The Witch’s Grave (6 page)

Tight-lipped, and not very talkative, Ron escorted me back to my car. The only statements he made were, “Are you hurt?” and, “I’m blocking that area off to visitors.” The rest of the communication hinged on body language, and by the way he stiffly marched me down the path, I didn’t think I’d be welcome back to the winery anytime soon. After all, who wants a woman around who only seems to bring trouble?

On the drive to Abby’s, I tried to reach Karen Burns again. My fingers trembled and I felt my right eyelid twitching as I dialed her number.

Again—no answer. It was just as well. After the tile incident, I really wasn’t up to questioning some stranger.

I pulled into the long driveway leading to Abby’s house and stopped.

“If you’re going to run a bluff, Jensen, you’d better get control,” I muttered to myself.

I just sat there for a minute looking toward the house.

To my left sat Abby’s vegetable plots. In spite of the recent hot weather, all the plants flourished. Stems, holding red ripe tomatoes, bent low to the ground, while pumpkin, muskmelon, and squash vines snaked across the ground a few feet away. And the watermelon vines—I caught myself smiling in my rearview mirror.

Abby’s watermelons were known throughout the county as being the best…and the most desirable to snitch in the middle of a hot summer’s night. Light green with dark green stripes, at maturity these melons weighed almost thirty pounds. A young thief not only had to be fast, but strong, to run with a couple of thirty pound melons tucked under his arms. Every year Abby always allowed a few melons to be taken, but when she’d had enough, little blue bags with sunflower seeds sown inside would appear hanging from the fence posts, a spell to ward off trespassers that she’d learned in the mountains. After that, no watermelons disappeared in the middle of the night.

Abby’s large white farmhouse sat at the end of the lane. Her wide porch with its swing invoked childhood memories of nights catching lightning bugs and letting them go; drinking tall glasses of cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day; putting on my bathing suit and darting in and out of a sprinkler while Abby and Grandpa sat on the swing watching and laughing.

I draw strength from this place, I thought, and felt that strength fill me.

I drove the rest of the way to the house and parked. As I walked up to the wide steps leading to the porch, I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of Abby’s sprinkler and the call of a meadow lark. I’d turned to see if I could spot the bird when the front door flew open and Tink came tearing down the sidewalk with T.P., her puppy, scampering after her. She’d changed into navy cutoffs and a navy T-shirt after school, and wore her much-loved pink baseball cap. Her blond ponytail bounced as she ran.

Lady followed at a more sedate pace.

With violet eyes wide, Tink ran up to me and grabbed my arm. “It was sooo cool,” she exclaimed. “Abby let me witch for water.”

T.P., picking up Tink’s excitement, ran circles around us, yipping and barking.

“T.P., hush,” I said sternly.

Lady sat calmly on the sidewalk and gave me a look that said,
Good luck with that one
.

“Oh yeah,” she said with a glance toward the dogs, “Abby and I drove over and picked them up.”

Tugging me up the sidewalk, Tink skipped along. “She showed me how to make a dowsing rod out of willow.” She stopped to catch her breath. “And guess what, I found the old well out by the summer house. I didn’t even know it was there.”

“That’s terrific, Tink.” Laughing, I let her lead me through the doorway and down the hall into the kitchen.

The crystals on the windowsill caught the light of the dying sun and made rainbows across the oak floor as Abby stood in front of the old wood-burning stove mashing potatoes. She stopped for a moment and stirred the gravy simmering on the burner next to the pot of potatoes. On the counter to her left sat a big platter of fried chicken. A loaf of fresh baked bread, with a crock of sweet butter, had already been placed on the scarred wooden table.

“Hey, something smells good.” I crossed to her and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.

My stomach chose that time to give a low rumble.

With a chuckle, Abby smiled and brushed a silver tendril out of her eyes. “Would you like to stay for supper?”

The twinkle in her eye told me she already knew the answer.

“Sure, better than the frozen pizza at home, huh, Tink?” I called while moving to the cupboards to get three plates and three glasses.

Tink came up beside me and, pulling open a drawer, took out silverware.

I shot a look over my shoulder at Abby. “Dowsing?”

