Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

We all looked at Fiona, who was now whispering in Zelda’s ear.

  “Sometimes I do think this kitty has the makings of a true familiar.”

  “Bind and banish, Fiona?” Phillipa brought Fiona back to the matter at hand.

  Fiona looked up from stroking Zelda. “Do you remember the psychic wall we built between us and Quicksall? It was your spell, Phil, as I recall.”

  “Yes. And Q ran into an actual brick wall,” I said. “I’m not prepared to go that far, I have to admit it. Always supposing it was our spell that caused the accident.”

  “All right, then, what about simple misdirection, throwing him off track? And protecting ourselves, of course,” Deidre suggested.

  “Water,” said Fiona. “He will be thrown off the track if we cross water and leave him on the other side. Figuratively. From the microcosm to the macrocosm.”

  “Saturday. Esbat of the Wolf Moon. Rituals for protection of our homes are traditional. The perfect time,” I said. “I’ll gather together the herbs we’ll need—anise and mistletoe—there’s plenty of that still hanging around in Heather’s house.”

  “Amber amulets,” Deidre said. “I’ll make those.”

  “Let’s meet at my house, before dark this time,” I suggested. “Weather permitting, we can cross that little brook that runs through Jenkins Park for the ‘crossing water’ spell. Then we’ll go back for our regular ceremony of the full moon. I’ll want to include Patty and Wyn in our circle of protection. Evidently the boy’s caught on to our sniffing around and is having a little evil fun with us, but his real target must be Wyn. With Wyn out of the way, Lee’s mother will inherit a third of the Craig millions. It could be a whole new life for Lee—expensive private school, Ivy League college, or maybe acting lessons at some exclusive New York school.”

  “I don’t suppose you could get the Peacedales to wear amber?” Deidre asked “What if I paste an amber bead in the center of a cross…?”

  “If Lee took the trouble to Google us—and he probably did,” Phillipa said, “all those Pilgrim Times news items about our amateur crime-solving would have popped up, including my personal favorite, ‘Local Witches Hex Sex Killer.’”

  “Well, as you’ve learned to your chagrin, Phil,” I said, “he has plenty of computer expertise, including the art of hacking. And I think I’ve ‘seen’ his elaborate system, possibly at his grandmother’s house.”

  “Yeah? You mean the setup by which that miserable kid crashed my computer files? Great Goddess, I wish Freddie were here to give her virus whammy to his computer, however she does that,” Phillipa said.

  “After all the time and trouble I’ve taken to teach that girl control and set her on the white way?” I protested.

  “Oh, I meant to say…speaking of the grandmother’s house, I got what you wanted from Stone, Cass.” Phillipa smiled smugly. “There is one living grandparent, Bianca Deluca. Her house is on Summer Street, not far from the Duluca Gallery. Maybe you’d like to psyche it out before the Esbat. Not with me, though. Stone would have a bird.”

  “I’ll go,” Heather said. “I’m getting to enjoy these field trips with Cass.”

  “I wonder if it would occur to Lee that Jean Craig’s share would be larger if the two nephews also were out of the picture?” Phillipa said.

  “I don’t think there’s much that boy misses,” I said.

  Tip’s father was in the hospital again. “Really bad, the old liver sickness,” Tip said when he called. At such a worried time, I didn’t want to ask him to look for signs of an intruder around my house, but it turned out he wanted to stop by anyway with a Christmas gift he’d made for me. Mine to him had been an official “Mountie” red and black winter jacket from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police store, and he’d been delighted with it.

  Splendid in the new jacket, he knocked on my door that afternoon and was suitably greeted by Scruffy, all jumps and licks. His hair, dark brown and shining with russet highlights, was pulled back into a macho ponytail with a red bandana headband. His grin was irrepressible but didn’t quite dispel the sadness in his gray eyes as he held out a long white box. I opened it to find a polished wooden flute in the form of an elongated woodpecker, with open beak and a red splash on top of its head. Jaunty red feathers decorated each end. Tucked in the box was a story, “The Sioux Legend of the First Flute.”

  “It’s so beautiful.” I was too near tears to say more, but managed to hug Tip’s thin shoulders and plant a grateful kiss on his cheek. “And you made this? It’s really a work of art.”

