Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (9 page)

       They went back to their jobs, muttering and mumbling, much as I probably would have if I’d been in their shoes and some crazy lady had scared me half to death by turning on the alarm system.  Their boss, other than assuring me that they’d check on all the details, said nothing to cause me further chagrin.  I went back to the table, stared at my coffee cup, and tried to convince myself this was all just a bad dream.

       Patsy, younger and more resilient, was soon on her feet and peering down the hall to watch the action.  “I’m going to offer them coffee,” she finally announced, trying to make her decision sound like good manners instead of brash curiosity.  A moment later I heard the subdued, properly funereal murmur of voices.  She came back in.  “They wouldn’t mind if we put on a pot and let those who have the chance grab a cup.”

       “Fine,” I waved a hand at the counter.  “Put on a fresh pot.  In fact, dig out the big pot in the cabinet under the toaster.  I think we’ll be needing it.”

       We remained in the kitchen even after we were informed we were free to go upstairs.  Staying seemed the right thing to do, somehow.  Going about our business seemed like an insult to Shelly.  Besides, what business was left to do?  The shop, which might have left us busy with something we could convince ourselves was necessary, was closed.  The phone was being answered by the police department (at their request) and going upstairs seemed too much like escape to my guilt-ridden soul.  And why did I feel guilty?  Because I’d hired Shelly at her and her mother’s request?  Because I’d failed to foresee her murder?  Because I was alive?  I felt guilty because it’s what I’m
good
at feeling.

       I decided it was time to bake.  I have a blasé personality.  A lot of my life centers around food and drink for comfort, just one more thing I am working on trying to balance out.  This morning, however, was not a good time to worry about improving my psychic personality.  I would bake funereal feasts, a barrage of calorie-laden comfort foods.  I pulled hamburger from the freezer, started dough for rolls, and pulled out my sugar, fat, and chocolate supplies.  I also checked the all-important ice cream.  Patsy watched me in amazement for a while, and then she started scribbling with pen and paper.  She, with her straight-forward mind, was compiling a list of who, what, and why murder could have happened in our house.  I, being much more devious than my well-intentioned niece, unconsciously planned to stupefy myself and those around me, making everyone too satiated to do further harm. 

       We all have our secret methods of dealing with life.

CHAPTER SIX

From the Wiccan Rede:

Deosil go by the waxing moon

Chanting out the witch’s Rune.

   It was almost noon before sheriff Alberts came back into the kitchen.  Most of the comings and goings had been through the shop door at the front of the building.  Patsy had watched the busyness off and on, reporting to me about small crowds gathering outside, ebbing and flowing according to the amount of action they could see.  The removal of Shelly’s body was the biggest draw.  I wondered if I’d be one of the gawking people if I were a carefree tourist, rather than the owner of the house.  I didn’t think so.  I prefer my morbid thrills second-hand, mainly gossip about people I don’t know.  Realism is what we live with every day.  I want escapism.

       The sheriff helped himself to a cup of coffee, along with several cookies and bars.  “Do you mind being closed the rest of the day?” he asked politely, as though I had any real choice in the matter.  “I know you count on the summer sales to see you through the year.”

       The thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but he was an elected official and he knew better than to put any extra pressure on an already taut situation.  Actually, I was more than willing to have the shop closed.  In fact, reopening it at
all
was going to be difficult.  Only the fact it would give us something to do made the idea of business as usual sound the least bit appealing. 

   “Have you told Lucinda yet?” I asked.  Why I needed to know the woman was either suffering a grievous loss, or was still blissfully unaware of it, is beyond me.  For some reason, though, I
did
need to know.  “What should I say to her?  I feel it’s somehow my responsibility.  I mean, it was my house, and ...”

       “She’s been told,” he said abruptly.  “You say whatever you feel like saying.   That’s usually the best.  I might suggest you don’t mention
blame
to her; it’s too sensitive a subject.  And if you had nothing to do with the murder, you have no responsibility.  The murderer carries all the blame.”

      
If
I had nothing to do with the murder?

       “Are we safe here?”  Patsy asked.  I shuddered.  Yet
another
thought that hadn’t occurred to me.

       “Yes, are we?  Somebody managed to get in here last night.  Did Shelly have any keys with her?  
Someone
obviously has the keys to this house.”