Giving Tink a fond glance, she picked up the platter of chicken and carried it to the table. “She can’t get in trouble with that skill,” she replied, placing the chicken next to the
bread. “And it’s a good lesson in sensing the rhythms of the earth.”

“And I did good, didn’t I, Abby?” Tink asked with pride.

“Yes, my dear, you did.” She returned to the stove and took up the mashed potatoes and gravy while I laid out the plates and glasses.

“That’s great, Tink,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder as she set the silverware on the table. “I was never any good at it.”

“You lacked patience, Ophelia,” Abby said. Crossing to the table with the bowls, she stole a sideways glance at Tink. “Take off your hat, dear.”

“I didn’t,” Tink said to me, referring to my lack of patience. “I walked really, really slow until I felt the willow branch tremble in my hands. It was awesome…” She paused and turned her fists down as if pulled by an invisible force. “I was dead on the spot,” she finished with a little swagger.

Abby caught the swagger and arched an eyebrow. “Tink,” she gently chided, “what did I tell you about the power?”

Tink’s cockiness fell away. “It isn’t mine—I’m only the instrument.”

I hid my smirk.
Jeez, how many times had I heard that statement growing up? It was one of Abby’s favorites.

I pulled out a chair for Abby, then Tink and I took our seats at the table, too. “How did you like the journals?” I asked, placing my napkin on my lap.

Tink’s fork stopped in midair. “Oh, wow! I read some really weird stuff. One said to mix pulverized rabbit droppings”—she let out a giggle—“with bran and feed it to your chickens. It makes them lay lots and lots of eggs.”

“Works, too,” Abby said with a wink.

“Yuck.” Tink shoved a forkful of food in her mouth. “If I had to do that, I’d rather not have so many eggs,” she mumbled with her mouth full.

“Swallow, dear, before speaking,” Abby said gently, and filled Tink’s glass from the pitcher of ice water already on the table. “When I was a girl, the egg money bought food that we couldn’t grow. More eggs—more food.”

“Hmm.” Tink cocked her head thoughtfully. “So I should be thankful we don’t have to do that, right?”

Abby patted her hand and smiled. “Yes, you should.”

For a few moments the only sound was the clink of our silverware on the stoneware plates as we dug into Abby’s excellent meal.

“What happened today?” Abby asked, breaking the lull.

I almost dropped my fork at her sudden question. Did she sense something, or was it normal curiosity? Had Darci talked to her?

I laid my fork down and folded my hands in my lap in case they twitched. “Stephen’s in critical condition and the doctors are worried about pneumonia. I ran into Bill, but he’s as closed-mouth as ever about the investigation.”

My concise report wasn’t everything that happened, but omission wasn’t lying, was it?

Abby sipped her water. “Do you intend to carry through with your plan?”

Tink perked up in her chair. “What plan?”

I felt my mouth tense. “I had this crazy idea that I’d approach this as a psychic.”

“Cool—can I help?”

“No,” Abby and I replied simultaneously.

Tink’s face fell. “Shoot. Why not?”

“Tink, dear, you’re a medium, and although you’re coming along nicely in your training, the skill needed is clairvoyance.”

“I can talk to the spirits,” she argued, settling back in her chair. “They might give me clues, and I bet Mr. Larsen has family that’s passed over. I could try and reach one of them.”

Abby shook her head. “I know you want to help, but that’s not a good idea. Ophelia needs to handle it—she needs to prove to herself that she can do it.”

Wise woman, my grandmother, which made me feel crappy for what I said next.

“I’ve changed my mind, Abby.” I kept my head down.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her push her plate back. “You seemed so determined this morning.”

“I’ve had second thoughts,” I replied, looking straight at her, hoping my face didn’t give me away. “How often have you witnessed an event without there being some great cosmic plan to involve you?”

Abby studied me carefully. “Many times. As I told you last night, there are situations beyond our control. We’ve all had to accept that. We do what we can—when we can.”

“Abby,” I said with a bright smile, “that’s excellent advice.” Under the table, for the second time that day, I crossed my fingers as I told another lie.

