The Witch is Dead (7 page)

“Will Jason have to appear?”

“Gosh, I hope not. I don’t think it would be good for Tink to see him again. We’ll have to deal with it as it comes up. Right now, Warren is drafting a response to Jason’s attorney.”

“Don’t worry, dear, you have to have faith it will all work out.”

I exhaled. “That’s exactly what I told Tink. Do you think she’s doing okay?”

“She seems fine. I think it was a good idea to let her spend the night at Nell’s. They were going to the beach at Saylorville today with Nell’s parents. And there’s the campout this weekend.”

I slapped my forehead. “That’s right—we’re supposed to join Nell and her family out at Rosemen State Park on Saturday night.” I grimaced. “Spending the night in a tent isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

Abby chuckled. “You’ll have a good time, and it will be a nice distraction for Tink—” She stopped abruptly. “She hasn’t had any more nightmares, has she?”

“No, or any ‘icky’ feelings.”

Abby nodded wisely. “That’s good. It wouldn’t do for her to wake the whole campground because of a bad dream.”

I shivered at the thought. “No.”

“Have you done a rune reading? One might shed some light on what’s going on with her.”

“No, but I will, if it happens again.” I shook my head. “I’m not sensing anything, so I just don’t—”

I broke off when Georgia, owner of the local bed and breakfast—and Darci’s source of all gossip concerning the
citizens of Summerset—came striding in the door.

Her red ponytail bounced as she hurried over to the counter where Abby and I stood. She plunked down the stack of books in her arms and turned to me. “Where’s Darci?” she asked in an agitated voice.

“Down in the basement, giving Aunt Dot a tour? Why?”

“Haven’t you heard—” Georgia stopped at the sound of Aunt Dot and Darci coming up the stairs. She waited, fidgeting back and forth, until they reached us.

“What’s up, Georgia?” Darci asked, reading her excitement.

“Did you guys hear about what happened over in Aiken?”

Bill had mentioned Aiken at lunch on Monday. I felt my stomach clench with apprehension.

“No,” Darci replied, her eyes widening with curiosity.

From where she stood next to Darci, I noticed Aunt Dot go on alert, too.

“A man was embalmed alive!”

Everyone’s jaws dropped as the gruesome image lodged in our minds. No one spoke.

Abby was the first one to break the silence. “Georgia, that has to be a rumor. A body isn’t embalmed until a doctor has examined it to make sure the person has passed. It’s impossible for someone to still be a—”

Georgia didn’t let Abby finish. “Not if it was murder.”

“Murder?” Aunt Dot quivered with anticipation.

I stifled the groan rising in my throat as Georgia continued.

“Alan said the victim was hooked up to the embalming machine via an IV.” She held out her right arm and pointed to a vein. “Then another IV was placed in the other arm,” she said, holding out her left arm. “As the fluid was pumped in on one side, the blood was forced out on the other side,
and—”

I held up a hand, stopping her. “That’s enough. We get the picture.”

“Wait a second,” Darci said. “You just can’t grab somebody, break into the nearest funeral home, and embalm them.”

“The victim was already in the funeral home. No one had to snatch him,” Georgia explained breathlessly. “His name was Bu—”

I finished for her. “Buchanan.”

Georgia pivoted in surprise. “How did you know?”

Aunt Dot gasped. “I know him. I met him on my plane ride from North Carolina. I sat right next to him!” Her eyes glowing with fervor darted first to me, then to Abby. “It’s a sign. We’re destined to solve his murder!”

Claire’s candidate was late for her interview. Not a good way to impress the interviewer. But it was just as well. Her delay would give me some time to recoup from Georgia’s news. And deal with the headache nagging behind my left eye. One not caused this time by Aunt Dot’s wine. No, the cause of this headache was the tension in the back of my neck. What was causing it? Simple: How did I explain Mr. Buchanan’s murder to Tink?

