The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  I snickered at the thought.

  With a sigh, I tried to put the images out of my mind. I had enough to think about in this time period, instead of worrying about a silly dream of a time long dead. As the pictures in my head faded, I felt a band of anxiety squeeze my chest, and with it came the same feeling that I’d described to Darci earlier. The sense that there was something I needed to do, but couldn’t remember what it was.

  Could the runes Abby had given me help? The glyphs acted as my guideposts and brought clarity to my thoughts, giving me some sense of what my visions might mean. But the dream hadn’t been a vision, and my mind was too jumbled to attempt using the runes tonight. Shaking my head in frustration, I thrust the dream away. I needed to focus on reality. To think about that day and the events leading up to the shooting.

  Bill had asked me if anything in Stephen’s demeanor seemed odd. No. We’d walked down the lane talking. The conversation was normal for two people meeting for the first time. We stopped, then Stephen kissed me. I was facing away from the woods, so I couldn’t see if there’d been any movement in the trees. Stephen stepped around me when we heard the crows.

  My face twisted at my next memory—the crack of gunfire and the smell of sulfur, the expression on Stephen’s face, how he had staggered and fallen, his last words.

  I slapped my forehead and sprang to my feet startling Lady. Jensen, you’re an idiot. The book.

  I rushed to the back door, opened it softly and crept into my now dark and quiet house. Not wanting to alert Abby, I snuck upstairs and into the bathroom with Lady at my heels. Seeing the dress lying on top of the trash, I reached down and with two fingers lifted it out of the trash. Dark streaks, almost black, where I’d swiped my bloody hands, marred the navy material. My stomach clenched at the sight.

  At my side, Lady sniffed the air, took two steps back and gave a low whimper.

  “I know…you don’t like the dress either,” I whispered.

  At the sound of my voice, she plunked down on the floor and stared up at me.

  With hesitation, I stuck my hand in the deep pocket and rummaged around until my fingers found the smooth leather cover. Grasping the book, I pulled it out. Bloody fingerprints etched the cover.

  Dropping the dress back into the trash, I stared at the book in my hand. My common sense told me that I should turn it over to Bill, but a little voice inside my head asked a question.

  What’s in this book?

  I forced myself to open it.

  It was a date book with appointments scrawled in large, loopy letters.

  I flipped through the pages and saw the phone numbers and addresses of his agent, editor, and Karen Burns, his assistant. Examining the dates, I noticed Stephen had been on a book tour for the last few weeks. He’d had signings at Cornerstone Books in Salem, Massachusetts; Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pennsylvania, last month; Booked for Murder in Madison, Wisconsin, and Once Upon a Crime in Minneapolis, last week; and The Bookworm in Bellevue, Iowa, just prior to coming to Summerset.

  He hadn’t said anything about a book tour. He said he was conducting research for the next Stephen Larsen book and that his next stop was Texas.

  I read his entries for the month of September. He had signings listed for I Love a Mystery in Mission, Kansas; Main Street Books in St. Charles, Missouri; Big Sleep Books in St. Louis, and Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego, California. I flipped forward to October, but only found an entry for an appearance at The Women’s Expo in Kingsport, Tennessee. Nothing about a stop in Texas. Turning back, I looked at the date listing The Bookworm. Next to it was a phone number with a 515 area code. I knew that was for central not eastern Iowa, where The Bookworm was located.

  Turning the page, I noticed that last Friday, just two days ago, Stephen had written Vargas and a phone number next to the date. He’d circled it twice.

  Vargas? Vargas? We had a Vargas family living in Summerset, and the phone number was a local one. A coincidence? No, it had to be the same family. I’d seen Mr. Vargas on the street with his wife and daughter, and knew that he worked at the winery, along with many other Latinos in the area. Stephen said he’d heard there was someone at the fund-raiser whom he wanted to meet. His entry indicated that the meeting must have been with Vargas.

