Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “Can you get someone to help him?” I wondered.

  “Alas, our parish is too small to support an assistant, as Mrs. P. has always drummed into Gethsemane’s board of directors. I thank God she’s only the treasurer and not the president,” said Patty, in what sounded like a fervent prayer of thanks.

  “When’s the funeral?” I thought maybe I’d better be there to see if I got any guilty vibes from any of the mourners.

  “Visiting hours today and tomorrow. Funeral on Saturday morning at ten. Are you coming? I suggest you walk over early. I think it will be well-attended.”

  “It will be mobbed, Patty. Every time a victim of murder is laid to rest, the sympathetic, the curious, and the just plain morbid come out in flocks.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Patty sighed. “And that will make it so difficult for me to count the house. I do like to keep track, you know. Wyn’s head is always in some heavenly cloud. But he does like me to check attendance. So then if Mrs. Pynchon complains that people are put off by his ecumenical view, I can point out that his sermon on Saint Francis and blessing of the pets was standing room only.”

  “Right, Patty. Wyn’s lucky to have you watching his back, so to speak. Yes, I will be there—and early. I like to keep an eye on the crowd myself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Let’s all go to the wake,” Deidre said. She was helping me to set up the old wooden folding chairs in my cellar workroom. “I love a good wake, don’t you?”

  “That’s your Irish genes doing a jig, Dee,” Phillipa said. “In my family, the dear departed were buried with all haste, but then we sat shivah for seven days, which is like a wake sans the body.”

  “We ought to say a few words among ourselves for those poor Luckey sisters as they journey to Summerland,” Fiona said. “And catch the wake, too.”

  “Outstanding idea!” I agreed. “Wouldn’t it be grand if some of the Craigs showed up! I’d see them up close, get Patty to introduce me, and maybe even shake hands. The touch of a stranger’s hand often gives me a quick psychic flash, although I must say I’m getting discouraged.”

  We’d gathered for our foray into Hazel’s “Sorting for Rot” spell. I’d turned off the marvelous track lighting that Joe had installed in favor of my ancient green hanging lamp and a few scented candles—lavender, rosemary, and myrrh. Our shadows danced against jars of dried herbs on the old wooden shelves. It was all marvelously evocative.

  Out of her Moonchild bag, Heather took the yellow candle she’d made and set it up in the center of my brand-new pine worktable. Possibly it was as plain as Heather ever gets, just tiny sprays of wheat and a few honeybees embedded in the golden wax. “I found these bees dead in my Widow’s Walk,” Heather said. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’d kill harmless insects just for my art.”

  “One girl’s harmless insect is another girl’s menacing sting,” Phillipa said. “That’s Dyer’s Funeral Home, isn’t it, Dee? I haven’t been to a whole lot of wakes, but I suppose you can clue me in to how to behave.”

  “Just murmur something like ‘terrible tragedy, untimely loss,’” Deidre suggested.

  “Tragic maybe, but hardly untimely,” Phillipa said. “Weren’t the Luckeys close to ninety?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Deidre said. “If it wasn’t in the Goddess’s good time, it was untimely.”

  “Hush, you two!” Fiona clapped her hands together. “Let’s concentrate on what Hazel has to tell us.”

  Heather lit the candle. The aroma of warmed honey joined the other fragrances in the room. “This is so lovely, Heather,” I said, as I hastily put an old plant saucer under the candle lest it drip hot wax on my bridegroom’s handiwork.

  Deidre laid out the slips of parchment on which she’d lettered the names of Lydia’s relatives as well as the Peacedales in beautifully decorative calligraphy. I sprinkled them lightly with the infusion of sweet wormwood, chervil, and Herba benedicta. Fiona began to sing in a soft low monotone, “Mother of wisdom, dispel all doubt, evil at the bone will out,” and we joined in, repeating the hypnotic words with more and more fervor in every round. Soon the whole cellar rang with our chanting, the green light swung back and forth like Fiona’s pendulum, and the glass jars rattled.

  Suddenly Deidre screamed, “Oh, look!” breaking the rhythm. Everyone’s gaze zoomed to where she was pointing. A tiny bit of sticky stuff had oozed out of the wood under one slip of parchment.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Heather reverently.

