The Witch is Dead (3 page)

“What?” I fisted my hand on my hip. “There’s no such thing as fairies.”

“Humph,” Abby snorted over her shoulder. “Tell that to Aunt Dot.”

I closed the back door of the SUV with a bang and, after picking up the suitcase, made my own way up the path to the house.

I had a feeling this was going to besome visit.

Two

Before I reached the front steps, the screen door slammed and Tink came out onto the porch.

“Do you need help?” she asked, grasping one of the large pillars and leaning to the side, swinging back and forth.

“No,” I replied with a smile as I mounted the steps, “but thanks.” Setting the suitcase down, I took her other hand in mine. “What happened at the airport? I heard you gasp when you looked at the man who’d helped Aunt Dot off the plane.”

Tink’s face took on a worried expression. “I don’t know—it was weird. It felt as if something was poking at me, mentally, trying to get my attention.”

“A spirit?”

She lifted a thin shoulder. “I guess. I’ve noticed it before, when there’s been a recent death in someone’s family. It’s kinda like the spirit is still hovering around the family member and zeros in on me.”

“Maybe this man was flying home from attending a funeral.” I paused for a moment. “Do you ever drop your guard long enough to let them contact you?”

“No.” Her ponytail whipped back and forth as she shook
her head emphatically. “I’m afraid once I let them contact me, they’ll keep bugging me until they’re ready to leave.”

I squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry kiddo. As you get older, you’ll gain more control. When I was your age, I had a hard time shutting out the thoughts of others. I felt constantly bombarded by their feelings, but now I don’t sense things unless I want to.”

A grin drifted across her face. “That’s what Abby says, too.”

“There you go.” I picked up the suitcase and gave Tink’s hand a tug. “Come on, we’d better get inside.”

In the house, we were greeted by the sound of sharp toenails skittering across Abby’s hardwood floors. Lady, and Tink’s rambunctious terrier puppy, T.P., came careening around the corner of the living room. Part wolf, part German shepherd, Lady’s white tail wagged in greeting, while T.P. ran straight to Tink and jumped on her. Lady, polite as always, sat at my feet and watched me with a long suffering look that said, “Kids! What are you going to do with them?”

Laughing, I bent and scratched her ears. “Had problems keeping the youngster out of trouble, did you?” I glanced over my shoulder at Tink. “You’d better go check Abby’s bathrooms.”

With a groan, Tink headed down the hallway, with T.P. in hot pursuit.

Unable to think of an appropriate name for the puppy, Tink had started calling him “T.P.,” standing for “The Puppy,” until we could come up with a better name. Unfortunately, now the name also described his fondness for eating toilet paper. And he was absolutely psychic when it came to sensing a bathroom door left carelessly open. I hoped Abby had extra toilet paper.

Setting the suitcase in the hallway, I joined Abby and
Aunt Dot in Abby’s old-fashioned kitchen. Although the house was “modernized,” Abby preferred to keep her kitchen as her mother had in the mountains of Appalachia. A gleaming wood-burning cook stove sat along one wall, looking incongruous next to the electric refrigerator. A large kerosene lamp sat in the center of the table waiting to cast its warm glow throughout the room when darkness fell. A ceiling fan whirred softly overhead, sending the scent of Abby’s drying herbs drifting through the house. As always, stepping into the kitchen gave me a feeling of taking a step into the past.

Abby bustled around the room, laying out homemade bread, pickles, and meat for sandwiches. “Aunt Dot, it’s been a long day for you. After we eat, I’ll show you to the guest room so you can rest.”

“Ach, nonsense.” Aunt Dot waved a gnarled hand in Abby’s direction. “I’m not tired.” Glancing at the old-fashioned clock, she pointed to her canvas bag resting against a table leg. “Drag my bag to where I can reach it, Ophelia.”

Grabbing the bag by its handles, I scooted the bag over to Aunt Dot. She bent and began to pull out bottles filled with dark ruby liquid, placing each one carefully in front of her on the table. From across the kitchen I heard Abby’s soft moan.

“You really should get some rest, Aunt Dot,” she said in a firm voice.

