Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (5 page)

       “The shop is
nothing
like it was when Robert bought it,” Karyn sighed in exasperation.  “It was more a junk shop than an antique shop.  Now people come up, not as tourists either, just to buy his things.  Of course the tourists provide the bread and butter around here, bless their money-spending hearts.”

       “Great spot, though,” he picked one of the last of my pastry supply.  I’d have to plow my way to the grocery store on foot if I wanted more.  I tried to put the selfish thought out of my mind and listen to my guest ramble on about his antique shop.  I then carefully ignored the sight of Karyn picking the last glazed donut, always a favorite of mine.  “I couldn’t believe my luck when old Charlie agreed to sell it to me just because I’d pointed out that he was selling a beautiful piece of Jade for next to nothing.  I never
dreamed
such a small act of honesty could be so rewarding.  I really must try it again some day!”  He chuckled, as though he’d just said the funniest thing ever. “Two years later, when I heard he was thinking of selling, I approached him with an offer.  Everyone was surprised when he actually sold the place to me, an outsider.  The residents of Balsam Grove are more than happy to take money from outsiders, but they’re not generally thrilled to have them
living
in their midst.”

       “He knew you’d be honest, that’s why he sold it to you,” Karyn said loyally.

       He reached for the last donut.  “No antique dealer worth his salt is totally honest.  Besides, the damn Jade turned out to be a
very
clever fake.  I was guided by the Goddess to blurt out my rare moment of honesty, because I still can’t believe I didn’t spot it. Other stones, maybe, but the feel of Jade…I should have known.”

       We gossiped a bit about the local stores and their owners.  I was assured my position at the end of the road wouldn’t harm my customer flow.  “This town is so crowded during the summer that having a few less people in your shop is more of a blessing than a curse,” Robert said.  “And believe me, by the end of any given day in July, you’ll think every person in the
county
has been through here.  I have a love-hate relationship with summers in this town.  I
hate
the mobs of people, but I
love
to take their money.”

       Well, at least the man was honest about
that
much.  Still, I wondered what he’d done with his piece of fake Jade. Resold it as genuine?  Kept it as a souvenir?  He was so handsome and charming that he made me uncomfortable.

       “Still, this place isn’t for everybody.  It’s pretty stressful. Have you made any definite plans about running or selling the store yet?” he asked.  I couldn’t help noting his voice suddenly sounded extremely casual.  I couldn’t blame him for his interest.  His store, from what I’d noticed when we drove past in the blizzard, was smaller and plainer than my house.  The idea he coveted my house didn’t lower him in my eyes.  It had been love at first sight for me, too.  Still, his interest in my new home made me feel a little wary.

   “I haven’t made any definite plans yet,” I told him, though in my heart of hearts I knew I was here to stay.  “Aunt Josie requested I run the shop for a year before making a final decision, and I’ll honor her wish.  It’s a beautiful house.  My youngest boy graduates from high school in a few months, so I’ll be free to make a move then.”      

   Robert’s face remained placid at my remark, but it didn’t take a psychic to figure out he’d be the first in line to buy the house if I put it on the market.

        “Are you in the Craft, Rachael?” Karyn broke in. “I know it isn’t my business . . .”

       “But you’re naturally curious,” I chuckled.  She was still a girl to me; she couldn’t have been older than her mid-twenties.  My criterion has changed as I’ve aged.  More and more mature young people are boys and girls in my mind.  “I am a witch, yes, but I don’t belong to a coven and have no desire to join one.  I’m afraid my ideas wouldn’t fit in.”

       “A witch can believe
anything she wants,
” she told me, earnestly.

       “Not
anything,”
Robert scolded her, mildly.  “There are limitations, you know.”

       “Not really,” she replied.  “Isn’t that just a
Wiccan
idea?  Old-time witches, the real ones, weren’t all good.”  Hmm.  Clearly she wasn’t the innocent she appeared.  She had a point.

