Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (19 page)

       That is a comment which should be eliminated from polite conversation.  I always wonder—
what exactly have you told him about me?
  Was it complimentary?  Insulting?  Jimbo, however, probably hadn’t been terribly interested, if he’d even been listening to his wife in the first place.  His face had the polite, social, glazed look of the trapped male in a social setting he mistrusted, if not actively disliked.  I did, however, note his glance slide over towards the food tables several times.

       Jimbo and I could become friends.

       Since I’d arrived at Lucinda’s house, I hadn’t relaxed at all.  My mind had been in turmoil one way or another the entire time.  Now, as their voices around me commented on the memorial service, the unknown speaker, and the progress (or lack of such) of the sheriff’s office, I let myself slide away from actively partaking in the talk.  It was then that the feeling of evil hit me.  I looked up, startled, and saw most of the room’s occupants were watching our little group, and the reason for their attention was clear.  Lucinda, the chief mourner, was staring at us, plainly not listening to the woman who stood talking to her.  I swallowed and felt dizzy. 

       Somebody, somewhere, was angry, and frustrated, and the feelings were aimed at me.  Personally. 

       Then the wave of black emotion passed as quickly as it had hit.  The world reformed into a group of people at a memorial service.  Some of them were interested in the food.  Some were paying social service to the chief mourner.  Some were talking in small groups.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  I glanced around nervously, slyly.  Nobody, except David who was across the room with Patsy and Percy, seemed to be watching
me
in particular.  Even as I looked, his attention was drawn away from me by the approach of Ronnie.  Everything was back to normal.  I heard distinct voices in casual conversation, where for a moment it had all been the hushed buzz of talk when you first descend in an airplane before your ears clear.

       I don’t like moments like that, but it passed, as things do.  When I tried to bring it back later, it was gone. I simply wasn’t good at being a psychic. What was I supposed to do?  Should I go to sheriff Alberts and tell him I sensed something evil in the room?  Or maybe not in the room.  I needed a lot more skill than I was displaying.

       One of the things Aunt Josie had been working on before she died was contacting other people telepathically.  It happens often enough, but not under controlled circumstances.  She and I had tried it several times, with fair success.  Trying to define what image reached one another was something else.  I would know she was thinking “at” me, but usually I had no idea what the thought she was trying to transmit might be.  It was interesting, and I’d tried to keep it up in a small way.  I usually “made” people call me, or sometimes I’d try and put an image in their minds, something like a carrot.  If they mentioned carrots in any way, shape or form, I considered the test a success.  It wasn’t very scientific, but it was fun and good practice.

   I was very good at thinking people into calling me.

       Not quite so good at making them think of carrots, at least not mentioning them.

       Now, trapped in my own little world of trespass into another’s mind, I decided to try to reach it again.  This time, though, I’d be in control and maybe I could track down the source of the furious, hateful waves of anger directed at me.  Half the trouble with being psychic is the moment it occurs always catches me off-guard.  While I’m still sorting out the idea that something’s coming through, the incident is over.

       I cleared my mind as best I could, letting voices and people flow around me.  For just a moment, I felt a whisper of mental contact.  Then it was shattered by Patsy.  “Aunt Rachael!  Are you okay?  You look like you’re about to puke.”

       I forced a smile, returning to the present.  Young people have a way of being unpleasantly blunt.  It was one thing to picture myself deep in meditation, opening my mind to outside influences.  It was quite another to hear I was standing in a roomful of people looking like I was preparing to vomit at any moment.  I put my experiment on hold.  “I’m fine,” I assured her.  “Just tired.  I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

       “Well, eat some of that food you’re carrying around,” she said, full of enthusiasm.  “This stuff is great!  I’ve already been back for seconds.  I plan to attack thirds in a few minutes.”

       I took her advice and nibbled at the food, daintily at first, then with growing enthusiasm.  I’m easily sidetracked.  My mind went from tracking down murderers to thoughts of locating the chef who created these delicacies, and maybe being able to talk him out of a few recipes.  It was enough to turn me into a gourmet.  Now, of course, was not the time to ask Lucinda about the food.  Even I, Queen of Pigs, understood that.  But I would keep it in mind for a later, more tactful time.

       “Aunt Rachael, one of us needs to learn how to cook like this,” my niece whispered. 

       She knew I was upset about something, and was trying to ease my mind.  I was touched by the gesture. 

       “Honey, if one of us learned how to cook like this, I’d have to get a whole new wardrobe.  Right now I can refer to myself as pleasantly plump.  If I had free access to food this good, I’d have to move up to festively-fat.”

       Ronnie, who’d overheard us, told us the melancholy facts.  “Aunt Lucinda got caterers up from Boston for this.  They’re a little expensive – I’d guess about my yearly salary for this little shindig – but worth every penny, I think.  Hopefully you people won’t be
too
piggy.  She might send some leftovers home for us bachelors if there’s enough left.”

       “Don’t count on it, Sonny,” I warned him.  He chuckled, but I was serious.  We headed back to the buffet.  I hadn’t tried the candied flowers yet.  Not
candy
flowers. 
Candied. 
As in the flowers were real.  There were quite a few other things I hadn’t tasted.  Most of them I didn’t have names for.  There were those little thingamagigs that look like bacon bits in a fancy sauce and the deep-fried stuff that tastes kind of oriental.  A whole new world was opening up for me. 
This
stuff was Comfort Food.  Not, of course, that I planned to give up my old favorites.  I’m not fickle.  I’d simply add on.  For half an hour I waddled back and forth and gluttonized.  For half an hour I forgot the horrid feeling that had struck me earlier.

