Tales of the Witch (21 page)

Without looking up he replied, “Don’t be silly. Take it as a gift. You—” he looked up, spotted which pot she held, and paled. “
No
, not that one. It’s poorly done. I couldn’t let you—”

“Oh, but I insist that I want this one. Although,” she lifted up another from the floor, “this larger one is also lovely. Oh, look. You’ve inserted small decorative plugs where the bottom drainage holes should be. How clever. I suppose I just pop it out if I need the hole to be open?”

“That’s right.” He leaned to seize the pots from her hands, but she withdrew them just out of his reach. Then, with a sigh, she put them down.

He stared at her, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“You’re right,” she said. “How inappropriate for me to choose my own gift. I’ve forgotten my manners. Which pot would you pick for me?” But before he could answer, she continued, “Are you free tomorrow evening? Rachel and I want you to come to my house for dinner, a small celebration of your coming marriage. I’ve already mentioned it to your delightful Christa, and she’s coming. Bring along whichever pot you choose for me, a memento of our growing friendship, Harry. You see, I think so very much of you, dear. Our village has been richer in all the qualities that matter since you came to live among us.”

Harry sat down suddenly, looking depressed.

She moved towards the door. “And 6:30 would be perfect. Such a lovely time of day in May.”

When Harry pulled his car into the witch’s glade the next evening, he was dismayed to discover that despite his early arrival, Christa, her two small daughters, Rachel, and an older man were there already, seated in old aluminum lawn chairs in the velvety grass fronting the witch’s cottage. The little girls rushed to seize his legs and propel him to a chair. Christa nestled contentedly in the grass close beside him. Although it was clear how much they loved him, he sunk into a deep gloom.

“You already know most of these present,” said Mrs. Risk with a smile, ignoring his misery. She handed him a glass of red wine and in return received from his trembling hands her gift—the pot she’d first selected yesterday evening, although missing the decorative bottom plug. The smaller girl climbed into his lap and nestled there.

“Thank you, Harry. How forgiving of you to give me the exact pot I selected. I shall treasure it.”

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes. “I took away the plug, the—the hole’s empty, but I want to explain…”

Mrs. Risk turned her back on him. “Who’s ready for more wine?” She busily passed around the bottle. “Harry, dear, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, a retired industrialist, Aisa Garrett. He owns, among other things, the North Shore Industries Corporation that occupies part of the bayfront in the village. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

Harry nodded, but politely, not really interested.

Mrs. Risk patted the back of his hand and continued, “I hope you don’t mind, I don’t normally interfere in people’s lives—”

At this statement, Rachel and Aisa hooted in wild laughter. Christa smiled, but looked puzzled. Harry gazed about in bewilderment.

When they’d subsided, Aisa, still chortling, said, “What she means is, Harry, without interfering in the slightest in either my life or yours, she’s decided my corporation should go into a small sideline business, with a partner who knows what’s what—meaning you.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t follow—”

Christa said firmly, “Just listen to Aisa, Harry.”

Harry blinked at her in astonishment.

“Here’s the deal,” began Aisa, and then he outlined a partnership proposal in a coin and stamp store, with generous terms to Harry, resulting in Harry’s ultimate sole ownership of the store.

After a stunned pause, Harry gasped, “Why?”

“Blamed if I know,” admitted Aisa.

“Are you interested in coins and stamps? Are you a collector?”

“Absolutely not. I fish, as it so happens.”

Rachel beamed. “Which means you’ll be in complete control, Harry.” She picked up a platter of appetizers and began passing them around. “Dinner will be ready in a while. More lemonade, girls?”

Chatter picked up in the small glade. The oak trees towering over them, newly filled out in their spring leaves, rustled and shimmered in the breeze from the nearby Long Island Sound. The setting sun lit the cottage behind them in soft gold. Harry leaned back in his chair, cradled the child with one arm, and sipped his wine. He looked more tense and unhappy than any man had a right to look, surrounded by love and good fortune.

Finally, he put his glass on the polished stump being used as a table. Reaching behind the little girl into his pocket, he pulled out a soft bag that made muted jingling noises. The little girl laughed in delight at the sound.

Everyone looked up and stopped talking.

