The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “Are you sure we haven’t met?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

  “Have you ever been to the library in Summerset?”

  Stephen’s laugh rang out. “I’ve been in lots of libraries, but not that one.”

  I cocked my head. “You visit libraries?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’m an author.”

  My mind scrambled while I tried to run through our list of authors. Stephen Larsen, Stephen Larsen—nope, the name didn’t mean anything to me.

  “Are you famous?” I blurted.

  A smile quivered at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know if you’d call it ‘famous.’ I write nonfiction under my real name, but horror under the pen name of M. J. LaSalle.”

  “Oh, my gosh.” My eyes widened in shock. “You’re M. J. LaSalle?”

  He nodded shyly.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t recognize you,” I exclaimed.

  “That’s okay. Most people don’t,” he said good-naturedly. “After all, who really pays attention to a picture on a dust jacket?”

  I thought of all the books I’d entered into our system over the years and their authors—John Grisham, Barry Eisler, J. A. Konrath, Charlaine Harris, Debbie Macomber—all had works very popular with our patrons. However, most readers had problems remembering the titles, let alone what the author looked like.

  “You’re right, not many, but your books fly off our shelves.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You own a bookstore?”

  “No, I’m the librarian in Summerset,” I explained with pride.

  “Ahh,” he said slowly, “that’s why you asked me if I visited libraries.”

  I gave my head a quick dip. “So what’s a New York Times best-selling author doing here in our little corner of Iowa?”

  Stephen’s eyes drifted over to a group of men standing by the arbor and talking to one of vineyard’s employees. His gaze held for an instant, and a shadow of a frown crossed his face. “Mind if we take a walk?” he asked without answering my question.

  Although confused by the sudden change in his expression, I fell into step next to him. “Umm, no, that would be great.”

  Just as long as we stay away from any field of wildflowers, I thought. What happens when I’m dreaming is one thing, but I didn’t intend to make those dreams a reality…not yet.

  We walked down the gravel drive away from the winery, away from the noise of the crowd and the sound of the music. As we strolled by past several residents of my small Iowa town, I noticed a couple of eyebrows lift in surprise.

  Peachy. By tomorrow morning it would be all over town that I was spotted at the fund-raiser with a strange man. I’d be fielding questions all day. Edna Simpson, with her false teeth sliding precariously around in her mouth, would want to know who Stephen was, where he lived, and what his line-age was, dating back to the Mayflower. I didn’t think anyone would recognize his picture from the back of his book cover. I certainly hadn’t.

  As we strolled, silence hung in the air, but it wasn’t strained. It felt comfortable, and there was a sense that if I did talk, Stephen would find what I said interesting.

  The feeling of having known him all my life settled around me.

  “I—”

  “You—”

  We both spoke at the same time.

  “Go ahead,” I said, laughing.

  “I’m trying to think of a way to say this.” He stopped, shoving both hands in his front pockets. “I have the strongest feeling that I know you.” A chagrined expression crossed his face. “Flaky, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I said with a slight shake of my head. “I was just thinking the same thing—that I feel like I’ve known you a long time.”

  “Wow, maybe I can read your mind,” he said with a chuckle.

  Oh God, I hope not, I thought, not meeting his eyes. In my experience, reading minds wasn’t all that much fun.

  He tilted his head and gave me a funny look. “Has this ever happened to you before?”

  “No.” I paused, thinking about all the strange things, due to my so-called gift, that I’d encountered. “No,” I repeated firmly.

  “Good, then we’re in this together,” he said, removing his hand from his pocket and taking mine.

  At his touch, a tingle shot up my arm, catching me off guard. Did he feel it, too? I gave him a slanted glance. No, no reaction at all.

  Stephen led me near the trees marking the boundary of the vineyard.

  Clearing my throat, I tried to make small talk. “You didn’t say why you’re in Iowa,” I said. “Why you’re here at the winery.”

  A shuttered expression flashed in his eyes. “I’ve been in eastern Iowa doing research, and I heard that someone I wanted to meet would be here.”