       But all things, good or bad, must end.  The subtle signs of the end of a party began to manifest themselves.  Except for the food, it wasn’t exactly a
party
, but the food had kept us together, talking.  Lucinda had remained well away from me, watching me mix and chat with her guests.  I did make an effort to do exactly that.  One by one I managed a short, often awkward, few minutes with each of her guests, except the two (neighbors, Ronnie told me) watchdogs at her side.  I went up to her before we left, of course.

       She shooed her guardians away with a regal wave.  I felt uncomfortable being such an obvious favorite in court.  She didn’t beat around the bush with me, either.  Royalty isn’t known for being subtle.  “What did you learn?” she demanded.  “I saw the look on your face.  Something happened.  What was it?  Who?”

       “I don’t know,” I started to try and explain, feeling foolishly guilty for eating her delicious funeral treats and not singing for my supper.  “I...”

       Peter and Ronnie rescued me, unwittingly on their part, I’m sure.  “I’m leaving Ronnie with you, Lucinda,” the father said.  “Put him to work cleaning up or something.  Keep him as long as you need him.  He’s happy to help.”

       Ronnie looked less than happy, but straightened his shoulders nobly.  “I want to help, Aunt Lucinda.” He sounded sincere to me.  “If there’s anything at all I can do, please put me to work.  I don’t know what to do to…”

       To what?  Comfort her?  Make it all go away? I felt more kindly than I’d previously felt towards the rather frivolous young man.  (I hadn’t liked the way he’d been eyeing my niece since he’d met her.)  If he was faking his discomfort, he was doing a good job of it.  How did you let someone, with a loss like his aunt’s, know how sorry you felt for them?  And he’d probably spent a good deal of his life at family gatherings, both fighting and conspiring against the adults, with his cousin.  He had his own grief to deal with.

       “Ronnie may stay,” she decreed.  He looked both relieved and miserable about it. Social mores were developed for just such moments.  What did one say, what did one do, for someone who’s lost a child?  There’s a massive, universal agony for the bereaved, but no formula to help.  I gave a feeble nod in her direction, and left. I felt better toward Peter, too, having thought of the gesture, for selfish interests or not.  I hadn’t taken to Peter Pfeiffer.  He was too much of a glad-hander for my comfort. 

       I reproved myself.  My opinions about their outer-selves didn’t matter.  If anything helped Lucinda for the moment, let it happen.  I certainly wasn’t doing much for her.  The crowd, following the family lead, pushed in on us.  People were ready to leave, duty done.  It wasn’t shallowness.  It was social form. Lucinda was following the rules, but had no intention of letting her bereavement deter her from seeking vengeance.  I decided it was her way of dealing with the pain. 

       And I was the pain-killing drug she was counting on.  I went home with more than a little pity for myself. 

       Patsy, though, was ignorant of my problems, and firmly concentrated on her own.  “Joe is going to take me to a movie tonight,” she warned me.  “Please don’t tell Mother I’m only dating one guy, Aunt Rachael.  She doesn’t approve.  She thinks I should be spreading my interests so I’ll know what I want in the end.  I don’t think she’s ever given a thought to AIDS .”

       “I doubt if she means you should
sleep
with every boy you date,” I said wryly.  I had my own children to worry about, and a part of me was angry at how I’d found myself feeling protective towards my niece.  She wasn’t a young child, after all.  Hardly my responsibility.

       But I
liked
her, not just loved her as my sister’s daughter. I was also, for once, in semi-agreement with my sister.  I had married the first guy who showed a little interest, and look where it got
me.

       She threw me a sour look.  I could sense it without having to take my eyes off the road.  Mothers know when sour looks are tossed their way.  She spoke with great dignity.  “That isn’t the point I was trying to make.  Mother doesn’t give me any credit for common sense.  I can eliminate the great majority of men without dating them.”

       She was right, of course.  On her mother’s side of the argument, however, was the purple and red hair.  And the nose ring.  Would a child who willingly submitted her flesh to ritual piercing be capable of becoming a rational adult?  It has been known to happen.  Swingers became grandparents.  Hippies became parents.  It was so much more fun to watch parent/child problems evolve from the outside.  The niece I’d become reacquainted with was an intelligent, practical, decent human being despite her outward rebellion.  If I had parented her through the eleventh grade stage, would I be as complacent?  No.  Although now that I’d weathered the high school years of all of my own children, I was becoming more rational and less hysterical.  Parents should be better trained for raising teenagers.  But then, if they really understood what they’d have to go through, would they even have children? 

       I think I’ve found the answer to the population explosion.  Nobody can become a parent without raising a child for someone else first.  Everyone would be on birth control pills until they’d passed the test of stress, fear, anxiety, protectiveness...  You get the idea.  The birth rate would drop to almost zero.  “Almost” because there are always those few nuts out there.

       We pulled up to the house in silence.  As the adult, I felt it was up to me to rise above the sulking.  I spoke.  “Patsy, you’re a sensible young adult, but you haven’t learned that parents worry because they’ve been around longer and heard more horror stories.  Your mother is right when she says no one should marry until they’ve had a little experience in the world, and no, I don’t mean just
sex
.  On the other side, there is no perfect man.  Probably not a perfect woman, either, but
definitely
not a perfect man.  Just don’t get
me
involved.  At this point I can say you’ve been out with several different young people, if I count the party you went to with Shelly.  If you want to bribe me into further silence, I’d suggest you manage some sort of social get-together with one or more other young men.”