Nobody Can Say It’s You: A Hadley Pell Cozy Mystery (16 page)

“
D
ougal Orner
!” Estill had said angrily. “I know you took it. Don’t deny it. Do not lie to me. I mean it, Dougal, just give it back. I want you to put it back where I had it this instant.”

Dougal stared at his mother like she had three heads. He had no idea what had put her on the warpath this time. There was absolutely no telling. The old hag was crazy, he thought. Stark-raving, bug-eyed, off her rocker. And what was she accusing him of stealing this time? If it she wasn’t so paranoid, she’d enjoy life a lot more, he thought.

“What are you talkin’ about, Mama?”

It wasn’t like this was the first time her stuff had gone missing.

Dougal was always “borrowing” things from her shed. He’d done it since he was little. Estill’s stocked shelves were a boy’s dream shop. He’d eaten stuff that had sent him to the moon. He’d sniffed or smoked or rubbed his skin with everything on those shelves.

And his mother never seemed to mind. Even if she did, she never did anything about it. She was too busy in her own little world of spells and brews.

Who cared?

Dougal sure as heck didn’t. She had probably misplaced whatever it was she was grouching about anyway. He didn’t have time for this. He had not had time for Estill for a long time now.

Once Dougal met Chandra, he’d lain off his experimentation with the herbs, seeds, lotions, and gooey salves that were his mother’s creations. Chandra could send him over the mountain faster than anything else ever could. But, lately, Chandra was becoming a pain in the butt. Was he tiring of her? He didn’t know. She was like all females, Dougal decided.

A lot of trouble.

She was on the rag a lot. Dougal was beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t be better served by having a stable of girlfriends instead of just one steady beau.

But it was hard to catch the other girls’ eyes. So many of the town boys their age had their own cars or access, at least, to their parents’ automobiles. Life was as hard as a rock if you lived way back like he and Estill did. Maybe he should quit school and see if he couldn’t find a job somewhere.

Off the mountain.

It would have to be away from here. Jobs were scarcer than hen’s teeth for rough mountain boys like him.

And what about his mother? What would she do without him? He hunted and helped her in the garden, when he felt like it. But Dougal knew that when push came to shove, he’d leave Estill stranded and starving in split second. All he needed was somebody to come along and offer him a good job.

But that was about as likely to happen as pigs sprouting wings and taking off for a South Seas vacation. So, here he was. Stuck on a mountain with a crazy mama and a bleak future. It was depressing. Dougal ignored his mother’s accusations. He wandered off into the woods. He still had a pocketful of seeds and herbs. Maybe he’d down a few and smoke some of the leaves later.

* * *

E
still would calm down
. No matter what. She always did. Her anger was like a fast moving storm. Here and gone and spent. She’d given lip service to all the things she was going to do to straighten him out since he could remember.

And that’s all her ranting had amounted to.

Lip service.

A hot-air wind storm that just blew up a lot of dust. A lot of ear-splitting noise that never amounted to anything.

No good, really, except for grating and rubbing your last nerve plum raw.

Dougal wasn’t afraid of her. He never had been. Instinctively, he had always known he held the upper hand with his mother. She was clay in his hands. He wandered off for some solitude and blessed silence.

There was something that was sawing at his nerves lately. He could feel it in the tight muscle in his temple. His mother’s voice, especially when she was angry, was like a hot brand on his skin.

Would he snap one day?

Lose his head?

Walk out on Estill and leave the mountain?

Do something worse?

He just didn’t know.

Dougal popped a few more seeds. Their effects were starting to take hold. His head began to swim and the flashing lights began to twinkle before his eyes.

“The Book,” Estill said. “I want it back, Dougal.”

“I don’t have it. Have you asked Chandra?” Dougal asked. “Maybe she swiped it. I haven’t touched it.”

Let his mother fuss until the cows came home, Dougal decided, staggering off deep into the woods.

C
handra
.

It made perfect sense. Estill went inside and sat at her little séance table. She let her body relax, easing herself into a trancelike state.