       The conversation was interrupted by the sound of heavy machinery outside.  We all got up to look out the window facing the road and saw a big truck rumbling at the foot of the driveway.  “That’ll be Howard Anderson, our friendly, when he wants to be, neighborhood snowplow driver,” Robert explained.  “He must be curious about you, doing your drive so early.  He liked Josie, though, so maybe that’s it.  We’d better get out of here.  He’s perfectly capable of covering my truck with snow.”  They grabbed their coats and he turned to me.  “He does a great job, but like most artisans, he’s a bit too temperamental.  None of us like to upset him.  He has a mildly vengeful streak.”

       “We’ll see you soon,” Karyn said, clearly anxious to get out and rescue the truck.  “Thanks for the coffee and donuts.”

       I waved them off and watched as Robert approached the truck with the snowplow attached to its front.  If a sitting truck could look impatient, that one did. Robert said something to the driver and hurried back to his smaller vehicle. An apology had obviously been tendered.  I left them to their business and returned to my snooping around the shop, dwelling a little on Karyn’s remark about a witch’s “rules”.  She was right, of course.  We all choose our own course in life.

       Five minutes later there was yet another knock at the kitchen door.  As I moved to answer it, I realized the powerful sound of the snowplow had been replaced by a muted rumble I recognized as a big truck at rest.  Sure enough, Howard was at the door, and the truck was idling in the cleared driveway.

       “Come in,” I welcomed him.  Despite being more than a little weary of the hoards of drop-in company I’d been receiving, I’m not fool enough offend those who maintain the effete way of life in Northern Minnesota.  “The driveway looks great.  I’m afraid I have some readjusting to do in this cold climate, learning how to drive in snow again, and getting used to keeping a car in good winter condition.”

       Rather to my dismay, he accepted my invitation to enter with alacrity.  He followed the usual (I was learning) procedure of doffing his jacket, hanging it on a hook by the door, and proceeding to seat himself at the kitchen table.  It was beginning to look as though my aunt had employed an open-door policy in her kitchen, and the folks of Balsam Grove expected it to stay that way. 

       “Don’t want to bother you, but I could use a cup of coffee.  Been out since three this morning,” Howard said.

       “That early?” I hoped I sounded properly impressed as I poured out his coffee.  “I didn’t realize you’d have to start plowing at such an early hour.  Sorry I can’t offer you more than store-bought cookies.”

       “Suppose that Court fellow ate everything.” He glanced at the empty pastry plate on the counter and nodded, seemingly confirming a point in his own mind.  He dunked one of the hard cookies into his coffee.  “Ja, I have to be out before the snow even stops falling to keep up with my customers.  Some of them work shift hours, you know.  They don’t mind driving through a few inches of fresh snow, but they need the bulk of it cleared away.”

       I think I said all that was correct, showing a proper adulation without being
too
nauseatingly grateful to him for doing what was, after all, his
job.  In return, he pumped me for every ounce of information he could squeeze out of me.  My upbringing in Minneapolis seemed to help mitigate my years of living in Nevada.  “Woman has to go where her husband’s work takes him,” he allowed.  He seemed impressed I had my own cleaning service.  “Be your own boss,” he nodded.  “That’s the only way to live.”  He went through three cups of cream and sugar-laced coffee, ate half a package of cookies, and went on his way, assuring me Mr. Goldberg had arranged for the snow removal costs to come out of the estate.  “Good man, Goldberg, for a Jew.”  I would have found the remark offensive if I hadn’t already, in the past twenty minutes, heard the same amending remark applied to Italians, Germans, and Indians…“Call themselves Native Americans nowadays, you know”.  Howard, I’d been informed, was Norwegian, and he was opinionated about most of
them
, too.

       The city snowplow had gone past shortly before Howard’s arrival (“…always let them through first, with you single ladies, so’s you don’t have to shovel yourselves out again”) and I was glad to see the truck went past my place and made a wide U-turn on what I had learned was state park property bordering my lot. I had the feeling I’d need lots of sliding space until I mastered the art of driving in snow again.  The white stuff seemed much more daunting than it had when I’d last driven as a teenager.  But then, a lot of things seemed more daunting than they had back then.