Tink was unusually quiet on the way home. It didn’t bode well for me—it meant she was thinking something up.

“You don’t have much to say,” I commented, stealing a glance her way and turning the radio down. “What’s up?”

She tugged her baseball cap lower on her forehead and slumped in the seat. “Nothing.”

“Okay,” I replied cheerfully, and reached for the radio dial, intending to turn the volume louder.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you,” she said in a rush, as if I’d been using a rubber hose on her. “I don’t see why everyone else can use their gift and I can’t.”

“’Cause you’re a kid,” I said, smiling, “and you’re still learning how to control your abilities.”

“Ha—Aunt Dot,” she replied, referring to my great-aunt who’d recently paid us a very memorable visit, “said Great-Aunt Mary started contacting the spirits when she was only ten. I’m almost fourteen now.” She held up a hand and spread her fingers wide. “I’m three years older than she was.”

“That may be, Tink, but I don’t know if I’d start quoting Aunt Dot if I were you.” I gave her another glance. “Remember, she claims she also talks to fairies.”

Tink crossed her arms. “How do you know she doesn’t?”

That was the problem when it came to Aunt Dot—I
didn’t. When Dot first showed up for her visit, I’d scoffed at her ramblings about her fairies. But after everything that happened, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Tink,” I said, switching tactics, “Aunt Mary and Aunt Dot live in the Appalachian mountains. Things are different there.”

She squirmed in her seat, turning toward the window. “Humph.”

I searched for some of the stock answers Abby had given me when I was a kid and being a psychic was something exciting. “You need to respect your ability,” I lectured. “Being a medium isn’t some parlor game, or a toy that’s been given to you for your amusement.”

“Like I don’t know that?” she shot back with a tinge of sarcasm.

Thinking of the ghost she’d conjured—one we’d a heck of a time banishing—I nodded. “I guess maybe you do.”

“I wouldn’t try anything without supervision,” she pressed, sensing a change in my attitude.

“Abby and I aren’t mediums. Part of your training has been guesswork.”

“Can’t you call Great-Aunt Mary and ask her advice?”

“No.”

She shoved back in the seat with a pout. “When we go to Appalachia this fall for her hundredth birthday, I’m asking her hundreds of questions.”

I laughed. “Sure you will. You don’t know Great-Aunt Mary. She’s not the friendly, little pixie Aunt Dot is.” My voice grew heated. “That woman can sour milk with just one look.”

“You’re teasing,” she scoffed.

“Well,” I replied as I whipped into our driveway, “I haven’t actually seen her do it, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Tink didn’t understand. Great-Aunt Mary scared the pants off me, and the less contact I had with her, the better. I was
not
looking forward to our upcoming trip.

Once inside the house, Queenie greeted us by ignoring us. I imagined she was out of joint over the fact that she’d been left behind when Abby and Tink picked up the dogs. Curled up on the bottom step of the stairs, she groomed herself with her pink tongue, making long, leisurely strokes over her black fur. She paused and looked up with narrowed eyes to let me know that she was aware of our presence but could care less.

Scooping her up, I chucked her under her chin. “Poor baby—how about a treat?”

I walked into the kitchen, with Lady and T.P. following. After all, if Queenie received a treat, so should they. After handing out the goodies, I went upstairs and showered, changing into shorts and a T-shirt.

Padding down the hall in my bare feet, I knocked on Tink’s bedroom door. “Hey, don’t be on the phone too long—”

The door opened a crack to reveal Tink standing there with her cell phone to her ear. “How did you know I was on the phone?” she asked, eyeing me skeptically.

“You’re always on the phone. Tell Nell hi, and remember your essay.”

With a roll of her eyes and a nod of her head, she went back to her conversation.

I shut the door with a chuckle and went downstairs to the kitchen. While I tried Karen Burns again, I poured a glass of lemonade.

Still no answer. Maybe I was dialing the wrong numbers.

I carried it with me back to my office. Standing in the doorway, I took a deep breath and surveyed my room.

This was my place, my place of magick. Crystals lay scattered on my desk and on the end table near the wing chair sitting by the windows. They seemed to radiate a soft glow from their position on the bookcases lining the walls.