  It didn’t make sense. Stephen had been in eastern Iowa. How would he have known of the Vargas family? And why did he want to talk with them? As far as I knew, they were a quiet family, staying mostly to themselves. I knew their little girl, Evita. She came to the library a couple of days a week, after school, but the only time I ever ran into her mother, Deloris, was when she picked up Evita.

  A smile played at the corner of my mouth. Evita was a real sweetheart. About ten years old, with black ringlets floating around her shoulders, she was bright, inquisitive, an avid reader, and for some reason, attached herself to me whenever she came to the library. The reason could’ve been the candy jar we kept at the counter to encourage children to return books. Every time they returned their books, they received a piece. But Evita? I always slipped her two pieces. For whatever reason, her brown eyes sparkled as she followed me around, asking questions and munching her candy. Already she was reading way above her age level.

  Her mother didn’t share Evita’s friendliness. She seemed very shy and never engaged in conversation when she picked up Evita. She did adore her daughter, though. Her face lit up at the sight of her bopping around the library. The greeting was always the same. Evita would fly into her mother’s arms, rattling off words in rapid Spanish, Deloris would laugh and enfold her in a big hug, and then with a nod and a small smile at me, the two would leave the library hand in hand.

  They appeared to be a happy family, and I couldn’t imagine why Stephen would be interested in them.

  I glanced at Lady still lying on the floor watching me. “Well, girl. One way to find out—I’ll call Mrs. Vargas, then Karen Burns. Maybe she knows why Stephen wanted to talk with the Vargases. Never hurts to ask questions, right?”

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped at the sound of Abby’s voice coming from the door way of my home office. With a hand to my chest, I glanced over my shoulder. “Jeez, Abby, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” she replied, crossing to where I sat at my desk.

  I tugged my linen jacket on with one hand fiddling with the clip holding back my hair with the other hand. “I thought I’d catch up on a few things before work,” I said, my eyes darting to the scanner holding Stephen’s date book. I knew I had to turn the book over to Bill, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t copy it first.

  Abby leaned against the corner of the desk, crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think going to the library is wise?”

  “Yes,” I answered, trying to sound confident. “Work is the best thing for me now. I don’t need to be there until noon, so I’m going to the hospital first.”

  Her expression softened as she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Of course you want to see him.” She lifted her hand and smoothed my hair. “I’m worried about you—yesterday was a shock.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not the one who was shot. Stephen is the one hurt.”

  Abby released a long sigh. “I’m concerned about him, too, but you’re my granddaughter—you’re my primary concern. You might’ve been hurt.”

  Standing, I gave her a quick squeeze. “But I wasn’t, and now I need to know why him.”

  A look of surprise flickered on Abby’s face. “This isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you willing to get involved in a situation like this.”

  A wry smile played at my lips as I thought of my words to Darci. “Maybe I’m trying to change.”

  Returning my smile, Abby patted the side of my face. “Not too much, I hope,” she said. “I rather like you just the way you are.”

  Six

  I slipped my car into a parking space at Regional Medical Center and quickly opened the door. The hot morning ai
r poured into the cool interior, and the sudden brightness had me shading my eyes. Only 10:00 a.m. and already heat shimmered in waves off the concrete lot. Grabbing my purse, I settled my sunglasses on my face and exited the car. I walked with purposeful steps past the heliport where the helicopter that had transported Stephen sat waiting for the next emergency. A couple of women dressed in navy scrubs milled around the emergency room entrance, while at the main entrance a car waited for a man who was being wheeled out the doors by a nurse.

  I slowed my steps and tightened my grip on my purse as an unpleasant thought crossed my mind. What would Bill say when I told him about Stephen’s date book? Could he arrest me for withholding evidence?

  Entering the revolving doors, I shook my head to chase the thought away—Bill always threatened to arrest me. As I entered the hospital lobby, the smell of carnations, roses, and lilies from the gift shop near the information desk assaulted me.