“Fiddle.” Aunt Dot unscrewed the cap from one of the bottles, and the smell of fermented juice mingled with the aroma of herbs. “I haven’t been off that mountain and away from Sister for fifteen years.” She was referring to Abby’s aunt, and my great-aunt, Mary. “I intend to enjoy myself, so I don’t have time to be tired.” She reached up and patted her frizzy curls. “Why, I even went to the beauty parlor and had my hair done while Sister was at the general store getting supplies.”

Well, that explains the blue halo, I thought.

“Fetch me some glasses, will you Abby?”

Without a word, Abby placed three small glasses in front of Aunt Dot, who filled each one to the top and handed a glass to each of us. Holding her glass high, she looked first at Abby, then at me. “Salinte,” she said, and took a deep drink.

I took a cautious sip of the deep red liquid. The rich, sweet taste slid smoothly down my throat. Yum. I fought the desire to smack my lips.

“This is really good, Aunt Dot. What is it?” I asked, taking a larger swallow.

“Homemade elderberry wine.” She drained her glass and poured another one. “Sister and I make it every summer for our Saturday night wine time. The recipe’s a secret.”

I finished my glass and poured another, ignoring Abby’s raised eyebrows. It was only homemade wine, bottled by two little old ladies—how potent could it be?

Aunt Dot topped off her glass and settled back in her chair. Looking over her shoulder, she spied Tink standing in the doorway. She grabbed the chair next to her. “Here, child, come sit next to me.” Taking a quick peek at Abby, busy making sandwiches, she said, “Put the food away for now, dear, and join us. Sister and I never eat until wine time is over.”

Silently, Abby did as Aunt Dot requested and joined us at the old oak table.

“Now,” Aunt Dot said, turning to Tink. “Has Abby told you about the women in our family? About your legacy?”

“A little,” Tink replied, “but I’m not related to you by blood.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Aunt Dot fixed her bright blue eyes on Tink’s face. “You share our spirit, and fate made you a member of this family. You’ll carry on our heritage. A heritage that goes back over one hundred years.”

With a timid smile, Tink lowered her head. “Margaret Mary, Ophelia’s mom, didn’t inherit the gift, did she?”

“No,” I piped in. “Mother’s talents lie in other areas.”

Like being able to control all she surveys, I thought, but didn’t voice my opinion out loud.

Tink looked up and cocked her head. “So what are some of the different talents?”

“Ahh,” Aunt Dot said, pouring another glass of wine and passing me the bottle.

I filled my glass, too.

Aunt Dot continued. “Sister is a medium, like you. And you know Ophelia and Abby are both psychics, but their talents are a little different. Abby is good at sensing the future, and Ophelia seems to have a knack for finding things.”

“Things?” I said. If the past two years were any indication, those “things” usually turned out to be dead people.

Aunt Dot motioned in Abby’s direction. “Abby’s mother, my sister, Annie, was a healer. By laying hands on a sick neighbor, she could see the disease in her mind. If the illness was one she could help, she’d treat it using herbs and crystals.”

“Weren’t there any doctors?” Tink asked.

“Back then there weren’t many. And it took days to reach one. Some of our neighbors had no choice but to seek one out. Their illness was beyond Annie’s skills.” Aunt Dot stared off into space as if images from the past flickered through her mind. “Annie was also a midwife, and many women of the mountain had an easier time giving birth, thanks to her talent for easing the pain.” Aunt Dot’s eyes traveled to me. “Annie also used runes, like Ophelia here.”

“But I’m not as good as Annie was,” I said.

“Don’t fret about it. You haven’t had anyone to help you. Our grandfather, Jens, taught Annie.”

“I thought Annie was taught by your mother?”

“Mette Marie? No, our mother’s talents laying in sensing the weather, as did my grandmother’s, Flora Chisholm Swensen. At times, Mother could even call the rain.”

“Really?” I asked, surprise ringing in my voice. “I’d always assumed the runes came from Mette Marie.”

“No, from Jens. He was Danish, a descendant of the Vikings, and he had his own kind of magick.” Aunt Dot chortled. “It was fun as a child to visit my grandparents—a Scottish weather witch and a Vitki.”