Harry began, anxiety choking his words, “I can’t go into business with anybody. I’ve made a huge—I’ve done something terrible. Later tonight I’m going to confess to Margeurite. Christa, you can’t marry—”

Mrs. Risk calmly interrupted and pointed over her shoulder at her cottage. “Girls, see the nice black cat sitting in the window? She’s waiting for you to play with her.” The adults paused while the two children rushed to see the cat.

Then Mrs. Risk turned briskly to Harry. “A man of your intelligence—certainly you could find some way to adjust Margeurite’s…inventory in a less self-destructive manner. By the way. How did you accomplish the theft? She’s totally oblivious to their disappearance.”

Harry reddened. “About a month ago—”

Mrs. Risk interrupted again. “After our drink on Harrington’s dock?”

Harry nodded. “The next day. A young man came into the shop. His uncle had died and left him a coin collection.” He jiggled the bag again. “This is that collection. It’s extremely valuable, but he was more interested in stamps, so we traded.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t record the transaction.”

“Ah. And after a space of time for safety, the fire,” put in Mrs. Risk.

Harry nodded. “The fire. I burned some blank bits of paper. I told everybody they were the stamps which I’d
really
given the young man, to account for their disappearance. Then I kept—stole—the coins. When I made my flower pots, I made drainage holes in the bottoms slightly larger than the size of each coin. Then I bought some of that clay that air dries without firing. I pressed it on and around the coins in pretty designs, and fitted them into the holes. They just looked like decorative plugs.” He nodded, shamefaced, at Mrs. Risk. “To everybody except her.” He sneaked a look at Christa, who sat listening unperturbed. “I was desperate,” he finished miserably.

Rachel said firmly, “She’d been treating you like a slave all those years, and you were in love.”

“Yes. I—I didn’t think things through. Well, maybe I didn’t want to think. I guess I wanted a little revenge.”

Mrs. Risk examined the shattered man before her and smiled. “Your revenge certainly contained no sting for Margeurite. The insurance company reimbursed her for the stamps.”

He sunk even lower in his chair. “Yes. I didn’t think that through either. I cheated them most of all, and they didn’t even do anything to me.”

Christa rose, kissed him on top of the head, and sat down again. “If anyone can understand about anger and desperation, it’s me.”

Rachel shrugged. “Me, too.”

Aisa grinned. “It’s a common condition, young man. We’ve all been there. So how long will you need to straighten this all out?”

Harry gaped. “What?”

Mrs. Risk prodded. “How long will you need to manipulate things so that the stamps can reappear? The coins, too, of course. Will you need help with a plan?”

Christa leaned forward. “How about if he discovers a misplaced transaction invoice, or something like that? He could say that in the trauma of the fire, he forgot about making the deal. So he’ll ‘realize’ the stamps weren’t burned after all. He can reveal the young man’s name, who can confirm the trade. He can sneak the coins back into the shop easy, right? Then the insurance company can get their money back from Margeurite and she’ll have her coins back in inventory. That would work, wouldn’t it?”

“Christa!” Harry gasped. She laughed.

Mrs. Risk lifted her face to the breeze and sniffed. “Ah. I think our roast chicken beckons. Time to eat.”

When Harry and his new family finally left, Rachel studied Mrs. Risk and Aisa sitting half asleep in their chairs. The glade was lit by a three-quarter moon and all the greens and golds had turned to silver and grey.

“Look at you two sitting there,” she said crossly. “Like grandma and grandpa God.”

Aisa said, “He’s a good investment. Look how well he’s done for that woman over the years.”

“I don’t mean your money. I mean his crime.”

Mrs. Risk smiled, her eyes still shut. “Justice is fickle, seldom does it go where it ought. A little nudge here and there doesn’t hurt. Harry’s a good-hearted man. He needed a little straightening out, that’s all. His conscience would’ve torn him apart, ruining the rest of his life.” She opened her eyes and looked at Rachel. “Admit it. You’re as happy about this whole thing as we are.”

“Humph. Maybe. Well, seems to me
real
justice would be if Aunt Margeurite got
some
kind of payback for the way she treated him for so long.”

“Don’t be greedy, dear. Don’t forget the help she gave him when he needed it most.” Mrs. Risk again closed her eyes, but not before Rachel caught a certain gleam.

While Rachel washed dishes, she could be heard whistling. The next day, she asked Aisa what he meant by saying Harry was a good investment.

