‘pronto,'” he said. “He thinks there will be a big crowd gathering after the funeral.”

“He doesn't seem very happy today,” Diana said, shielding her eyes to better spot Stark among the crowd.

“He's never happy,” Alex said. “He spends most of his time counting his sales receipts and grumbling about the bills.”

I was about to respond when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Mac leaning on his cane; he gave me a half smile.

“Hi.” He nodded to Diana and Alex. “Are you up to meeting with me to talk about Tish? I forgot when we made our plans yesterday that the funeral was today.”

“Yeah, I can meet with you.” I grabbed Diana's arm as she tried to edge away. “In about an hour, Daily Grind?”

“Sure, good.” He hesitated with his hand up, and I thought he was going to hug me, but he let his arm drop and turned away.

“What's up with him?” Diana said. “He was nice.”

I nodded as I watched him weave through the crowd.

* * *

I waited again
at The Daily Grind. I sipped my coffee and glowered at the clear blue sky as I replayed last night's dream. I should never have let Diana do those spells. I knew from experience that her spell work tended to bring on the dreams. I'd never told her, and certainly had never mentioned it to my mother, but something about Diana's rituals got my dream-mind working.

For Mac's own safety, I had to stay away from him. I'd have to pick a fight or come up with some excuse to keep my distance. It wouldn't be any different than the past eight years, but it made me sad. I wished once again that I had been given no “gift” at all. I often wondered if my grandmother knew about her own impending death.

“Clyde . . . hello.” Mac waved his hand in front of my eyes, interrupting my thoughts.

“Hey, Mac. Sorry.” I shook my head to clear it.

“I waved to you from outside, said hello when I came in, got my coffee . . . you were off somewhere else.” He smiled and sat down.

“Sorry, rough night.”

“I'm sure. I'm sorry about Tish. I know you were close.” He coughed and focused on dumping cream into his coffee cup.

We talked quietly about Tish, and I went over the timeline with him again.

Josh walked over with the coffeepot.

“Want a warm-up, Clyde?”

I nodded and pushed the cup toward him.

He started to pour and stopped.

“Man, things are not going his way,” he said, looking out the window.

Mac and I looked across the street to see Milo striding away from Cecile. She caught up to him and grabbed his arm, but he shook her hand off hard enough that she stumbled as he continued up the street.

“What's that all about?” I looked up at Josh.

“Dunno, but he and Joe were getting into it yesterday.” Josh shook his head and finished pouring the coffee.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Same thing. Milo came barreling out of the Grill, Joe right behind him, but he turned on Joe and pushed him against the wall. I don't know what they said, but it didn't look friendly.”

“Well, Joe isn't supporting Milo's bid to develop that land out along the highway. Maybe they're having some father-son disagreements about Milo's plans,” Mac said.

Josh shrugged and walked over to the counter to help the next customer.

I leaned forward to avoid being heard by nearby coffee drinkers. “Do you know Milo isn't really Joe's son?”

Mac looked up from his coffee, holding my gaze for a moment.

“Yeah. I know. I didn't think that was common knowledge, though.”

“How did you find out?”

“I worked the Julia Wyatt case.” He glanced out the window. “It came up then.”

“Don't you think he could have something to do with what's been going on around here?”

“No. I don't.” His eyes jerked back to me and had taken on that steely color I didn't like.

“Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“Stubborn? I'm doing my job. I'm working with real facts, not—”

“Not what?” I lifted my right eyebrow. Combined with the different-colored eyes, I thought it was very compelling. This might be my best chance for a fight. A way to put some distance between us.

“Not . . . hunches.” He glanced down again.

I stood quickly and knocked the chair over. I hesitated, feeling like maybe I had overplayed it.

“Wait, Clyde. I didn't mean it that way.” Mac stood and blocked my planned stomp out of the café. He took my arm and tried to steer me back to the chair.

“What way did you mean it?” I kept my voice low because the other customers were not even pretending to be minding their own business.

“I meant that this case is not your problem. It's my job to find the killer. Just . . . let me do my job and stay out of it.”