The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “They like watching Animal Planet, and Orangutan Island is their favorite show,” I replied defensively. “Where would you like to eat?”

  Abby tilted her head and studied me. “You look a little worn-out, dear. What about room ser vice?”

  “Hmm.” I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Hot food and the beverage of my choice delivered to my door? Requiring no effort on my part?” I gave her a cheeky grin. “Duh—yeah.”

  With a smile, Abby reached for the menu and skimmed it. “What would you like?”

  I walked to the closet, opened the door, and unzipped my suitcase. “Just a hamburger and fries would be good,” I said, kicking off my loafers, then pulling out my University of Iowa T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Entering the tiled bathroom, I stripped off my jeans and shirt while Abby placed our order.

  “What else did Arthur have to say?” I called out, making small talk as I wiggled into my T-shirt.

  “Not much. He mentioned the fund-raiser again,” she replied nonchalantly.

  I stuck my head out the bathroom door. “What fund-raiser?”

  “The one for Chuck Krause…at the winery.”

  “Monday night?” I asked, pulling on my sweatpants.

  “Yes.” I heard the disapproval in Abby’s voice. “I think it was in poor taste to hold it there after what happened the day before.”

  “Did Krause mention the shooting?”

  “Of course,” she commented sarcastically. “Arthur said he used it to segue into his policies on crime.”

  After folding my jeans and shirt, I combed my hair into a ponytail with my fingers and held it in place with a contraband scrunchie, one I’d saved from Darci’s purge. “Did you meet Krause Sunday?”

  “Briefly. Arthur was impressed with what Krause had to say about small business development, which is why he went to the fund-raiser.”

  Turning on the water, I washed my face. “Did Krause mention undocumented workers Monday night?” I called out over the running water.

  “Undocumented workers?”

  “Yeah, illegal immigrants.”

  “Arthur didn’t mention it. Why?”

  Turning off the water, I left the bathroom and joined Abby. I plopped on the bed, stretched out on my stomach and propped myself up on my elbows. “The other day on the phone, Claire went off on a tear about his policies. In her opinion, he’s way too conservative.”

  Abby gave her head a little shake. “Ahh, that’s Claire for you. It’s a difficult situation and passions run high on both sides.”

  “What do you think?” I asked, cupping my face with my hand.

  “I don’t know…” She paused. “These people are escaping deplorable conditions in their own countries with the hope of a better life here.” Her eyes traveled to the window and she stared at the lights of the city. “When I was a child, times were hard, but I never went to bed hungry, I never worried about death squads knocking on our door in the middle of the night. We had food and we were safe.” She sat back in the chair. “But to answer your question—I think this is a very complicated situation and that there are no easy answers.”

  Rolling onto my back, I scooted up in the bed and fluffed the pillows behind me. Leaning back, I twisted the hem of my T-shirt. “Abby, about this reincarnation? You really think I might have known Stephen in a past life?”

  My mind leapt ahead. What if she says yes, and what if Stephen wound up being the reincarnation of the colonel? In my dreams, the colonel was the only man Madeleine had a connection with so far. There was the missing lover, but he hadn’t popped up yet. Maybe Madeleine sold out and became Vogel’s mistress? Yuck. The thought gave me the creepy-crawlies.

  “The idea of reincarnation troubles you, doesn’t it?” Abby asked, noticing my expression.

  “Yeah…it does. It seems to me this lifetime is complicated enough without worrying about what happened in a past life.” I released the hem of my shirt.

  Abby crossed her legs and leaned forward. “But you see, some of the problems we have now have their roots in our past lives.” She sat back and steepled her fingers. “Maybe you and Stephen have some unfinished business that’s carried over into this life, and now’s the time to resolve it.”

  “Darci thinks he’s my soul mate and that’s why I’ve had the dreams.”

  “Maybe, or it could be, in the end, he’s not good for you and your challenge is to walk away from him in this lifetime. Something you might not have done in your last one.”

  Ugh, maybe Stephen was Vogel.