  “Jean Craig Deluca,” Fiona read aloud in a somber tone.

  “Good old Hazel,” Phillipa said. “I’m not saying Jean’s the one, but just in case, I think we ought to investigate her thoroughly. For instance, does she garden? Does she know her herbs like Cass? Did she have access to the places where poisoned foods were introduced? I wonder if I should mention this to Stone.”

  “Well, he did say to Fiona and me that he’d welcome even a psychic insight on this case,” I said. “If I were you, I would whisper the name in his ear, let him look into it for you.” I peered more closely at the little ooze near Jean’s name. Would it still, count, I wondered, if that were some glue of Joe’s or natural sap from the pine? But I didn’t want to throw a bucket of cold water on the circle’s enthusiasm.

  “And I’ll see what I can find,” said Fiona, whose expertise with library and Internet resources and her own dowsing skills always served us so well. “Murder will out, and murderers, too.”

  “What was that racket you had going on downstairs?” Joe asked after everyone had left. “I haven’t heard anything quite like it since I was in Zimbabwe. Scruffy went upstairs and put a pillow over his ears.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating, dear. We were only chanting. It’s just something we do.” I picked up our cups and saucers and stashed them in the dishwasher.

  “I don’t mean to complain, sweetheart, but your chanting seems to have done something weird to our phones. Listen to this—”

  He punched number one on his cell’s speed dial, and my kitchen wall phone rang. I picked up the receiver. “Shipton’s love potions and exotic massage oils,” I sang into the phone. It sang back. Or rather, it squealed, grunted, and moaned. Very weird indeed! I thought guiltily of all the times I’d been tempted to hex Joe’s cell phone so that Greenpeace couldn’t get through to him with yet another assignment halfway around the world. And now, without my even trying, the damn phone was having a nervous breakdown.

  “Is this static on your phone, too?”

  He handed me the cell. The same, but worse, with a kind of electrical pop and crackle followed by subterranean groans.

  “Sounds as if the Rice Krispies elves are having an orgy.”

  “Can you fix it? Unchant it, maybe?” His expression was faintly accusatory.

  “Gosh, I don’t know. This has never happened to me before.” I went to the refrigerator and opened the door, looking for the excellent merlot we hadn’t finished at dinner. Something to steady my brain while Joe busied himself taking the kitchen phone apart and peering suspiciously at its interior works.

  At the sound of the refrigerator door opening, Scruffy trotted downstairs, ears perked. Hey, Toots, even though I come from a long line of brave French briards, that caterwauling you had going on was too much for my sensitive auditory equipment. I really need something to get my teeth into, to restore my natural canine confidence. Any pork chops left?

  “Sorry about that, Scruff. No chops left over, but how about a nice raw carrot?”

  I beg your pardon. Have I suddenly sprouted rabbit ears?

  “Let’s not get hoity-toity. You’re only half briard, you know. The other half is pure mutt, some fly-by-night terrier, I imagine, judging by your manners.”

  It’s probably thanks to my daredevil sire that I’m super-savvy, Toots, instead of being a victim of overbreeding like some stupid, sissy show dog.

  “Okay, superdog, how about a supersize, special-occasion, liver-flavored gourmet dog bi
scuit?”

  Now you’re talking dogspeak!

  “Are you having a conversation with Scruffy right now?” Joe asked wonderingly. Satisfied that there were no interior gremlins, he put the phone back together.

  “Hmmm. I guess you could say that. Say, who called you on the phone anyway—? Don’t tell me!”

  “Yep. My boss did call me with an assignment, but before I could find out what it’s about, the phone went into its gobbledygook phase.”

  I laughed. “Well, I’ll try to undo the spell, but my heart won’t be in it.”

  “Can you? Undo the spell, that is?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Let me call in reinforcements.” I picked up my kitchen phone and hit the speed dial for Fiona.

  “Cass? What in Hades…” Fiona’s voice sounded garbled and far away.

  “The Hazel chant zapped my phones,” I shouted over the din.

  “What? Cracked your bones?”

  “ZAPPED MY PHONES,” I yelled even louder.

