The Witch’s Grave (5 page)

Claire picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Claire—Ophelia.”

“Ophelia.” She sounded pleased. “I’ve been meaning to call you today. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” I picked up my pen and began to draw little stars around the first
trouble
written on the order form.

“Have you heard anything about Stephen Larsen’s condition?” Claire asked.

“I drove to the hospital this morning before work—” I hesitated, remembering the pat line the receptionist had given me. “He’s in critical but stable condition.”

Claire sighed deeply. “I feel terrible about what happened, and I’m worried about how this will affect our fundraising efforts.”

“Claire,” I replied in a shocked voice. “A man’s lying in the hospital, and you’re worried about
bad press
?”

“Yes, I’m concerned about bad press. Recently, a new employee kidnapped your daughter, now an author is shot at our fund-raiser,” she chided. “Let’s be honest…that’s not the kind of attention we want for our library.”

“No, of course not, but the two incidents were unrelated,” I argued as I moved to the second
trouble
and continued making stars. “The shooting could have been an accident. And with Tink’s kidnapping, it was a case of something out
of the past coming back to haunt us. No one had control over either situation.”

“True,” she replied cautiously.

“I really wouldn’t worry about it, Claire. You know how small towns are,” I said, my pen flying over the paper as I scribbled more and more stars. “People will forget about what happened as soon as the next scandal comes along.”

Here’s hoping I’m right.

I could almost hear Claire turning my words over in her mind.

“That’s a valid statement. No sense in anticipating trouble,” she finally replied.

I looked down at the words
trouble,
with stars circling around them, and stifled a snort.

Nope…no sense looking for it when it seems to come looking for you.
I cleared my throat.
Time to cut to the chase, Jensen.

Shoving out of my chair, I stood and walked around the corner of my desk. “The reason I called—may I have a copy of the guest list?”

Claire hesitated. “Why?”

“Um, well…” My voice trailed away as I began to pace the floor.
Dang, I hadn’t thought this through. Why did I want the guest list?
Inspiration flashed and I froze. “Thank-you notes,” I blurted out as I crossed my fingers.

“Thank-you notes?”

“Yes,” I answered, and resumed my pacing. “Even though the day ended badly, shouldn’t we still thank everyone who attended?”

“Well, yes…” She paused. “But how are you going to address the shooting?”

“I won’t. Everyone knows what happened. I’ll simply say something like. ‘Thank you so much for your support.’” I talked faster. “It will be a good project for me. Help distract me.”

“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “A handwritten note is always a nice touch…but I’ll take care of the note to Chuck Krause. He came at my specific invitation. Hmm, good idea,” she murmured more to herself than me. “A personal note from me will show there are no hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings?”

“You didn’t meet him, did you?” she mused. “In all the excitement, I didn’t have a chance to introduce you to Chuck. He’s running for state representative in the next election, and we had a very heated discussion concerning his politics.”

“A tall man with blond hair?” I asked, remembering the man I’d seen Claire give “the look.”

“That’s him. Chuck was born and raised in California, but he moved here when he married Jolene. Did you meet him?”

“No, but I noticed you talking with him. I take it his views are conservative?”

“In some ways. You’d think someone from California would be more liberal. He’s taking a hard line on crime prevention, but I mainly disagree with his views concerning undocumented immigrants.”

I didn’t get it. “Undocumented immigrants?”

“Illegal aliens,” she explained, “but that’s not a politically correct term.”

“I see.”

“I like Chuck,” she said, warming up to the subject, “but he doesn’t see the big picture. He thinks it can be addressed at a state level. He wants a deportation crackdown, to cut state spending on educational programs”—she continued to rattle off a list of Krause’s policies—“to penalize employers who knowingly hire undocumented workers, make it harder for low income—which these people are—to receive public ser vices.”

“Well, those programs do spend tax dollars,” I answered, crossing back to my desk and sitting. “And if he grew up in California, that state—”

“These people pay taxes, too—sales tax, for one,” she interjected, cutting me off. “And if they have a false Social Security number and work for an employer, they pay not only federal and state taxes, but Medicare and Social Security.” Claire caught her breath. “There are billions that they’ve paid in, but that will never be claimed because of their legal status.”

Picking up my pen, I tapped it on the edge of my desk. “That’s interesting, but you know how nonpolitical I am. I don’t keep up on these things.”