  “But mostly it’s for the music.” Tip took the flute from my hands, put his mouth on the mouthpiece, his fingers on the holes. A lovely, ghostlike tune emerged from the bird. Scruffy’s ears perked up. He threw back his head and tried an experimental howl.

  “Hey, old fella—that’s a pretty good accompaniment,” Tip said, laughing.

  Scruffy dashed around the kitchen and soon produced his orange ball; Tip offered to take him outside for a few minutes. So I had to explain that although it was almost impossible with a dog who had his own pet door, I was trying to protect the “scene” so that Tip could have a look at it. I related the tale of Scruffy’s alarm in the night, followed by an unaccountably icy step the next morning. Tip said he’d look, but he imagined the signs had been pawed to death.

  After hurling the ball a good long way to occupy Scruffy, Tip set off to track in his halting, jerky, circular way, nose to the ground literally at times, searching for the beginnings of a trail. When Scruffy came dashing back with the ball, I clipped the leash on his collar.

  Hey, you’re ruining all the fun.

  “We’re working now, Scruff, tracking that intruder.”

  You should have asked me, Toots. Superior canine tracking skills at your service.

  It was not until he got almost to the pines that I heard Tip give a high-pitched, Indian-style war whoop. I’d been afraid to move off the stairs, but now Scruffy and I hurried to where Tip was scrutinizing the needle-cushioned earth under the pines by the main road.

  “See this?” Tip’s voice was as excited as he ever allowed it to be. “Footprint. Small boot, like before. I bet if we go up to the road, we’ll find that same Volkswagen track. And here…”

  “What? What?”

  “A bucket. Ice slush, I bet. She needed something that would stick and freeze fast.”

  “He,” I said.

  “He? Do you know who?”

  “Will you keep this to yourself?”

  “Hey, Mz. Shipton…don’t you know the traditions of my race? Silent Injun?”

  “I’m seeing a boy. I’m thinking it’s Leonardo Deluca.”

  “Deluca? No shit.”

  “Tip!”

  “Oh, sorry. I know Deluca. That is, at track meets, I’d come up against him on the Assumption team.”

  “And?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. Someone from Assumption dumped something in our water bucket that took out half our team.”

  “Did you ever find out who…and what?”

  “Nope. Lee kicked the bucket, so to speak. So much for the evidence. Me, though, I’d stuck to my own bottle of Injun Juice, so I was okay.”

  “Good for you. But what exactly is that?”

  “I dunno. Paw mixed it up for me, but I think he started with cold herb tea, honey, lemon. Maybe some salt.”

  “So you figure Lee disposed of the evidence?”

  “Yeah. Fast kid, though. His team might have won legit. So you’re saying he’s poisoning folks now?”

  “Still,” I said. “I met Lee once for a moment, but I’d like to have a closer look. Maybe you can help me. Do you know him well enough to stop by for a chat?”

  Tip made a face. “Hey, whenever I’m home now, I avoid the kid. But in this case, you’re sleuthing, right?”

  “Right. Let’s go. I have a feeling we’ll find Lee at the gallery if we hurry.” Actually, I could see him in my mind’s eye, packing some things into a book bag in his room. May
be, maybe…

  By the time Tip, Scruffy, and I got to the gallery, I had concocted my story. I was looking for a match for Syllabub. “I thought two jugs would be nicer, one to grace each end of my mantelpiece,” I explained.

  Jean, who was dusting the pots, looked at me skeptically, though her little pasted-on smile remained in place. Perhaps I’m not the most convincing of liars.

  But when Tip said, “Hey, Ms. Deluca, is Lee around? Like to say hi. We used to see each other at the track meets,” the doubting look was replaced by a pleased smile that went all the way to her eyes this time.

  “Oh, yes, he’s upstairs studying. I’ll call him. Tip, did you say your name was?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but Lee liked to call me TeePee. Tell him TeePee.”

  Jean picked up her cell phone and punched a single digit. I raised my eyebrows at Tip. He shrugged. “Sticks and stones…” he whispered.

  “Lee, honey, there’s a guy down here wants to say hello.” There was a pause. “He says you’ll know him by TeePee.” Another pause. “Sure, sugar. I’ll tell him.”

