Tales of the Witch (11 page)

“I would’ve done the job, in time.” His voice sounded plaintive, as if he felt she should see the reasonableness of his actions. He looked up at her. “The gas was taking years to spread. But no, Mr. Garrett wanted everything done immediately. NSIC would’ve gone broke.”

“Not broke, but the stock price would’ve been greatly depressed, wouldn’t it, Matthew?” murmured Mrs. Risk.

He nodded, still looking only at her. “The stock price had already dropped in reaction to Aisa’s huge expenditures. I’d gotten several loans, using that stock as collateral. If the value dropped again—I would’ve had to come up with money I didn’t have to back up those loans. It’s expensive, living the way I do. Everybody knows I’m Aisa’s heir. I’m an important man, I have appearances to maintain.”

Mrs. Risk looked away from him for a moment, the muscles in her jaw working, then continued, “Too bad you couldn’t have—economized your lifestyle a little—enough to buy that land yourself.” She still spoke with that strange intensity of tone that carried throughout the room without being loud. The crowd stood breathlessly silent, listening.

“Purchasing the land yourself would’ve bought you more time—time you needed to wait for Aisa’s death. Because when Aisa died, your inheritance would not have just paid off your personal debts. You could’ve discreetly replaced the pipelines and still maintained your lifestyle…maintained your—your rightful position—in the village, and in the Manhattan society of which you’re so fond.

“But instead,” she continued, “you were greedy. In order to stop construction, you chose to kill the poor carpenter. When the police decided the murder was an accident, work on the project continued. Then you were driven to kill someone else, but this time merely broke the leg of the construction boss. Nothing seemed to go your way. Nobody would stop working on that house. Mark never publicized your anonymous letters, either, which might have stopped things. You must have been horribly frustrated.”

“I was,” he said. “I was.”

“Poisoning the water nearly brought you success…nearly. You didn’t want to keep murdering people, but what else could you do, Matthew? What else could you do?”

Matthew Drexel let out a long, pent up breath. “Everybody was frantic to get that house built, to have that rock star live here. I didn’t care, myself, until they picked out that one piece of property. I just couldn’t let it happen. But nobody would give in!”

Then Matthew Drexel looked her quizzically in the eye. “How did you figure it out?”

“I found an underwater spring flowing through Phantom’s property. It tasted good, which made me wonder why his well water tasted so bad. I had both waters tested. The water from the water table was polluted. Tainted with natural gas. Natural gas isn’t found on Long Island, Matthew. NSIC has it brought in by ship, and then they store it. Everyone knows who Aisa trusted to carry out his wishes, his orders, for NSIC’s cleanup. You, Matthew.”

“Phantom’s got money, more money than God,” he said bitterly. “I knew that when he tasted the lousy water, he could afford to get experts in to fix it. And they’d figure out that NSIC had polluted the water table. And…and then everybody would find out everything.”

“You mean, Aisa Garrett would find out everything, don’t you? And disinherit you?”

Mr. Drexel seemed to shrink as he sat there.

“But Aisa Garrett just kept getting older,” said Mrs. Risk.

“That old man might’ve have lived to be a hundred—if…if he hadn’t died just then,” Mr. Drexel said petulantly.

“If you hadn’t killed him.”

An angry murmur spread through the people standing nearest Mr. Drexel. He seemed oblivious. Or uncaring. He looked exhausted. Beaten.

Detective Michael Hahn took a firm grip on his arm and pulled him up from the chair. They moved towards the Hall door and the waiting patrol car just beyond.

“After Aisa’s death,” suddenly continued Mrs. Risk, as if she’d just thought of something. The detective paused, pulling Mr. Drexel up short. “Because you thought you’d soon inherit the company and the income to go with it, you no longer had a need to prevent Phantom’s arrival. Aisa’s money would soon solve everything. The fire probably seemed to you to be a bonus. A huge stroke of luck.”

Mr. Drexel brightened for a second, but the look faded. “That was lucky, yes. I thought I’d won everything. Everything,” he repeated.

“But you didn’t,” stated Mrs. Risk flatly.

A spasm of anger flashed across his face. “No,” he said shortly, and he turned away from her.

Detective Michael Hahn pulled his captive’s arms together behind his back, to handcuff him. The crowd sprang into angry life. The detective pushed Drexel before him, using broad shoulders to wedge their way through the enclosing masses. Despite the detective’s best efforts, a few fists and feet found their way to Matthew’s executive anatomy.