  I tapped the back of my head against the headboard. “This is frustrating. The dreams aren’t exactly forthcoming with a lot of information. How am I going to know what to do? How do I make sure I meet the challenge?”

  Abby rose and crossed the small space between the bed and the chair. Sitting next to me, she took my hand in both of hers. “I’m afraid it’s going to require something that’s always been hard for you—surrender control and trust that your gift will lead you to your answers.” Rubbing my hand, she looked thoughtful. “In the end, child, maybe that’s the real lesson.”

  Stretching, I lifted my arms over my head. I’d slept deeply that night, and for a second I didn’t remember where I was.

  Oh, yeah—St. Louis—tracking down Karen Burns.

  I felt rested—the dreams hadn’t troubled me last night. Could talking about them with Abby have ended them? Was it really that simple? That all I needed to do was trust myself and have faith? Wouldn’t that be a relief? I could concentrate on learning why Stephen had been shot.

  Throwing back the covers, I jumped out of bed. In the bathroom, I quickly showered, dressed, and threw on some makeup. Forty-five minutes later I stood knocking at Abby’s door, ready to hunt down Karen.

  “Ready?” I asked when Abby opened her door.

  She was dressed in tan linen slacks and a light tunic. A floral scarf was held in place around the neckline by one of her favorite brooches. Today, she wore her hair coiled in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She looked cool and elegant.

  I glanced down at my red knit top, jeans, and loafers. Next to her, I felt sloppy. Maybe I should pay more attention to Darci?

  “You look nice, dear,” Abby said, as if reading my mind. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

  I shifted my weight on one foot. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drive to Karen Burns’s apartment first. If we arrive early enough, we might catch her.”

  Digging out her keys, Abby closed the door and linked her arm with mine. “Whatever you want, dear. Let’s go.”

  Once in the car, Abby punched the address I’d given her for Karen’s apartment into the GPS, and we were on our way. A short time later we pulled into the parking lot of Karen’s apartment building, not far from Laclede’s Landing.

  The building was obviously old, but had been restored. Birds chirped in the large maple trees shading the entrance, while hydrangea bushes bloomed on each side. The atmosphere was peaceful and quiet this early in the morning.

  Abby and I entered the cool foyer, where I found the buzzer to Karen’s apartment and pushed it.

  No answer.

  I pressed the button again, leaving my finger on it a little longer this time.

  Still no answer.

  Fisting a hand on my hip, I hit the button again and again.

  Abby finally reached out and touched my wrist. “I don’t think she’s home.”

  Great—as Nancy Drew, I was bombing out.

  “Now what?” Abby asked as a woman, dressed in a jogging suit, leading a large boxer on a leash, entered the foyer.

  “Maybe Karen is working at Stephen’s condo?” I said hopefully.

  The woman with the boxer paused and glanced at me over her shoulder. “I’m sorry…I don’t mean to be eavesdropping, but are you looking for Karen Burns?”

  I know my face lit up. “Yes,” I replied excitedly. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I live in the apartment across the hall. Are you a friend of hers?�
��

  Time to tell another lie. “Yes, I’m an old classmate from out of town—”

  Abby gave me a poke in my side.

  Ignoring her, I continued. “I’ve been trying to reach her.”

  The women’s face reflected her alarm. “Oh, dear,” she said softly. “You don’t know, then?”

  I felt my excitement fade, and a sense of dread replaced it. “Know what?”

  “Karen was mugged last night. She’s in Lasalle Medical Plaza.”

  Nineteen

  “What do you think?” I asked Abby as we drove to the hospital.

  “Muggings happen all the time in the city.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Her boss is shot less than a week ago, and now she’s mugged.” Watching Abby smoothly maneuver into the heavy traffic, I pursed my lips before I spoke again. “Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me. Wonder if Bill knows.”

  “The mugging occurred last night, so he might not have been contacted yet.” She honked her horn as a car whipped over in front of her. “And who knows…law enforcement agencies don’t always communicate with each other.”

  “Yeah, but as Ethan said, Bill’s a good cop, I bet he contacted the St. Louis police after the shooting. You’d think they’d return the favor.”

