Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (4 page)

   My childhood pyromania came into play.  We’d had a fireplace at home when I was young, and I’d been fascinated with every aspect of fire.  I’d even managed to set our garage on fire once. Fortunately it had been only a small fire, quickly doused. I found I hadn’t lost the knack for fire starting through the years, especially with the generous supply of dry kindling and pine to help get it started.

   I dug out one of my hoarded novels, made myself comfortable in one of the cozy chairs, and read for a while.  Then I rose to fetch some hot chocolate.  The truth was, pretend though I might, I was too excited to settle down completely.  The whole experience was all too new and dreamlike.  I sat in my own house, surrounded by a raging blizzard, pampered and without duties.  It was a strange sensation.  It wasn’t distasteful.  It was novel.  I liked it, but it unsettled me.

   The steaming hot chocolate, the sound of the storm safely locked outside, and the accumulation of several nights of little or no sleep (lots of anxiety about this trip) combined to knock the nerves right out of me.  I lay back on the couch, just to relax a bit, put my book down for a minute, and woke up three hours later.  Whatever my dreams had been, and I felt I’d been dreaming heavily, they’d been pleasant ones.  I sensed a residual pleasure even as I was swiftly rising out of them.

   The rest of the first day passed quietly.  Mr. Goldberg called in the evening.  He repeated directions about the hot water heater, the thermostat, and fussed about my being snowbound.  I assured him I hadn’t plans or desire to go anywhere. I was fine.  No, I wouldn’t be startled by the sound of somebody plowing out my driveway when the snow stopped.  No, I didn’t need to get out for more food.  I began to feel as though I was talking to my mother, but he was finally satisfied he hadn’t grossly neglected his duties by leaving so quickly in his hurry to get home.  What really impressed him was how I had a roaring fire in the fireplace and hadn’t managed to somehow burn the house down, or neglected to open the flue. 

   I fixed myself a bowl of canned tomato soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich.  This light meal has always been a favorite of mine.  The brownie for dessert didn’t hurt, either.

   To finish off the day, I called each of the kids and told them a little about the house and weather.  Yes, I loved the house.  Yes, winter in Minnesota is as cold and snowy as they’d heard.  No, I didn’t think I’d freeze to death.   Finally satisfied my maternal duties were complete, I went back to the sitting room, stoked the fire, and settled down to an evening with my book.

   I was relaxed, and rested, and for the first time I began to feel a sense of my Aunt Josie’s spirit.  Since the news of her death, my life had been frenzied and confused, and I hadn’t really had a chance to grieve. Because ours was a phone-relationship, rather than face-to-face, her death had seemed almost unreal.  I felt as though she was still out there, somewhere, and simply didn’t have access to a phone.

   I set aside my book, closed my eyes, and tried to
feel
her.  I wasn’t trying to call her up from the grave, or anything dramatic.  I just wanted to get a feeling for what her
life
had been.  She’d always been such a self-content woman, a trait I envied. I just wanted to take a small sip from that essence.  It was a harmless exercise. Or so I thought.

   The whisper of emotion that struck me was anything but harmless.  It was so slight, yet so powerful... My eyes snapped open, and I sat up straight.  I hadn’t allowed the sensation to linger in my mind long enough to pin it down to a specific emotion.  I’d absorbed just enough to know it was an
unpleasant
one.

   I forced myself to laugh aloud at my own silliness.  The horrid feeling was just another touch of flu or exhaustion, or maybe just nerves.  What had I thought I was doing?  Didn’t I know better than to mess with forces beyond my reach?  Aunt Josie was gone.   I needed to simply accept the fact, and trust my memories of her would help guide my life.  I’d remember her innate kindness, gentleness, and contentment.

   I didn’t know whose spirit I had managed to disturb, but it certainly hadn’t been Aunt Josie’s.  The spirit I’d felt had been anything but
content.

CHAPTER THREE

From the Wiccan Rede:

Cast the circle thrice about

To keep the evil spirits out
                                    

   “…and so I thought a modest little gathering in the freshly-fallen snow would be fitting for the occasion,” my first visitor of the morning concluded.

   “Josie didn’t want any service at all,” I reminded her—for the third time in half an hour.  Dealing with this woman was almost as bad as dealing with my mother.  She refused to listen to anything she didn’t want to hear.  “I have no intention of going against her wishes.”

   “Oh, but this would be for
us,
not
her.
”

   “That’s who
all
funerals are for. I’m sorry, but I’m just not interested.”

   I could have saved my breath.  Lucinda Dewitt was not going to give up on her plans to conduct a Wicca service for my aunt.  It seemed important to her that I participate, but I really didn’t care about her feelings.  It had taken years of determined struggling, but I was slowly learning the fine art of not buckling under the demands of others.  Besides, Aunt Josie’s wishes were the only important ones to me, and those had been made very clear.  Her ashes had been sent to me in Nevada, and I was told to dispose of them out in the country, far from her home.  Now I was beginning to understand why.  Poor Aunt Josie had wanted her ashes, along with any spiritual remnant they may have contained, as far away from this woman as possible. I didn’t blame her.  I could easily imagine Lucinda sneaking into the house and stealing the ashes for her ceremony.

