Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (2 page)

   Of course it didn’t occur to me for many years to think of it in that manner.  I had three kids in rapid succession, becoming an overweight and tired old woman in my early twenties.  I was seven plus months along with Danny, my youngest, when I irritated Walter and he hit me.  He was finding me more and more annoying as he climbed the ladder of success while I remained at the bottom, holding the ladder steady for him.  I managed, being overweight and awkward with my pregnancy, to fall heavily backwards against the steps, bringing on early labor.  He never struck me again, but the memory of it stayed with both of us.  His tendency to be a bully increased along with my poorly concealed fear.

   It wasn’t a pretty marriage, but we struggled blindly along until the day he tried to pass a driver who, unlike Walter, believed in driving the speed limit.  Approaching from the other direction, around a curve, was a third driver who agreed with my husband’s philosophy: speed limits were for sissies. 

   They died for their beliefs.

   There wasn’t any life insurance.  The pastor was a bit stunned when he heard about Walter’s “oversight”.

   “Are we were all going to starve to death?”  Molly, my oldest asked, and then burst into tears. I assured her we’d be fine.
Mommy
would take care of us.

   I had my petty revenge after all those years of walking in my husband’s Sabbath shadow.  I sat there with my three fatherless children, a widow without means of support, and allowed the pastor to rethink his opinion of saintly Walter, his favorite layman. 

   Vengeance might be sweet, but the taste doesn’t last long.  I enjoyed making the vow to provide for my family.  Fulfilling it wasn’t quite as much fun.

   I
did
take care of us.  I scrubbed toilets, washed windows, and did laundry for a living.  We didn’t live like kings, but we didn’t starve to death either.  Social Security provided a check for the children every month, and I tried to put as much of their money in the bank as I could.  I did all right for an uneducated, unskilled woman.  We survived.

   And
the minute I could afford it,
I
bought life insurance. 

   It was after Walter’s death Aunt Josie started keeping in touch with me on a regular basis.  Until then, we’d done the family Christmas card routine.  Walter hadn’t approved of her religious beliefs, and it wasn’t worth the arguments to bring up her name.  

   There’d always been talk about my aunt, how strange she was and how she refused to have anything to do with religion.  My conservative family never considered Wicca to be a
religion.
  (In case you haven’t guessed, I haven’t quite gotten around to informing my mother that I’m a witch. She’s never asked, so I haven’t exactly lied about it.) As soon as she asks,
“Rachael?  Are you a witch?”
  I’ll tell her.  Until then, why make waves?

   During one of our many phone conversations, Aunt Josie referred to my psychic abilities. “You have the gift, haven’t you, Rachael?” That was the start of a new phase in our relationship, and the beginning of my interest in “Alternative Religion.”

   She encouraged me to start developing my gift.  She sent me books.  For the first time in my life I considered my psychic abilities might be a
gift
, rather than a curse.

   And to be honest, I was curious.

   I wanted to release the little creature who had always been curled up inside of me.  Sometimes I thought it
was
me—my
inner child,
so to speak.  It was such a quiet little thing, and so gentle.  I’d always wanted to nurture it.

   So in the beginning I studied to please her.  In the end, I delighted myself.

   Aunt Josie did get involved with a coven, a group of people living in her area.  Some were into witchcraft for the secret thrill, some for power, a few with a mistaken idea about sexual orgies.  Still others felt it was part of the New Age experience. My aunt was basically a kind woman, but the stories she told about some of the coven members were downright hysterical. 

   For the most part, she seemed to enjoy the group. She could laugh at some of their antics, and she enjoyed spending time with people who shared her interests.  Yet for the last few months of her life, she had seemed to be growing dissatisfied – maybe even a little
nervous –
with them.  It wasn’t anything she ever said aloud, but she’d never made much of an effort to hide her thoughts from me.  Whenever the subject of her coven came up, I would feel a swell of... discomfort?  Is that the right word?  I’m not sure, but I think if it weren’t for her untimely demise, she might have discontinued her association with the group.

