The Seventh Witch (17 page)

I turned sideways in my seat. “How did you know?” I asked in a shocked voice.

A smirk tugged at her mouth. “A sudden interest in healing? Going to visit a complete stranger?” She shook her head. “Not your style, darlin’.”

Whew, I exhaled loudly. “You’re making it a lot easier on me. I thought I’d have to pry the information from you.”

Lydia’s face grew serious. “I haven’t really known you and Abby that long, but I feel like I have. Aunt Dot
and
Great-Aunt Mary,” she said pointedly, “have always talked about y’all so much.” She sat tall in her seat. “Besides, you’re family. I’ll help any way that I can.”

“Thanks, Lydia,” I said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Got any paper and a pen? Wait.” I lifted my purse onto my lap. “I’ve a pen.”

She motioned to the back with a jerk of her head. “There’s paper in my bag.”

I pulled the bag to the front and grabbed a small notebook. Poising the pen over the paper, I thought about my conversation with Billy. He’d confirmed what Lydia had already told me—everyone who caused problems for Sharon had paid a price.

“You’ve told me that trouble plagued anyone who crossed
Sharon. I need to know their names and what happened to them,” I finally said.

Lydia’s finger tapped the steering wheel and her eyes narrowed. “Let’s see…Martin Thomas…he owns pasture next to the Dorans. It’s their responsibility to maintain part of the fence line, and when they didn’t, he complained. Shortly thereafter, ten of his sheep were found dead.”

“Okay, Martin Thomas—dead sheep.” I wrote, struggling to keep my handwriting legible. “Next.”

“Doran’s cows wandered into George McCleary’s field and trampled his corn. When he asked for restitution, his well went bad. He not only had the expense of replanting, but of digging a new well.”

“George McCleary—bad well.” My pen went sliding across the paper when we hit a bump. Brother, I hoped I’d be able to read these notes.

“Are the McClearys related to us?” I asked.

“No, like I said, we’ve always stayed away from them.”

Until you came along
seemed to hang in the air.

“I’m sorry, Lydia,” I replied earnestly. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble. Honest.”

“I know you didn’t, sweetie.” Her mouth turned down in a frown. “This has been a long time coming. Sharon’s rode roughshod over this valley enough. It’s time someone stopped her.” Tightening her hands on the steering wheel, she gave me a sideways glance. “And if you can figure out a way, more power to you.”

“Even if Great-Aunt Mary doesn’t approve?” I asked, cocking my head and watching her. “Earlier today you seemed reluctant to go against Great-Aunt Mary’s wishes.”

She tugged on her bottom lip as the road smoothed out and the path changed to the gravel road. “Well, I thought about it after you left this morning. You know folks—like Mrs. Jessup, for one—have enough problems without living in fear of the Dorans. I only ask one thing.” She looked at me quickly. “You don’t do anything without discussing it with Great-Aunt Mary.”

“Lydia,” I gasped. “She’s never going to agree to any idea of mine.”

“Yes she will,” she said with a nod of her head. “Regardless of what you think, Great-Aunt Mary has always been a reasonable woman, and if you explain to her…” Her voice trailed away.

“Okay,” I said with hesitation. “Is there anyone else who’s had problems with the Dorans?”

“Humph,” she gave a derisive snort. “What I’ve told you? Those are things that have just happened in the last six months. I could go back for years.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” I stated with a click of my pen.

She raised one finger. “Mrs. Abernathy’s grandson broke his leg after a fight with one of Sharon’s nephews.” She raised another finger. “Matthew Carson’s potatoes rotted in the field after he complained about the Doran boys racing their cars up and down his road.” Another finger raised. “Eb Wilson got a bad case of food poisoning after he refused to sell the Dorans his prize milk cow. Pat—”

I held up a hand, stopping her. “I think that’s enough for now.”

Scanning the list, I tried to see a pattern, but couldn’t find one. “Lydia,” I said, my eyes still focused on the paper. “All these events could just be bad luck.”

“Bad luck caused by Sharon and her granny,” she replied with a snort.

“Have any other families had a series of misfortune? Families that
haven’t
had a run-in with the Dorans?”

“Of course.”

I turned in my seat and faced her. “Don’t you see what’s happening?” I said, leaning forward with excitement. “Sharon’s taken credit for causing these calamities and used it to promote her rep as a witch. These events could’ve happened normally.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I suppose the sheep could’ve eaten some mountain laurel.”