       I loved looking at the snow-covered landscape.  Out the lakeside windows I could see a village of fish houses, already occupied.  It tickled me to see that someone had plowed a road out to them before dawn.  (Howard, perhaps?)   Priorities are definitely in the eye of the beholder.  The fish houses, for the most part, had trucks or snowmobiles parked next to them.  Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys.  The wind had died away with the storm, leaving a cold clarity both ominous and exhilarating.  I had forgotten, through the years, just how beautiful a Minnesota winter could be.  I felt as though I was living in a memory, a dream. 

       I loved the sense of isolation.  On the one side I had the state land to buffer me from other houses.  The lake stretched out in back with a sense of spaciousness.  Across the wide street, with its diagonal parking spaces, was a small stretch of shops, a sort of two-storied mini-mall, all under a single roof, no doubt frantically busy in the summer daylight hours, but lifeless now, with the closure of the tourist season—except one single house that must function like mine, with a store below and a home above.  It and Balgrove had heat on.  I could tell from the shimmer of hot air rising from the chimneys.  The smoke rising from
my
house, I thought with uncharitable smugness, was blue from my wood fire, like most of the little fish houses on the lake.  I wasn’t actually
heating
the house in the snug old-fashioned (not to mention dirty and occasionally smelly) manner, but there is nothing to warm the soul like a real wood fire. 

       I was snug and cozy and contented, already dreading having to return to Nevada for the next few months.  Here I could roam my big old house, or sit by my cozy wood fire, or watch Nature out the windows.  Everything was perfect, except for one small thing.

       I couldn’t help but wonder—was I enjoying it over my aunt’s murdered body?

   And does murder
really
cry out for revenge.

CHAPTER FOUR

From the Wiccan Rede:

To bind the spell every time

Let the spell be cast in rhyme

   Those unfortunate questions stayed with me for the remainder of my stay.  Visitors tramped in and out of my kitchen, drinking my (regular) coffee, eating my goodies, and tracking mud on my floor. With each new person my mind would wonder, “Could it be
this
person?  Did
this
person have some reason to want Aunt Josie dead?”  Then I’d struggle to clear my mind of useless speculation and try and return to the original sense of peace and contentment I’d had before Lucinda had put such awful thoughts into my head.  The mood never fully returned.

       I even held a cleansing ceremony for myself, but I couldn’t seem to clear my thoughts of the gruesome image in my mind, the image of someone aiming a car at Aunt Josie before cold-bloodedly running her down and leaving her lying dead in the street. 

   I am a mystery fan, certainly, but what is acceptable, even required, between the pages of a book is totally unbelievable in real life.  Hit-and-run accidents could be the result of any number of things.  Drugs, alcohol, carelessness, or bad driving could cause the “hit”.  Even the “run” part could be the result of mitigating circumstances, and I could understand the panicked reaction, particularly in a young person.  Even if the driver in question was drunk or on drugs there was at least a
reason
, although not a true
excuse
, of diminished competence.  Running away out of pure self-centeredness was inexcusable to me.  Whoever it was who hit Aunt Josie and left her to die hadn’t come forward later, not even after having time to think about his actions.  I hoped the person was suffering enough guilt from the incident to assure some improvement in his or her life.  My aunt was dead.  It seemed likely her killer wasn’t.  Life is for learning, though, and I wanted my loss to somehow be someone else’s long-term gain.

       Unfortunately, thinking of the hit and run as a
murder
erased all sentimental thoughts.  There weren’t any lessons to be learned for a murderer, except perhaps how to perfect his skill.  And it was such an
unreal
thought, even a little frightening at moments.   When it came to the subject of murder, my point of view was much the same as like everyone else’s on earth.  Nobody
I
know would ever be the victim of a murder, much less
commit
one.  I was completely sincere, too, in my tumbling thoughts.  I saw no bleak humor in my banal reflections. 

       Something, though, must have fed my thoughts.  Something I had seen, or heard, or even sensed.  Much as I deny it in general, I am often psychically sensitive to both present and distant atmosphere.  It’s one of those annoying things, coming and going according to its own whims, never to be counted on at any given time. That’s a good part of the reason I don’t often talk to people about being psychic.  They expect to see an example immediately.