  “Research, huh?” I asked, trying to ignore how it felt to have his fingers wrapped around mine. “For a Stephen Larsen book, or an M. J. LaSalle?”

  “A Stephen Larsen.” He squeezed my hand and chuckled again. “It’s confusing—there are mornings I wake up and don’t know which persona I’ll be for the day.”

  “I never thought about that—I suppose it is. I’ve met authors before. When I lived in Iowa City, I attended events at Prairie Lights Bookstore, but I’ve never had a conversation with a writer.”

  “I hope I don’t disappoint you,” he replied with a wink. “Haven’t you had authors visit your library?”

  “No. Summerset’s not exactly on the book tour circuit.”

  “Personally, I enjoy libraries and meeting librarians.” His hand tightened. “Especially this librarian.”

  My hand in his, twitched. Is he flirting with me? Nervous, I changed the subject. “How long will you be in Iowa?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how the research goes; how much background information I dig up. From here, I’m headed to Texas.”

  I couldn’t make the connection between Iowa and Texas in my head. “You must be writing some story. What’s it about?”

  Stephen’s lips tightened, and I worried that I’d offended him.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—” I tensed and gave my hand a little tug.

  “It’s okay,” he broke in without releasing my hand. “I’m a little superstitious. I always think if I talk about a book too soon, it will somehow jinx it.”

  Relaxing, I smiled. “I wouldn’t want to do that. May I ask this…Where do you live?’

  Stephen laughed. “That’s a question I can answer. St. Louis. A condo near Laclede’s Landing.”

  “Laclede’s Landing?”

  “Yeah, it was named for the founder of St. Louis, Pierre Laclede, and it was where the fur trappers rendezvoused. Now the old warehouses are converted to businesses.”

  I heard the fondness in his voice as he talked of his home.

  “Sounds like you enjoy living there.”

  “I do. I love the energy at Laclede’s. There’s always something to do, blues festivals, live music, fine restaurants, bars.” He smiled. “For a writer, it’s a great place to people watch. And my assistant, Karen Burns, lives nearby, so that’s handy.”

  A weird little spark of jealousy ran through me at the mention of another woman in Stephen’s life.

  Jeez, Jensen, get a grip.

  “Do you discuss your writing with her?” My question came out on the snippy side, and Stephen gave me a funny look.

  “A little, mainly just the M. J. LaSalle manuscripts. Like I said, I don’t talk much about my work while I’m writing.”

  “It sounds like you have a very interesting life.”

  “It is…to me anyway,” he said with satisfaction. “What about you?”

  Hmm, good question. Was my life interesting? I was raising a teenage daughter, I had my job at the library, I had this psychic/witch thing going on. And there was my little habit of tripping over bodies. Yeah, I guess I could say my life was interesting, but I had no intention of explaining it to Stephen.

  “No, not really,” I lied, glancing
up to the sky. “Just your typical small-town life.”

  Looking back at Stephen, the grin on his face told me he didn’t believe me.

  “No, honest, it’s really pretty boring,” I protested.

  “It’s okay, Ophelia. Part of the fun of getting to know someone is learning their secrets,” he said, rubbing my bare arm with his other hand.

  Oh, buddy, you have no idea.

  Stephen took a step closer, and I felt pinned to the ground as I stared into his blue eyes. He placed a hand on my shoulder and drew me near. My mouth went dry and my eyelids drifted shut as his cool, soft lips brushed mine in the sweetest kiss I’d ever had in my life.

  Gentleness filled the kiss, and I felt my heart expand with a longing so sharp, it hurt.

  In an instant the kiss was over, and I found myself staring into his grinning face.

  “I think I might have to stay in Iowa longer than I planned.”

  I lowered my eyes and smiled. A smile that’s lit every woman’s face since the beginning of time. A smile that said she knows she’s wanted.

  From behind me a flock of crows suddenly filled the sky, their caws marring the moment. Turning, I frowned at their bad timing, as Stephen stepped around me, his eyes scanning the woods.

