The Trouble With Witches (5 page)

By seven o'clock that evening my suitcases were packed and lined in a neat row in the hallway by my front door. Not that I had many—I'm a blue jeans and T-shirt kind of a girl, and packing a week's worth was a snap. Now all I needed to do was fetch the cat carrier in from the garage. But that would wait until morning.
Queenie
viewed the box as an instrument of torture, and if she saw it before then, she'd take off and I'd be playing hide and seek trying to find her.

I stood in the hallway, hands on my hips, surveying the suitcases and going over my list of last minute details in my mind when the doorbell rang. Startled, I jumped. Who could be stopping by this time of night?
Probably
Darci
with one last bid to be included in the trip.

When I peeked out the window, I was surprised to see Henry
Comacho
standing on my front porch. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, he glanced around the neighborhood before pressing the bell again. Now what did he want? I'd failed so miserably in helping him find the missing man; he surely didn't want me to try again? Nope. I didn't see a folder in his hand. I crossed to the door and opened it.

"Hey, Henry.
What can I do for you?" I asked.

He shoved his hands in his pockets before answering me. "
Ahh
, sorry to stop by without calling, but I wanted to apologize if I was a little short with you on Saturday." He stared at a spot over my right shoulder, not meeting my eyes. "I know you did your best."

Hmm, the Iceman apologizing?
I knew the words "I'm sorry" tended to gag Henry, so he must really feel bad. That or he wanted something else from me.

"It's okay," I said, swinging the door wider. "I know you were counting on my help. I'm sorry that what I saw couldn't lead you to the body."

"We,
ahh
, found his car Sunday. There's a bike rack on it, but no bike. And his wife said his backpack is gone, too."

"So he could be anywhere?"

"Yeah.
And if what you saw was the truth, now we know he's dead."

I thought about the pile of bones. "Oh, he's dead," I said emphatically.

"Yeah, well." Henry stopped, pulled his hands out of his pocket and ran a hand through his hair.

I felt Henry's doubt, his uncertainty. My talent was hard for him to accept, so I took pity on him. "Listen, would you like some iced tea? It's too hot for coffee, but I've got sun tea in the fridge."

He ran a hand through his hair again.
"Yeah.
Sure."

I turned and started to walk back to the kitchen, presuming Henry followed. But when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw he had stopped and was looking at the neat row of suitcases.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

"Yup."
Okay, so do I tell him the truth or not? Abby always said honesty was the best policy, so I opted for the truth.
At least part of the truth.

"Let me pour the tea," I said, hustling down the hall, "and I'll explain."

In the kitchen, I poured two glasses of tea while Henry settled down at the table. Seating myself, I took a long drink from my glass, stalling.

"Are you going to tell me where you're going?" Henry asked, watching me.

"Yes," I said, setting my glass down. "Abby and I are going to
Minnesota
.
To
Gunhammer
Lake
."

Henry's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Umm, an old friend invited us."

His eyes were narrowed into slits now. "What old friend?"

"Rick Delaney," I said, popping out of my chair. "Hey, would you like some sugar for your tea?"

He reached over and lightly grabbed my arm. "No thanks. Will you sit down and tell me why Rick Delaney invited you to
Minnesota
? He's the reporter involved with you in that drug bust last fall, isn't he?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, sitting back down and tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "He has a little problem and he thinks Abby and I can help him."

"What kind of problem?" Henry took a long drink of tea.

"Oh, you know. Just a problem," I said, wiping the beads of moisture off my glass of tea.

"No, I don't know," he said, watching me closely.
" 'Just
a problem' isn't very specific."

I should've known it wasn't going to be easy telling Henry only part of the truth. He was a cop, and, I knew from experience, very good at pulling information out of someone. He tried often enough with me in the past.
Might as well lay the whole story out.

"Okay. There's a missing girl he thinks we can help him find. She was last seen at
Gunhammer
Lake
, where she was involved with a group up there."

"Group?"
His voice had a distinct edge. "You mean as in cult?"

I slapped my hand on the table and smiled. "You know, Henry, it's funny you should say that. I asked Rick the same question."

He slid his glass out of the way and folded his hands. "And his answer was?"

My smile faded. "
Ahh
, he didn't think so?"

"Are you asking me if that's what he said?" He looked at me intently.

"Well, no." My words stumbled out of my mouth. "I mean, you weren't there, so how could you know what he said?"

"You're right, I wasn't there," he said in a tone one would use with a four-year-old. "I don't know what he said. That's why I'm trying to get the information out of you."

"There's no need to be sarcastic about it," I said, taking another sip of tea.

Henry pulled a hand through his hair. It seemed to be a constant habit of his whenever he was around me.

"Look, just tell what you're planning on doing."

"Oh, all right," I said, and gave up on disseminating. I looked at Henry with steely eyes. "You're not going to yell, are you? Lady doesn't like it when you yell."

Lady, from where she was laying on the floor by Henry's chair, perked up her ears at the sound of her name.

Henry reached down and scratched her ears. "No, I'm not going to yell," he said, smiling down at the dog.

"Well, then. The group in
Minnesota
that the girl, Brandi, was involved with is supposedly conducting research into psychic phenomena and the paranormal. We're going to ask some questions; snoop around. Rick thinks—" I was so involved in my story, I missed the look on Henry's face, and I jumped when his voice echoed off the kitchen walls.

"You're what?"

"Hey, you said you wouldn't yell," I said indignantly.

"I said that before I knew what a scatterbrained scheme you've gotten yourself into." He pushed back from the table.