“Ophelia,” she said in a frosty voice, as I imagined her peering at the phone over the top of her glasses, “how can you make an informed decision at the polls if you don’t keep abreast of the issues?”

She had me on that one.

“Well, ah, I…” I stuttered.

Claire ignored my mumbling. “The status of undocumented workers needs to be addressed on both a national and international level.” Her voice rose in excitement. “And between the countries engaged in the fair trade agreements…”

My eyes glazed over listening to her as I tried to think of a graceful way to end the conversation. Claire would keep me on the phone for hours expounding her political views.

“…then there are the corporations that actually lure immigrant workers to this country with flyers promising jobs. Once here, without documents, these people have no voice. They—”

“Gee, Claire, sorry to cut you off,” I interrupted, “but I’m down in my office and someone’s at the door.” I rapped a couple of times on the corner of my desk. “I’ll pick up the guest list later and get right to work on those thank-yous.”

I groaned after hanging up. I felt guilty lying to Claire, but while she might be focused on an upcoming election, I
had more weighty matters on my mind…like attempted murder. I appreciated Claire’s passion—people like her changed the world.

All I wanted to do was save mine.

At four o’clock I ventured out of my office and upstairs. Darci stood at the counter, looking bored.

“Slow day?” I asked, crossing to her.

“Yeah,” she replied with a toss of her head. “I think it’s too hot for people to venture out today. Did you know school was let out early?”

My thoughts flew to Tink. Did she ride the bus out to Abby’s? Another pang of guilt hit me: What kind of mother was I? I didn’t even know where my kid was.

I grabbed the phone from behind the counter and called Abby.

“Abby’s Greenhouse,” Tink answered.

A hand flew to my chest. “Good. Darci just told me that school was dismissed early, and I—”

“Ophelia,” Tink interrupted with a tinge of exasperation. “You’ve got to quit worrying. I’m okay. I rode the bus like I was supposed to.”

“Okay, okay,” I replied, trying to hide my relief. “How’s it going?”

“Hot.” She sounded grumpy. “Abby had me repotting plants all afternoon.”

“How was your first day of school?”

“All right…Mrs. Olson gave us homework. Can you believe it? The first day of school and she assigns an essay.”

I gave a low chuckle. “You’re in ninth grade now. Your teachers are starting to prepare you for what it will be like when you go to college.”

A tiny feeling of loss squeezed my heart as I said the words. Tink had been in my life such a short time, and already we were planning for the day when she’d be on her own.

Her voice in my ear broke the spell. “I don’t care what they’re trying to do, it’s still not fair.”

“Is the essay going to be hard?”

“Ha,” she said with snort. “It’s one of those stupid ‘how was your summer’ things.” She giggled in my ear. “Think I should write about Gert and Winnie?”

“Ah, probably not,” I answered with a shake of my head.

The kid amazed me. She was held captive for a week, yet had never been afraid. When we finally found her, she was more annoyed at Gert and Winnie than anything else. Her total lack of fear was just one more reason that I needed to keep her out of the current situation.

“You’re right, I guess,” she said. “I’ll write something about working at the greenhouse.” She paused. “What time will you pick me up?”

“Um…I’ve a few errands to run, so it will—”

“What kind of errands?” she asked, breaking in.

Great, another lie. I sure seemed to telling a lot of those today.

“Oh you know, get groceries, stop by Claire’s, that kind of thing.”

“I was going to ask if I could go with you, but forget that if you’re going to Mrs. Canyon’s. You’ll be there for hours,” she groused.

“I promise I won’t be long.”

“Aw, that’s okay,” she said, her tone abruptly changing. “After we close, Abby’s going to show me the journals.”

Ah yes, “the journals”—private diaries kept by the women in my family for over a hundred years. They held spells, incantations, folk remedies—things my ancestors had used while living in the mountains of Appalachia.

“That’s fine, but don’t be getting any big ideas,” I warned. “Remember—”

“‘Don’t conjure what you can’t banish.’ Like I haven’t heard that before.”

In my mind, I could almost see Tink rolling her eyes as she said it.

“Exactly.”

“Hey, speaking of conjuring, I’ve been thinking about yesterday, and—”

Nope, couldn’t let the conversation go there.
“Hey, I’ve got some work I need to finish before closing,” I said in a rush, not letting her finish, “so I need to go. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay, see ya—love ya.”

“Love you, too.”

I turned to see Darci watching me with a bemused expression. “Tink busy at Abby’s?”