   “You didn’t know her as
we
did,” she told me, speaking from the strength of being my elder, although she hardly looked
my
age, let alone the fifty-two years she claimed.  She’d told me her age within five minutes of entering the house, challenging me to say the proper things.  I had, and they were true.  I never would have guessed she was more than my own thirty-eight years.  However, if she thought looking younger than her age endeared her to
any
female, she was sadly mistaken. 

   “No, I probably
didn’t
know her as well as you did, but in this particular case, I know
exactly
what she did—and didn’t—want done,” I reminded her, trying to speak gently despite my frustration.  She probably did need some sort of formal farewell ceremony.  Most people do.  Funerals are closures of a sort.  The loss remains, but it moves to a different level, not quite as raw.  “She left me very definite instructions.  If you and the others wish to have a ceremony, that’s up to you, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable participating in it.”

   She squinted at me, studying me over her coffee cup.  “Josie told us you’re quite a talented psychic.  She was extremely fond of you, almost as though she thought of you as the child she’d never had.  Did you sense her death?”

   “No,” I said bluntly, wondering why it is some strangers feel they have a right to ask such personal questions.  “I didn’t sense anything.”

   Her eyes remained slits.  I could read her mind, perfectly clearly.  She didn’t intend to lose me, or my talents, from her circle, but was sensible enough to back away for the moment.  “That’s good,” she patted my arm.  “It would have been terribly upsetting for you.  And of course you don’t need to join our little circle of closure if you feel uncomfortable about it.  We just felt we had to wait for you before going ahead with our plans for a service.”

   That gave her the last word. 
They
had been considerate. 
I
was inappreciative.  She was good at the guilt-game, carrying the assured arrogance of wealth and privilege, but she didn’t come close to matching Ma in planting guilt
seeds
.  It just goes to show you should never underestimate the benefits of trials and tribulations.  Who would have dreamed I’d be thankful to my mother for making me immune to outside forces?  “It was awfully kind of you,” I smiled at her.  There was no sense in alienating her.  She was a good customer for the store, I was sure, as well as having been a friend of my aunt’s.  “Very thoughtful, and I appreciate it.  But I can’t bring myself to go against Aunt Josie’s wishes.”

   That more or less ended the conversation.  We chatted about the weather and about my plans for the store.  Then I made the mistake of rising and going to the phone to answer it—before it rang.  I could almost feel the burn of her renewed interest in me.  There wasn’t anything I could do to change the obvious, so I didn’t try.  Still, I could have kicked the fussy little lawyer when I heard his voice.  I assured him, yet again, I was just fine, thank you, and politely told him about my visitor.

   “Oh God!” he gasped over the phone.  “Don’t commit yourself to
anything.
 Lovely lady, of course, but a
little
pushy.”

   “I understand,” I agreed, hoping his rising voice couldn’t be heard by my guest.  “Lucinda skied here.  I’m really impressed.  I’ll have to look into learning, although I’m afraid I have a long way to go to get into shape for such a strenuous workout.”

   He muttered a few, unconvincing denials about my physical shape before we said our good-byes.  Lucinda, who had been openly listening (what else could she do, sitting there as she was) seemed pleased with my admiration.  “I work out at Lonnie’s,” she informed me.  “It’s a good gym for so small an area. You’ll have to consider enrolling.  Lonnie is a
genius
at figuring out exactly the right program for each of his clients.  I’ve already taken two inches off my thighs under his guidance.”

   I promised to look into the water aerobics class, if nothing else.  I’d joined a class in Nevada a year ago, and had found it a relatively painless way to get exercise. I had survived it, and that’s about all I ask of exercise.

   She nodded and rose to leave.  “We’ll have to get you started in the program,” she told me, apparently under the impression I wasn’t intelligent enough to sign up all by myself.  I let the implied insult pass, maintaining a rigid smile, but she wasn’t through with me yet.  “She was murdered, you know,” she told me, as she shrugged into her jacket.

   “Huh?  Who?” I grunted, but of course I knew the answer instantly. Who else did we have in common? 

   “Your aunt, of course,” she stared into my eyes, watching for my reaction to her news flash.  If I looked as dumfounded as I felt, she must have been satisfied.  “The cards warned of betrayal and danger for months. They aren’t at peace even now. I talked to her about it, but she wasn’t a true believer in fortunes, you know.  ‘Too much leeway for change’ she used to say.  Well, the
cards
were right in the end!”  Meaning
she
was right.

   “The death was ruled accidental!” I protested. “I suppose you could say that a hit-and-run shouldn’t be called an accident. But it’s not the same thing as
murder
!”  She lowered her eyes in false tolerance, not bothering to argue.  I muttered and protested all the way to the door, but she refused to elaborate further. 