“Au da ai ou kah la eyamo nou,” she chanted. She felt her mind clear. Her eyelids felt heavy. They slowly closed. Her breathing slowed. Then, as if a sharp pin speared her brain, she felt the electric energy flow into her. Her eyes snapped open.

Gazing into the ball, Estill watched as the smoky haze inside the crystal cleared.

She saw the girl come into her yard, look around. Call her son’s name.

Nothing.

The girl stood looking up at Dougal’s window. She picked up a small stone and threw it toward the window. Estill heard the “tink” of the rock hitting the pane.

Nothing.

Estill saw the vision as she stepped out onto the porch.

“Dougal ain’t here. He’s gone huntin’.”

The ephemeral Estill went back into the house. Closed the door.

The girl stood in the yard staring at the closed door.

Then she glanced aside. The girl’s footsteps led her to the shed. Estill saw the door to the shed was ajar. In her haste, she had forgotten to lock it. The girl looked back toward the house.

Nothing.

“She took the Book,” Estill whispered.

Estill watched as the girl hesitated. Her finger touched the door then pushed it opened. She stepped inside. Estill watched the girl scan the shelves, look at her tables full of herbs and potions, and gawk at the many plants hanging from the ceiling. The girl spied the Book on its stand in the far corner. She touched the old pages. Estill could feel the electricity jolt her system even through this vision.

The girl had stolen the Book.

* * *

“
D
ilcie
,” Estill said. “Where’s the wild one?”

“Estill,” Granny Dilcie said, “what do you want with her?”

Estill had walked the few miles to Granny’s house.

“I need to talk to her,” Estill said.

“What about?” asked Granny.

“Your girl and my boy are friends. I want to make sure that your girl knows that Dougal ain’t no good.”

“Are you serious?” You’re his maw. Why would you be bad mouthing your own son to Chandra Elanor?”

“You’re right, Dilcie. I am his maw, but I ain’t blind. I tried to spare Dougal the bad beatin’s my pappy gave me. But I see now I shoulda’ set boundaries. Dougal’s wild. Dilcie. I don’t want your Chandra hurt because of ’im.”

“She’s out back, milkin’ the cow.,”

“Thank ye.”

Estill made her way to the barn. Chandra had her back to the door, milking the jersey cow.

The sad eyes of the jersey gazed Estill’s way as she entered the dark barn.

“I want it back, gal,” Estill said.

Chandra jumped, knocking over the pail of foamy, white milk.

“I want it back,” Estill said. “The crystal said you took it. You don’t know what you done, gal. Give it back and no harm will come to you.”

“You’re right,” Chandra said. “I took it. But I won’t give it back. The power’s mine now.”

“You don’t know what you’re messin’ with,” Estill said. “You could kill yourself.”

“Show me,” Chandra said. “Teach me. I will give it back if I have your word that you will let me learn from you. All of it. All of your wisdom. Hold nothing back.”

Estill stood still. Was this a trick?

“Sa shu dom au nu ca sic,” Chandra said.

“All right,” said Estill.

Chandra walked over to the ladder by the hay loft. She climbed it, disappearing in the gloom of the shadowy barn. In a few seconds, she climbed back down. She handed the Book to Estill.

“Come this afternoon,” Estill said. “We will start at once. Dougal will be gone the night. He’s huntin’. Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Positive,” Chandra said.

“Then, we will begin,” Estill said, taking the empty pail and saying a chant over it.

Chandra watched as it slowly began to waver, becoming almost fluid before her eyes.

Then, in seconds, the pail was overflowing with foamy, white milk.

“
A
nna
!” Hadley said. “How’s the reading competition going?”

“Better than I could have hoped,” Anna said. “I went to the schools and let the kids get involved with what they wanted the competition to look like. It’s been amazing.”

“I’m glad,” said Hadley.

“Give me your email address, Hadley,” Anna said. “I want to send this particular entry to you. It’s by one of the upper classmen. It’s haunting, but it’s been submitted anonymously. I have no idea who the author is. Read the entry and let me know what you think. Parts of it are quite good. Other parts are, well, scary.”