Soon after Harry and Christa’s June wedding in Mrs. Risk’s glade, Rachel called Mrs. Risk on the phone: “Remember what you said about justice being fickle? I just heard that Aunt Margeurite never told the insurance company about the stamps’ reappearance and the coin trade, can you beat that?”

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Risk. “Cheating is such a bad habit.”

“And she would’ve gotten away with it, too, if somebody hadn’t anonymously tipped off the insurance adjuster. Rumor is, she’s up on charges of fraud!” Rachel crowed with laughter. “Do you think it’s true?”

“Count on me, dear. It’s true.”

S
TRUGGLING TO CONTROL
his shaking hand, Reverend John Floyd pressed the phone buttons to dial a number. As the phone on the other end began to ring, a dusty old clock hanging on his living room wall struck eleven dolorous tones. He shivered at the sound. After seven rings, at the other end the receiver was picked up.

The reverend bellowed, “Where—is—your—client, Mr. Rigstone?”

“Heeeyy!” came an amiable drawl. “Is this the Reverend Floyd?”

“You know it is, you fool. Byron LeFarge. Your client…you always know where he is…pursuing his depraved…” Pain shot through his temples. He pressed trembling fingers to his forehead. “Get him. I want him here, now. Send him to me!”

“Oh, for sure. Don’t blow a gasket! About time you two sat down for a friendly talk. Clear the air. Are you at home?”

“Get him!”

“I will! Whew! You won’t be sorry. Reaching out a hand like you are, it’s a fine Christian thing—”

The reverend let the receiver drop into place. Slowly he turned to contemplate his wife’s motionless body sprawled at his feet. He waited for Byron LeFarge to come.

Mrs. Risk, a lean-figured, tall, dark-haired woman of a certain age, nervously but erroneously regarded (because of certain lifestyle irregularities) by her fellow villagers in Wyndham-by-the-Sea to be a ‘witch,’ replaced her own phone receiver a few minutes later. She gazed thoughtfully through her screen door at her two guests, the LeFarge brothers—Allyn and Byron. They were outside with her friend and young protégé, Rachel.

The twin brothers were also her friends. Both were notable artists who lived, like Mrs. Risk, among the hills bordering Long Island Sound near Wyndham-by-the-Sea. Allyn LeFarge was painting a life-size portrait of a reclining Rachel, who intended to use the likeness as an advertising trademark to be hung in her flower shop in the village.

Mrs. Risk left her cottage to carry the phone message to the artist brothers, her strides stirring the gauzy folds of her black dress. It was another blazing summer day, but the surrounding trees and the breeze from the nearby Sound buffered the glade from the worst of the heat.

Rachel stretched and yawned on her perch atop an improvised dais, dislodging several of the discreetly arranged flora. She felt the heat least of any of them, since she was naked. Mrs. Risk had wondered aloud what the villagers would think she was selling by advertising with such a portrait, but abandoned her point when Rachel predictably ignored the question.

As Mrs. Risk approached the group, Allyn spoke. “Jeez, Rachel, don’t stretch like that, it blows my concentration. Here, it’s been two hours, anyway…break time.” Allyn laid down his brush and threw her a light cotton kimono.

Byron sighed euphorically from where he reclined on a lawn chair and said, “Yes, I’m exhausted just watching you breathe. Cover up for a while, angel pie, give us a break.” He sipped his lemonade.

Rachel giggled and wrapped the robe around her lush figure, tossing her dark curls to catch the breeze.

“Byron, your agent just called,” said Mrs. Risk. “He said to tell you that somebody named Reverend Floyd wants a meeting with you, and you must go to the reverend’s house immediately. He gave me directions. One of those condos near the golf course. Not far. You can finish Rachel’s portrait after your errand.”

Byron and Allyn stared at each other, fear reflected in eyes so identical that each could’ve been staring into a mirror, rather than at a brother.

“She told him,” said Byron to Allyn.

“I told you she would,” said Allyn, despair pulling his voice up into a wail. “She isn’t the type to say she would and then wouldn’t. She hasn’t the brains to understand the ruin she’ll bring on us.”

“And on the head of that troublemaking husband of hers, too,” added Byron.

“What’s this?” asked Rachel.

Allyn groaned. “Oh, two weeks ago, I took on a commission—posing as Byron, as usual. A young blonde wanted a nude portrait of herself as a birthday present for her husband. All I knew was her first name—Zella—and that she had the most lovely rich curves. How could I refuse? I decided on a full five by three canvas.”