“What a pity it didn’t snow enough for tracks,” Heather said. “We’d better get Stone and a forensic team in here to look for evidence that the greenhouse has recently been used, and maybe even some fingerprints, although the ‘person or persons unknown’ has been rather careful about that so far. But—”
“But they won’t be able to follow the poisoner’s trail,” I finished Heather’s thought. “What we need is a genuine tracker who can read what the earth has to tell us. And we know a skilled tracker. How I wish we could get him here before we have to call Stone.”
“You mean Tip. Isn’t he in Wiscasset, living with his uncle while he finishes high school?”
Tip was a young Native American whose mother had deserted him and whose father, an alcoholic, hadn’t provided much of a home for the boy. I’d befriended Tip, and he’d become part of my spiritual family, the people we meet in life to whom we are naturally drawn, sometimes as if we’ve always known them. Much as I loved Tip and missed having him around, I was glad he now had a decent place to live and go to school. But I sure could have used his tracking skills right then.
“Yes, but he’ll be back soon to spend Christmas week with his father. Too late to help us out here. But maybe he’ll come to our anniversary gala.”
“Okay, then. Stone it is. Stop postponing the inevitable.” Heather handed me her phone. “I have him on my speed dial, number eight.”
“Me too,” I admitted. I pulled off my cumbersome gloves and punched Stone’s cell number with freezing fingers.
I have to say that our favorite detective listened very patiently as I described what my vision had suggested, where we’d guessed the greenhouse must be located, how we were standing there right now, but not a poison plant was in sight. Then I think I heard a sigh, but it might have been the wind, which was at that very moment bringing a cloud cover over the sun.
“Okay. Even though there’s nothing showing now, if you’ve found a greenhouse where you thought it might be, I think I’ll investigate your theory. Let me see who I can get to go over the premises. So stay where you are, Cass. I may have some questions.” Stone added, “Did you say ‘near the garages’?”
“Yes. Look for Heather. She’s in fire-engine red, her stealth outfit.”
Heather gave me a hurt look. “I can do stealth as well as the next gal, when stealth is called for,” she declared. “I have a lovely camouflage outfit. At least I don’t crash through the woods sounding like the running of the bulls at Pamplona.”
We did as we were told, waiting patiently. Stone arrived within a half hour with two colleagues. My idea about the greenhouse proved not to be a wild-goose chase. The crime-scene specialists Stone had rounded up found plenty of evidence that the deserted greenhouse had recently been used, then cleaned, and they found one tiny scrap of hemlock that the cleaner had missed. By then, though, any tracks outside the door had been obliterated.
“Where could she have brought the plants?” Heather asked as we trudged back to her house for an invigorating cup of the captain’s boiled coffee.
“Home, naturally. But I don’t suppose Stone can get a search warrant based on our psychic flashes. We need some indisputable evidence pointing to Jean Deluca.”
“What’s her husband like? I always think you get a whole new insight into someone when you meet the spouse.”
I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Ceres! I should have found some excuse to meet him.”
“Do I remember correctly that Deluca gives watercolor classes in his studio on Saturday mornings?”
“Are you feeling a yen to paint sand dunes and seagulls?”
“Hey, aren’t my candles works of art? I am definitely an artist in search of a tutor,” Heather said.
So it was arranged that Heather would take up watercoloring and give us a full report on Arthur Deluca. By the time she attended the introductory class, however, events had already taken a quirky turn. The wicked tricks had begun.
Perhaps, we reasoned, Jean Deluca had caught on to our surveillance and was taking revenge. Maybe she’d connected the dots between the circle’s earlier forays into crime-solving and our recent interest in her—Phil and I shopping in her gallery, Fiona inviting her to tea, and now Heather signing up to take classes with her husband. The final straw, we decided, must have been Deidre’s brainstorm—a trip to Assumption, her alma mater, to get some deep background on the Deluca family.