I crossed to my desk and checked Stephen’s date book for Karen’s number. Nope, I had the right one.

I lit a white candle and propped my feet up on my desk. I reached out and picked up a piece on amethyst lying to my right. Rolling the stone over and over in my hand, I watched lightning bugs flicker on and off in the backyard as I thought about the past twenty-four hours.

I felt a strong need to talk with Karen Burns. Since she worked closely with Stephen, she would know about his life. If I could talk with her, I had a feeling some of those pieces would fall into place.
But how could I talk to her if she wouldn’t answer her freaking phone?

My thoughts moved on to that afternoon. Could the falling tiles have killed me? I suppose—if one would have hit me on the head. But no matter where they landed, I would’ve been hurt. I stroked the crystal with my thumb. What had caused their sudden fall? Ron hadn’t offered any explanation. Could a squirrel, or something larger like a raccoon, skittering across the roof knocked the tile through the hole?

I still pondered my last question when the phone rang. Picking it up, Darci’s voice greeted me. “Turn on the TV,” she said without preamble.

“Why—”

“Never mind, just do it,” she insisted, cutting me off. “Hurry.”

I ran to the living room, grabbed the remote and hit the power button. “What channel?”

“Thirteen.”

Punching the buttons, I watched as the channel came on.

My face, with the expression of a deer caught in the headlights, suddenly filled the screen.

Peachy.

After a brief conversation with Darci, bemoaning my bad luck at getting caught on camera, I checked on Tink and wished her a good-night. Returning to my office, I crossed to the window and stared out into the night.

No stars or moon lit the sky. Clouds moving in from the
west had hid their light.
Good. Maybe the clouds would bring rain and much cooler weather.
They had shrouded the backyard in complete darkness. Even the lightning bugs were gone now.

With a sigh, I turned back to my desk. I was upset about appearing on the news. If the whole town hadn’t known I was present when Stephen was shot, they would now. I’d be fending off questions from curious old ladies all day tomorrow. I was willing to bet that Edna Simpson would be the first to arrive. The heat had kept her home today, but tomorrow I wouldn’t be so lucky. The woman loved reading true crime, and now she’d have a chance to hear about one firsthand. She’d want to know how much blood, how much gore. But most of all she’d want to know what Stephen had said.

It was apparent in the interview that I’d lied to the reporter. The way I clutched my purse, the way my eyes widened when I was asked the question, a person would have had to be an idiot not to see that I wasn’t being honest. And though Edna Simpson might be old, she was
not
an idiot. She also loved to embellish whatever tale she heard. By the time she finished repeating
her
version of the story, I wouldn’t recognize it when I heard it.

Shake it off, Jensen, there isn’t anything you can do about it now.
Leaning forward, I spun the amethyst.
You have more pressing questions on your mind.

My eyes traveled to the old leather pouch lying on the corner of the desk. My runes. They had originally belonged to my great-grandmother, Annie. Picking up the pouch, I shifted their weight back and forth in my hands.

Well, if ever there was a time for clarity, it’s now.

Placing the bag back on the desk, I opened a drawer and removed an abalone shell, a bag of Abby’s homegrown sage, and a square ceramic tile. Normally, before I did a rune reading, I’d do a lengthy cleansing ritual—bathing in sea salt, dressing in one of my long white robes—but tonight I didn’t have the time. Smudging would have to do.

Opening the Baggie, I broke off some sage leaves and rolled them into a tight ball. After putting the abalone shell on the ceramic tile, I laid the ball of leaves in the center of the shell. I struck a match, lit the sage, and blew softly until a thin plume of smoke rose in the air.

Leaning forward, clearing my mind, I gently wafted the smoke toward me with both hands.

May I only hear the truth,
I repeated in my head as I brushed the smoke toward my ears.

May I only see the truth.
I sent smoke toward my closed eyes.

Inhaling deeply, I swept smoke around my mouth.
May I only speak the truth.

A slight groan escaped.
Considering how many lies you told today, maybe you’d better repeat that one.