Anna had peaked Hadley’s curiosity. She couldn’t wait to open the email.

* * *

S
hining moon
.

Little Star.

Star and Sun in Heaven.

T
he morning mist
lies heavy on the grass in the meadow. Each droplet is pure and as fresh as the new day’s dawn. I walk among the trilliums, banked against a rocky outcrop. Their snowy petals open, unfold, and bend back to catch the first golden rays of the morning’s sun.

They grow thick here, the trilliums. Pushing and crowding this end of the meadow, they blanket the soil like snowflakes on a sea of green. No one disturbs their quiet revelry as they sway in the breeze. We are alone, my trilliums and I. This is such a beautiful, peaceful moment.

A fawn peeks out from the woods, far down the hollow. Its white spots are as bright as the trilliums, still clinging to their dewy droplets like kids fresh from a dip in the icy creek. The little deer looks my way, then turns and bolts and disappears in the purple shadows of the forest. Wandering deeper into the woods, I stop by the brook. The water topples over the rocks, gurgling and playing their happy song.

Nearby, a huge tree clings to its banks. The roots are gnarled and pop up from the rocky bed like Granny’s knuckles. Oconee bells dance nearby, a delicate skirt of green decorating the base of the old tree with small, bell-shaped blossoms. I blow a kiss to them and wave good-bye.

The pennyworts and creeping bluets greet me on my stroll. Touch-me-nots and umbrella leafs sway as I walk by. A big box turtle creeps across my path. I squat to mark his rolling gait. He munches on a bright red, wild strawberry. I leave him to his breakfast.

The sun is getting stronger, and the mist melts away like frost in a spring thaw.

The old fox screams and runs blindly down the path.

His voice is high and thin. Eerie. Like the loon. There is blood on his muzzle. His teeth drip red from the kill. He is a savage, his mind crazed. But he is still wily, steeped in the old ways and only devours the weak or the slow to survive. He is a child of the wilderness.

The old ways are a withering vine.

The wisdom of the ages fall prey to modern life.

Shining moon.

Little Star.

There are other children who tromp about this paradise who do not care what they destroy. They play among the trilliums and laugh as they pull them up one by one and sprinkle the wilting blossoms like a carpet of bitter tears trailing behind as they make love by the babbling brook.

They are young, these two.

Adam and Eve in their playground designed by the gods.

They laugh.

They fight.

They talk of insignificant things.

They are alone in their little world.

I see her in my dreams.

Half of the whole.

Darkness and shadow.

Inside the crystal clear, I see.

You do not stop to hear the trill of songbirds near. You do not stay and watch the butterflies alight. There is no time for such. No thought for beauty or simple pleasure. No star shine of delight.

There is no time. No time. No time for purity.

Too busy in your devilment. Too lost in the moment of passion’s sensual pleasure. Too young. Too in love.

You mock, in pure disdain, the olden ways too plain. He is not yours. You are alone, the one and one. Not two but merely one.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

The gods look down and cry. So beautiful you are. So tender. So heartless and so free.

Could you be the devil’s seed?

You sow such misery. Child of gold, flower of youth in Garden’s Eden play. The bounty of the earth is yours to do with as you may.

The moonflower blooms. The devil’s weed. A perfect potion for his seed.

Exotic perfume. Beauty’s baneful button, white and shimmering.

A tea party. Alice and the mad hatter come.

And Death, robed in black, his sickle dripping red.

Moonflower.

Delirious visions.

Fleeting madness.

Delusion. Illusion. Apparation. Mirage.

A moment’s madness.

Bitter libation. Festering bloom.

Caught in a web of lies.

Run towards your tomb.

You have poisoned, poisoned, poisoned all that you have ever touched.

You have poisoned him, so filled with sin and woe.

Crazy howlings in his head.

Hard to hear. For now, he’s dead.

Asylum’s child. Lost in the maze.

Nothing’s clear. It’s all a haze.

Doom is heavy on his brow.

Ready! Set! Go! The time is now. The time is now.

And he is lost. And he is lost to horrors unimaginable.