  “Lee’s on his way,” Jean said, still delighted. I wondered if Lee had many friends.

  A moment later, the boy himself was in front of us, a bottle of Coke in each hand. A beautiful lad, probably quite small for his age, but well-sinewed in a graceful, softly curved way. A mop of dark curls, luminous brown eyes, and a heartbreakingly sweet smile. He reminded me, somehow, of Donatello’s David.

  “TeePee!” he said, accenting the second syllable a fraction, just this side of insult.

  “Hey, Lee. How’s it going? My friend here, Mz. Shipton, is shopping for a jug, so I tagged along to give you a shout.”

  “That so? No hard feelings, then?”

  “About what?”

  “About getting your ass whipped in track.”

  “Oh, Lee,” Jean protested while she showed me several jugs that might be suitable companions to Syllabub. Cute little buggers, I had to admit. Most of my attention, however, was focused on the two boys, as was Jean’s.

  Lee mentioned some casual gossip about kids they both knew, but Tip didn’t respond much to that, just listened and grinned. Then Tip changed the subject, talking about the hiking club at Wiscasset High and the track meets—was Lee still into the drama club? Lee said he was disgusted with the Assumption theater program, that he was going out for track again in the spring.

  As Tip leaned against the wall, drinking his Coke, Lee eyed him up and down, measuring, I thought, the difference in their height. This year had brought a sudden spurt of growth to Tip that might not have been so obvious when the boys had competed in the same track tournaments. Tip mentioned being in the school band in Wiscasset. Lee looked down at his shoes—rather expensive trainers—not quite hiding a mocking version of his mother’s smile. Then he looked up again and poured on the charm. They began chatting about hockey teams and movies they liked as if they were old friends.

  “Hey, Lee. What about the Plymouth Players? Ever think of trying out for one of their plays?” Tip suggested.

  “Yeah, if I didn’t mind getting stuck with juvenile parts. I tried that. Bunch of old pussies.”

  “Lee!” his mother said sharply. “Do watch your language, dear.”

  I paid for my purchase, a fat little elf named Posset, and Jean began to wrap up the jug in green tissue. All the while I was thinking, What excuse can I find to grasp Lee’s hand?

  Chance favors the prepared witch.

  As I turned from the counter with my wrapped and bagged elf in hand, I tripped over a stack of frames. The bag flew up, the package fell out, and by some miracle was caught in midair by Jean. Both Tip and Lee reached out to steady me—I marveled at their quick reflexes. But at the last instant, I twisted my body so that most of my weight fell against Lee’s arm. At the same time, I grasped his hand.

  Instantly, I was overwhelmed with the sweet fragrance of vanilla and the fetid odor of hemlock. If these were not real scents, I was experiencing a psychic phenomenon. But I wanted more. I might never get this opportunity again. Leaning on Lee, I looked straight into his eyes.

  Talk about weird. Such a gorgeous face, but Lee’s long-lashed dark eyes could only be described as soulless. Generally when I make eye contact like that, I get a sense of that person’s spirit, but this was like gazing into a cavernous emptiness. I was reminded of those sci-fi films in which some horrid alien takes a disarming human form but then is unmasked in the last reel. Shades of the changeling. Then I thought of handsome, ageless Dorian Grey, and of the portrait in the attic that showed his true hideousness.

  As if he read my thoughts, Lee gave me one quick, malevolent glance before tearing away his arm. I almost fell to the floor, but I caught the counter’s edge and righted myself, with Tip leaning over me anxiously. “Hey, Mz. Shipton—are you okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, but that wasn’t true. I was shaken from a glimpse into the mind of what might be a young Ted Bundy or Charles Manson. I took my rescued Posset in one hand, Tip by the other, and fled the scene.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I said. Now I’m sure. I’ve looked into Leonardo Deluca’s eyes, and I know who he is. Or maybe I should say, what he is.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s do it,” Phillipa declared.