“Yeah,” I said with a laugh. “And she’s ticked that she’s got homework tonight.”

“The teachers don’t waste much time, do they?”

“No, they don’t…”
Here was my chance to do a little of my own damage control.
“About Tink and our early conversation—”

Darci arched an eyebrow. “You mean the one where you stated, ‘I’m right and I’m going to prove it’?”

“Ah, yeah, that one.” I looked down and fiddled with a button on my jacket. “My words were rash. I’d never do anything that might place Tink or Abby in jeopardy.”

Darci placed a hand on my arm, and I raised my eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply that you would,” she said softly.

“I know…as I said, my words were rash, and I’m sure a result of Bill and Ethan’s attitude. At times it’s frustrating.” I glanced down, then back up at Darci with a bright smile. “Bill’s good at his job. He’ll get to the bottom of Stephen’s shooting without any help from me.”

“Hmmm.” Darci tapped her chin with one finger. “While you were in your office, I thought about your dreams, the shooting, and did a little thinking.”

“Yeah?”
Knowing Darci’s creative mind—this ought to be good.

“Yeah, I’m not a psychic, but maybe the dreams were only a sign that you’d meet him. Your dreams never indicated any danger, did they?”

I thought about my dream last night and told another lie. “No.”

“Maybe the reason you didn’t sense any trouble is because what happened has nothing to do with your connection to Stephen.”

I nodded my head wisely. “You know, you’re probably right,” I replied, once again lying through my teeth. “I’m placing way too much emphasis on that connection.” I held a finger in the air. “Which is another good reason for me to stay out of the investigation.”

“You really think I might be right?” Darci’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes,” I answered, trying to sound convincing.

“Great.” She turned toward the clock hanging on the far wall. “Would you mind if I left early?”

I shrugged. “Might as well. I can close up by myself.”

She hustled behind the counter and grabbed her bag. “I’ve got a date with Jimmy McGuire tonight.”

Shaking my head, I watched her hurry to the door and, with a quick wiggle of her fingers at me, disappear outside.

Crossing to the top of the stairs, I flipped the switch, shutting off the basement lights. Darci was amazing—she went through men like Kleenex, but always managed to keep them as friends. She also had a very astute mind.

Did she buy into my lies?

Gosh, I hoped so.

The sun had begun its downward slide toward the western horizon by the time I left the library, but it was still hot. After throwing my linen jacket in the backseat, I headed for the winery. The shadows seemed to lengthen across the blacktop as I sped down the road. And even though the air conditioner was cranked on high, the heat had my light blouse sticking to my back.

I turned right onto a gravel road that was no more than a path, and into the winery parking lot. A large building holding the reception room and gift shop sat in front of me. Yesterday large crowds had gathered on its wide deck and lawn, but today it was empty. After leaving the car, I was moving toward the steps leading to the entrance when out of the corner of my eye I spied an employee working on the vines. With one foot on the step, I stopped and watched.

The man wore a denim shirt, blue jeans, and a sweat-stained straw hat. Leaning close to the vine, he pruned away some of the leaves hiding the thick clusters of grapes. His clippers paused and he turned, his brown eyes meeting mine across the distance. They flashed with recognition, while suspicion settled on a face wrinkled by too many hours in the hot sun.

Antonio Vargas.

It seemed the perfect time to question him about Stephen. But what would I say? I stepped down, hesitating.

His eyes shifted once more to the vines and he turned his back to me. The moment was lost.

I proceeded up the stairs, and in the gift shop crossed the floor to the young woman behind the counter. The shelves behind her held row upon row of bottled wine gleaming in the late afternoon sun. And wicker gift baskets holding wine and fluted glasses nestled in shredded paper were artfully arranged around the cash register.

“Hi, may I help you?” she asked brightly.

“Yes, I’m looking for Ron Mark.”

“I think he was headed to the old church,” she said with a smile.

“Church? I didn’t know there was a church on the property.”

“It’s behind the grove of trees to your left as you turn off the main road into the winery.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not far,” she said, pointing toward the door. “You can probably find him there. Across the parking lot there’s a path behind the trees leading off to the left.”

“Okay,” I replied, returning her smile.

Once outside, I saw that Mr. Vargas was gone—the vineyard was empty. Taking the path the young woman had indicated led me into the woods across the gravel drive from the vineyard.