Tink had already voiced a concern that her “icky” feeling at meeting Mr. Buchanan had been a warning. Once she learned that he’d been murdered, I knew she would feel guilty. She would think that she had somehow failed to avert a tragedy.

And boy, oh boy, did I know all about that feeling—when my best friend, Brian, had been murdered several years ago, and my vision had failed to stop his death. The event sent me into a tailspin that took me years to recover from. I’d shut
myself off from everyone except Abby, fearful of getting close to anyone again, turning my back on my gift and my heritage. It wasn’t until I was pulled kicking and screaming into a murder investigation that the walls I’d built around my life began to crumble. My involvement made me realize that I couldn’t hide from who and what I was.

I couldn’t let the same thing to happen to Tink.

Rubbing my forehead, I wished the headache away.

It didn’t work.

Frustrated, I began to pace my small office. From the shelves, pictures of Abby, Tink, my parents, stared down at me. As in my office at home, several crystals lay scattered about my desk. Pausing, I picked up a disk made of moonstone. Moonstone—calmness and awareness—did I need that. I rubbed the milky white disk between my fingers and tried to let its energy seep into my mind while I resumed my trip around the room.

Why hadn’t either Abby or I picked up on Mr. Buchanan’s approaching death? We both were psychics.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

If Bill had known about Buchanan’s death on Monday, and we met him on Saturday, the murder had to have happened either Saturday night or Sunday. Had Buchanan’s killer been waiting for him when he returned to the funeral home? The idea made the tension in my neck squeeze harder.

How could wenot have sensed the tragedy waiting to happen? Especially Abby. I’d been standing with Tink, away from Aunt Dot and Abby. Maybe I was too far away to get a read on him, but Abby? She’d stood next to him, even shook his hand when Aunt Dot made the introductions. And Abby was very,very good at reading people she touched.

I grasped the moonstone tighter.

These thoughts and pacing around weren’t getting me
anywhere. The only way to find answers would be to discuss the situation with Abby, preferably without Aunt Dot around.

I sighed deeply. Abby was going to have her hands full with Aunt Dot. She’d hustled Dot out of the library right after Georgia’s announcement, but it was too late. Even as they left, I overheard Aunt Dot asking how we were going to help the sheriff solve Buchanan’s murder. I didn’t envy Abby the job of keeping her out of this. Long ago, I decided another trait the women in our family shared was persistence. And I had a feeling Aunt Dot possessed that quality in spades.

But Abby would have to handle it on her own. I had Tink to worry about.

A sharp knock on my door interrupted my musings.

“Come in,” I called out as I placed the moonstone back on my desk.

The door swung open to reveal Darci standing there. “Your interview is here.” She stepped aside and allowed a woman to cross the threshold.

With a deep breath, I looked at the person who might replace Darci.

Seven

“Ophelia,” Darci said, “this is Gertrude Duncan.”

The woman Darci ushered in was tiny. Dressed completely and immaculately in black, she wore understated pearl studs in her ears and a carved silver pendant. Her age was hard to judge—she could’ve been anywhere from her late forties to mid-fifties. Her demeanor was both refined and assured. She could have looked dowdy, but she’d added a little “funk” to her appearance by wearing her dark red hair in short spikes. From behind burgundy framed glasses, brown eyes studied me expectantly.

“It’s wonderful meeting you, Ms. Jensen,” she said, extending her hand. “Claire speaks very highly of you.”

Her voice was low and well-modulated. Her words carried a faint southern drawl, but different from Aunt Dot’s.

“Have a seat, and please call me Ophelia,” I said, motioning to a chair at the corner of my desk. Turning to the door, I caught Darci’s questioning look and gave my head a slight shake. Smiling, she wiggled her eyebrows and mouthedGood luck as she quietly shut the door.

“From your accent, Ms. Duncan, I take it you’re not from the Midwest?” I said as I seated myself behind my desk.

She chuckled. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? All I have to do is open my mouth. And call me Gert.” She inched back in her chair, demurely crossed her legs at the ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her posture was impeccable.