  “OKAY…GOT IT. TRY SAYING THE CHANT BACKWARDS. IN FACT, SAY IT TWO TIMES, AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING.” I distinctly heard my friend cackle merrily before she hung up.

  “What did she say?” Joe demanded. “Let’s do it, whatever it is.”

  “Even if it’s a weird sex thing?”

  “Is it? Good old Fiona.” The man was positively smirking.

  “Just kidding. She said to say the chant backwards…twice.” I scribbled the words down on the notepad by the phone. Mother of wisdom, dispel all doubt, evil at the bone will out. Then I reversed them. Out will bone the at evil doubt all dispel wisdom of Mother. “Will you read this with me twice?”

  “Okay. Then can we do the weird sex thing?”

  “There is no weird sex thing. I made it up.”

  “So? Even better…”

  “Are you going to say this with me or what?”

  Joe stood beside me, arm around my shoulders, hip against hip, reading over the words. Sensing a party, Scruffy trotted over and leaned against my other side. I scratched behind his ears. Then Joe and I recited the charm twice, and Scruffy added a couple of woofs. I had my doubts whether Fiona’s hasty charm would work, but magic is always worth a shot.

  “Now give it a chance to perk for a minute.” I poured the merlot into two glasses and gave Scruffy the promised supersize biscuit. He grabbed it and trotted into the living room to enjoy his treat on a proper rug.

  We drank and waited. At the last sip of wine, Joe’s cell phone rang. He glanced at me shamefaced as he answered, “Ulysses here. Yes…Yes…I understand. What’s your transport? Sure, I can do that. Right. Right.” Then after a few moments of silent listening, “Yes, I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, Good Goddess,” I wailed. “I should have left bad enough alone.”

  Joe took me into his arms, laid his cheek against mine, and patted my back, as if comforting a child. “I’ll be saving the Tongass, but I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Yeah?” I wouldn’t have admitted it, but I never could be angry with Joe when he was holding me against his deliciously brawny body. “So what’s the Tongass, and from where exactly will you be thinking of me?”

  “I’m surprised at you, Cass. The Tongass is our largest national forest. Part of the Roadless Area Conservation Rule in Alaska.” He murmured a description of its untamed beauty into my ear, which actually made the place sound sexy. “The U.S. Forestry Service is planning to exempt Tongass from the roadless rule. In other words, to clear the way for chopping it up.”

  “So what are you going to do? Sail to Alaska in an icebreaker in protest?”

  “Well, not exactly, sweetheart. I’m meeting activists from Alaska in D.C. We’re going to bring our protest to the Forestry Service offices in the USDA building. Delivering a letter asking them to quit logging in protected places.”

  “Not sailing? Just delivering a letter? So why do they need you?” I pulled away, the better to see his face. Yes, something more definitely was going on. It could be read clearly in the corners of his mouth and his eyes glancing away from my direct gaze.

  “I guess someone’s decided that I can be useful in other ways.”

  “I can imagine. Like what, exactly?”

  “Like engineering how to move a heap of sod.” Joe took his duffel bag out of the coat closet and headed into the bedroom to pack.

  “Sod? What’s sod got to do with it? You’re not leaving now, are you?” I followed after him, whining.

  “No, sweetheart, but I’ve got to catch tomorrow’s first shuttle to D.C., so I do have to leave at four.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yep. That’s the next four we’ve got.” He began throwing shirts and jeans into the duffel. How long was he planning to be away?

  “Washington’s not far. But it’s almost December. You’ll be home for our anniversary at Yule, right?”

  “Absolutely.” He zipped up his duffle and gave me a lingering kiss. “No way would I miss that.” His hands slid down my arms and around my back, pulling me close, pushing me gently toward the bed. “Meanwhile,” he murmured into my ear, “what was that you were saying earlier about a magical sex rite?”

  “They’re all magical, lover.”

  Much later, when we were lazily contemplating a late supper, I said, “So, you never answered me about the sod.”

  “The sod is a surprise for the Forestry Service, and I think I’ll let it be a surprise for you, too. Check the six o’clock evening news the day after tomorrow.”

  So I did. And it was a surprise. Because there was Joe, getting arrested again, this time for helping to dump twelve tons of sod in front of the USDA building. His companions in crime were a bunch of guys from Alaska and the executive director of Greenpeace. All of them were wearing inappropriate smiles and looking mighty pleased with themselves.