Wait a minute, I thought stopping. Wasn’t this the same direction Stephen and I had walked yesterday? Would this path lead me to the spot where he’d been shot, only from behind the trees instead of in front of them, where we’d been standing?

Walking down the path, I soon had my answer. Waving up ahead, tied off to the trees, bright yellow crime scene tape marked off the area. I felt my curiosity pull me toward the spot.

Boy, I’d love to duck under that tape and see what I might find.

I quickly banished that idea.

Hey, I’m a psychic, remember? I didn’t have to be standing right on the spot to try and sense something.

Cautiously, I approached the tape and took a deep breath. Shutting my eyes, I envisioned the earth’s energy coursing beneath me. I felt its power ease through the ground into the soles of my feet. It edged its way past my ankles into the calves of my legs, up my body, into my torso, until finally I felt the energy pool in the center of my forehead—my third eye. Slowly, I lowered the shield guarding my mind. Images of yesterday flickered there, as if I were watching Stephen and me starring in our own private movie.

I winced as the vision of Stephen’s kiss stirred me.

No, don’t focus on that. Focus on the trees behind him.

The image shifted as if the camera in my head panned the woods. Crows took flight, and for an instant the sun hit the cold glint of metal glimmering just out of reach of the shadows. My body jumped at the crack of gunfire and the picture disappeared.

Opening my eyes, my arms tingled as if hit by a mild shock as the power seeped downward and back into the earth, leaving me. I shook out my hands and inhaled a cleansing breath.

So now I had an idea where the shooter stood. But no face, no sense of his emotions, had filtered through. And I had no motive.

Still shaken by the experience, and off balance, I took a step forward, and the back of my neck quivered. I stopped and whirled around with a feeling someone stood behind me.

Nothing. Only a swarm of gnats drifting in and out of the shade. Must be a little residual energy still playing with my senses, I thought. I took an unsteady gasp and batted at my hair before continuing down the path. Rounding the corner,
I saw a tall old-fashioned steeple rising above the trees. A little farther down the trail, I came out of the grove of trees into a tiny clearing and stood in front of the old church.

Gaping holes marred the faded red-tiled roof and new boards covered the plain square windows. The building had a sad, shuttered look. Its clapboards were aged gray, and in places appeared charred. A stillness wrapped around the church like mourning clothes.

Something bad happened here.

It flashed in my head, and without warning, flames flickered in my mind. And with them came a sense of anger, hate, intolerance. I felt my face grow warm as if I stood too close to a bonfire. Stepping back, the smell of smoke seemed to surround me. I heard the cries of women and the wail of children.

I scrunched my eyes, and rubbing my forehead, tried to wipe away the scene. The acrid odor faded while the sounds died away. Opening my eyes, all was as it had been.

Whatever had happened in this quiet glen happened long ago, but the pain of the event still lingered, like a memory too terrible to forget. A heaviness settled in the pit of my stomach, and my throat tightened with sympathy for those who had suffered.

No, I couldn’t let the past deter me from why I was here.

Stretching my arms wide, I tried to find my center, my core, and allow peace to fill me. And as I did, I raised the shield around my senses that I’d so foolishly forgotten to reinforce after my attempt to “see” Stephen’s assailant. The heavy feeling eased and my throat loosened.

Calmer, I approached the new steps leading to the wide double doors as a squirrel chattered at me from a branch hanging low over the roof. One door was opened a crack, and I cautiously pressed it wider.

“Hello? Anyone here?” My voice echoed in the empty sanctuary.

I crossed the threshold and peered in. Fading sunlight
shone down from the holes in the roof, dimly lighting the church. Long benches covered with ghostly white tarps sat along the wall, out of the light. A pile of discarded water bottles and food wrappers sat on top of a moth-eaten blanket to my left. Another white tarp draped over what I presumed was the altar marked the back of the church. On either side, swags of thick, dusty cobwebs hung from the corners. From behind the altar I heard the sound of rustling in the dried leaves littering the floor.

Mice, or at least I hoped it was mice and not something bigger. Like a rat. I shivered.

I took a step forward, and at the same time a loud crunch reverberated through the room. Startled, I pulled back and looked down. What seemed like hundreds of acorns lay scattered amid the leaves. I nudged away the debris with the toe of my loafer. Starting forward again, a sudden hand on my shoulder brought me up short.

With a shriek, I spun around to see the owner of the winery, Ron Mark, standing behind me.

“My God, you scared me,” I exclaimed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed nervously as I inched a step backward.

