Tales of the Witch

by Angela Zeman

  On site, Skip remained oblivious to everything but the completion of the house. Feverish with anxiety, he worked side by side with Ernie’s men, surprising them with his expertise, keeping an eye on possible dangers, and at the same time hastening the project to its end. He couldn’t wait for it to be finished. The whole scheme seemed to stretch somehow into a surrealistically endless time frame, like a nightmare.

  But days were crossed off the calendar and work was accomplished at record speed. Occasionally, Skip raised his eyes from some task to see the witch strolling purposefully across the beach or road, but although he worked on site from pre-dawn until long after sundown, she never visited him. He was curious as to her activities and their results, but a reluctance to discuss the matter kept him from going to her house and asking.

  It didn’t matter: the only fact she might’ve told him was that the lab tests had revealed no surprises and would easily solve a pesky problem for the new owner: the spring contained pure clean water. The well water was polluted with natural gas, which only confirmed the good sense of the men in avoiding drinking it.

  Only a daily ritual of visiting his post office box immediately after the noon delivery broke his concentration on building the house. His breath would stick in his chest until he twisted the key in the small door, opened it, thrust in a hand to search for that certain envelope which he would know by touch alone—and he would breathe again. Another twenty-four hours had passed without word from the anonymous letter writer and Skip could go back to work.

  Finally the last nail was driven home and stuccoed over. The moment had arrived for the next step in Skip’s plan.

  After first checking in with the witch, Skip called Conrad to meet him for lunch at Harrington’s on the waterfront. Once there, Skip handed over a notarized list of items, complete with appraisals, that would be installed in Phantom’s house the next day (the result of several night’s research, catalog photocopying, and forgery on Skip’s part).

  Phantom’s possessions were too valuable to spend a second unguarded and unsecured, Skip told Conrad. The house and its pending contents needed legal protection, even though the papers remained unsigned and technically the property and house were both still unpurchased. It wasn’t Phantom’s way of working to allow anything to chance. Everything must be insured, from the merest tack to the most priceless piece of art.

  After an astonished pause, Conrad opened a mouth to say only he knew what, because Skip stopped him with an upraised palm and the words, “Phantom insists.” Conrad’s mouth snapped shut and he hastened to comply. Within hours, Skip returned to the witch’s house with the signed documents. Skip hardly cared. The only document that he was really anxious over hadn’t so far appeared…a new anonymous letter from the murderer warning him of some fresh disaster.

  That night, a sixteen wheeler arrived and disturbed the peace of Mrs. Risk, who was the only human being within earshot of the commotion, their two properties being in an isolated part of town. From her bed she listened to the racket and shouting which informed her that Phantom’s ‘possessions’ were being moved into his future home. She smiled grimly to herself. She wished she could be sure that what she was hearing was the trap closing around her quarry. She spent the rest of the night thinking.

  The next day, bright and early, Skip did the rounds of the village employment spots. By mid-afternoon he’d hired a cook, an assistant cook, gardeners, groundskeepers, a gatekeeper, a mechanic, handymen, and three sisters to keep house for Phantom. They were to report for work tomorrow at 8 a.m., in time to look the place over and sort things out, ‘Mark’ said, in preparation for Phantom’s early evening arrival on that same day. They were to be sure to arrive exactly at eight, so he wouldn’t have to spend precious time manning the electrified gate until the gatekeeper he’d hired showed up. Everyone promised.

  Then Skip ordered food, household goods and flowers from the specialty shops, delis, and gourmet grocers, to be delivered an hour after his new staff arrived tomorrow. This required the use of his remaining store of cash.

  Now he was broke.

  While these transactions were taking place, excitement spread like unquarantined measles until the entire village lost their collective reason and abandoned their shops and businesses. Who could work in an atmosphere of such delirium? Single-handedly, Phantom had practically wiped out Wyndham’s recession. The mayor strolled Main Street, chatting and shaking voters’ hands in case someone forgot who to credit for this bonanza, and the Trustees spent the remaining daylight admonishing the villagers to keep their ‘secret.’

  As dark set in, Skip locked himself up inside Phantom’s house to brood, convinced hell had arrived at Wyndham-by-the-Sea, and he had brought it.

  Mrs. Risk also remained indoors, at her own house, in case any of the villagers, deprived of a glimpse of Phantom’s sprawling stucco mansion by the enormous fence surrounding it, decided to see how a witch lived.

  The sun sank in the west, spreading a hazy rose beneficat over the hysterical villagers who simmered impatiently in their homes, waiting for Phantom’s impending arrival. Eventually, the last bedroom light was extinguished, and everyone slept…or pretended to.