  “It’s a big city. Maybe the information concerning the mugging hasn’t reached the right ears yet.” Abby glanced my way. “You sound as if you want Bill to know.”

  I picked at the armrest. “I do—if it helps him solve the case—but I’m a little worried he’ll come charging down here once he hears about it. And—”

  “Find out you’re here instead of in Summerset,” she said, finishing my sentence for me. “Hmm,” she went on, her tone teasing, “I’ve heard the jail’s serving the prisoners meals from one of the restaurants now, so at least you’ll eat well.”

  “Not funny.” I shot her a dirty look. “Bill’s always threatening to put me in the slammer, and one of these days he’s going to carry through with the threat.”

  She reached out and patted my knee. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll post bail.”

  We left the car in the parking garage and rode the elevator down to the first floor. Praying it wouldn’t be a repeat of my experience at the Regional Medical Center, I marched up to the information desk.

  “Karen Burns, please.”

  Without a glance, the receptionist ran her finger down the patient list. “She’s in Room 224.”

  Walking away from the desk, I gave Abby a big smile. “That was easy.”

  “Don’t count your chickens—we haven’t talked to Karen Burns yet.”

  Peeking in the half-open door to Room 224, we saw a dark-haired woman in the bed in a half sitting position, facing the overhead TV. An IV pole with a large bag full of clear liquid sat next to the bed—its tubes running from the bag to her arm.

  From where I stood in the doorway, she didn’t look that injured. No bandages, no medical equipment other than the IV. To me, she just looked bored. Then her head rolled on the pillow to face me and our eyes met across the small room.

  The entire right side of her face was one massive bruise. Her right eye was swollen shut and the corner of her mouth appeared to be cut.

  Shocked at her injuries, I took one step back, bumping into Abby.

  Moving me out of her way, Abby took control, crossing the room to the bed. “Hello, Karen. I’m Abigail McDonald, and this,” she said with a wave toward me, “is my granddaughter, Ophelia Jensen.”

  Karen’s good eye widened. “You’re the one who’s been leaving all the messages,” she mumbled through puffy lips. “I don’t want to talk to you.” She turned her head away.

  “Karen,” I said gently, “do you know about Stephen?”

  A tear trickled down her left cheek. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “The sheriff investigating the shooting thinks I might have been the target,” I said, joining Abby. “But I wasn’t, was I?”

  “Don’t know anything,” she muttered.

  The conversation was getting me nowhere.

  “Karen,” I said trying again. “Someone tried to kill me Monday night.”

  With a soft moan, she shifted her head on the pillow and said nothing.

  What had Abby said? Drastic times, drastic measures? My eyes flew to Abby’s face. She blinked once and gave me a slight nod.

  “Karen.” I kept my voice mild as I laid my hand on her arm and opened my mind.

  Immediately I saw, felt, and heard what she had the night before. The smell of the river; pools of light from the street lamps; the sound of footsteps behind her; the sudden grasp of hands on her shoulders; the feeling of being spun around; a man, his face hidden in the shadows; the fist to her face again and again; the taste of blood sour on her tongue.

  But most of all I felt the terror—black, all-consuming terror. I’m going to die, was her last thought before she mercifully lost consciousness.

  With sweaty palms, and shaken to my core, I broke the connection.

  Disoriented, Karen looked first at Abby, then me. “Who are you, really?”

  “I told you, Ophelia Jensen. I’m so sorry that man hurt you,” I said with compassion, “and I want to help you and Stephen.”

  The uninjured side of her mouth twisted down. “You can’t. Stephen always told me if anything ever happened to him, to run. I didn’t run fast enough, and next time they’ll kill me—” Her voice faltered. “I’m going away where they can’t find me.”

  “If whoever’s behind these attacks isn’t brought to justice, you’ll spend your life looking over your shoulder.”

  “No, I won’t. Once Stephen is out of the hospital, he’ll take care of it.”

  “Stephen’s in a coma and can’t help anyone,” I said brusquely.

  Abby gave me a little nudge to the side and stepped closer to the bed. “Here, child, have a sip of water,” she said, picking up a glass near the bed and holding the straw to Karen’s lips. “Poor thing.” She gently stroked Karen’s hair.