       “Did you have the locks changed when you took over ownership of this house?” he asked.

       I shook my head. 

       The look he gave me pretty much summed up what he thought of anyone too stupid to change the locks when they moved into a new house.  “If someone came in with keys, he or she still has them.  It won’t hurt to have the locks changed.  I can only spare a man for today.  We’re always stretched way beyond our limit during the tourist season.  I notice that your alarm system only has a switch rather than a code.  It’s
way
out of date.  You need a coded one.  Anyone with a key to the house can get in silently and just flip the switch to off before it has a chance to sound the alarm.”

   All right.  I’d have the locks changed and update the alarm system.  It was a relief to have something to do, even if it was only harassing locksmiths and arranging for an expensive alarm system to be installed.
   Getting a locksmith change the locks was easy enough.  The man I reached had apparently heard about the murder already and was eager to come out.  He’d have a story to tell.  But when I called about alarm systems, I found I’d have to wait at least a week for a salesman to come and show me what I needed and make arrangements to have a new setup installed. 

       Nobody warns you about what happens in a murder case while you’re waiting for the results of the investigation.  First you answer questions several times.  The same questions, different approaches.   (We had a single break from monotony when a stenographer both taped and copied down our statements.)  Then you wait.  The phone rings constantly and you don’t want to talk to anybody.  If it’s the press, you definitely don’t want to talk, and if it’s a friend, it’s hard to say what’s really on your mind.  There is no other subject of conversation that interests you at the moment.  And I’m not one to “talk it out.”  My philosophy in a bad situation is
ignore it and it’ll go away.  
The idea is marvelous in
theory
.

       The murder didn’t go away, but the sheriff and his crew finally did.  Only Deputy Johnson remained, for the most part sitting in the kitchen with Patsy, drinking coffee and staring at her like a love-sick St. Bernard.  I retreated upstairs, leaving behind a massive supply of cookies and bars.  I don’t need to
eat
all the food I produce.  Not always.  Usually the smell and the opulence satisfies me.  It’s a short cut to security.  I had a co-worker in Nevada with whom I got along quite well, except over the matter of food.  When stressed, she
ceased
to eat, if you can imagine such a thing.  We were friends, but we never understood each other’s motivations when it came to the all-important matter of food.

       The next several hours passed in a confused haze.  The locksmith
did
show up to change the locks.  He was obviously dying to ask questions about the murder, but I didn’t give him the chance.  I was cool and abrupt with him, so totally unlike myself I could barely believe it.  It felt like a matter of survival, though. 

       At four o’clock, Patsy informed me Lucinda was on the phone.  It was the first call Patsy had let through to me all day.

       “How are you doing?” I asked, unconsciously lowering my voice to the proper
you’ve just lost a loved one
tone.  “What can I do?”

       She didn’t sound grieved, just terribly tired.  “Have they all left?”

       “The law?  The sheriff is gone, but there’s still a deputy sitting here.”

       The deputy’s presence didn’t seem to bother her.  “Have you talked to the newsmen at all?”

       “No!  Not a word!” 

       “Good.  Don’t,” she sounded more like her old self.  “They’ll keep after you, but just ignore them.  Are you going to open the store tomorrow?”

       “I haven’t really thought about it,” I conceded.  “I guess I’ll have to sooner or later.  Do you want me to keep it closed for a few days?”

       “No, there’s no sense in that. I want to come over there for a while this evening.”

       “All right,” I told her.  Inwardly I shuddered, but I was hardly about to interfere with anything that might make her feel better.  Maybe she needed to look at the room where Shelly had died in order to realize, and maybe accept, what had happened.  People have different needs in times of crisis.

       “Thank you,” she said, as though I’d done her a big favor.  “I’ll be there as soon as it’s dark enough.”

       She hung up, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling I’d missed something.

       The hours crawled after that.  I still wasn’t answering the phone, leaving it to Patsy and
our deputy
, as I was beginning to think of Joe.  I took a hot bath, straightened the nonexistent mess upstairs, and repressed an urge to spring-clean the store, magically washing away the stain of murder.  I tried to read a book.  At six o’clock I gave up and went downstairs, drawn by the smell of fresh bread and hamburgers.  I allowed myself to be fed by two flirtatious young people. Patsy was eating something she referred to as a veggie-burger, and assuring the deputy that it was delicious.  “Have there been a lot of people calling?” I asked, feeling like an unwelcome chaperone, but not caring.