  Around three in the morning, in the peaceful wooded coastline east of NSIC, an arm of flame reached for the moon. Phantom’s house was on fire. By the time a patrolling constable spotted the blaze, and the volunteer fire department assembled themselves, the fire had become all-encompassing.

  The electric gate must have jammed when the control box caught fire and had to be forced open. Although the volunteers battered at the iron latches until they broke, it was too late to save anything by the time the trucks rolled up to Phantom’s house. The hot dry weather had primed the newly constructed residence and everything around it to tinder perfection. Nothing was spared.

  The commotion pulled the villagers out of their beds and by dawn, the entire population stood appalled at the sodden, smoldering mass. Their hopes, their dreams, their glorious future in providing a secret home for Phantom was no more.

  Mark Daniels, everyone agreed afterwards, showed what a selfless, heroic human being he was both during and after the disaster. While the finished product of incredible organization, weeks of work, and probably millions of dollars worth of goods went up in a miserable puff of smoke, his main concern was that no one got hurt. While priceless works of art were being reduced to ash, he had patrolled the property, keeping rubberneckers clear of falling debris and smoke.

  Yes, Mark had a heart of gold. Of course, these admiring comments began circulating right after he announced that everything was insured to the hilt, so there would be plenty of money to reimburse everyone for the slightest effort made on Phantom’s behalf. Everyone would be paid in full for everything, regardless of the disaster.

  A rush was made to fax Phantom concerning the current status of his home-to-be. He was advised to divert his path from Wyndham, since they were no longer ready to receive him. A reply, received later, was read aloud by Skip to those assembled—crammed—into the Town Hall at four in the afternoon after the fire. When he added that Phantom would be checking into a prominent Los Angeles hospital for his rest, it nearly broke the listeners’ hearts. “We’ll rebuild his house!” shouted someone. “Better than ever! Fireproof!” cried others.

  Then Skip tactfully informed the villagers that Phantom would never be coming to Wyndham. The loss of his beloved possessions was too bitter a memory to face. The listeners became teary-eyed and a few in the back of the room sobbed openly. The Village Board Trustees stared at each other in dismay. Years of prosperity, up in smoke.

  Just as people were beginning to stir, to console each other with reminders of how many had benefited from Phantom over the last weeks, a reporter from the local paper, Mr. Scott Bade, strode into the crowded Hall.

  Instead of joining in the general mood of mourning, Scott snatched a chair from the mayor’s platform and stood on it, waving his arms for attention. Cupping his hands around his
mouth, he announced that the name of the heir to Aisa Garrett’s company, North Shore Industries Corporation, had just been made public by the corporation’s lawyer. Just when some listeners loudly questioned ‘why bring that up now?’ the reporter continued: “The heir, folks, the heir! Instead of Mr. Matthew Drexel—is Ms. Peggy Marcastle, personal secretary and executive assistant of Aisa Garrett. She now owns all of Mr. Garrett’s assets, including controlling shares of stock in NSIC, which pretty much makes her the owner of North Shore Industries Corporation!” Scott surveyed the packed room in satisfaction as every man and woman there froze in shocked silence.

  When he judged they’d absorbed that bit of news, he blurted, “And not just that, folks! Mr. Matthew Drexel, former executive vice president of North Shore Industries, is to be arrested shortly for the murder of Aisa Garrett.” Seemingly unconcerned, or maybe just ignoring the fact that the possibly slandered Drexel was at this moment standing up on Mayor Harper’s platform next to the mayor, he continued, “Detectives from the Sixth Precinct Homicide Department will be making their arrest based upon the evidence of poison found in Aisa Garrett’s body during an autopsy!

  “This poison, identified as Tri-Zan, is the same stuff that poisoned Mr. Daniels’ construction crew at Phantom’s house. Mr. Drexel had access to the poison which was banned from Long Island after World War II, by having been put in charge of ridding NSIC of its old supply of Tri-Zan ten years ago during NSIC’s clean-up campaign, which many here will remember. A stash of it was found in his private office for which he will be asked to account.”

  And with that, Scott jumped down from his perch, beaming at the stunned villagers. Only a few noticed the ‘okay’ sign he flashed with his thumb and fingers to someone at the back of the room.

  Then, breaking this silence, came a loud, high pitched, anguished, NOOOOOO!! To the mayor’s astonishment, this undignified yelp had come from the mouth of Mr. Drexel. Mr. Drexel leaped from the mayor’s platform. He forged a path through the tightly packed people with his fists, propelled by furious energy.

