Be Careful What You Witch For (A Family Fortune Mystery)

by Dawn Eastman

  “Clytemnestra, this is a surprise,” she said. She didn’t open the door farther.

  “Ms. Whittle, I’ve been thinking about what you said last time I was here. I need your help.” I looked over her head into the entryway. I thought I saw a shadow move on the opposite wall.

  “Oh my. You’ve had a scare?” She stepped back from the doorway and motioned me inside.

  I glanced around the hallway and the hair on my arms stood up. Something wasn’t right. I sensed we weren’t alone.

  “Let’s head back to the kitchen for a cup of tea,” Neila said a bit loudly. She pointed toward the back of the house and I walked down the dark hallway again toward the relative light of the kitchen.

  When I got there, I saw that the cauldron was steaming again and my stomach rumbled. I turned to ask what she was cooking but the hallway was empty.

  “Ms. Whittle?” I took a step back toward the front door and she appeared in front of me.

  “Let’s get settled and we can have a nice chat,” she said. “Do you want some stew? I still have some left from last time.”

  I started to decline, when my stomach chimed in again. I felt my face get hot and nodded. She smiled and took a bowl out of the fridge. She bent down and placed it in a microwave I hadn’t noticed before. It seemed out of place in this rustic room.

  “What are you cooking today?” I pointed at the cauldron.

  “Oh, nothing much. Not something you can eat, anyway. Just mixing up a bit of this and that.” She waved her hand to deflect any further inquiry.

  She placed the bowl of stew in front of me and when the tea was ready she sat down with her own thick brown mug and a delicate teacup for me.

  “What’s got you spooked?” she asked.

  I didn’t love her choice of words but I told her about the dream, the vertigo, and the anxious rush down the hall to check on Seth.

  “Hmm. That is a tough one. You didn’t recognize the stairwell?”

  I shook my head, and spooned up some stew.

  “Have you always been afraid of heights?” she asked.

  “For as long as I can remember,” I said. “I know I used to climb trees as a kid but somewhere along the line I developed this spinning sensation whenever I got too high.”

  “What happens when you travel in an airplane?”

  “I don’t like to take plane trips, but if I do, I sit on the aisle so I don’t have to look out the window.”

  She nodded. “From what you’ve described, since it feels so real, like other premonitory dreams, I’d have to say this is a prediction.” She wrapped her hands around the mug. “You’ll likely recognize this place when you see it. I can’t tell if Seth is in danger or not. It sounds like you thought he was and were trying to save him even though you had to climb up high to do it.”

  “What about the woman I heard laughing?”

  “You’re trying to figure out who killed Rafe Godwin, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe the dream is trying to tell you something about that.”

  “Trying to tell me what? That a woman did it and Seth is in danger?” I pushed the bowl of stew aside, no longer hungry.

  “It’s always difficult to tease out the warning or the message in a dream. It really depends on how you, the dreamer, interpret it.”

  I pressed my lips together. Neila was giving me the party line. Focus more, jump to conclusions less. But I wanted to know now whether Seth was in danger and how to get Dylan out of jail.

  “Did you know they’ve arrested Dylan Ward?”

  She looked down at her tea and took a long sip. “I heard. I think they’re wrong and he’ll be out of jail soon. But from what I’ve heard, someone set up the situation so that Rafe would succumb to his allergy.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Just that he was very careful about what he ate and that his medicine didn’t work.”

  I wondered how a recluse could be so tapped into the town gossip, but after years of listening to Vi quote cats and horses, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know her sources.

  Neila interrupted my thoughts. “Can you tell the police about your dream?”

  I snorted. Her face fell and I apologized.

  “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the thought that Mac would put any stock in what I tell him based on a dream.”

  “Phillip McKenzie? Lucille’s boy?”

  “That’s the one. He goes by Mac and he doesn’t believe in anything.”

  “Everyone believes in something. What would be the point otherwise?”

  I looked into her gentle gray eyes and knew why she had been my grandmother’s friend.

  “You’re right. He believes in things that can be measured and quantified. Fingerprints, ballistics, tire tracks, autopsies . . .”

  “You must be wrong. Any child of Lucille McKenzie would believe in things beyond our understanding.”

  I didn’t want to insult her by explaining that it was Mac’s mother’s blind faith in all things psychic that had turned him into such a skeptic. After his father’s death she’d spent a huge chunk of her life savings trying to contact him. She never succeeded, as far as Mac was concerned. Lucille would say she’d seen glimpses and hints that he was trying to make contact. It was a sad story in the end. She never really moved on and Mac blamed the mediums in town for her single-minded pursuit of her dead husband.

  “I don’t think they see eye to eye on the subject of psychics.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anyway, I need help figuring out what the dream might mean. I don’t want to just wait until I find myself in a stone stairway running to rescue Seth. Maybe I can keep him safe beforehand if I can understand what it means.”

  Ms. Whittle was already shaking her head. “You don’t know enough yet. Have you discovered any techniques that help the dreams to come?”