“Isn’t that the shrub with the pretty flowers? Abby’s mentioned it before.”

Lydia bobbed her head. “Pretty and poisonous. I’ve heard stories of folks who’ve used juice from the leaves to commit suicide.”

“Wow…it’s that deadly?”

She nodded again.

“How long does it take for the poison to work?”

“Less than a day,” she replied, her tone short.

“What are the symptoms?”

“Convulsions, paralysis, watery eyes,” she ticked them off, “bowels voiding, hemorrhaging.”

“Is there any antidote?”

“A stomach pump—but it has to be done right away.”

“Is there anything else that could’ve caused the sheep to die?”

She snickered. “The woods are full of things a body doesn’t want to eat. Bloodroot, Dutchman’s breeches, snow-berries.”

“Would livestock eat that stuff?” I asked, running a finger down my list.

“I don’t know—maybe.”

I stopped next to Mrs. Abernathy’s name. “What about the grandson? How did he break his leg?”

“He tripped down the basement stairs going to fetch something for his grandma.”

“That could happen to anyone,” I said reasonably. I read my notation about the McClearys. “What about the well? Do you suppose it could’ve been caused by runoff? We’ve had that problem in Iowa. Herbicides, insecticides, manure leeching into the groundwater.”

“It never happened before,” she argued. “For as long as I can remember that well has been crystal clear. Suddenly it turned bad and stunk to high heaven.”

“Okay, forget the well. What about the potato blight? Did anyone else have the same problem?”

“No.” Lydia shifted in her seat. “You honestly believe that the misfortune wasn’t caused by a spell?”

“Yes, I do,” I said with a frown.

“That Sharon didn’t cast spells on them?”

I crossed my arms. “I didn’t say that…she might have cast spells, but they didn’t work.”

“How can you say that?” she cried.

“Because…” and I quickly shared the conversation I’d had with Billy.

“She conned him into chasing Cecilia?”

“That’s right.” I gave a satisfied nod. “If Sharon believed in herself—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lydia broke in. “You’ve seen how she acts, she’s got an ego the size of Texas.”

I leaned forward. “But don’t you see, that’s just what it is—an act. You know as well as I do that magick doesn’t work if you don’t have faith in yourself.”

“You really think Sharon doesn’t have enough faith to make her spells work, so she resorts to tricking everyone into believing that they do?” she asked, and I heard the skepticism in her voice.

“Yeah,” I replied, scooting back in my seat.

“If that’s what she’s doing, it’s really twisted.”

I shrugged. “So is trying to destroy someone with magick just because.”

“Okay, I get your point.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “She might have poisoned the sheep and the well, but I don’t know how you’re going to prove it.” She sighed. “And I don’t know how you’re going to convince people who’ve always feared the Dorans that you’re right.”

There was one victim we hadn’t discussed—Oscar Nelson.

“Lydia, what about Oscar Nelson?”

“And the poppet?”

“Right. Great-Aunt Mary said he suffered from a stomach ailment for years, but the way the men at the station talked,
they’d always assumed he was faking it.” I studied Lydia’s profile. “Do you know? Did you ever treat him?”

She shook her head. “Oscar never held with our ways. He preferred to doctor down in Asheville.”

I turned toward the window. “Boy, I wish I could look at his medical records,” I commented.

I considered my options. I had been known to climb through a few windows, browse a couple of confidential files, but the idea of breaking and entering a medical plaza? I didn’t think so. No, there had to be another way.

I looked back at Lydia. “I don’t know…maybe this whole thing is crazy. Maybe I should just let Great-Aunt Mary handle Sharon.”

Lydia suddenly whipped the SUV into a strange driveway.

“What are you doing?” I cried in alarm.

“I have an idea,” she said as we sped up the lane. “We’ll ask Cousin Elsie.”

Lydia was driving like a woman possessed, and I braced my hand on the dash.

“Who’s Cousin Elsie and what are we going to ask her?”

“Her mother was a daughter of Flora and Jens. She’s about the same age as Aunt Dot, maybe a little younger.”

“Have I met her?”

“She doesn’t get out much, but you might have seen her at Oscar’s funeral.”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember meeting a Cousin Elsie.”

Lydia’s lips twisted in a grin. “If you had, you’d remember.”

