The Trouble With Witches (2 page)
A big black spider sat on Mr. Carroll's shoulder, while a vein in his forehead throbbed as he yelled at me.
He wasn't happy about the library's latest book order. He was sick and tired of all the smut
. Each word was underscored by a constant jangling in the background.
Where was the sound coming from? My eyes left Mr. Carroll's face, searching for the sound, until the pounding of his skeletal fist caught my attention again.
My eyes traveled from his face down his body. The tendons in his skinny neck stood out as he screamed at me, and I could see his bony chest wheeze in and out. His ancient ribs, covered by thin, dry, almost translucent skin, expanded like a bellows with each breath. As my eyes traveled past his chest, I shuddered and said a silent thank-you that the counter prevented me from seeing the rest of his naked, eighty-year-old body.
Whoa—wait a second. What was Mr. Carroll doing in the library nude? And what was
making
that jangling noise?
My eyes shot open and I found myself staring at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom. Thank God, I was dreaming. But why was I dreaming about Mr. Carroll naked in the library? And why hadn't the jangling stopped when I woke up?
The phone, the jangling was the phone. My hand shot out to grab it, and in the process I knocked my alarm clock off the nightstand with a loud clatter.
Queenie
, my cat, who had also been sleeping soundly on the pillow next to me, gave me an indignant look and stalked off the bed. Lady, my dog, startled by the loud noise, gave a short bark.
I shoved a handful of dark brown hair out of my face and stared at the ringing phone as if it were a snake.
"What?" My tone sounded grumpy, but I didn't care. I didn't appreciate phone calls in the middle of the night, even though they did rescue me from an awful dream featuring a naked Mr. Carroll.
"Hey, know where I can find a good witch?" asked the voice coming from the receiver.
I stared dumbly at the phone. I'd recognize that voice anywhere—Rick Delaney, award-winning investigative reporter with the
Minneapolis Sun
, and a guy who'd almost gotten me killed last fall when he pulled me into his undercover investigation of a drug ring operating in our small town of Summerset,
Closing my eyes, I pictured Rick in my mind. Dark brown hair, brown eyes to die for, and a crooked grin that turned most women to mush. I wasn't one of those women.
At least, most of the time I wasn't.
"What do you want?" I asked suspiciously.
A chuckle rumbled over the phone lines.
"Nice to hear your voice, too, Ophelia."
My eyes narrowed in the dark.
"Oh yeah?
If it's so nice, then—"
"I know. I'm sorry," Rick said, interrupting me. "I should've called, but I've been really busy. I heard you've been busy, too. Heard you helped catch Brian's killer."
I gripped the receiver in my hand. "How did you know about that?"
"I've still got contacts in
My grip on the phone tightened. Rick was right. Charles Thornton, the man who'd killed my best friend, Brian, five years ago in Iowa City, had found me in Summerset, where I'd moved after Brian's death.
Charles, a descendant of a judge who had served at the Salem witch trials, saw himself as a modern day witch hunter. And Abby and I were the ones he hunted. He convinced himself that we needed to die. His plan had been to kill me at the abandoned hog confinement facility and make it look like a suicide. After I was disposed of, he'd then go after Abby. I ruined Plan A when I got away from him, so he switched to Plan B—kill me and dump my body in the sewage pit. Luckily, after a struggle, it was Charles who wound up swimming in the hog manure, not me. The whole incident ended with Henry and company rescuing Charles and hauling him off to jail, where he was now awaiting trial.
"You didn't answer my question. What do you want?" I asked.
"I need your help."
My snort slipped out before he could continue.
"Yeah?
The last time I helped you, I got shot."
"I told you to stay out of it, but you had to go off on your own and go snooping around Adam Hoffman's machine shed."
"And you're lucky I did," I argued. "If I hadn't been there, you'd have been alone with Adam and his henchmen, Benny and Jake, trussed up like a turkey and tied to a pole. And remember, I was the one who got us out of there."
"Umm, yeah, I guess you're right…" Rick paused. "Except I still don't understand how you managed to do it."
"Never mind."
I had no intention of trying to explain to Rick how I'd used the energy throbbing deep in the earth below the machine shed to distract Adam, Benny, and Jake long enough for us to escape. "So again—what do you want?"
"A young woman's disappeared and I need your help to find her," Rick said, getting right to the point. "She's eighteen and the only child of some good friends of mine."
I remembered my failure to help Henry find his missing man. "Rick, I don't think I can."
"Why not?
You're psychic. And
so's
Abby."
"Look, I've tried to explain to you before, the gift doesn't always work. The images can be blurred and hard to figure out. I—"
"Before you make up your mind, hear me out," Rick interjected. "About four years ago, Brandi—that's the girl's name—Brandi Peters—seemed to change. It was right after her grandmother died…"
Those words struck a sympathetic response in my heart. My grandfather's death of a sudden heart attack when I was fifteen, and then Brian's death five years ago, had shaped my life in ways I was only now beginning to understand. But I kept my thoughts to myself and let Rick continue.
"She dropped a lot of her friends at school, started to dress differently, spend more time alone—"
"Did she get involved with drugs?" I interjected.
"I don't think so, but who knows? Kids can be good at hiding things like that." Rick sighed. "It wasn't until she took off after her high school graduation that her mother found a bunch of books about spiritualism in her room."
"You think she was trying to contact her grandmother's spirit?"
"Probably.
And I think that's how she wound up involved with a group up at
The phone slipped from my hand.
"—would be the perfect choice to check them out and see what you can learn," I heard Rick say as I returned the receiver to my ear.
"Group?
Do you mean cult?"
"Well…" Rick's voice trailed off.