Deidre invited an old high school friend who worked in Assumption’s office, Millie Murphy, to share a quick lunch and a friendly chat while Will held the fort at home. Over clam rolls on the wharf, Deidre tipped her hand and asked about Jean Deluca, said it was a minor investigation, and swore her friend to secrecy. Millie raised her eyebrows but spilled Assumption’s gossip readily enough. Jean was no stranger to the office staff. Every time son Leonardo got into trouble, his mother stormed to his defense.
“Feisty little lady,” Millie said. “Good thing, because that boy has got himself into many a scrape. But all of us here were eager to clear up any difficulties. Lee’s a born charmer, as you may have guessed—surely he could sing the birds out of the trees. All his teachers say so. That makes it a double shame about the father, though. Always late with the tuition, and we have to keep sending letters, you know. Is this a money thing you’re looking into? Credit report or something like that?”
“Yes, something like that,” Deidre agreed, telling herself it wasn’t really a lie. “I’ve heard that Lee loves the stage and was hoping for a part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Millie giggled. “The way I heard it, that play is all about sex and fairies. Naturally, it never got approved. It wasn’t Principal Sheehan, though. There was a conservative group of parents who objected to the fairy queen consorting with a jackass.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Bestiality, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s Shakespeare, Millie. Thoroughly vetted by centuries of uptight English teachers.”
“Well, when these parents demanded an open hearing on the drama curriculum, the drama coach, Sister Joseph, decided to present a stage adaptation of Song of Bernadette, a lovely, inspiring story, instead of Midsummer. But that Jean Deluca did kick up quite a fuss—what a mouth on her! Called Sister Joseph and Conan Sheehan some very bad names. No respect. The husband, now—the poor man was that embarrassed.”
“So, did Lee Deluca get to read for some supporting role in Song of Bernadette?” Deidre asked.
“It’s been postponed.” Millie leaned toward Deidre confidentially. “Everyone connected with that production kept getting this stomach thing that’s going around. Someone wondered if the lunchroom…something fishy about the haddock. But Principal Sheehan nipped that idea in the bud. Guess everyone in the diocese is skittish about lawsuits these days—all we don’t need is a fuss over food safety.”
Millie had proved to be a generous source of information. But when more strange and upsetting events began to occur, we wondered if the flow of information had gone both ways. Had Millie told Jean Deluca of Deidre’s interest?
“I feel as if some evil pixie is playing pranks on us!” Phillipa declared when an unknown hacker penetrated her computer and erased not only her food files but also her poem records. This was right after Heather’s Mercedes seized up with indigestion from sugar in the gas tank.
“‘Pixie pranks’ fits almost too well,” I agreed.
“I’m just hoping the Computer Doctor can salvage some of my files. But even if he can work a miracle, I’m in terrible disarray over deadlines. I have a cookbook in the works, and all my restaurant reviews—I was several weeks ahead and breathing a huge sigh of relief.”
“What about the poems?” We were sitting in Phillipa’s office drinking some divine whipped hot chocolate she’d concocted, which she called Aztec Joy-Juice, while she gazed gloomily at the monitor of a computer gone amok.
Phillipa winced. “A dagger in my heart! But I have hard copy. It will take time—time I don’t have—to
re-key them, but it’s doable. I just won’t know to which journals I’ve submitted them. What a catastrophe! Oh, how I’d like to send an appropriate payback!”
“Yes, but even if you could, you can’t.”
“Spoilsport!”
I chuckled, using my demitasse spoon to scrape out the last drop of creamy, rich froth. “You’re reminding me of Freddie, who always used to complain, ‘What’s the good in being a witch if you can’t hex your enemies?’ It wasn’t easy being her mentor.”
“She has a point, you know, Cass. What’s wrong with bad things happening to bad people?”
“I know how you feel. But I believe, for us, it’s against the universal law—‘harm none.’ And those who break the law are hurt the most.”
What we didn’t know then was that the chaos visited upon Phillipa and the inconvenience to Heather were only the start. Right after Joe and I celebrated our first year of handfasted bliss with our nearest and dearest at Yule, the tricks went from dirty to deadly.
But by then my psychic vision had cleared. Always a double-sided blessing.