  Facing the trees, he called over his shoulder, “Something must have disturbed them.”

  “Probably a deer.” I made a move toward him. “The woods are full of them right now—”

  I jumped as a sharp crack echoed through the woods. It happened so quickly, only later would I recall that it was followed by the faint smell of sulfur.

  Stephen staggered, then pivoted toward me. A look of surprise mingled with horror registered on his face. He glanced down at his chest.

  My eyes followed his.

  Blood spread across his white shirt in a growing stain. He took one step and crumpled to the ground.

  I think I screamed—I know I screamed—as I rushed to where he lay faceup on the ground. Panic, fear, and disbelief fought inside of me. I knelt and laid my hand over his chest to stop the slow seep of blood. It leaked from between my fingers while I watched his face grow pasty white.

  “In my pocket…book…give to Karen.” He struggled to say the words.

  With one hand I reached in the pocket of his pants and withdrew a small book.

  I felt hot tears run down my cheeks and sobs clog my throat as hands lifted me up and away from Stephen’s still body.

  Shoving my bloody hands in my pockets, I watched while two men worked on Stephen—one tried to stanch the blood and the other performed mouth-to-mouth. I don’t know how long they labored over Stephen, seconds, minutes? Time had stopped.

  People appeared from nowhere, and I felt myself being crowded to the back of the group as everyone jockeyed for a view of the men fighting to save Stephen. In the distance the whirl of helicopter blades and the sound of sirens came closer and closer. The company parted suddenly.

  An ambulance, followed by a patrol car, pulled down the lane, the dust rolling in thick clouds behind them. Both vehicles skidded to a halt, and three EMTs in their blue jumpsuits flew out of the doors of the ambulance. A deputy exited the patrol car and motioned the crowd back. To my numb brain, he reminded me of someone trying to herd reluctant cattle.

  Craning my neck, I saw one of the EMTs rush over to Stephen, while the other two pulled equipment out of the back. Without delay, they joined their partner kneeling over Stephen. In fast, precise movements they cut the front of his shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing a small round hole to the left of his sternum. One EMT pressed down hard on the wound, while the other two inserted IVs in his arms and a tube down his throat.

  A hand on my arm spun me around.

  Abby.

  “Ophelia, are you all right?” Her words came out fast, and heavy with the sound of the South. A sure sign of how upset she was. “What happened?”

  Before I could answer, she threw her arms around me and embraced me tightly.

  “I’m not hurt,” I mumbled into her shoulder. “Someone shot Stephen, a man I just met.”

  She released her death grip on me and stepped back, her eyes scouring my face. Satisfied, she nodded once and turned her attention to the EMTs.

  We watched while they carefully placed a board under Stephen’s still body and, lifting slowly, moved him onto the gurney. Then, moving rapidly, they wheeled him toward the waiting ambulance. The EMT with his hand on the wound kept it in place as they moved him. Once the gurney was secured in the back, the doors were slammed shut and the ambulance peeled away, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

  Three

  I sat huddled on a chair in the dining room of the winery. Darci knelt in front of me with a wineglass in her hand, trying to get me to drink. From behind me, Abby stood making soft clucking sounds while she stroked my head.

  With a grimace, I turned my head away. “Water,” I croaked, my mouth dry and sour.

  Magically, the water appeared in her hand, and she pressed the rim to my lips.

  I drank eagerly in big gulps, but when the cold water hit my stomach, I felt it lurch. Shaking my head, I pushed the glass away.

  People gathered in tight little groups around the room, and their hushed voices penetrated my mind at some level, but I couldn’t comprehend their words. The sound was only a buzz in my brain as I stared off into nothingness.

  I shivered.

  “Would someone please get us a blanket?” Darci commanded.

  Feet scurried across the polished wood floor, and soon I felt soft wool being draped around me. On each side of me, Abby and Darci swiftly tucked the blanket about my shoulders and legs. My eyes felt gunky and swollen, my face gritty with dried tears.