“Why?”

“Never mind…you’ll understand when you meet her.”

“Will she be at Great-Aunt Mary’s birthday celebration?”

Lydia snickered. “Not likely—they don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, so it would be best if you left Great-Aunt Mary out of the conversation,” she said, coming to a stop
and putting the transmission in park. “Oh, and another thing…don’t stare at her wart.”

With a groan, I climbed out of the vehicle. Lydia opened the back door, and after strapping a leash to Jasper’s collar, let him climb out. Together the three of us crossed the weed-choked yard to the small house.

“So what’s Cousin Elsie’s talent?” I asked as Lydia lifted her hand to knock.

“Poisons,” she whispered, wiggling her eyebrows.

The door swung open, and I swear, except for having a normal skin tone, I looked into the face of the Wicked Witch of the West. Wart, hooked nose, scraggly gray hair…Cousin Elsie looked like every caricature I’d seen of witches. Any minute I expected to see flying monkeys, the creatures who’d caused my worst childhood nightmares, to swoop down from the high ceilings. I almost turned and ran.

Lydia sensed my thoughts. Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. Propelling me toward Cousin Elsie, she smiled pleasantly at the old woman. “Good afternoon, Elsie. This here’s Annie’s great-granddaughter, Ophelia.”

At Lydia’s words, I tore my eyes away from Elsie’s face and finally noticed how she was dressed. A bright fuchsia dress with a ratty silk flower pinned at the neck. I tried not to let my jaw drop. She was the woman who’d been staring at me from across Oscar’s open grave.

Elsie did some observing of her own and looked me up and down. “Saw you at Oscar’s funeral.”

Robbed of speech, I could only nod like an idiot.

“Here for Mary’s birthday, are you?” she snorted, bending down and scratching Jasper’s ears.

I cleared my throat. “Ah, yes, ma’am.”

“Well, come on in. Always did like Annie, so you’re welcome in my house.”

Reluctantly, I followed her as she hobbled down the hall to the back of the house. My wide eyes took in everything, from the faded wallpaper to the swaths of spiderwebs hanging in the corners. Finally we stepped out of the gloomy hall
into a bright kitchen. A wood-burning stove sat against one wall, with a huge cauldron bubbling merrily on the back burner. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, and on the opposite wall, rows and rows of books were piled on shelves. On the topmost shelf a big yellow tabby lay watching us with amber eyes. He stared at Jasper with some curiosity. With a great yawn, he stretched out his front feet and extended his claws as if to say,
Try it, bud, and you’ll be sorry.

Jasper got the message and obediently stayed at Lydia’s side.

Elsie pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. I did as she wanted. Lydia sat next to me, while Jasper curled on the floor.

“I’m just getting ready to eat my dinner,” Elsie said, shuffling over to the stove and the boiling cauldron. “Would you girls like to join me?”

Under the table, I clutched Lydia’s knee. She’d said Elsie’s talent was poisons. Did I really want to eat something she’d cooked?

She pried my fingers loose. “Thank you, Elsie,” she said, giving me a warning glance. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Ophelia?”

I numbly nodded.

Lydia rose and crossed to the stove to help Elsie serve the soup. Returning with two steaming bowls, she placed one in front of me. I looked at it suspiciously. Lydia caught my expression and frowned. She picked up a spoon and handed it to me then pointed at the bowl.

Carefully, I dipped the spoon in the brown liquid swimming with vegetables and, lifting it to my mouth, took a cautious sip. It was terrific.

“This is very good, Elsie,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“’Course it is,” she grumbled, taking her place at the table. “Didn’t think I’d poison y’all, did ya?” She let out a creaky laugh.

Once I’d gotten past the way Cousin Elsie looked and the way her voice sounded like a door needing oil, I liked her. She was a nice woman—a little different, but still nice. She kept us amused throughout the meal with stories about growing up in the mountains and the pranks that she and the other cousins played.

“You and Aunt Dot really put your grandmother’s chickens to sleep by tucking their heads under their wings?” I asked.

She gave a deep, hoarse chortle. “We surely did. And Grandma Flora wasn’t pleased to look out the window and see all her chickens lying like lumps on the ground. I think we were put in the corner for that one.” She slid a plate of homemade bread toward me. “But the most trouble we got into was the time Annie and me camped out all night at the Seven Sisters.” She cocked her head to the side. “Let’s see—we must’ve been about ten at the time.”