   With her guidance, working with aromatic herbs and spices became a favorite pastime of mine.  I made up bath mixtures for myself and my friends. I actually felt younger than I had in years (closer to my actual age) and I was bursting with interest in so
many
different things.  I took courses in aromatic therapy, in Reiki, in yoga and karate. Much to my surprise, it was karate where I really noticed my growing psychic powers.  After I mastered the first repetitious movements, I found I could “see” in slow motion during our mock fights.  What my body wasn’t equal to against younger opponents, I made up for with a strange sensation of controlling the pace of the action.

   I was
good! 
I’d never been good at anything. I was having
fun
.

   When I signed up for the mail-order course in witchcraft, I did it mainly as a joke.  It was one of the greatest pleasures of my life to learn how to indulge in my latent sense of humor.  I told my aunt about the lessons with “Professor Midnight Solstice” and his promise to make me an official witch for a mere $79.99.  Happily, I had finally reached the point in life where I could afford the money, and besides, it soon became clear the
real
money came from the sale of numerous books he recommended. It was rather a shock to find the course was both thorough and competent, however silly it had sounded
from the ad.  I had joined for the laugh and the certificate.  It turned out I got my money’s worth.

   So I became an official witch.

   Aunt Josie was dead.

   And I inherited everything

CHAPTER TWO

From the Wiccan Rede:

Live and let live

Fairly take and fairly give.

   Aunt Josie’s lawyer, Mr. Goldberg, called bright and early the next morning.

   More accurately, his secretary called.  “Ms Penzra?  Rachael Penzra?”  The voice was pure secretary, the Voice of the Power Behind the Throne.  “Romano, Romano and Goldberg calling.”

   “This is Ms Penzra,” I assured the Voice, refraining from adding, “Penzra, Inc. answering.”  I had resumed my maiden name several years earlier when I started my own cleaning business.  It was a personal decision.  Penzra Inc. was purely
mine.

   “Mr. Goldberg would like to speak with you.  Please hold.”  There followed a series of clicks, surely unnecessary in this day and age, but impressive-sounding all the same.  I wondered if she was making clicking noises with her tongue.  A final click (I swear it was louder than the preceding ones) and the Voice formally announced my presence on the line.

   “Thanks, Mary,” a less officious voice said.  “Ms. Penzra?” was spoken with less confidence.  Apparently the Voice was necessary to keep Mr. Goldberg abreast of the world through modern technology.  He didn’t sound terribly comfortable with the phone system.  I wondered how he coped with computers.

   “I’m Rachael Penzra,” I assured him.

   He sounded relieved.  Once again the telephone had managed to defy nature and connect him with someone across the country. I secretly agreed with him.  Talk about magic!  “I’m Saul Goldberg.  I’m calling about your aunt, Josephine Penzra.  Under the terms of her will, you’re an heir to her estate.”

   He then informed me, in more or less simple terms, that I’d inherited the bulk of her estate. 
The bulk of her estate
apparently consisted of her house and all of its furnishings, her business, her car, and a
very
nice little chunk of change. 

   Ma was going to have a fit!

   “There is one small catch,” I was told.  My first rush of pure covetousness cooled quickly at the caveat. 
What
small catch?
How
small?

   It turned out it wasn’t exactly a
small
catch
.
And it was actually less a
request
than a demand. I had to live in and run
The Lady’s Tree
in
Balsam Grove.  If I chose not to, I’d receive a hundred thousand dollars outright, no strings attached, but I’d get nothing else. “You might want to fly out here and look things over,” the lawyer told me.  “The cost will come out of the estate, of course.”

   My main problem with compliance was my youngest son, Danny.  He was graduating in the spring, and was now in the midst of his senior year.  There was no way I would leave him, at this point, to live on his own.  He’s a wonderful teenage boy—and I didn’t trust him an inch.  Yet within a few months he’d be on his way to a summer job in the wilds of Wyoming, and then he’d be off to college in the fall. Until then, however, I was his keeper.

   “I’d have to stay here until early June,” I explained.  “My youngest boy is graduating from high school this year, and I can’t ask him to move to a different school at this stage of the game, nor can I just pack up and leave him with a friend for months.  Not that I don’t trust him, but...”