"It's
not
scatterbrained," I said, my voice rising. "Rick thinks it's a great idea sending two psychics up to the lake to investigate. Rick also thinks—"

"I don't give a good god—" Henry stopped and tried to compose himself before continuing. "I don't care what Rick thinks. Number one," he said, holding up one finger, "neither you nor Abby are trained investigators." He held up a second finger. "Number two, you have no business bumbling into a situation that could be dangerous. Number three—"

"Look, I understand," I said, cutting him short. "And I take exception to the word 'bumbling.' I do not bumble." I crossed my arms in front of me.

"No, you just fall over dead bodies all the time," he said, glaring at me.

"Only two," I shot back.

"That's two more than most people," he said, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table.

"Hey, that's not my fault. And finding those bodies helped catch two killers. Did you forget about that?" I pointed out, leaning forward.

"Right.
And the first time you got shot, and the second time you were going to be strangled and dumped in hog manure."

He had a point.

"I'll be careful."

"You are not going," he said decisively, and sat back in his chair.

I sprang to my feet and stood as tall as my five-foot-four height would allow. "Listen, you have no right to tell me what I will or will not do. If I want to help find this lost girl, that's my business, not yours." Now it was my voice that echoed in the kitchen. "You didn't think twice about asking me to help you."

By now Henry was also standing. "When I asked you to help me, it didn't require you to be put in the line of fire. All I did was ask you to look at pictures. Not cozy up to some cult." He took one step toward me.

"We're not joining a cult," I said, taking a step toward him.

"No, you're going to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong.
Again.
And one of these days, it's going to get cut off." He took another step forward.

The distance between us had closed, and we were right in each other's face. Henry's eyes were flashing black fire, and I'm sure mine were just as angry.

"It's none of your concern if I get my nose cut off," I said right in his face.

"Maybe it isn't." He took a deep breath. "Maybe you expect your
psychic
talent will save you," he
said,
his voice derisive.
"Or maybe witchcraft."
He snorted. "I hope you do a better job for Rick than you did for me."

I knew Henry had a problem accepting my talents, but his remark cut deep. I took a step back. "You just don't get it, do you? I couldn't help you so that means I'm a fake?" I narrowed my eyes and stared at him. "You had a front row seat to what I can do, but you don't want to accept that there might be more to the world than you can explain."

"What's to explain?" Henry reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out his sunglasses. "Sure, I gave it a shot, to see if you could help me, but it didn't work. I get more results dealing in facts, not hocus-pocus."

The next thing I knew, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the kitchen. The last thing I heard was Henry slamming out of the door and out of my life.

I paced the small space between the beds and the dresser.
Queenie
lay curled up on one of the pillows, while Lady slept in the corner with her head resting on her paws.

I guess I wore her out with my pacing.

The room Rick had reserved for us at the motel was nice, nothing fancy, but nice. Floral bedspreads covered the two queen-size beds, and a little table, with an armchair positioned next to it, sat by the window. Abby sat in the chair now, trying to read and ignore my pacing. After an uneventful trip from Summerset to the Twin Cities, we had decided we'd stay in St. Paul that night, meet Brandi's family,
then
drive to
Gunhammer
Lake
in the morning. Right now we were waiting for Rick to pick us up and drive us to the Peters home. And as usual Rick was late.

I paused in my pacing and glanced at my reflection in the mirror.

"My hair," I said while I fluffed the dark brown strands with my fingers, "are you sure it looks okay?"

Abby's eyes met mine in the mirror and she smiled. "Yes, Ophelia, it looks fine. The highlights
Darci
persuaded you to add are very becoming."

"What about these jeans?" I asked. Turning sideways and sucking my stomach in, I critically eyed
myself
in the mirror. "Do they make me look fat?"

"No, dear, they don't make you look fat."

In the mirror, I saw Abby pick up her book and start reading again.

"You're sure?" I fluffed my hair again.

With a sigh, she laid her book on the table. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm also sure your hair looks fine, the top you're wearing is lovely, and your makeup is just right."

"Rick's late, you know," I said, turning and leaning against the dresser.

"Yes. I know. Maybe he was held up at the newspaper."

"He could've called," I said, twisting back around to the mirror and brushing a stray hair away from my face. In the mirror, I saw Abby shake her head. "Well, he could of," I said, my tone defensive.

"Would you please sit down? All your pacing and preening is wearing, not only Lady, but me out."

Reluctantly, I walked to the bed near Abby and sat, clasping my hands tightly in my lap.

She watched me with a wry look on her face. "I swear
,
you're like a spring wound too tight." Reaching over to me, she placed a gentle hand on my knee. "What's wrong with you tonight, Ophelia?"

I tugged at my lower lip. "I don't know."

"Is it meeting Rick again after all these months?" she asked.

"Of course not," I replied, lifting my chin.

A look of disbelief crossed Abby's face. "You haven't seen him since last November."

"So?" I said, popping to my feet and striding to the window. "Rick is only a friend, nothing more." I pulled back a corner of the curtain and peered out the window into the parking lot. Truth was
,
I didn't know how I felt. Letting the curtain fall back into place, I walked back to the bed and plopped down.

Abby eased back in the
chair,
lowered her head and studied her folded hands.

"You don't believe me, do you?" I asked.

She raised her head and looked at me. "No, I don't. You and Rick shared a very intense experience, a life threatening experience. That can draw people together, create a bond—"

"Maybe, but whatever bond might have existed last November couldn't stretch over the three hundred miles that separated us." I leaned toward Abby. "And remember, at the time, you told me Rick wasn't the one for me."

"Yes, I did. And at the time, he wasn't. But now…" Her voice trailed off.

I leaned closer. "What do you mean 'but now'?"

Abby lifted her shoulders. "Life's pattern can change. What is true one moment, might not be true the next."

"And now?
What's true now?" I asked.

Before she could answer, we heard a sharp rap at the door.

Exchanging a look with Abby, I rose slowly and walked to the door. After turning the dead bolt, I opened it.