Chapter Nineteen
From: witch freddie [email protected]
To: witch cass [email protected]
Subject: and they said it wouldn’t last!
hiya cass. are you up for some company on your first? if it’s okay, adam and i might drive up there to help you two lovebirds celebrate.
suppose i’d better bring my long johns. must be cold as a hunter’s heart in new england right now.
cass, you oughta be proud—i’ve been taking courses in computer science and law at UGA. Passing’s no prob, but it’s, like, snail’s pace, and i want that piece of paper pronto. also, o mentor, i haven’t crashed the computer lab once. well, except for one teeny incident with professor lech.
hey girl, when you got the power, it’s hard not to flaunt it.
speaking of which (witch), another poisoning in Plymouth is national news, baby! thought your neighborhood crime watch would have ex-spelled that culprit by now. tch tch.
see you at yule! oh by the way, we’ve got news—so get set for a wicked surprise.
hugs to all the witches. tummy scratches to Scruffy.
freddie.
Instead of chamomile-mint tea, I went straight for Joe’s bottle of Jim Beam. How often when people say ‘oh, by the way,’ whatever follows is far from incidental. I would act surprised, of course. But in family matters, clairvoyants are usually aware of the undercurrents, often trying not to know what they know. Sometimes they even succeed in keeping the blinders in place. But as surely as I knew that Becky’s trial separation from Ron would end in divorce this year, I also knew that Adam and Freddie had fallen in love and her “wicked surprise” was their engagement. The end of one marriage and the beginning of another.
Another aspect of being psychic is dealing with a pervasive sadness. Sometimes it feels as if you’re standing at some cosmic window watching the world go its wrongheaded way and feeling powerless to prevent the disasters. I poured a slug of Jim Bean and added a couple of ice cubes. The pounding of Joe’s hammer in the bedroom was getting on my nerves, so I took my drink into the living room, where the remains of last night’s fire were still glowing under a blanket of ash in the fireplace. I threw on some kindling and a log, sat down in my favorite chair with my feet up on the hassock, and watched the blaze catch the splinters of pine. The hammering, now on the other side of the downstairs and fainter, stopped completely. Ah, blessed silence!
“Having a little party?” Joe stood in the doorway with Scruffy beside him. Both their heads were cocked at the same quizzical angle. Cute. “May I join you? Although I do feel I should point out that the sun hasn’t risen over the yardarm yet. In fact, it’s only ten bells.”
“It’s your booze, sailor.”
Joe went back in the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Bud. “Little early for the hard stuff.” Scruffy hopped up on the window seat and scanned the front yard and the road beyond the pines, giving us his noble profile. I am the valiant canine guard whose powerful jaws all trespassers fear.
“You are awesome indeed, but no cookie.” Seeing Joe’s perplexed expression, I tapped my glass and said, “This is purely medicinal. I’m coming down with an awful prediction.”
“That so? Care to share the flash, swami?”
“Adam and Freddie are now an item. They’re coming up to join us for Yule and surprise us with the news that they’re mad about each other and are planning to marry.”
“What’s wrong with that? You love Freddie like a daughter, and now she’ll really be kin. And even though I’m merely a mundane and not a Wiccan psychic like yourself, ever since I’ve known Freddie, I’ve noticed that she’s been after your son with all of her formidable arts and talents.” He took a long swallow of the Bud. “Do you think it’s possible that you are expending a great deal of energy blocking out the truth before your real eyes?”
I took another mini-sip. This stuff was really strong. “It’s possible. And, in fact, lover, you may have hit on the source of the psychic block I’ve been suffering from on the matter of these poisonings. I’ve closed the damn door myself. You’re a pretty smart guy, you know that?”
“I know, but it’s nice to be told. So what are you going to do to get unblocked?” Joe came over and sat on the hassock where my feet were propped. His blue eyes were warm with concern, and he smelled of freshly cut wood and some Danish aftershave. He stroked my arms, pushing up the sleeves of my flannel shirt. He kissed me softly on each corner of my mouth, then full on the lips—Zing! “Can I do anything to help?”