Wow, I thought, this woman could almost outlady Abby.

“I was born in St. Tammany Parish in New Orleans,” she replied softly, “but Mama grew up here in Iowa. We moved back to help with my grandma. Even though Grandma’s passed, Mama wants to stay. We were living in the city, but Mama didn’t like it.” She lowered her eyes. “Mama’s not well—her nerves. She still mourns Grandma, you know, and all the noise in the city bothered her something terrible. Now we’re renting a sweet little farmhouse south of town. The old Blunt place.”

“I know that place. I didn’t realize the Blunts were renting it out,” I commented, leaning back in my chair. “Your mother won’t mind being alone while you’re at the library?”

“Oh no, Mama loves to cook. She keeps herself busy in the kitchen all day long. I’m the one who has the problem.” Gert lifted her chin. “And if I may be forthright, though I love my mama to death, being out in the country day in and day out is driving me a mite stir crazy.” She smiled broadly as she rubbed her pendant. “That’s why I rushed right in and applied for this job. It would suit me to a T. I could still spend time with Mama but get out once in a while, too.”

“I see. As Claire told you, we only need help two or three afternoons a week.”

“Like I said, Ms. Jen—er, Ophelia, this would be perfect for my situation.” Gert removed an envelope from her purse and handed it to me. “Here’s my job résumé. I’m afraid my most recent employer is no longer in business. I would have to call friends in New Orleans to obtain his current phone
number. I’d be happy to do so, but I was in a bit of a hurry to meet with you today.”

I had a strong feeling Gert knew how to conduct an interview better than I did.Jeez, Jensen, you should be writing stuff down. At least look like you know what you’re doing!

Placing the envelope to one side, I picked up a pen.

“Ahh…do you enjoy reading, Gert?”

Her face beamed “’Course I do. I adore mysteries—Rebeccais my favorite.”

I made a note. “What about the current best-sellers?”

“Oh yes,” she exclaimed, and rattled off a list of titles and authors, some of whom I’d never even heard of.

“Romance? Do you read any romance?”

A faint tinge of pink bloomed on her fair cheeks. “Yes, but Mama thinks they’re unseemly.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I said with a flip of my hand. “We have several closet-romance readers as patrons. The steamier, the better. If you know what’s popular, you’ll be able to help them find the newest releases.”

“I also love true crime,” she said in a hushed voice, as if Mama might be able to hear her confession from her little house clear out in the country.

“Ann Rule?”

“Oh my,” she said, clasping a hand to her chest. “The way she gets into the mind of those killers, it’s amazing.” She scooted forward to the edge of her chair. “You can learn from reading Ann Rule, too. Her books show how the authorities go about catching those bad people.”

Gert seemed sweet and kind of naive. She also seemed to be under Mama’s controlling thumb. I could see where working at the library would be a release for her.

I tapped my pen on my desk. “How would you rate your people skills?”

“I don’t like to brag, but I have a knack for handling difficult people.”

Hmm, like Mama?But I didn’t voice my question.

“I’m also proficient at the computer and I type eighty-five words a minute.”

Thoughts of the never-ending project of entering our entire inventory into the computer sprang to mind. I’d been working on that sucker for over a year and had about given up on ever finishing. A fast typist would be an asset.

I asked her a few more inconsequential questions, but as far as I was concerned she had the job.

Finally, I put my pen down. “Do you have any questions for me, Gert?”

“No,” she replied as she stood to leave. “I do thank you for taking the time to speak with me, and I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

She extended her hand, and I gave it a firm shake. “Claire and the board do the actual hiring, but I’ll pass along my recommendation. Their next meeting is tomorrow evening.” I glanced down at the envelope. “Is a number where you can be reached included on your résumé?”

“It surely is.” A look of concern crossed her face. “Please, if Mama answers the phone, don’t be alarmed. She can be a little gruff at times.”