I picked up a slice of the bread and, taking my knife, smeared it with sweet butter. “The Seven Sisters?”

“That’s what Annie always called them. They’re in the clearing north of the old home place.”

My knife paused over my bread. “The standing stones?”

“That’d be them.” She pushed her empty bowl away and leaned against the table. “Annie loved that place and we were
always sneaking off to play among the stones.” She folded her hands. “Our folks didn’t approve…said the place had too much magick…but Annie never feared it. She told me the spirits liked having us there.” She cackled again. “Mary, on the other hand, was scared spitless every time we talked her into coming with us.”

“How did Annie know about the spirits? I thought Annie was a healer, not a medium.”

“She wasn’t, but she always claimed she felt their presence. She said they protected her.”

They’d certainly lent their power to help Abby when she needed it, I thought.

Elsie’s lips twisted in a smile. “Annie loved that place so much she took some of the red pebbles, same stone as the Sisters, home to her ma. I can’t remember now what she called them, but my aunt made those funny little signs on the pebbles—”

I dropped my knife. “Runes?”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Grandpa Jens had taught both her and Annie how to use them. And, before she died, she gave them back to Annie.”

I couldn’t believe it—all this time I’d assumed that my great-great-grandmother had made my runes from river rock, but she hadn’t. The stones had come from the clearing. Did Abby know?

Elsie’s smile faded. “I surely do miss that Annie,” she said quietly.

I took a deep breath and looked directly into her moist eyes. “Elsie, did Granny Doran wish Annie dead?” I asked abruptly.

Her eyes narrowed and she studied me in silence for a moment. “You heard that old story, hey?”

“Yes, and Sharon’s tried the same thing with Abby,” I replied.

Elsie shoved back in her chair. “Pshaw,” she exclaimed. “That girl could no more cast a death spell than I could ride a broom.”

I wasn’t too sure she couldn’t, but I kept my mouth shut and let her continue.

“Annie had a bad heart. She doctored herself for years, but finally it went beyond even her healing and just gave out.”

Shooting a wide-eyed look at Lydia, I saw her face wore the same expression as mine. “But why—”

Elsie flapped a hand at me, cutting me off. “Annie didn’t want anyone to know, not even Abby. When she told me about it, she made me promise not to say anything.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I mumbled. “Wouldn’t it have been—”

“Annie didn’t want to be treated like an invalid,” she said in a rush. “All of her life, Mary had fussed over her, and Annie was afraid if Mary knew of her condition, she’d take over. Annie didn’t want to spend her days being waited on and bossed around. She wanted to live her life on her terms, not Mary’s.”

I thought about all the years Abby had spent convinced that the Dorans killed her mother and the pain that it had caused.

“But after she died, why didn’t you say something?” I cried in an angry voice.

Elsie scowled at me as her own anger gathered in her eyes. “I did!” she exclaimed. “The night Annie died, I tried to tell Mary, but she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t want to believe that her beloved sister would keep such a secret from her. She said the spirits would have told her if Annie was sick. And then she told me to git and I did. I’ve not talked to the woman since.”

With a groan, I covered my face with my hands and tried to calm down. “Elsie, you have no idea the problems that secret has caused,” I muttered. Dropping my hands, I looked over at her and she glanced away.

“Well,” she huffed, “maybe I should’ve told Abby.”

“You think?” I asked with a glare.

Lydia’s hand gently touched my knee under the table, and
I took a deep breath. “Did Annie tell you anything about old man Doran and his son?”

“No, all I know is for some reason she deeded over the Seven Sisters to them after the old man died.” She traced a circle on the tablecloth. “I never could figure out why, and when I asked, Annie wouldn’t say.”

I looked at Lydia and she gave me an encouraging nod. As succinctly as I could, I laid out the situation between our family and the Dorans to Elsie. I explained what had happened to Abby at the standing stones and why they’d come into the possession of the Dorans. By the time I was finished, I felt her skinny frame vibrating with indignation.

“That dirty bast—” She snapped her mouth shut and rose to her feet. “He never was worth the powder it’d take to blow him to hell. And her…” She hobbled over to the bookshelf and grabbed a couple of books. “She was just as bad.” Crossing back to the table, she smacked them down.

A cloud of dust rose in the air.

