by Angela Zeman
Skip was deeply relieved at the detective’s action. He walked slowly over to the deck that hung over the beach, then stood there gazing back at the unfinished house. His plans were in shambles. He needed to think. For no reason he could explain, he then turned and looked to the East.
As if she were an apparition conjured by his thoughts, a young woman with wildly curling long dark hair stepped up onto the deck, startling him so completely by her sudden appearance that he was forced to clutch at the deck’s railing to keep from falling backwards. While the thumping of his heart subsided, he stared, taking in the lush figure barely confined by the white silk shirt, tight jeans, and slim leather cowboy boots she wore.
“She sent me to fetch you,” the apparition announced.
“Uh—who—?”
She shifted impatiently. “Mrs. Risk.” At Skip’s continued blank look, she added, with a roll of large, lovely eyes, “The witch?”
Skip blinked at her. Sighing with exasperation, she grabbed his hand and pulled gently. “C’mon,” she said, as if to a small child. He came.
The young woman who’d been introduced to Skip merely as ‘Rachel’ settled the tray of drinks on a low cut, highly polished tree stump and handed Skip his beer.
“The letter told me about the poisoned water,” Skip said as he accepted the tall frosted glass. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his arm and continued staring down at the grass on which he sat, remembering. The surrounding trees rustled in the breeze as if they were whispering about the situation.
Mrs. Risk crossed long legs, draping her gauzy black skirt in graceful folds across them. She poured herself and Rachel glasses of glittering gold wine, cradled hers in both hands, and leaned back in the rope hammock to listen. Rachel pulled an old aluminum lawn chair closer to Skip and sat.
“And because the other letters had been—been accurate, I drove like a maniac out to the site, and, as you know, was just in time to stop the—the…” He seemed unable to go on.
“The carnage, so to speak,” she finished for him.
Rachel made a small unidentifiable noise.
He nodded, his eyes sick with memory.
“Please relax, Mr. Daniels. You’ve averted a tragedy. Also, your anonymous letter writer demanded that you stop all work, and you have, so you’ve no reason to expect further atrocities. Isn’t that correct?”
Skip nodded again.
“The letters—tell me about them. Were they typed? Were they mailed from Wyndham? That sort of detail might tell us a great deal.”
Skip shrugged. “I never noticed. They were sent to me at a Post Office Box I hired. Just about everybody in Wyndham has the address. But here’s the one about the water.” He pulled a much folded envelope out of his back jeans pocket. “You can have it, if you want. They were all just like that one, I think. I threw the others in the trash.”
She took it from him and examined the grubby wadded paper. “So much for television detective shows teaching fingerprint and forensic technologies,” she said, sighing as she unfolded it.
“The first one came the day after I agreed to buy the property. Said if I didn’t want ‘death and disaster’, I had to leave that parcel of land alone. Buy someplace else. I didn’t pay attention, you know? Figured it was some nut getting his kicks. I got a second one, same message, and pitched it, too. Then right after the next one, that warned he was gonna hurt somebody, the carpenter was shot. I thought of this guy first thing, but the cops said it was likely an accident. I got kinda jumpy then, but the cops were so convincing…
“Then another one came. And Ernie got it in the leg. He coulda lost the whole leg, did you know that?”
Rachel blurted heatedly, “His leg? He could have been killed! What if he, or someone else, had been trapped when nobody else was around to rescue him? He might’ve bled to death!”
Skip blinked hard, and finding himself unable to reply, took a drink of his beer. He was startled to notice that the witch was barefooted. Her feet were smooth, slim, and tanned a golden brown.
The breeze from the water caressed and cooled his skin. Reluctantly he disturbed the peace of the grove. “And ma’am…”
Mrs. Risk looked up.
“I got something else to tell you. My name isn’t Mark Daniels.”
Her eyebrows lifted, but her eyes looked unsurprised. “No?”
With a sigh dredged from the bottom of his workshoes, Skip told her the whole story, from Alexia to the present.