  Karen seemed to relax under Abby’s soothing touch and took a long drink through the straw. “Thanks.” Her tongue licked at her bottom lip, and she winced when it touched the cut.

  Grabbing the railing on the bed, I gazed at her. “Karen, do you know why someone wanted to hurt you and Stephen?”

  With a sigh, she closed her left eye. “The book.”

  “Which book?”

  “The one he’s working on now. He came back from the East Coast obsessed with this new project.” She opened her eye and watched me. “Said he got the idea while in Boston.”

  What idea would lead him from Massachusetts to Iowa to Texas?

  “Why would they attack you last night?” I asked.

  “The disks.”

  “What disks?” My hands tightened on the railing with excitement.

  “Stephen is paranoid when he’s working on a book. Everyone knows about his quirk—he jokes about it on his website.” Her fingers fidgeted with the blanket. “He puts everything—notes, manuscript—on disks. He doesn’t leave anything on his hard drive. I know they were after the disks.”

  “Have you looked at them?”

  “No, I never read the ones that deal with his nonfiction until he’s finished. I go through the notes at the same time as the manuscript and check for accuracy.”

  “Did you have any disks last night when you were mugged?” I asked.

  “Yes. When he’s out of town, he sends them to me at a post office box—registered mail. I sign for the package, then put the disks in his fireproof box.” She swallowed with effort. “I was taking the latest disks to his condo.”

  Abby held the straw to Karen’s lips again, and she took another long drink.

  “Did they take them?” I asked.

  “Yes. The police said my purse was stolen. They were in it.”

  I felt my excitement come crashing down. So close. “Everything’s lost?”

  “No, just the ones he mailed from Iowa. The rest are in th
e box.”

  “Karen…” I tried to keep the anticipation out of my voice. “May we borrow them?”

  Her eyes traveled to the window, and the war going on inside her was apparent in her features. Loyalty to Stephen, fear, hesitation, all flitted across her damaged face. The last expression was resignation.

  She lifted a hand as if it took great effort and pointed toward the closet. “The keys to Stephen’s condo and the box are on a small key ring in the pocket of my slacks.” She paused. “At least they were.”

  Almost holding my breath, I rushed to the closet and grabbed the pants. I fished around in the pocket until my fingers found a metal ring. With a sigh of relief, I held them up to her. “These?”

  “Yes,” she replied in a weak voice.

  Crossing to the bed, I took her hand gently in mine. “Thank you, Karen. I know this is going to help catch the man who hurt you.”

  Another tear leaked from the corner of her eye. “I hope so.”

  Abby leaned close to her. “Do you have anyone to care for you after you’re released?”

  She nodded slightly. “A friend. The doctor said I can leave as soon as she gets here.” Karen twisted her hands. “She’s taking me away from the city.”

  Ripping a corner off the menu on the stand, I picked up a pen and scribbled on it. “Here’s my cell phone number,” I said, tucking it in her hand. “Stay in touch, okay?”

  She glanced down at the paper. “Thanks, but like I said, I’m going away…far, far away.”

  Abby and I grabbed a quick sandwich and ate in the car on the way to Stephen’s condo. It was located a short distance from Karen’s apartment, in an old industrial building that had been converted to housing. It sat squarely on a corner, and across the cobblestone street, bars, bookstores, and antique shops lined the block. An outdoor café was within easy walking distance. Brightly striped awnings covered the doorway, and tables with tall umbrellas littered the brick sidewalk. Next to the café, at the end of the street, the Gateway Arch rose in the bright sunshine, towering above the brick buildings.

  Pausing at the entrance of the condo, I could see what Stephen had meant when he talked about the energy of this place. People jammed the sidewalks—tourists, with cameras hanging around their necks, loaded with shopping bags; businessmen sitting at wrought-iron tables at the outdoor café, enjoying their lunch; couples strolling hand in hand, stopping now and again to browse the window displays. The air sizzled with an excitement that seemed to say, Life’s good, let’s party.