I tapped down my errant thoughts and repeated the ritual. Satisfied that I was ready, I stood, and picked up the tile with the smoldering shell, walked over and placed it in the center of the room. After flicking the lights off, the white candle that I’d lit earlier followed. Removing a box of sea salt from my desk drawer and starting clockwise, I carefully sprinkled a wide circle of salt around the candle and shell. The pouch, a notebook and pen, and a linen square joined the circle. Stepping over the salt, I eased down to a cross-legged position in front of the candle and shell. I laid out the square and thought of my question.

What should I ask? The shooter’s name? Nope, the runes didn’t work out that way.
Even though each rune also represented an alphabetic letter, I didn’t expect them to spell out a name for me.

What did I want to know—what was going on—sprung to mind, but that question was too generic. I needed to be specific. How about,
Was Stephen the intended victim?

I held that question in my mind while I concentrated on the energy above, below, and around me. Once safe and secure in my bubble, I cast the runes on the linen square.

I’d do a reading that was commonly called a Celtic cross. The first three runes, placed in a straight line, represented the past, present, and future. Above the “present” rune, sitting at twelve o’clock, would be the rune indicating what help I could expect. The last rune, directly below the “present” and at six o’clock, would show me that which can’t be changed.

Slowly, I let my hand move over the runes, sensing their power. When it tingled sharply, I picked up the rune and placed it on the square in front of me. I repeated the process four more times until the shape of the cross was laid out before me.

Scooping up the remaining runes, I returned them to the pouch and focused on the ones I’d selected.

I turned the middle rune, the one in the “present” position.

Laguz.
“Law-gooze,” I said softly.

It represented intuitive knowledge. A female capable of dealing with challenges. Good—that made sense. I was female and a psychic. It told me I was up to facing my problem, and I felt my confidence lift.

I flipped over the rune to the left.
Hagalaz.
“Haw-gaw-laws,” I said aloud. This showed the past and how it affected the current situation. Hagalaz represented elemental forces—detached and impersonal—that could cause a disruption beyond anyone’s control. It also indicated that some official had held fate in their hands. Another meaning—someone was contemplating taking a risk.

I didn’t know enough about Stephen’s life to give a correct interpretation of what this rune might mean. Had he taken a chance at some point and set the wheels in motion?

Looking at it from my perspective, it certainly applied. My life had been disrupted by fate. An official who’d controlled my life? Easy—Bill. And the risk factor? Duh, who knew what might happen if I pursued my current course? An unknown assailant was running around with a gun.

The next rune I turned over was in the twelve o’clock position and indicated what help I could expect to receive. The glyph was upside down.

Not so good. Algiz.
“All-yeese,” I muttered.

Reversed, the rune spoke of betrayal and deception by others. And I would be vulnerable to it.
Did it mean Stephen had lied to me? Had Ron lied to me? Or was it someone closer to me?
One thing I knew for sure, it indicated that I needed to proceed with caution and be skeptical of those who appeared to offer aid.

I flipped the rune placed in the fifth position, the one at six o’clock.

Oh, that’s just great!

My heart sank. The rune showed that which could not be changed.

Thurisaz.
“Thor-ee-saw, reversed,” I whispered with eyes wide. The hammer of Thor; backward, it meant thorns, torture, and again, betrayal by a man. Well, at least I now knew it would be a male who let me down. And it was another warning that I needed to be careful and think things through before I blindly rushed in.

One more rune to go, the rune farthest to my right. The future.

I gave a sigh of relief.
Jera.
“Yare-awe.”

The harvest. On the whole, a positive rune. It related to karma, and if the seeds sown were good deeds, the reward would be positive. But if negative thoughts and actions had been seeded, the result would be just as negative. It also showed that all things have a season, and seasons can’t be rushed. The harvest would be reaped in the fullness of time.

Not necessarily comforting to someone who lacked patience. Someone like me. I wanted answers and I wanted them now.

I picked up the pad of paper and the pen. Carefully, I drew each rune in its specific position on the paper. As I
did, I tried to think of them in relation to each other, the overall pattern. It seemed the runes were more about me than Stephen. Did it mean Bill
was
right after all—I was the intended victim?