  I looked down at the table. I’d spent the last fifteen years or more trying to learn techniques that stopped the dreams. I shook my head. “The only thing I’ve noticed is that when my friend Diana does a spell, it seems to trigger the dreams.”

  Neila nodded. “If you are truly open-minded to your friend’s spell-casting that could be enough to invite information.”

  “I need to learn witchcraft?”

  “Oh my, no. I don’t get the sense that it would be a good fit for you. You need to become more open-minded to the idea of receiving information. If we’re lucky, you’ll get a more specific message if you are open to it.”

  I nodded and finished my tea. The moment I set down the cup, Neila stood.

  “I don’t want to rush you, dear, but this . . . potion is at a delicate stage.”

  She steered me back to the front door and I found myself on the front porch, with more questions than answers.

  * * *

  After my abrupt dismissal from Neila’s house, I felt unsettled. Seth texted to say he was back at my house. I drove slowly back home, thinking. So much had happened in the five days since Rafe had died. I felt like my life had been upended. Diana was frantic about Dylan, I had hardly seen Mac, I was in the middle of a murder investigation again, and Seth had appeared and was apparently planning to stick around.

  Seth. I had been avoiding thinking about why he might have run all the way from New York to here. He seemed to be doing just fine, but no kid just picks up and travels cross-country on a whim. Do they? I was feeling a good amount of auntly guilt for not pursuing this earlier. I told myself I would have if it hadn’t been for everything else that had been going on, but I wasn’t buying it. I was a coward. I didn’t want to pry into Seth’s life and I almost didn’t want to know what the problem was because then I would feel compelled to fix it. But after that dream I knew I had to find out what was bothering him. If he was in danger, I had to know why and I had to help.

&nb
sp; I found him in what I considered to be his room. He thought of it that way as well, if the detritus on the floor and every flat surface was any indication. The dogs were watching him in rapt attention as he ate popcorn and clicked away on his computer.

  “Working on homework?” I said from the door.

  “What? Oh, yeah.”

  I entered the room and he flipped his laptop shut. Hmmm.

  “Should we take the guys for a walk?”

  Both dogs jumped up at the word “walk,” and they seemed to struggle with whether to focus on the popcorn or the possible adventure outside.

  “Sure.” Seth hopped up and the dogs got in line behind him.

  One of the officers I’d worked with in the past had two teenagers. He had always said the best way to talk to a teen is to do something else to distract them from the fact that you are actually conversing. Driving in the car, doing the dishes, and for Seth and me it was the dogs—either walking them or playing with them.

  Once we were a block or so from the house I began my interrogation.

  “Have they sent you much homework from school?” I asked. Grace had texted me that the school would be e-mailing assignments on a regular basis.

  Seth lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Not too much.”

  “Heard from any of your friends from school?”

  He shook his head. “Not really.”

  I threw all the advice out the window and went for the straightforward approach.

  “What’s going on, Seth?”

  He gave me a startled look.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why did you appear out of the blue on my front porch?”

  “I thought you were cool with it. Should I go to Nana Rose’s house?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I like having you at the house. It’s just . . . shouldn’t you be in school and hanging out with your friends?”

  He exhaled. “I like it better here. I wish I could just stay—”

  My phone buzzed. It was Diana’s ringtone.

  “Sorry, just a sec,” I said and answered.

  “Clyde, can you come right over? Please?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just . . . come. If you can.”

  I put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Something’s up with Diana. I need to get over there.”

  “I’ll deal with the dogs. They aren’t going to want to go home yet.”

  I nodded and walked back toward the house, sure I hadn’t imagined Seth’s relief at his temporary reprieve from questioning.

  22

  I hadn’t spoken to Diana since her spell-casting the night before. She’d sounded panicked on the phone so I chose to drive the five blocks instead of walking. I pulled onto her street and saw a police cruiser outside her house. My mind raced and dire thoughts came unbidden. Maybe they had more evidence. Maybe there was a break in the case. The car wasn’t Mac’s; I was pretty sure it wasn’t the one Tom usually drove, either.

  I parked in the street, behind the cruiser, and took the steps two at a time onto Diana’s porch. I knocked and bounced on my toes, both because it was cold and because I was anxious to find out what the police were doing there.

  Diana’s face was pale and drawn when she pulled open the door. I started to worry that Dylan had been hurt.

  “Diana, who’s here? Are you okay?” I stepped inside and gave her a brief hug.

  Diana nodded. I assumed that meant she was fine.

  In the living room, I saw Charla sitting stiffly on Diana’s couch. We nodded to each other.

  “Come in, Clyde. You should hear this as well.” Diana led me into her living room. “Charla was just telling me that things are not looking good for Dylan.”

  “I shouldn’t even be here.” Charla stood up. “I just wanted to prepare Diana for the worst. With the hearing today and the evidence we have, I think they’ll end up pursuing the case.”

  Charla didn’t let things get to her. I felt my own anxiety rising as I thought about what would be bad enough for Charla to break the rules and come to Diana.