"You do. You want me and my seventy-four-year-old grandmother to infiltrate a cult?" I asked in a shocked voice.
"Hey, it's not a cult," Rick said defensively.
"Not exactly.
The
group's
not like the Manson group or Heaven's Gate. At least, I don't think they are."
"You don't
think
?"
"Pretty sure they're not. It's been hard for me to learn anything about them. The group does a lot of charity stuff for the town up there, so the townspeople are closed-mouth about anything to do with it."
"And you think the group would accept a couple of witches who happen to be psychics better than a snoopy reporter?"
"Yeah."
I could hear the smile in his voice.
"But you might want to forget the witch part. Just let it be known that you're psychics," Rick said.
"And how do we do that? Set up a crystal ball on the street corner and give readings?"
Rick's chuckle rumbled in my ear. "No, Madam Ophelia, I don't expect you to do that. Something a little more subtle would work better. It's a small town, drop a few well-chosen remarks and they'll seek you out."
"And if they don't?"
"You're resourceful. You'll figure something out."
I was silent while I thought about Rick's request. I understood how the loss of her grandmother might have affected Brandi, but that didn't mean I would be able to connect with her in some way. And I hadn't helped Henry—what made me think I could help Rick find the missing girl? But
no
died on my lips with his next words.
"Brandi never quite fit in, if you know what I mean. She always seemed to be struggling to discover who she was, even before her grandmother died." Rick paused, listening for my response. When I said nothing, he continued. "She wasn't a bad kid, just different, kind of lost. And since she was fourteen, I've watched while she tried to figure out where she belonged."
Where she belonged? Wow, could I understand that concept, and it was another link I had to the missing girl. Most of my life I'd been dealing with the same thing. If I hadn't had Abby to guide me, to understand what it's like to have a gift like mine, I would have been lost, too. Maybe…
Rick sensed my hesitation and pressed his advantage. "Her parents are beyond worried. She stopped calling about a month ago and they haven't heard from her since. Like I told you, Brandi is their only child, and they've tried everything to find her. The police have done all they can. I've tried to investigate, but I hit a wall of silence."
"Rick—"
"You two are the only people I know who might be able to find Brandi," he said, butting in. "Look, if I thought you or Abby would be in danger, I wouldn't ask you to do this."
I plucked at the blanket covering me. "Rick—"
"You do have vacation time, don't you?" he asked, breaking in again. "And don't worry—I'll cover all your expenses."
"Yes, I've got vacation time, and it's not about money. It's—"
"Please?"
The
please
and the desperation in his voice tipped the scale. Somewhere out there a young woman was lost. A young woman everyone saw as "different." I hadn't been able to help Henry, but maybe this time…
"Okay, I'll talk to Abby," I said with a groan.
As I drove up the lane leading to Abby's house, I saw the August heat shimmer in steamy waves above the gravel. It was only 9:00 a.m., and already the day promised to be a hot one. The heat wave we'd been having was affecting the vegetables Abby grew for her greenhouse. I noticed the pumpkin vines looked sad, as Abby would say. The green leaves seemed to droop toward the black soil at the base of the plant as if they were trying to suck what little moisture they could from the rich earth. If we didn't get rain soon, Abby wouldn't have many pumpkins to sell come Halloween. They'd all have withered on the vine.
Abby's farmhouse came into view when I rounded the last corner of her lane. The house stood proud, with its dark green shutters shining against the brilliant white of the clapboard siding. And even in this heat the wide wraparound porch looked cool and inviting. During my summer stays as a child and as a teenager, I'd spent a lot of evenings on that front porch, swinging slowly back and forth on the swing, and sipping iced tea with either Grandpa or Abby. My lips twisted in a wry smile—even though Grandpa wasn't with us anymore, I still held his spirit in a special place in my heart. Abby, Grandpa, the memories this house held, they were my sanctuary. And even though I loved my parents, and they had provided me with a good life, Abby's house was and would always be "home" to me.
A safe place to go when trouble seemed to surround me.
A place where I belonged.
The girl Rick wanted us to find—Brandi. Did she ever have a refuge, somewhere to go when the problems overwhelmed her? Had she thought she'd found that special place with the group at
My car rolled to a slow stop, and I got out and walked up the path to Abby's front door. After two light raps, I swung the door open and strolled into Abby's wide entry.
"Knock
knock
.
Anyone home?"
I called, and sniffed the air. A delicious smell of fresh strawberries greeted me. I knew Abby must be putting up preserves. My nose guided me down the hall toward the kitchen located in the back of the house.
I paused in the doorway, watching my grandmother. She stood at her old wood-burning stove, stirring a steaming kettle of strawberries with one hand, while in the other she held the receiver of the phone. Turning, she smiled, and her eyes, the color of moss, crinkled in the corners. With the hand holding the wooden spoon, she waved me toward the table. I sat and waited for her to finish her conversation.
"Yes, I know. It's going to be hot," she said into the phone.
Even now, after living in
granddaughter,
in a line of women stretching back over one hundred years.
The art of
magick
.
But I had no child of my own, no daughter to train in the art. And with each passing year, the chances of ever having a child grew less and less. Unless my life changed, I would be the last of that line. The
magick
practiced so long by the women of my family would die with me.
The thought saddened me.
"
Tsk
tsk
, such sad brown eyes for this early in the morning," Abby said, pulling my attention to her. "Why such a long face?"
I'd been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn't noticed that she had finished her conversation and now stood watching me as she dried her hands on her apron. Her hair was braided and coiled on the top of her head. And the steam from the strawberries made little tendrils of silver hair curl around her face. Sitting down at the table, she brushed them back.