If I were a cat, I would have purred, but being merely human, I smiled. “Maybe. You’re not using the bed right now for a saw-horse or anything, are you?”
He smiled back. “Allow me to give you a tour of how the new closet is progressing. And then, how about a massage with that jasmine-scented oil to get those psychic muscles back into shape?”
“You give the term ‘home handyman’ a whole new meaning.” I put my drink up on the mantel. Maybe later. I glanced at Scruffy. Having scanned the neighborhood and discovered no imminent danger, he’d settled himself into a deep-napping position, even his ears perfectly relaxed.
We tiptoed away to the bedroom.
Early on the evening of December twenty-second, we five held our Yule ritual. With her athame, Heather cast the circle of sacred space where we would work between the worlds. We began with the formal burning of the festive Yule log lit from last year’s saved, blackened wood, encouraging the birth of the sun. Wearing sprigs of holly and ivy for protection, we performed a ceremony to guard us from the poison of evil. For prosperity and all good things in the year ahead, we lit bayberry candles and placed bundles of corn under the amazing tall fir tree, which was decorated with apples wrapped in gold and silver paper and bird ornaments as a symbol of spring. We invoked enlightenment for ourselves and those we loved.
Then the others arrived, and we began the merry part of the evening, the anniversary gathering.
“Some handfastings are only meant to last a year. The couple then decide whether they want to renew for another twelve months.” Phillipa lifted her glass of champagne to Joe and me, the anniversary celebrants. Heather’s Victorian living room was gloriously fragrant with evergreens and garlanded with holly and mistletoe. Strains of medieval music floated in from the front parlor where The Greensleeves Strollers were evoking a medieval mood.
Stone came over to stand by Phillipa’s side, a tall, gentle man still obviously beguiled by his mercurial wife. She took his hand, and all her sharp features softened in the light of her smile. “We, of course, got married by a rabbi to mollify my family. Canopy and all. Haute traditional. ‘To rejoice together forever,’ forever being the operative word. Seeing you two now, looking as if you’re still honeymooning, I don’t suppose your handfasting included that traditional escape clause either?”
At that moment, I felt suffused with love and jo
y. Surrounded by my nearest and dearest, I was beaming so much sunshine it was difficult to speak—despite that nagging little concern about Adam and Freddie’s future together.
“Traditional escape clause is the Wiccan way? Not!” Freddie declared. “When Adam and I get handfasted, I’m opting for the forever-and-a-day ceremony.”
Was she looking a trifle less punkish, more mature? Instead of gelled peaks, her new haircut was practically a buzz cut, but it suited her in a subtle way. Her neck had taken on a graceful Nefertiti look, perhaps reinforced by the shimmering Isis earrings. Even my Becky, the traditionalist among my children, had nodded her approval and taken Freddie right into her arms when the couple arrived in Adam’s Lexus.
Now my Adam was gazing at Freddie as if she were the incarnation of the Goddess herself, watching her mouth move as she spoke, waiting for the prophecy of his future to emerge. Was it Freddie’s spells and potions finally kicking in, or some greater magic at work? Perhaps it was written in the Goddess’s grimoire that these two should merge their considerable genetic gifts. For a moment I got rather dizzy imaging a baby waiting to be born, a child I could see in my mind’s eye, but then Fiona’s deep chuckle brought me back.
“Never fret, pet,” Fiona assured Freddie. “When I tie the handfasting knot, it’s in the realm of unending spirit, and may never be undone.”
“Now you tell me,” I said. “We had the Reverend Peacedale to make our marriage legal for a lifetime, never knowing that Fiona was tying us up for all eternity.”
“Eternity is not too long,” Joe whispered in my ear and refilled my glass. His fingers trailed across the back of my neck where my sage velvet dress scooped low. But then his cell phone rang, and he went off into a quiet corner to answer. Bummer, I thought. I suppose Greenpeace will be sending him to some tropical clime while I’m abandoned here in New England to freeze my ass in January.
Ladies Courting Trouble Page 16