   I watched out the window as she slid back into her cross-country skis. There was no doubt that Lucinda Dewitt was going to be irritating.  First of all, she’d been fascinated by my eyes.  She hadn’t had to say a word about them. Her thoughts had been very clear when she looked at them; she was one of those who saw them as a sign of special powers, rather than a simple aberration of nature.  And when I’d screwed up and gone to the phone before it rang, it only added to her interest.  The last thing on earth I needed was to be an object of fascination to Lucinda Dewitt.

   To top it all off, she thought Aunt Josie had been murdered.  The idea was preposterous.  Who would want Aunt Josie dead?  Who would have anything to gain by it?  Nobody.  Nobody
gained
except... me.  Uh oh.  I shook my head, clearing the ridiculous thoughts away.  Lucinda Dewitt was a bit of a crackpot, that was all.  She was one of those people who needed to see mystery in every little thing, and I should simply ignore her dark comments.

   Unfortunately, she had done exactly what she’d set out to do.  She’d planted the genesis of doubt in my mind.  Determined not to allow the seed to grow, I went back to exploring the store.  I had a lot to learn if I hoped to successfully take over the business once Danny graduated.

   I’m not going to think about Aunt Josie’s death, I’m not going to think about Aunt Josie’s death
, I chanted mentally, as I wandered from room to room.

   Another knock at the kitchen door interrupted my mantra.

   I hurried to answer it, wondering if Lucinda had returned.  When I reached the kitchen, I could see it was a stranger, a man.  For a brief moment I froze, all my years of city life warning me to beware the dangers of  “strange men.”  I cautiously peeked through the curtain, glancing past him to see a woman bent over, brushing snow off her pants.  Halfway up the driveway was a 4-wheel drive vehicle.   I decided they probably weren’t robbers, rapists, or serial killers after all.  For one thing, they were much too well-dressed.  Even I, a neophyte to the winter clothes’ scene, could see their down jackets and leather boots weren’t of K-Mart caliber—definitely not work clothing.  I opened the door.

       “Hi,” the man smiled, standing aside to let the woman precede him inside.  “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was checking on my own shop…” He waved a hand towards the street, then stopped and grinned engagingly.  He was one of those rare men you would call beautiful rather than handsome.  He managed to balance his looks with apparently disarming openness.   “Oh, who am I trying to kid?  We were dying of curiosity to meet Josie’s niece.  You
are
Rachael, aren’t you?  I can’t recall your last name...”

       “Penzra,” I told him.  “Come in.  Can I offer you coffee or tea?”

       “Ah, you’ll fit right in,” he laughed, helping the woman remove her jacket.  “I’m Robert Court, and this is Karyn Perkins.  She’s supposed to be my
employee
, but the truth of the matter is she’s more
my
boss than I am
hers
.”

       “Hi,” she greeted, emerging from her jacket and cap as an attractive redhead, complete with the obligatory, cute freckles.  “Robert owns Balgrove, the antique shop across the street.  I work for him, mostly in the summer since I teach, and my main job is to keep his nose to the grindstone or he’ll be off buying antiques to keep for himself instead of purchasing them for resale.”

       “She never lets me keep anything,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

       They seated themselves at the kitchen table, obviously slipping into an old routine.  I recalled Aunt Josie mentioning them, lamenting how Karyn seemed to harbor an unrequited love for her handsome boss.  She kept glancing at him, obviously smitten. It seemed intrusive just to watch her. Worship seemed like a better description than infatuated.  Still, she couldn’t be
too
stupid, could she?  She was an educated woman, after all, and couldn’t be as naïve as she looked.  Maybe she understood that her boss craved adulation, and dutifully supplied it. “Coffee?  Tea?” I asked.  “Obviously I can offer a multitude of choices.”  I gestured towards the front of the store, indicating the stock of flavored coffees and herbal teas.

       “Josie never served her fancy stuff,” Karyn laughed.  “And don’t you start offering it freely either or you’ll have some of the group
living
here.  I’ll have plain coffee, if it’s made.”

      
Interesting
.  Lucinda hadn’t mentioned
that
little detail when she’d happily accepted a cup of the fancy stuff.

       “I’ll stick with plain coffee too,” Robert said, agreeably.  “I actually prefer good old-fashioned coffee to all those fancy flavored blends.  They’re not my ‘cup of tea’, so to speak.”

       I politely refrained from groaning at his bad pun.  “
Balgrove
is an interesting name.  Where did you come up with that?” I asked politely.  Small talk has never been my forte, and I was already way past my limit for the day.

   Robert chuckled.  “It’s a by-product of my purchase agreement.  The old boy I bought it from insisted I use the name for five years, so his old customers would have time to adjust to the change of ownership.  The ‘Bal’ is short for Balsam, and the Grove is ... Well, you get the idea. It seemed a small price to pay to get my hands on the shop.  Now I’ll probably be stuck with the name forever.”