Then a high quavery voice interrupted the growing uproar from over the loud speaker. It was Aisa Garrett. He was standing up on the mayor’s platform and being steadied by the mayor’s grip on his elbow. He may have looked frail, but he was certainly alive.

“Stop it now, everyone. Stop it,” commanded Aisa Garrett. “He was more unsuccessful than you know, about murdering me, anyway.”

The villagers, after a moment of gaping at this apparition of a dead man, cheered. “Aisa!” they shouted.

Aisa held up an arm and waved. “Listen,” he croaked at them. Mayor Harper rapped on his table. “Listen—thank you mayor—listen, folks. I want to tell you how much I regret letting this greedy son of a bitch get away with his…his scheme, but I swear I’ll make it up to you all, as much as I can make it up to anybody. That carpenter’s wife will be supported for life and her kids are going to college.” A few cheered, but mostly faces looked grave. Silence spread through the crowd.

“I know,” Aisa said after a pause. “I agree with you. Money doesn’t replace a husband and father. I agree with you all. I’ll clean up the water thing, I’ll be in charge of it myself, this time.” He sighed. “I guess I’ll also be looking for somebody to take my place…” he grimaced. “I’m getting too old to look after things, if a trick like that can be played right under my nose. I’m more sorry than I can say.” He lifted a hand, turned, and then got lost in the milling, agitated crowd.

Detective Hahn resumed charge of his prisoner’s exit and people shuffled away to mull over the many shocks they’d absorbed. Skip melted away from sight as if aided by a witch. Which he had been.

They made a mellow, subdued party under the trees, sipping Aisa Garrett’s excellent red zinfandel—Aisa Garrett, Rachel, and Mrs. Risk…the witch…in painted aluminum lawn chairs. Ernie and Skip sat sprawled out in the grass.

“As agreed, I’ll reimburse everybody for the debts incurred on—ah—Phantom’s behalf, Skip,” said Aisa. “Including the mortgage on the property. I guess I wouldn’t mind moving next door to Mrs. Risk.” He chuckled. “Maybe Ernie’ll build me a house, what’d’ya think, Ernie? Fireproofed, though.”

Ernie lifted a glass to Aisa and nodded.

Skip flushed. “I don’t think it’s right that you pay anything, Mr. Garrett.”

“Don’t be silly, Skip,” said the witch sharply. “He’s fulfilling his part of a bargain we made, one you know nothing about. You certainly couldn’t pay, regardless. The gas leak, after all, was the root of the problem. And Aisa’s entirely correct to assume the liabilities acquired by not personally overseeing the clean-up to its completion. It was his error—and his responsibility. Taking care of the carpenter’s widow isn’t, but Aisa’s a good man.”

Aisa smiled at her for that. He patted Skip on the arm. “She’d figured out what Matthew was doing, and made a very shrewd guess as to what he had in mind to do next. Saved my life, by god. It’s just money, boy. But that’s something you’ll find out, I’m sure. Speaking of which, I don’t want to be indelicate, but what was it exactly that
you
were going to get out of this?”

Ernie spoke up, surprising everyone. “My guess is, the insurance payoff. The house that burned down was probably full of nothing except Skip’s imagination. If he’d actually taken out a
real
insurance policy, the amount would’ve come to a sizable bit more than the total of the debts Mark—uh, Skip…can’t quite get used to that other name yet, sorry—that Skip owed after the fire.”

“Uh, yeah, Mr. Garrett. That’s about it.” Skip cast an anxious glance at the witch, but she added nothing.

“Instead, he loses his fifty grand,” put in Rachel with a grin. “But now he’s so much
smarter
.” She winked at Skip.

He smiled nervously back at her, then frowned. “Just who are you, anyway?”

She made a mocking face. “Oh, like you, just somebody who’s in the process of being made
smarter
.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Like, an apprentice ‘witch.’” She grinned at him again. He looked at Mrs. Risk uncertainly, but she was busy refilling glasses.

“Oh, ho.” Aisa Garrett’s bushy brows elevated as he finished some mental figuring. He nodded. “Would’ve been a nice return on your investment, boy. But you’re lucky I was your ‘insurance policy.’ This lovely lady kept you from a sure jail sentence by preventing you from defrauding an insurance company.”