“That’s a Viking shaman, right?” I broke in.

“Yes. We never knew what to expect.”

All this family history was confusing me. “But I thought your heritage was strictly Scottish.”

“No, my mother was half Danish, and the maternal side was Scottish—the Clan Chisholm—so Mother’s background was fine with my father, Walter Cameron. The Chisholms had fought on the right side with the Clan Cameron at the Battle of Culloden.”

“When was your father born?” I asked, even more confused.

“Hmm, let’s see…1896, I believe.”

I was shocked. The Battle of Culloden had occurred in the mid-1700s.

“But that battle happened over a century before Walter was even born!” I exclaimed. “Why would what side your ancestors fought on matter?”

Aunt Dot shook her head. “People in the mountains have long memories. Especially when it comes to the clans. It was one of the reasons my father was so against Annie marrying—”

“I really think we should eat now,” Abby said, popping out of her chair.

“Oh, sit back down.” Aunt Dot flapped her hand at Abby as she refilled her glass of wine—and mine. “After Annie laid eyes on Robert Campbell, she’d have no other, much to my father’s disgust.”

“I don’t mean to sound stupid, Aunt Dot, but what’s wrong with the Campbells?”

“They were on the wrong side. They fought with ‘Butcher’ Cumberland—”

“‘Butcher’ Cumberland?”

“The Duke of Cumberland—he led the British forces at Culloden, and even after the battle, continued to slaughter the clans, and the Campbells were with him.” Aunt Dot shook her head sadly and downed the rest of her wine. “My father always said ‘never could trust a Campbell.’ He—”

“Tink, dear, aren’t you hungry?” Abby said, cutting off Aunt Dot and smiling brightly at Tink.

“Gosh, I guess.”

“See, we need—”

I held up my hand, stopping her. “Wait a second.”

Aunt Dot’s little family history lesson was just getting interesting, and I wasn’t going to let anything, like food, interfere until I ferreted out all the dirt Abby was trying to hide.

“More wine, Aunt Dot?” I asked sweetly, and ignored the evil look Abby cast my way.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said, holding out her glass for more.

“So,” I said after filling her glass, “Walter didn’t want Annie to marry Robert?”

“No,” she replied vehemently. “Father was dead set against it, and nothing Annie or my mother could say would move him. Finally, Robert and Annie took matters into their own hands—”

I scooted forward in my chair. “They eloped?”

Aunt Dot gave Abby a wary look. “No—they had a lovely spring wedding in 1932. I think Father would’ve rather given Robert a horsewhipping than his daughter’s hand in marriage, but they didn’t leave him much choice.”

I did some fast mental arithmetic. Spring of 1932, huh? Abby was born in the fall of the same year. What a juicy family secret—Abby was conceived out of wedlock. I caught her shifting uncomfortably in her chair as a red stain spread across her cheeks.

Trying to put Abby at ease, I gave her a big grin. “I think that’s really romantic.”

“Humph, that’s not how most people looked at it back in the thirties,” she said as she firmly grasped the remaining wine bottles and removed them from the table—a safe distance from Aunt Dot and me. “Tink, would you set the table, please.”

Guess wine time was over.

Three

Oh, Lord, even my eyelids hurt, I thought, as I cautiously peeked at the bright sunshine spilling through the windows in one of Abby’s spare bedrooms. I had the mother of all hangovers, thanks to Aunt Dot’s lethal elderberry wine. Not even the wonderful sandwiches, homemade pickles, and potato salad that Abby served us last night had soaked up the alcohol contained in that wine. At the images of food, my stomach threatened to revolt, so I shoved them out of my head.

Coffee. I need coffee.

I grabbed one of my old robes from the closet and made my way down the stairs to the kitchen. Each step seemed to jar the headache pounding right behind both eyes.

Aspirin. Add aspirin to the coffee.

Wow, if I feel this bad, I can’t imagine how Aunt Dot must feel. I had a good sixty years on her. She’s probably still in bed.

I rounded the corner of the kitchen, and there she was. She was dressed in an old flannel robe that had seen better days, and was hustling around the kitchen without a care in the world. And to my bloodshot orbs, her hair looked even bluer than it did last night.