  Behind the desk sat a woman manning the phones. A wide gold bracelet winked in the artificial light as she picked up the receiver and lifted it to her ear. I heard her answer the caller in a crisp, polite tone. Walking up to the desk, I waited while the woman efficiently pressed buttons, transferring the call to the correct room.

  “May I help you?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “I’m here to see Stephen Larsen, please,” I replied.

  She ran a finger down the patient list and stopped. A frown wrinkled her brow. “Are you a family member?”

  “Ah…” I hesitated for an instant while I debated about telling a lie, but since I’ve always been a rotten liar, I said, “No.”

  “Mr. Larsen is in the Cardiac Surgery Intensive Care Unit and only family members are allowed.”

  “I’m Ophelia Jensen and Stephen is a friend. May I speak with his doctors, then?” I pleaded.

  Her face softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, but that’s not allowed either.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder and continued in a hushed voice. “We’ve had a lot of reporters asking questions.”

  “I understand, but could you at least tell me how he’s doing?” I asked, giving it one more shot.

  “All I can say is, at this time he’s in critical but stable condition.” She sounded as if she were delivering a canned statement.

  My forehead wrinkled. “That’s it?”

  “I’m sorry,” she answered with a nod.

  Defeated, I spun on my heel and walked out the doors into the bright sunshine. Hoisting my shoulder strap higher, I paused and shoved my hands in my pocket. Dang, dang, dang! I’d really wanted to see Stephen for myself, but the guardians at the gate weren’t going to let me. With the toe of my loafer, I nudged a small piece of gravel and pondered my next move. You don’t have one, Jensen. Pursing my lips, I blew out a long breath and took a half step forward.

  “Wait,” someone called from behind me.

  Turning, I saw a man dressed in a tan suit, with navy shirt and striped tie, running down the sidewalk toward me.

  “Did you say you’re a friend of Stephen Larsen’s?” he asked.

  Caught off-guard, I stuttered, “Yes.”

  The man came closer. “Did I hear you say you’re Ophelia Jensen?”

  Suspicious now, I eyed him cautiously. “Yes.”

  “Weren’t you with him during the shooting?”

  I shaded my eyes against the bright sun and looked over the man’s shoulder. Right behind him stood a technician holding a video camera.

  Crap, a reporter!

  I stepped to the side in an effort to go around him. “No comment.”

  His steps mirrored mine and he blocked me. “What do you think happened? Was it an accident or attempted murder?”

  “No comment,” I replied, trying again to dodge him.

  “Did Larsen say anything at the time of the shooting?”

  His question stopped me, and I clutched my purse containing Stephen’s date book tightly to my side as a light from the camera hit me in the eyes.

  “Ah, ah, no,” I stammered.

  The reporter moved in and stuck a mike in my face. “How long have you known Larsen? What was he doing in Iowa?” he asked, firing off the questions.

  “That’s enough,” a rough voice boomed from next to me as a hand grabbed my arm and began hustling me back toward the hospital.

  “She said ‘no comment,’” Bill called back to the reporter.

  Once inside the building, he marched me past the woman at the desk. With a surprised look on her face, she watched Bill escort me down a hallway.

  “I figured you’d show up this morning,” he muttered as we made a left at the end of the hall.

  “They won’t let me see Stephen,” I said, rushing to keep my steps even with Bill’s. “The lady at the desk said he’s critical but stable.”

  I felt Bill’s hand on my arm tense.

  “The bullet hit Larsen in the heart—”

  My steps faltered. “The heart? How did he—”

  “Live?” Bill finished the sentence for me. “The bullet didn’t rip the heart, but acted like a plug and prevented him from bleeding to death.” With a tug, we continued down the hallway.

  “The surgeon repaired the hole, but during the surgery, Larsen aspirated fluid into his lungs, so now they’re worried about pneumonia.”

  “Are you going to let me see him?” I asked.

  His eyes darted my way. “You got two minutes, then you’re going to answer some questions.”