   “Say no more.  I have teenagers myself,” he chuckled.  “That’s not a difficulty.  Your aunt and I discussed potential problems.  She suggested you don’t wait longer than a year to try running the store simply because it’s difficult to restart a business when it’s been closed, but starting a bit late into the season won’t hurt.  You’re not being held to anything, you understand.  This is a simply request she’s made.  You’ll inherit the hundred thousand whatever you choose to do.”

   The minute he released me from the trap, I refused to leave it.  I’m often foolish about things like that.  Besides, wonderful as the cash sounded, I had enough sense to understand a lot of it would be spent (probably on a decent car) and gone within a year or so. “She knew I’m not particularly...
satisfied
with my life.  I’ve been working at developing my own cleaning business.  I already have six outside clients, which is the most I can handle and still work at my full-time position.  When my son graduates, I’ll be able to commit myself fully, one way or another.”  The truth of the matter was I’d been dreading the decision, the final step binding me to the cleaning business forever.  Cleaning up after other people was all I was trained for, though, and I really didn’t feel motivated to return to school so I could learn a new trade.  There isn’t anything out there I feel deeply drawn to.  I didn’t want to be a teacher and work with the young, I have no desire to become a nurse and succor the sick. I guess what I really want to be is rich, and while a hundred thousand was nothing to sneeze at, it wouldn’t change my life all that much.  It would be great to have something for retirement, but I wondered how much would be left by then.

   “Everything, of course, will be up to you.”  I could sense his nod, as if in approval of my ambitions.  My business, which
I
felt so uncertain about, seemed to raise me in his estimation.  “I do think, however, you’d be smart to look into your aunt’s store before you make any decision.  She had a good business head.  She was wise enough to see the homeopathic field, if I might be forgiven the pun,
blossoming
, and to take advantage of it.  I must admit I wouldn’t have thought of it myself.”  He paused and asked, carefully.  “You did know her well enough to be aware of her, er, spiritual interests?”

   “You mean, do I know she practiced Wicca?” I asked, tickled by his delicate wording.

   “Well, ah... yes.”

   Poor man.  He sounded so uncomfortable with the subject.  “My aunt was very open with me, Mr. Goldberg.  She was a strong, smart woman with deep beliefs.”

   To my surprise, he sounded pleased with my assessment.  “She certainly was, and she said much the same about you.  I had reason to ask about you when she drew up her will.  Not that it was any of my business,” he quickly assured me.  “But naturally I was curious.  She thought very highly of you, and she was pleased with the idea of leaving her possessions to a family member.  Prior to changing it, her will left everything to several ecological and animal charities, which meant everything would have to be sold, and I don’t think she really wanted that.  She loved her home and her shop and she hoped you’d feel the same way.  However, she was quite adamant that the decision was to be entirely yours.  She does ask you try it for a year. You can always remain, if you choose, and start a cleaning business in the area.  It’s full of tourists and big-money estates.  Lots of money.”  He chuckled to show he was being humorous. 

   I didn’t join in on the laugh.  Money, when you need it, isn’t a joke.

   I admit I felt obliged to at least
think
about trying to run the store for a year, simply because I still retain some of my Minnesota upbringing.  To take the money and run would surely be an ungrateful thing to do. 

   But for all my cold reasoning, I was afraid to make such a big move.  My own little niche in the world might not have many windows, but I felt safe there.

   After my phone conversation with the lawyer, I called my daughter Molly.  She wasn’t thrilled with the news.

   “But Ma, if you go, you’ll be so far away from us!  You hardly get to see the grandchildren as it is.”  She’s my oldest, and is very much the eldest child.  She married right out of high school, moved to Texas with her husband, and proceeded to help run a ranch, raise three kids, and paint whenever she found an extra moment.  It always amazes
her
when her paintings sold regularly.  What amazed
me
was how much money she makes from them. 