  “When you meet your true love, he’s not supposed to be shot, is he?” I asked Darci in a bleak voice.

  Abby threw a glance Darci’s way. “What’s she talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Darci replied, running a trembling hand through her blond hair. “I’ll explain later.”

  The sound of boot heels crossing the floor drew our attention as a big man strode into the room, his hat pulled low on his forehead. Pausing, he removed it and wiped his shiny bald head with a large hand. He spotted me and his lips thinned. With a shake of his head, he continued toward us.

  Sheriff Bill Wilson—I should’ve known he’d be there. I struggled to stand up. “Stephen?” I asked him.

  “Sit down, Ophelia,” Bill’s booming voice called out as he marched up to me. He grabbed a chair and moved it close to mine. “He’s hanging in there,” he said quietly. “He survived the chopper ride to Regional Medical Center and he’s in surgery now.” Bill stopped and studied me intently. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know…we were walking down the path…we stopped…I heard a sharp crack…Stephen staggered.” I clutched my hands in my lap. “I couldn’t stop the blood, Bill…I—”

  He patted my shoulder, and I clamped my jaw shut. “Right before you heard the shot, did you see anything, hear anything?”

  “Crows…” I hesitated. “A flock of crows from behind me…in the woods…suddenly took flight. Stephen stepped around me, toward the trees. That’s when I heard the shot.”

  “Hmm, so Larsen was standing in front of you, looking at the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Bill scratched his chin while he chewed on his lip. “How long have you known Mr. Larsen?”

  “I just met him today.”

  “Did he appear scared, nervous, worried?”

  “No.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing. He told me he was an author, lived in St. Louis, there were wildflowers—no wait—no wildflowers.” Lifting a hand, I rubbed my temples. Everything was jumbled in my mind and I couldn’t seem to separate dreams from reality.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Bill,” Abby said from behind me. “She’s in shock. We need to get her home.”

  “Just a couple more que
stions. Ophelia, do you—”

  “Those questions can wait until tomorrow,” Abby broke in, her voice stern. “We’re leaving now.”

  She reached down and grasped my upper arm, gently pulling me to my feet. Bill rose at the same time.

  No, I needed answers—I tugged my arm from Abby’s grasp. “Do you know what happened, Bill?”

  “No, it’s too early in the investigation,” he said, twirling his hat in his hands. “We don’t even know if the shooting was intentional. There’s a chance some hunter’s shot went wild.”

  “Either way, Stephen’s fighting for his life, isn’t he?” I scanned his face, hoping to find some reassurance that Stephen would live.

  Bill bowed his head and stared at a spot on the floor without answering.

  “I should’ve seen this coming,” I said, stricken. “I should’ve been able to stop this.”

  Raising his eyes, he squirmed uncomfortably and rubbed his bald head. “I’m only concerned with the facts right now, Ophelia,” he replied in a low voice. “We’ll talk about your ‘impressions’ later.”

  Once home, Darci hustled me upstairs while Abby made her remedy for all crises—tea. Darci led me to the bathroom and gently shoved me down onto the vanity chair. With care, she wiped Stephen’s blood from my hands with a warm washcloth. Doesn’t she know the stain will never go away? I thought numbly.

  ‘ “Out, out damn spot,’” I mumbled in a low voice.

  “What?” Darci eyed me with concern.

  “Lady Macbeth.” I paused. “Never mind, I’m talking crazy.”

  “I agree with Abby. You’re in shock.” She tossed the washcloth in the trash and helped me to my feet. “Do you need help changing?” she asked, handing me a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants.

  “No,” I answered in a small voice.

  She left the room, and I quickly stripped off the navy dress. I rolled it into a tight ball and it followed the washcloth into the trash. I never wanted to see it again. Shivering in spite of the heat, I threw on the clothes Darci had given me and tottered into the hallway where she stood waiting.

  With a hand on my elbow, she steered me into my bedroom, toward the bed. Flipping back the covers, she settled me onto the bed and piled the blankets on top of me.