“Yes, that was the one poorly conceived part of your plan, Skip,” said the witch. “Insurance companies are notoriously curious about large claims. They would have conducted a thorough investigation and would have exposed your entire game.”

“I’m surprised a sharp young boy like you wouldn’t have known that,” put in Aisa with a grin at Skip. “But give him some credit, my dear. Except for that one major blunder that would’ve destroyed his plan and changed his entire life, he did pull off the rest of it with some panache, after all. He showed some sound technical thinking.”

The witch gave an incredulous snort that sounded odd from her elegant nose.

Ernie stretched out on the grass and poured himself more wine. He was grinning to himself.

The witch prodded him with a toe. “What are you so complacent about? You’re not going to broadcast the news about Skip’s confidence trick all over the village, are you? He could still be arrested for attempting to defraud. At the very least, it could ruin his chances with his young woman. Why spoil a lesson well learned?”

“Me? Hell, no. Besides, the ones who’d believe me are the same ones who’d never speak to me again for busting their dreams of how close they got to being buddies with Phantom. Uh, uh. I was just thinking how right I was about
you
all along.”

The witch tucked her bare feet under her black gauze dress and straightened her back. “In what way could that be, Mr. Block?”

“What I told Mark—Skip—here, about how great you are and how you give people a hand, was only half of what I always thought. You are one, excuse me, hell of a good-lookin’ woman who’s as sharp as a tack and no fool, either. I can see why you get yourself up in black like that, scaring the bejeezus outa the idiots in the area. You need some kinda protection, livin’ way out here all alone like you do, fishing and lobstering for a living. Oh, I saw the pots and tackle, and the diving gear, too. No use pretending.”

The witch looked at Aisa in alarm.

He chuckled. “That’s wonderful. That’s just wonderful. A fisherwoman!” Aisa’s chuckles escalated into a wheezing howl. “God, I’m sorry Ernie. It’s just that—” He howled some more, helplessly.

Aisa wiped his eyes as he finally calmed down. “Well, that was wonderful, as I say. But my dear man, I regret to inform you that she most definitely does not fish for a living.”

“What does she do, then?” asked Skip, bewildered.

“None of your business,” snapped the witch. Color was high on her sharp cheekbones.

Unfazed, Ernie stubbornly continued. “Well, I still say, you are one hell of a woman. I’d give anything to be good enough for you, but frankly, ma’am, I’m not. And I don’t know any who is. If I do, I’ll run him over your way, but until then, I claim the privilege of bein’ at your service any time.” He drank the rest of his wine in heady triumph.

The witch looked to the heavens and sighed. “Dear Lord,” she said.

“I
T MUST BE
so cool to, like, call up Forces of Evil when you want something done.” Daniel’s face glowed as he contemplated mastering evil forces.

“‘Forces of Evil?’ Is that a comic book? Besides, if something’s evil, what’d’you think it would do for anybody?” Rachel handed the teenager a scathing look along with a carton of styrofoam pumpkins. He began clumping the pumpkins absentmindedly onto the middle window shelf.

Rachel knocked them back into the box with a sweep of her hand. “That’s no display. That’s a mess.”

Without resentment he began replacing the pumpkins in more attractive groupings, arranging potted plants between them. “Sorry. It’s just that you’re such a—a source. I never realized it before.”

“Source? Of evil forces?”

“Of information. I want to know what witches do.”

Rachel stopped pyramiding pots of bronze chrysanthemums around a tall ceramic black cat, turned to her assistant and scowled. “Like what?”

“Like cast spells, order demons around, dig up freshly buried bodies in cemeteries—”

“Freshly buried bodies?” Distracted, she re-anchored her mop of dark curls with a wide knitted band, then returned to the chore of readying her flower shop for the day’s trade.

“Oh, yeah! To drain their blood for potions! Or, like, would they hold a séance over a really old grave to communicate with spirits?” He shrugged. “I don’t know what they do, that’s why I’m asking you.” His face was bright with expectation. “And by the way, do those stupid Ouija boards really work?”

“And why would I know?” she asked, knowing very well the answer.

“Because you’re like best buds with Mrs. Risk. The Witch.”

Mrs. Risk had been known as the Witch of Wyndham-by-the-Sea long before Rachel had been brought to the Long Island village three years ago as the bride of Ike Elias, the fishmonger. When he’d died under suspicious circumstances a year later, Mrs. Risk had taken Rachel under her wing—uninvited—to teach her ‘better methods of survival than murder.’