“Shannon said you wanted to talk with me.”

“Ah, yes,” I said with another step back.

“Aren’t you the woman who was with Stephen Larsen yesterday?”

I nodded, with a nervous glance around the church. “Who built this place?”

“A group of immigrants from Hungary in the late 1860s,” he answered, turning his head while his eyes roamed the old building. “They were a devout religious sect that never allowed themselves to be assimilated into the community. And…” His eyes met mine. “…the first ones to cultivate grapes in this part of the state.”

“What happened here?”

“The outbreak of World War One. Tensions ran high and everyone who had ties to the Central Powers were suspected sympathizers.” He shook his head sadly. “Not only were these people of Hungarian descent, their neighbors believed they had Gypsy ties.” Walking past me, he headed toward the shrouded altar and turned. “One night, in the summer of 1917, this church mysteriously caught fire.”

“Arson?”

Shoving his hands in his back pockets, he nodded. “Yeah, and about the same time, some of the families had their crops destroyed, their wells poisoned, and their livestock stolen.”

“All because of their ethnic background?”

Again he nodded. “When we bought this place, we found a diary in an old house we tore down. The woman who kept the diary wrote that everyone had vowed to rebuild.”

“Did they?”

“No, they never got the chance. The Spanish flu pandemic started in 1918, and whomever it didn’t kill, either moved away or was finally absorbed into the community.”

“What people don’t understand, they destroy,” I murmured to myself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I replied while making a 360 turn. “What are you going to do with this old building?”

“Restore it. We’ve already started.” He pointed to the pile of trash. “The crew Krause recommended isn’t good about cleaning up, but they’re fast.”

“You know Chuck Krause?” I asked, surprised to hear that name twice in the same day.

“A little…His aide used to work for me,” he answered with a puzzled look. “And before Chuck entered politics, he was in the building trade, and still has a lot of connections. Why? Do you know Chuck, too?”

I focused on the acorns at my feet. “No. I just heard someone else mention his name today.”

“I imagine people all over the state will be talking about him before this campaign is over. He has big plans.”

“So I heard.” My eyes traveled over the old plaster walls. “When will you be finished?”

“Another four months,” he said with a big smile. “We’re planning on using it for Christmas celebrations, like choral events, weddings. That type of thing. It’s going to be very folksy and old-fashioned.”

I could envision the old church draped with boughs of evergreen and holly. It would be lovely once again. And maybe the building being used for something positive would banish the old memory of what once happened there.

“I’m sure it will be beautiful,” I said, grinning back at him.

His smile suddenly faded. “I have a question for you—why are you here?”

I jumped right in. “Do you know Stephen?”

Surprise widened his eyes. “No, as I told Sheriff Wilson yesterday—I’d never met the man before in my life.”

“Did he mention why he was here?”

“No. We talked briefly about the wine industry in Iowa. He was very interested in the production angle—how many workers it took to run an operation like this, what kind of skilled labor I used, that type of thing. When he mentioned he was writing a book, I presumed it would be one of those ‘coffee table’ type books.” In the dim light, I saw his eyes narrow. “If you’re his friend, don’t you know all of this?”

On the spot, I squirmed. “We’re not actually friends—I’d only met him myself yesterday, but after witnessing what happened, I’m…” My voice trailed away.

“Curious?”

“Sort of.”

“I understand, but don’t you think questioning people is better left to Sheriff Wilson?”

“Yes, but Stephen asked me to contact his assistant, and I’d like to be able to give her some answers.”

That reply was kind of true.

Ron crossed his arms and stared at me. “I thought Larsen was in a coma. When did he ask you for this favor?”

“Um, well, right after the shooting, before the ambulance transported him to the helicopter.”

I felt him shut down as he cast a hurried glance at his watch. “I need to get back to the main house. We’ve an event scheduled—a fund-raiser—for this evening.” He motioned toward the wide double doors. “Why don’t you let me walk you back to your car?”

The conversation about Stephen was finished.

Taking my arm, he began to lead me out of the church. We’d taken three steps when we heard a crack from above. Startled, we both looked up in time to see tile hurtling down from a hole in the ceiling. Ron yanked my arm and shoved me toward the entrance of the church.

Behind me, the tile crashed to the floor and the air filled with dust as he hustled me out. Standing in the safety of the doorway, I looked over my shoulder to see broken chunks of old red tile lying right where I’d been standing.