“Well,” was all she said, at the end. She smiled faintly. Skip had been expecting something a little stronger. Like a demand for a jail sentence.
“You’re quite an interesting young man.”
Skip was shocked. That didn’t seem an appropriate thing for a lady like her to say on hearing how he was doing something totally illegal.
“Tell me, ah—Skip. Have you ever asked your young woman whether she expects to be supported in a life of luxury?”
“Not exactly.”
“How ‘exactly’?”
Skip flushed. “Not at all.”
“Then it must be that you are merely aware of the low character of this young woman.” She gazed at him inquiringly.
Skip’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “No way! She’s the kindest, sweetest, most unselfish, hardworking, loving—”
“On the contrary. She must be an incredibly selfish, self-serving, materialistic female to demand such monetary standards from a possible future spouse.”
Skip roared, “But she didn’t demand them. She’s happy the way things are now. It’s me that—” He stopped, looked dizzy. “Oh.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s all me, isn’t it…?”
“So you’ve developed this driving need for wealth all by yourself?”
“I guess so.” Skip’s lips moved, but nothing more came out.
Mrs. Risk watched him, emotions flashing across her obsidian eyes that could only be guessed by the softness of the smile on her lips. Her eyes narrowed. “And, in your mind, has your goal justified the ensuing problems?”
Skip stirred himself, then paled. “If by that you mean the carpenter getting killed, of course not. Or Ernie’s leg, or the guys getting poisoned, either. No way,” he finished with firmness. His features melted into a picture of misery. “I’ve been really stupid. And look at the trouble I’ve caused.”
He sank back onto his elbows in the grass and pushed away his unfinished beer. “What’ll I do now?” But before Mrs. Risk could reply, he answered himself. “Turn myself in, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t deserve Alexia now. Less than I ever did.”
“I don’t believe so. If anything, you probably deserve her more now than you did before. No, I think we need to consider this problem from a different point of view other than merely punishing you for idiocy. You appear to have a thriving conscience, so you’ve probably suffered enough, anyway.”
Skip looked astonished at this. She leaned further back in her hammock, swayed, sipped at her wine, and considered the leaves fluttering far above her head. “Yes, another point of view,” she repeated.
They sat in silence for a while, during which time Skip glanced at Rachel with a wary eye. At some point in the discussion, she’d slumped in her chair and slung one leg over its arm. In this pastoral setting, she looked to Skip alarmingly glorious, like a temporarily benign exotic plant that carried poison in her fingernails.
“Are you her daughter?” he ventured. She laughed uproariously at this, but only shook her head.
He abandoned his curiosity and returned his attention to the witch. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, what point of view are you talking about? Maybe I could help you think if I knew.”
Mrs. Risk considered him. “Murder’s been committed, Skip. And other murders have been attempted. An obviously desperate unknown person is stopping at nothing to keep you—or people in general—away from that piece of property. Someone who has no conscience, Skip. Every—single—one of you could have died.
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“I don’t usually involve myself in police matters, but in view of the seriousness of these events, and the suspicion that would inevitably be cast upon you…” She looked down at him. Her angular face could have been chiseled from ancient but living stone. The merciless intent he saw there caused a shiver to race down Skip’s backbone.
“We must find that someone, don’t you think?” she finished.
“Damn right,” Skip said. “But how?”
“You’re willing to help?”
“I ought to, don’t you think? I owe it to all those guys who nearly died because of me. And the one who did.”
“Get that thought out of your mind this instant, Skip,” Mrs. Risk said sharply. “You didn’t kill that man, or try to kill the others. At this point in time, the worst you’ve accomplished was to give them jobs they badly needed, although,” her mouth twisted wryly, “in a highly creative way. Anyone interested in that property could have triggered these same events. No, someone evil is at work here. Someone with no conscience. Someone whom I intend to block from achieving his depraved goal. First of all, will you do what I say?”
“Anything. Just tell me.”