“There”—she waved a crooked finger at the books lying on the table—“if that old biddy and her granddaughter have been using the gifts of the forest for their trickery…” Her voice faded as she tapped the worn cover of the top book. “…how they done it will be in there. And if it’s not,” she said with a nod of her head and a wave at the shelves behind her, “it’ll be in one of those. I’ve spent most of my life studying what grows in these mountains, and I wrote everything I learned in them books.”

Two hours later I’d learned Elsie had spoken the truth. The table was covered with stacks of her journals, as Lydia, Elsie, and I poured over them.

“What about this?” My eyes skimmed over Elsie’s spidery handwriting. “You wrote that bloodroot could irritate the skin?”

“That it can,” she said with a nod. “The red sap causes a rash.”

“Hmm?” I looked over at Lydia. “Any of Sharon’s victims ever think she hexed them with sores?”

“Maybelle, over at the beauty shop, once broke out in a rash all over her hands and arms after Sharon was unhappy with the way she had cut her hair.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “But how would Sharon manage to get the sap on Maybelle’s hands and arms?”

“Hand cream. Beauticians use a lot of hand lotion, don’t they? Sharon could’ve slipped in some poison.” I turned to Elsie. “That would work, wouldn’t it?”

“It might,” she replied.

Lydia looked down at the journal in front of her and flipped one of the pages. “I haven’t found anything that would sour a well, though.” She glanced at me. “Have you?”

“No.”

Elsie gave another one of her low cackles. “I declare—you girls.” Sitting back in her chair, she crossed her thin arms. “You don’t need poison to ruin water. A five gallon bucket of hog manure will do just as well.”

“Would it make them sick?”

“No, it’d stink so bad no one would be stupid enough to drink it.”

I thought about Martin Thomas and his dead sheep. “Would sheep eat mountain laurel, Elsie?”

“Sheep will eat anything you give them,” she said with a snort. “So will most livestock.” She pulled one of the books toward her and opened it. “I think it’s in here…yes, here it is…lambkill. It’s a cousin of mountain laurel.”

I shut the book in front of me and folded my hands on top of it. “In other words, there are plenty of ways that Sharon could’ve poisoned livestock, caused rashes, and soured wells.” My eyes slid to Lydia. “But what about Oscar Nelson? Did she poison him, or did he just conveniently die of natural causes?”

Elsie brushed a straggly gray hair away from her face. “If she’s been practicing on livestock, it wouldn’t take her long to learn what would work on a man.”

“Any ideas?” I asked.

“Water hemlock is the deadliest. There’s been many who’ve mistaken it for parsnips and died for their mistake.” She bit on her lip. “But that’s usually in the spring.”

Lydia flipped her book shut. “What would cause hemorrhaging?”

“Jeweled death cap would give you a bellyache before it killed you.”

“Jeweled death cap?”

“Poison mushrooms. Nasty way to die,” she said with a shiver. “One of the poisons shows up in the bloodstream right away.”

“What else?” Lydia asked.

“Cottonmouth venom.”

“Ha,” I snorted. “I already know Sharon has a fondness for snakes.” I explained finding the rattler in the bedroom to Elsie.

“Venom from a cottonmouth destroys tissue.” She frowned. “So if a snake would’ve bit him, or if she’d have stuck him with something containing the venom, there’d have been marks on the body.”

“I haven’t heard anything about an autopsy—did they do one?” I asked, looking over at Lydia.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Everyone, including the sheriff, just assumed Oscar’s stomach ailment finally killed him.”

“And if they didn’t do an autopsy, they probably didn’t do any blood tests.” I pulled my dusty hands through my hair in frustration. “Without tests, we have no way of knowing what really killed him, do we?”

Lydia shook her head sadly. “No, we don’t. If Sharon did poison him, she could’ve used any number of things.”

Elsie picked up one of the books and carried it over to the bookshelf. “Why don’t you ask him?” she said over her shoulder.

“Huh?” Lydia and I blurted out simultaneously.

Elsie turned and fisted her hands on her hips. “And you
girls call yourselves witches?” Shaking her head, she joined us back at the table. “First thing you should’ve thought of was using a circle. Make one and have Mary ask him how he died. She’s always been mighty proud of her ability to talk to the dead. Not that she’d have a problem with him.” She gave a little snicker. “Oscar always did go on about his health in life…don’t imagine he’s changed in death.”