  Chapter Twelve

  At Deidre’s urging, we attended the wake en masse, where we found that mourners in the Luckey room had overflowed into the halls of Dyer’s Funeral Home. Frail friends from the church and the Women’s Cooperative, struggling to view the twin caskets, were nearly being trampled by a crowd of towns-people morbidly attracted to the cachet of a local murder. But none of them, I was disappointed to discover, were the Craigs.

  The circle, of course, wasn’t guilty of any such lowbred curiosity. We were engaged in the high-minded activity of sleuthing. Or so Deidre kept reminding us as we read our way through gift tags on the enormous bank of flowery tributes. “Ah, the Pilgrim Times,” she murmured, shaking her blond curls in disapproval. “I’ll bet their circulation is getting a nice little boost from another poisoning. Attractive arrangement of mums, though. And look at this, ‘The Geoffrey Craigs.’ Elegant basket. White and yellow carnations. At least their flowers made it to the wake. Here in spirit if not in flesh. I wonder how they knew the Luckeys.”

  “In Plymouth everyone knows everyone at least by nodding acquaintance,” Phillipa muttered. “Can we, for mercy’s sake, get out of here now? Miss Etiquette’s book, Etiquette for Dummies, declares that twenty minutes is quite long enough to pay one’s respects. And this crush of people and flowers, plus a trace of eau d’embalming fluid in the air are oppressive. I’m feeling quite nauseous.”

  “Now, wait just a minute,” Fiona grabbed Phillipa’s arm as if to prevent her from bolting out the door. Although Phillipa’s signature black outfit was perfectly appropriate, Fiona, conceding nothing to mourning custom, was wearing a striped jacket, patchwork skirt, and her usual armful of silver bracelets, which jangled fearfully among the discreet whispers. “Maybe I should have been dowsing these floral tributes?”

  “No, you should not!” I declared firmly. “And Phil’s right, it’s high time we made our way out of here.”

  “Ah, but Fiona hasn’t swung her crystal over the Luckeys yet!” Deidre’s blue eyes sparkled mischievously.

  I was about to caution Deidre not to give Fiona any ideas when Patty Peacedale tapped me on the shoulde
r. “Don’t the sisters look wonderful!” she enthused in a refined murmur. “Gloria’s Crowning Glory did their hair and makeup—very tasteful. And isn’t this a grand turnout for the poor dears?”

  “Oh, hi, Patty. Bodes well for the funeral, does it?”

  A corner of Patty’s mouth twitched into a half smile, perhaps all she would allow herself at a wake. “So, what are you girls up to today? Checking the vibes? I’ve read that in the Middle Ages, a corpse often identified its murderer by bleeding when he approached the bier. The guilty party could be tried and hanged on that evidence alone.”

  “That must have made for some exciting wakes,” Phillipa said.

  Heather, who had been viewing the Luckeys and saying a few Wiccan words of farewell, joined our circle. “Probably the same savants who tossed their suspect in a fast-moving river and called her a witch if she floated. Of course, if she drowned, she was found innocent. An early Catch Twenty-two.”

  “Can we please go now?” Phillipa whined.

  “I’m ready to go when you all are,” Heather agreed instantly. “Everyone’s expressed sympathy to the cousins, right? So, frankly, Cass, your house is closest, and I’ll be looking for a good, stiff brandy after this. By the way, Patty, what happened to that fiesty feline companion that belonged to the Luckeys? I assume the cousins are offering him a home. Prize Maine Coon cat, wasn’t it? Brown tabby. Buster, if memory serves. Not a great traveler. The Luckeys used to have a wicked time trying to bring that character into Dick’s office.”

  Patty looked bemused. “Cat? Did the Luckeys have a cat? Oh, yes, I believe they tried to carry it into church for the blessing of the animals. Nearly scratched his way out of Emma Luckey’s arms and gave Wyn a good slash, too. Maybe you could ask that gentleman over there, Heather. I believe he’s the Luckeys’ executor, and he’s probably been through the house to check whatever an executor checks in cases of sudden death. Oh dear. I do hope the poor thing is all right. How many days has it been now?”