“Your part will be to get your men together, and let it be known all over town that you’re continuing. You’ve got to finish building that house. That’s imperative. Let me speak to Michael, I’ll arrange it. We won’t proceed entirely without police sanction.”
The color drained from Skip’s face. “I can’t. The men’ll be hurt. Maybe killed.”
“No, they won’t. Can you believe me when I say that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize anyone? Besides, our obliging murderer seems fond of sending you warning before taking any action. I doubt he would change his habits now.”
“That makes sense,” said Skip in a faint voice. Skip studied her face—the sharp cheekbones, the glittering black eyes. Looking at her, it was easy to believe that she was a witch. And Rachel sitting close by had that same look of…of power. He felt the force of both women’s personalities as if they were live things separate from the women themselves.
He didn’t know if she was or wasn’t a witch, or even what a witch was, but he decided to trust her. Why he felt that way, he couldn’t say. But he did.
“Okay.” He got to his feet. “Anything else?”
She smiled at his sudden capitulation. Then her smile turned grim. “I’ll let you know.”
He wrote down for her his Post Office box number, his real home address, and his car phone number, and then left to do as she’d instructed.
By noon of the next day, Skip had the homicide detective’s permission and the men were back at work, nervous but happy to be earning again. Skip had new, sealed, bottled water trucked in.
For her part, Mrs. Risk wasted no time in surveying the property from all sides to see if she could spot what had set this particular piece of land apart from all others in the murderer’s mind.
She visited the sprawling property that bordered to the west of Phantom’s lot—a shuttered summer residence. The caretaker, interrupted at lunch in his small residence on a corner of the property, confirmed what she already knew of the history of the place and his duties, which were few, judging by the seedy condition of the place. She gave him some terse advice about the neglected upkeep and left.
A half-mile further west, the water scooped inland between two jutting fingers of protective land, forming Wyndham’s sheltered port. The village’s one big industry, North Shore Industries Corporation, occupied the port side of the eastern finger of land. Although situated on the water, NSIC was discreetly tucked back behind some shielding pines and shared the port with a public dock for pleasure boaters; Wyndham’s only large hotel/restaurant establishment—Harrington’s; and other, smaller, enterprises. The focus of Wyndham’s village life and tourist attractions centered on the port area.
The port provided a convenient access for small tankers to offload heating oil and gas at NSIC, which stored the oil and gas before selling it to all of Long Island.
Mrs. Risk remembered how NSIC’s docks and extensive storage facilities had once been an ill-kept eyesore, spoiling beautiful coastline and fouling the water until the company changed hands ten years ago. The new owner, Aisa Garrett, had proceeded to not only repair and update North Shore’s facility and operations, but also to rectify the damage done to the coastline. He’d exceeded both environmental standards and the aesthetic hopes of the tourist-dependent community. His stockholders had screamed but Mr. Garrett had persevered, serenely oblivious to their protests. Now, NSIC’s taxes almost single-handedly supported Wyndham’s excellent school and cultural assets. Mr. Garrett was a beloved man in the village.
Not so beloved was Mr. Drexel, the Village Board Trustee and acknowledged heir of the widowed and childless Aisa Garrett. However, because of Aisa’s renown he enjoyed the status of near-royalty in the village. A high society maven and aspiring jet-setter, he made no secret of his opinion of Wyndham as provincial and boring compared to the urban delights available to a man of his stature in Manhattan. Because of his pompous, superior airs, he’d been despised by the villagers in the beginning, but time and familiarity, plus the miracles he’d achieved in carrying out Aisa’s clean-up of NSIC, had brought tolerance on both sides.
Mrs. Risk gazed across the now pleasant vista of North Shore Industries Corporation as she recalled its history.
She returned to her own property. Skip would’ve been astonished to see her don a 3/8 inch thick full wet suit. However, the water in the Sound was cold even at the warmest time of year, and the insulation was necessary. She slid into the water and maneuvered herself into a buoyancy control vest and a small filled compressed air tank, then skillfully submerged, intent on examining the coast of Skip’s property from under water. Something had to be unique about this property and she was determined to find out what that could be.