       When I say a lot of people traipsed in and out of my house, I mean it quite literally.  The entire coven, all twenty-two of them, appeared off and on to look me over, and in one way or another, to try and convince me that joining their coven was the best possible way to enhance my spirituality.  I was beginning to think a little peace and quiet would be the best way to enhance it, but it didn’t look as if it was going to happen anytime soon.

       Janice Barker performed for me – well, she’d call it a “visit”, but it seemed like a performance to me – by arriving after dark and slipping into the kitchen before I could invite her in…or keep her out. She wore a black, hooded cape that shadowed her face and cloaked her body.  She was obviously aiming for the mysterious look, and she succeeded.  What she looked like under the cape was a mystery to me.

   She stood perfectly still in the doorway for a moment, allowing me to soak in the effects of her dramatic outfit, then threw back the hood of her cloak in an extremely theatrical gesture.  She studied my face intently, spending an uncomfortable amount of time staring at my eyes, and finally intoned, “You may call me Janice.  I will not share my Craft name until I choose to do so.  Lucinda has told me you refuse to share your name with us.”

       “Sit down,” I invited, definitely at my most prosaic.  Dramatic people tend to bring out the dullest side of my nature, almost as though I’m subconsciously trying to balance their behavior.  “Lucinda misunderstood.  I don’t have a Craft name.”  I knew there had been no misunderstanding.  The subject had never been broached. “What a lovely cape this is!  It looks like real wool.”

       For once, I’d managed to say just the right thing.  She seated herself, momentarily forgot her role as the mysterious practitioner of Wicca, and told me more than I’d ever wanted to know about the cape.  “I carded and spun the wool myself,” she explained with obvious pride.  “Then I had an artisan weave the material for me, and then an excellent local seamstress cut and finished it for me.  It’s exactly like the old capes worn hundreds of years ago by the people who lived on the moors.  They used the black wool themselves, because it wasn’t considered to be as marketable as white wool.  Nowadays, of course, black sheep are in great demand and specially bred for their coloring.”

       “Well, it’s truly a beautiful cape.  I’m a big fan of natural fibers myself,” I said honestly.  The polyester look had not been good to me.  

       We chatted amiably over one cup of coffee, covering fads and clothing.  These were safe subjects, and Janice behaved normally while we discussed them.  It’s hard to be mysterious when you’re chuckling about the renewed interest in bell-bottom jeans and mood rings.  Then I accidentally broke the easy feel of the casual chat by getting up to refill our coffee cups.  As I poured, I could sense the mood change and wanted to kick myself for breaking the easy camaraderie we’d enjoyed. 

       “I have been tempted to call Josephine up,” she intoned, and her voice seemed to drop a full octave.  For a moment I was startled, worried she wasn’t quite right mentally, or she’d simply forgotten
the
obvious
.  Aunt Josie was
dead,
hardly available for a phone call.  Almost as quickly as the thought passed through my head, I realized (both from her tone and the emphasis) that she was talking about calling her
up,
literally up from the grave.

       “I doubt she’d come,” I managed to say, still caught in the web of good manners.  “I don’t think she liked the idea of calling up spirits.”

       Janice frowned, her smooth face suddenly displaying a network of tiny lines.  “It might not be her choice,” she claimed, sounding both defiant and petulant.  “I have ways of demanding the presence of the most reluctant spirits.”

       “I’m sure you do,” I said, my facade of politeness starting to melt right along with my patience.  “But I have to wonder why you feel you have a
right
. I can’t say I’d care to have an angry, reluctant spirit brought forth.”

       “She’d be bound,” she assured me, but looked a little uncomfortable at my disapproval of what I considered to be underhanded spirit-calling tactics.  “And I haven’t decided yet, one way or the other.  I have other more amenable spirits I can question if necessary.”

         “Question about what?” I foolishly asked.  I was a split-second too late in realizing that I’d fallen right into her trap.

       “The murder, of course.”  Her dramatic flair was back in full force.  “Lucinda has her faults, but her reading of the cards is impeccable.  She not only understands the symbols, but she can handle the nuances of what she sees.  If she saw murder, then murder there was.”  She flung her long, black hair in a swirling gesture for emphasis before becoming a little more human by adding, “And besides, I actually heard her talking about it
before
your aunt’s death.”