  I sat in the armchair. “What is it, Charla?”

  “Diana can fill you in. I really need to get going. I don’t want the neighbors gossiping about my car out there in the street. You kids are going to have enough trouble in the next few days.” She quickly made her way out the front door and down the steps.

  Diana sat with her head in her hands. She shook her head and looked at me. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Charla came to tell me to prepare for a court case. She said if Dylan pleads not guilty they will have to go to court and the evidence against him is mounting.”

  “What can they possibly have? He didn’t do it. You and I both know he’s not a killer.”

  She nodded. “I know. She said the EpiPen had been drained of medicine and the needle was snapped off.”

  “That’s why the medicine didn’t work. No epinephrine was delivered.” I remembered Daron saying he hadn’t heard a click when Diana administered the medicine.

  Diana nodded. “I didn’t notice it at the time. I’d never given him an injection. I was so upset about how bad he looked that I just took the pen out and jammed it against his leg.”

  I reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Diana looked up to the ceiling, her eyes welling over with tears. “He never had a chance. Someone deliberately damaged his medication and then exposed him to peanuts.”

  “Dylan wasn’t even there that night,” I said. “How could he have done it?”

  “They have his fingerprints on the EpiPen, at least on the outer casing. The pen itself was wiped clean—all they found were my prints on that part.” Her head dropped to her hands again, orange curls obscuring her face. “I don’t understand.”

  This made sense based on what Daron Pagan had told us. The pen comes in a case to protect it from accidentally releasing the needle. When ready to inject, the cap is removed and the pen has to be quickly and firmly pressed into the victim’s thigh. I had seen Diana do that. Daron said there was no click of the needle popping out of the pen. I would expect Diana’s prints to be on the pen, but anyone else who had handled it should have left prints as well.

  “Is that all they have? He could have touched that casing anytime.”

  “Charla says the evidence points to Dylan tampering with the EpiPen prior to that night and then doctoring the bread I made so that there were peanut allergens in it.”

  “What does that mean, ‘peanut allergens’?”

  Diana shrugged. “I guess there weren’t any actual peanuts in the bread after all. There was some sort of peanut oil on the bread. Rafe was very allergic. That must have been enough to trigger an allergic response.”

  I nodded, remembering that Alex had said the oil would have to be special. Perhaps that could help Dylan. I hadn’t known there were different kinds of oil, maybe Dylan didn’t, either. Of course, how would he prove a lack of knowledge?

  I needed to research peanut allergies and find out more about what happened that night. In the meantime I had to calm Diana and come up with a plan to get Dylan out of jail.

  * * *

  I paced to the front door and back. I sat down and then stood again. During all of my nervous energy release, Diana sat still and quiet.

  Finally, after what seemed like days but was more like minutes, Diana turned to me.

  “Will you go with me to the police station? I need to talk to Mac.”

  Relief flooded through me. I was thrilled that she was taking this so calmly and I was sure Mac could explain things. I hadn’t suggested it because I wasn’t sure how much Diana blamed Mac for Dylan’s arrest.

  “Of course,” I said. “We’ll go now. I’m sure Mac can give us s
ome more information.” I picked up my coat and shrugged it on, pulling my keys out of the pocket. “Sometimes he plays these things very close. Charla might not have all the facts.” I looked at Diana’s ashen face and decided that the quietly supportive approach might be better.

  Diana put her coat on after I held it out to her. She followed me down the front steps, got in my Jeep, and buckled her seat belt. She stared straight ahead and didn’t speak for the whole ride to the police station.

  We went inside and I approached Lisa Harkness. Her smile faded when she saw Diana up close. She nodded to my request that Diana and I wait in one of the interview rooms until Mac could see us. I saw her pick up the phone and whisper into it as we passed through the door separating the front desk from the rest of the police station.

  I chose interview room one for its larger table and better chairs. We took off our coats and sat. Diana still hadn’t spoken.

  I heard footsteps in the hall but they weren’t Mac’s. He has a very determined stride, but still limps a bit after a gunshot injury from when he worked narcotics in Saginaw. This person stopped, backed up, turned again, and finally approached the room, the steps slowing as they got closer. Tom Andrews peeked around the doorframe.

  “Can I get you anything while you wait?” he asked.

  I shook my head and looked to Diana. She was studying her lap and didn’t respond.

  “Thanks, Tom, we’re fine.”

  “Okay. Detective McKenzie is on his way.” Tom’s footsteps receded and we were left in silence once more.

  I didn’t mind being quiet. In fact, I preferred it, but this was an unnatural quiet and I was getting concerned. I was about to try again to get Diana to talk to me when I heard Mac striding down the hall. There was no hesitation, but every other step had the slightest drag.

  Mac filled the doorway as he stood, evaluating the situation.

  “Diana, Clyde.” He nodded to each of us. “How can I help you two?”

  “Diana wants to—” I began, but Diana put her hand on mine to stop me.