After nearly an hour’s close examination of the beach’s edge bordering Phantom’s land, the only feature of interest she discovered was a thermocline—an icy current of water within warmer water. She spotted it by the distortion it caused to her vision, much like the shimmery image gasoline vapors make when rising from a hot pavement. It flowed perversely, against the current, flush against a shelf of land, emerging from a crevasse a few feet below the water’s surface.
As she drifted, only shallowly submerged, she pulled the SCUBA regulator out of her mouth. She pushed her face into the chill flow and tasted it. Not the foul water taste of Phantom’s well. No, and not only that, it wasn’t salty, either. It was pure, fresh water rushing fiercely through the salt water Sound, an underwater spring escaping from somewhere beneath Phantom’s back lawn.
The spring would provide a delightful alternative to the fouled well water for whoever lived on the land someday. When the killing stopped.
The spring made the property more desirable, and solved Phantom’s water problem, but as a motive for murder, it hardly qualified.
She took a sample for testing anyway. When she directed Rachel to take it to a lab, she sent along a sample of the well water, to be thorough.
After that, she dressed carefully in her best clothes. Aisa Garrett was an old friend of hers, and unfailingly delighted to be imposed upon. She began walking down the beach towards North Shore Industries. It was time to impose.
“You’re looking handsome, Aisa,” said Mrs. Risk with a slow smile.
“For a 71 year old, you mean. Yes, I’m sure I do, underneath all these wrinkles. How perceptive of you to notice.” He leaned forward in his desk chair and grinned up at her mischievously from beneath grizzled eyebrows.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked. “I recently laid in some vintages that might interest you, although my doctor has restricted me to two pitchers a day of that boring stuff there.” He flapped a disdainful hand at a carafe of water on his desk.
The witch laughed and shook her head, “My condolences. Not now, thank you.”
He patted her smoo
th brown fingers with a hand that was gnarled with arthritis and freckled from spending long sunny afternoons fishing, an addiction in which he was able to indulge because of Matthew Drexel’s efficiency. Drexel ran the place smoothly under Aisa’s blissfully semi-retired supervision, which explained why Aisa always had time for Mrs. Risk’s impositions.
“I know you never visit without a reason, so let’s get what I can do for you out of the way so we can socialize, my dear.”
“For what will you permit me to ask, Aisa?” She perched familiarly on the edge of his desk.
“Anything your heart desires; I’m too old to worry about the consequences. Now you’ve got me breathless with anticipation. What new trouble are you stirring up?”
“As you yourself mentioned, you’ve reached the age of 71. How high a price would you pay to live somewhat longer? I’m here to save your life, Aisa.”
“Again?” At first he chuckled, then he examined her expression…and sighed.
Soon, NSIC’s resident corporate lawyer scurried into Aisa Garrett’s office, whisking past Mr. Garrett’s astonished personal secretary without troubling to be announced. Then the presence of the secretary herself was demanded. The secretary, a good hearted, loyal woman, rushed to obey.
It was some time before Mrs. Risk emerged from the administrative offices, but when she did, she looked contented. She promised to return to sample Aisa’s wine at a not too distant date in the future, and left. The whole event was a matter of some speculation among the outer office staff, but was totally forgotten after the next Thursday evening. Because on Thursday night, Mr. Garrett died.
Those who remembered the witch’s close friendship with the old man and who might have attempted to console her were kept at bay by a newly enraged aspect of her solitude. She seemed to have tucked her grief deep within herself, as she grimly pursued her inquiries.
The entire village mourned. Mr. Drexel was now considered by the village—although unofficially until the formal reading of the will—to be the new majority stockholder, President, CEO and Chairman of North Shore Industries Corporation. As a result, he became too busy to bother about the rock star’s house any further. The rest of the Village Trustees understood and carried on without him.