   “Honey,” I reminded her.  “I have trouble getting down there to see the kids now.  I have to
fly
to see you no matter where I live—Nevada or Minnesota.  With this inheritance and the income from the shop, if I’m half-way careful, I’ll have money and
time
, not only to visit you more often than I do now, but to pay for you coming up to see me.  Think how the kids will love Minnesota.  They’ll have a chance to see
real
snow and do all kinds of things they can’t do in Texas.  And it’ll only be for a year.  If I don’t like it, I can come back here.”  I was convincing myself as much as her.  “Besides, I don’t have to decide immediately.  I can fly out there now and look things over without making any commitment.”

   She grudgingly gave me her approval for the potential move, and I bit my tongue to keep from reminding her I didn’t
need
her approval.

   Michael, my middle child, was as interested in my big news as he ever is in anything that doesn’t directly affect him.  He’s not exactly
selfish
; I like to think he’s simply extremely self-involved.  Even that’s wrong.  He concentrates so fully on whatever he’s tuned in to at the moment that he often appears disinterested in the rest of the world.  Believe me, it’s easier that way.  When he turns his mental beam at you, it can be scary. 

   “Tell you what, Ma,” he informed me.  “I can put off the trip to the rain forest if you want and come help you out.  I’d like to have a look at the area, anyway.”  He is deeply involved in the environmental woes of the world, spending all of his free time visiting trouble spots, or protesting somewhere about something.  When he thought of it, he left me vague e-mail messages of where he’d be: 
Off to Peru.  Back around August. 
I no longer allow myself to worry too much about him.  It is just too hard on the nerves.

   “No, go ahead with your plans,” I hurriedly told him.  “It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.”  It was with a University-sponsored group, and I was hoping, in my optimistic, motherly fashion, that the college connection would ensure his safety.  “Besides,” I added.  “I think I’ve committed myself to trying the shop for at least a year before I make any permanent decisions.  You can visit next winter during your vacation and do some cross-country skiing if you want.”  The bribe would at least keep him in the country.  Last winter he’d gone to Russia to study pollution problems. 

   Danny, my baby, was as indifferent about the whole matter as he was about everything else in life.  Once assured his precious “things” would remain intact until he claimed them for good (I still have some of Molly’s school stuff in boxes in the closet) his opinion was “the whole thing should be good for you
.
” When questioned about exactly what he meant, he explained how I was in a rut and “this should shake you out of it.”  I let it pass without comment, for although I’m a firm believer my children are entitled to their own opinions, I’m also a firm believer I’m entitled to mine, even if I don’t always voice them.

   Then, of course, there was the phone call to inform my mother that my inheritance hadn’t exactly been some “little personal memento.”  It didn’t take a psychic to realize she was
very
indignant on the behalf of my siblings.  To give credit where credit is due, she did manage to congratulate me.  But then she made several snide comments about “that crazy Josie.”  I allowed her to rant and rave for several minutes before reminding her I was running up my phone bill and hanging up. 

   So, the looking-the-situation-over trip more or less blessed by all, and being out of excuses to put off an initial visit, I headed eastwardly.

   And a blizzard.

   A March blizzard in Minnesota is hardly an unusual occurrence. All the same, I did
not
enjoy climbing on the second plane in Minneapolis, and hearing the smug announcement from the stewardess that it was one of the last flights before they considered closing down the airports further east. As it happened, we were racing the storm. The small plane I climbed aboard was not comforting.  The trip was bumpy, to say the least.  My usual pleasure in flying was not reinforced, although the pilot assured us the blizzard had not really arrived yet, and certainly wasn’t threatening us at the moment.  I realized I’d been away from the North Country too long.  It looked like a blizzard to me and despite the pilot’s optimistic words, I certainly
felt
threatened.

   We landed safely, thanks mainly, I’ll always believe, to the woman who was seated across the aisle from me, who maintained a steady murmur of heartfelt prayer from take-off to landing.  Every time the plane would lurch, the volume and sincerity of her prayers would rise, and recede only when the plane had managed steady itself again.  None of the rest of us exchanged tolerant smiles.  I, personally, was silently encouraging her.  “Pray, Lady, pray!”  It would have been tacky to applaud her when we landed, but it certainly was tempting.  We could have pretended it was for the pilot.