  Oh, goody.

  With a punch of his meaty hand, Bill hit the large button next to a double door and it whished open. Feelings of pain and suffering rushed out at me. I pulled back.

  Dang—I’d been so focused on seeing Stephen that I hadn’t thought about what it would be like visiting an intensive care unit. I hadn’t taken the time to guard my senses, and they were now on full alert.

  Bill gave me a puzzled look, but I ignored him and shut my eyes. Lowering my head, I envisioned a white shield surrounding me, a bubble of light that nothing could penetrate. When I felt it strengthen and hold, I opened my eyes and joined him.

  Industrial carpeting led to a circular nurse’s station complete with monitors and computers. The individual rooms all had double glass doors, and were positioned in a horseshoe shape around the station, so while sitting there one could observe all the patients.

  I waited nervously while Bill approached a woman near the nurses’ station, wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard. Jerking his head in my direction, they spoke softly for a couple of minutes. With a nod, he pivoted and came back to me.

  “This way,” he said, taking my arm and leading me to Stephen’s cubicle.

  Although I trusted my shield to block the sensations eddying through the unit, I still kept my head down as we walked past the rooms. I didn’t want to risk it wavering. We stopped in front of a glass door. I raised my head.

  Stephen lay like a marble statue atop a bed surrounded by medical equipment. Numerous wires and tubes led from the equipment to his still form. Standing in the doorway, I heard the soft whoosh of a pneumatic machine.

  I approached the bed and pointed to the machine with a tube leading to Stephen’s mouth. “What’s that?” I asked

  “A respirator. And the doctors have him highly medicated. They want him to stay as still as possible. No thrashing around.”

  As I asked my next question, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. “Will he make it?”

  Bill shifted uncomfortably. “You know how doctors are…noncommittal. He’s made it this far.”

  Stephen looked so alone and defenseless—his only company the machines, the only sound the whoosh of the respirator and the rhythmic beep of the monitors. Laying my hand on his arm, the tears gathered in my eyes and slid down my cheeks. With trembling fingers I flicked them away.

  “Does he have any family?” I asked in a thick voice.

  “We managed to track down his agent today. He said Larsen’s mother is in France right now on a to
ur. He’s trying to reach her. He also gave us the name of an assistant, Karen—”

  “Burns.” I finished his sentence. “Stephen mentioned her.”

  “Did he mention how to reach her? His agent gave us a number, but there’s no answer.”

  Thinking of the book in my purse with Karen’s number listed, I put a protective hand on the strap resting on my shoulder. “No,” I replied honestly. It was the truth—Stephen hadn’t given me her number or address—I’d found it. And no need to tell him I’d already tried the number and had the same result.

  “Come on,” Bill said, taking my arm again. “We have to leave now.”

  With a last glance over my shoulder, I allowed him to lead me from the room and down the hall to a door that said family. He motioned me inside.

  My legs suddenly weary, I sank gratefully down onto one of the love seats. Bill seated himself on a chair at a right angle to mine.

  “You seem calmer today, so I want to hear everything that happened from the moment you met Larsen,” he said without preamble as he removed a notebook from his pocket.

  With a sigh, I told the story again, more coherently this time, but leaving out the kiss. It had no bearing on Stephen’s shooting.

  “…I was trying to stop the blood seeping from the wound when Stephen asked me to take the book from his pocket—”

  “What book?” Bill exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

  “Ah, this one,” I replied as I removed the Baggie from my purse and handed it to him.

  He towered over me and his eyes drilled into mine. “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”

  “Um, I forgot all about it.” I squirmed against the back of the love seat. “With all the excitement…”

  Bill watched me with skepticism.

  “Honest…I was in shock…I stuck the book in my pocket when they pulled me away from Stephen and didn’t remember it until last night.”

  “Why didn’t you call me then?” he asked, settling down on the love seat.

  My teeth gripped my bottom lip for a second. “It was late?”