  We’d gathered early for the Esbat of the Wolf Moon, a moon we’d be fortunate to see if the prevailing cloud cover persisted into the night. But for now we had the pearl gray light of a winter afternoon. The air was very still; the temperature hovered just below freezing. The smell and feel of snow were in the air. Nevertheless, we bundled up and trudged out to the little brook that ran through Jenkins Park. Fiona, wrapped in a MacDonald tartan cape with an enormous hood, and lugging her green reticule, huffed and puffed with every step. But when we arrived at the brook, she drew herself up in her wisewoman glamour and took full charge of the ceremony.

  The misdirection spell Fiona had unearthed from a dark, moldering Book of Shadows (oddly come to light in a box of books donated to the library sale) required us to leap over water, so we searched for the brook’s narrowest place. We found that the brook thinned near the old cranberry bog hut that Tip had once used for his hideout. Still, the banks on each side were high, and jumping over it would be a tricky maneuver.

  Fiona had brought a grainy newspaper photograph, printed off the Internet, of Lee starring in last year’s drama club production of Guys and Dolls. Taking a card of thumbtacks out of her reticule, she attached the likeness to a tree. Then she threw her arms into the air and sang out a rhyming spell at the top of her voice. I looked around uneasily. Her chant would carry far in this cold, quiet air.

  Water before me,

  Evil behind me,

  I leap to a place

  Where harm cannot find me.

  “You should have just let me make a poppet!” Deidre whispered, her eyes sparkling with laughter. Wearing her peaked red hood, she looked like a mischievous ten-year-old.

  “Hush,” I whispered back. “You know you wouldn’t want to do anything voodooish and hurtful. Especially not to a youngster.”

  Then we were all watching Fiona with astonishment. Holding her cloak close in one hand, she sailed over the brook as if she had wings on her heels. “There we are,” she said with a pleased smile. “You go, girls.”

  “Wow!” Deidre said.

  “What happened to that crippling arthritis she had last year?” Phillipa said.

  “Maybe our healing magic worked,” I said. “Or maybe it was that Navaho blessing with sand paintings and corn pollen.”

  “Or maybe a little sex on the side with Mick Finn,” Phillipa murmured. “Always a great joint lubricator.”

  “I don’t think their friendship has progressed that far,” Deidre replied in equally low tones. “Although there’s plenty of scuttle-butt around the firehouse.”

  Heather didn’t add her voice to our running commentary but simply followed Fiona, leaping easily in her own lithe way,
the Goddess Diana, always at home in the woods.

  That left us three, judging the distance somewhat hesitantly. An east wind stirred, pushing away the clouds. Occasional shafts of sunshine penetrated the woods like divine blessings. The little brook began to sparkle merrily—and possibly to laugh at us, as well.

  “Oh, what the hell,” Phillipa said, taking a running jump. She almost made it, but one foot slid relentlessly back toward the water. “Eeeeek,” she cried out. Instantly, Heather grabbed Phillipa’s black wool jacket and hauled her up onto the bank, a long scarlet scarf trailing behind her.

  “Want to hold hands?” Deidre said to me. “Jumping buddies?”

  “I wouldn’t want to drag you into the drink,” I confessed.

  “No, listen…it’s like in Peter Pan. ‘Think lovely, beautiful thoughts…’” And with a surprisingly strong little hand, Deidre had me running with her, jumping, landing with no grace but not in the freezing eddies of the brook, either.

  “Bravo!” Fiona clapped her hands. “Oh, golly, I do hope this works.”

  “Hey, Fiona, it’s got to work,” Phillipa said. “We actually managed to do this thing, with no little sacrifice to our dignity, so this is not the time to be a Doubting Thomasina.”

  “Must we jump that thing again to get back?” Deidre looked at the brook with dismay.

  Phillipa and I laughed. To her and me, Jenkins Park had become as familiar as our own backyards, the home of our personal wetlands and endangered eagles, so we knew how to hike back to my house without any additional feats of athletic prowess being necessary.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’m feeling good about this. Let’s sing.”

  As we shepherded our merry little band back to my house, the long way around the brook, we chanted, “All things come from the Goddess, and to her they will return….” The winter sun set, gilding the Atlantic with secondhand rays of rose and gold. Seagulls rose and fell, catching the last light on their wings.

  “There’s hope for the full moon, then,” Heather said. “Esbat of the Wolf.”

  We hurried inside to warm our freezing limbs and to begin our ceremony of house blessing and protection.