       I was admittedly a little impressed, but I wasn’t about to acknowledge that to her.  I hadn’t consciously thought about it until then, but I realized I’d automatically dismissed Lucinda’s pronouncement about having warned Aunt Josie ahead of time as fabrication. I had no idea of what the woman’s
average
reading was like.  Maybe she saw murder and mayhem in most readings and had just happened to get lucky this time.

       Janice, being the actress she was, realized she’d hit upon a good exit line and was smart enough to take full advantage of it.  She rose and swept on her cape, threw me a dark look, and made her grand exit.  She’d done what she came for; she’d given me something to think about. 

       Just what I needed.

       Moondance was my favorite visitor.  In some ways she was a lot like Janice, being extremely dramatic and completely immersed in her role as a witch.  Janice struck me as being an intelligent, if flaky, woman.  Moondance was simply flaky. 

       All the same, there was something about the woman that fascinated me.  Or maybe she just
amused
me.  I think it probably was her sincerity. 

   For her first visit, she arrived with four people in tow.  That was literally what it looked like: she swept up the newly shoveled path (I’d finally decided I needed to burn off a few calories by shoveling) with her company trailing faithfully behind her.  She was, to put it mildly, flamboyant.  I swung wide the door for her admittance.  It seemed a fitting gesture.

       “So good to meet you at last!” she gushed, swinging off her cape and handing it to me as if I were her personal lady-in-waiting.  “I waited until the storm had passed completely.  I felt I must absorb every bit of the power Mother had to offer before it was withdrawn.”

       “‘Mother’ being Ma Nature in case you haven’t guessed,” the second person to enter told me.  “I’m Ronnie Pfeiffer, Warlock Extraordinaire, and this, of course, is Moondance.”

       “We don’t approve of the term Warlock,” Moondance scolded over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen.  The rest of us, including the three who had been yet to be introduced, meekly followed in her wake.

       A very pretty young blonde woman grinned in my direction and said, “I’m Cheryl Tambour.  I’m a witch too!  Well, a very
new
witch, but I’m getting better at it.  My parents don't like it, but they don’t understand what it’s all about.  You know, nature and stuff!” 

       “Percy Jordan,” the chubby young man interrupted, holding out a soft hand for me to shake.  “And this is Elena Farthing, the Fortune Teller with a past.”  He giggled.  That’s
not
a becoming sound from a man.  “At least we think she has one, but she won’t let us in on any of her secrets.”  The older woman he referred to looked like anybody’s mother, and she didn’t even seem to hear Percy’s asinine chatter.  Lucky her.

       “Silence, Percy!” Moondance ordered.  Having herded us all into the kitchen, she grabbed my shoulders and stared into my eyes, apparently reading the deep, dark secrets of my soul.  What she was actually seeing, I sensed, was an outsider’s view of herself reflected in my eyeballs.  She was so busy reading my secrets I don’t think she even noticed my eyes are two different colors.  When she was satisfied she’d given me the full impression of how mystical she was, she sighed deeply, shuddered dramatically, and released me.  “Come, relax.  Let us have something to eat and drink together.  We must get to know one another.”

       To my everlasting credit, I didn’t groan.

       They seated themselves at the table, each carefully taking a spot clearly already claimed from previous visits.  We are such creatures of habit, we humans. In my water aerobics class, we came to our second session only to find several newcomers had joined us.  It was funny to see how we maneuvered, shouldered and shoved ourselves into the spots we’d laid claim to during the first class.  The only reason I remember it so well is because one of the women had dared to stand in
my
space.  I didn’t like it.

       Moondance, I noticed, hesitated next to my chair, the chair obviously meant for the hostess of the house.  She slid a sideways, speculative glance at me before deciding she wouldn’t try to take my place, at least not this time.  She was, I could tell, going to be a lot of fun to have around.  I like eccentric people, and despite her strident efforts to appear mysterious and deep, she was a rotten actress. I had the feeling she wasn’t as bright as she might wish to be, but she was doing the best she could, following the “baffle ‘em with bullshit” method of survival tactics.