       “And trying to get in,” Patsy smiled.  “They take one look at Joe, and decide they’re not interested in talking to us after all.  I’ve been telling them you’re upstairs resting.  The only call I let through was Lucinda’s.  She must be going nuts!  Ma would be in hysterics if I broke my leg, much less . . .” Her voice broke a little.  She swallowed, and recovered determinedly.  “Anyway, I really feel sorry for her.”

       “Have you heard anything more?”  That was directed at Joe (as we were now apparently on first name terms).  “Have they found out anything, any clue to who might have done this?”

       “I haven’t heard anything,” he told me, shoveling down one of several hamburgers on his plate.  “I wouldn’t, though, except what I pick up around the Shop.  I’m not a detective…yet.”  The last was aimed at Patsy, a reassurance, perhaps, that Joe Johnson didn’t intend to remain a mere deputy for long. 

       “I just don’t understand it!” I complained.  I could hear a whining fretfulness in my voice, and realized I was beginning to sound like my mother.  Not a good sign.  I forced a little laugh.  “I’m lousy at handling small problems.
 This
has me absolutely blithering.”

       “Nobody expects you to handle anything,” he assured me.  He could use a little lighter sense of humor, I thought, but I listened respectfully.  “Leave it to the sheriff.  He’s really good at his job.  You don’t want to get mixed up in it.”

       I laughed a little hysterically.  “Get mixed up in it!  How much more mixed up in it could I be?  The girl was
my
employee, and she was found dead in
my
house!  I want to know who did it, and why!”

       The knock at the kitchen door interrupted my tangent and caught us all off-guard.  I hadn’t heard a car approaching, and Lucinda had said she wouldn’t be there until after dark. Apparently she’d felt she couldn’t wait that long.  Our deputy opened the door, admitting Lucinda, shrouded in her cape.  We fussed around her for a minute, but she verbally pushed us away.  “I’m all right.  I just want to talk with Rachael – alone – for a few minutes.  And I want to see where ... where it happened.”

       “Don't know if I can allow that, Ma’am,” Joe told her, regretfully.  It was clear he wanted to grant her every wish if it would help.  She took advantage of his soft-heartedness.

       “Please call the sheriff and ask him if I can go in, with Rachael, and say a few prayers,” she said, leaning heavily against the door.

       He reluctantly agreed, excusing himself to use the phone in the store, plainly wanting some privacy while he asked, or begged, his boss to allow the grieving mother to view the room where her daughter’s body had been found.

       “Have you eaten?”  Patsy asked, politely.  “I can fix you some chamomile tea or anything you want.  Aunt Rachael baked a bunch of stuff ...”

       “No, nothing, thank you,” Lucinda muttered, staring down at her feet.

       We stood there, all on our best behavior, waiting for the verdict.  It didn’t take long.  Our deputy returned to the kitchen, looking relieved.  “You’re free to go in there,” he told us.  “The tape can come down.  I’m off duty now, too, so you can do what you want here.”
       Lucinda marched towards the room, indicating that I should follow.  I dutifully did, dreading the breakdown I was certain she’d have once we saw the spot. When we got there, she ripped off the yellow tape that crossed the door.  The body outline was actually drawn in chalk, just like in the movies, and I felt closer to breaking down than she was. 

 “They’re going to say it was a ritual killing, you know,” she said, her voice a monotone.

       “What?”  I stammered.  I felt like a child again.  My stammering hadn’t tormented me in years.  Of course, I wasn’t used to hearing such outrageous statements as the bombshell Lucinda had just dropped.

       “They’re going to believe Shelly was the victim of a ritual murder,” she repeated impatiently.  “The fact that we’re witches won’t remain secret for long, and when the word is out, that’s where they’re going to place the blame!”

       “But we don’t do ritual murder – or any
other
kind of murder,” I protested.  “They can hardly find something in the Rede ‘do no harm’ that condones, much less encourages,
killing
someone.  Where would they get that idea?”

       “You saw her.”

       I thought it over.  “Yes, but stabbing doesn’t mean witchcraft was responsible.”