  Those standing near Ms. Marcastle at the back of the room, unaware of the goal of Mr. Drexel’s journey, turned to congratulate her. For the moment, however, Ms. Marcastle seemed unable to offer a coherent thank you since her mouth had dropped open at the announcement of Mr. Garrett’s new heir—herself!—and was still sagging in that position from the idea that her beloved Mr. Garrett had been murdered.

  Suddenly Mr. Drexel reached her side and lunged, with flexing fingers, towards her throat. Ms. Marcastle’s dazed fumble for escape was prevented by the mass of villagers packed into the room. Observers began to scream.

  At that moment Mrs. Risk appeared between Mr. Drexel and Ms. Marcastle and effectively blocked his progress with her body. Nobody remembered seeing the witch nearby a moment ago, which many took as confirmation of their opinion that she was truly supernatural.

  Then Mrs. Risk spoke. Her low vibrant voice cut through the mayhem and silenced it.

  “So you’ve discovered all your plans to be fruitless, have you, Matthew?”

  Mr. Drexel was brought up short by the question. Slowly, his hands lowered, as if his earlier manic energy was being drained from him. His face reflected an agonized bewilderment. He blinked at the witch, then looked around him, although without any apparent awareness of his audience.

  “I don’t understand,” he said to her in a peculiarly high pitched tone. “Wasn’t he already buried? I went to the funeral myself. When did they do an autopsy?”

  Homicide Detective Michael Hahn reached him at just that moment and with a heavy hand, pushed him none too gently by the shoulder into a chair. Detective Hahn aimed a commanding frown at the surrounding onlookers and most of them shuffled back a foot or so.

  Mrs. Risk, however, stayed close beside Mr. Drexel. Her eyes flashed with a black fire, but her voice sounded only detached…casual…as if she merely wondered about some things.

  “Aisa’s doctor ordered him to drink two carafes of water every day and you knew it. You added Tri-Zan to the carafe on his desk that Peggy kept filled with water for him. You’re the one who slipped that same Tri-Zan into the bottled water to poison Phantom’s construction crew, too, aren’t you.” She didn’t make it sound like a question.

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “When Aisa took over, he found that North Shore still had a supply of the banned rat poison left over from decades ago. He put me in charge of disposing of it, along with everything else. I never got around to it. I could use all I want and nobody would miss it, since nobody was supposed to still have any.”

  “But the well water would’ve made the crew sick eventually, that was the joke, wasn’t it Matthew?” she said.

  Mr. Drexel looked aside, but nodded.

  “Because it was tainted with gas,” said Mrs. Risk. “The water table was slowly being polluted from those pipeline leaks you were supposed to clean up and eliminate years ago. You never finished that job, either, did you?”

  “I started it, but the costs were astronomical. The pipes were so old—the engineers said they had pinhole leaks, maybe even only one or two, that we couldn’t find. The only solution they recommended was to dig up and replace the entire pipeline. I did replace some of it, but there were miles of pipes!”

  “And since you were in charge, you were able to keep anyone at the company from knowing all the facts of the clean-up operation, weren’t you? Nobody but you knew that you’d left it unfinished. And so slowly, gas has continued to leak into the water table at the east end of the village. The leak hadn’t spread to my property yet, and the only people living between NSIC and Phantom’s property are rarely there to notice anything. The plots are so large on my side of town, it played to your advantage, isn’t that right, Matthew?”

  “I would’ve done the job, in time.” His voice sounded plaintive, as if he felt she should see the reasonableness of his actions. He looked up at her. “The gas was taking years to spread. But no, Mr. Garrett wanted everything done immediately. NSIC would’ve gone broke.”

  “Not broke, but the stock price would’ve been greatly depressed, wouldn’t it, Matthew?” murmured Mrs. Risk.

  He nodded, still looking only at her. “The stock price had already dropped in reaction to Aisa’s huge expenditures. I’d gotten several loans, using that stock as collateral. If the value dropped again—I would’ve had to come up with money I didn’t have to back up those loans. It’s expensive, living the way I do. Everybody knows I’m Aisa’s heir. I’m an important man, I have appearances to maintain.”

  Mrs. Risk looked away from him for a moment, the muscles in her jaw working, then continued, “Too bad you couldn’t have—economized your lifestyle a little—enough to buy that land yourself.” She still spoke with that strange intensity of tone that carried throughout the room without being loud. The crowd stood breathlessly silent, listening.

  “Purchasing the land yourself would’ve bought you more time—time you needed to wait for Aisa’s death. Because when Aisa died, your inheritance would not have just paid off your personal debts. You could’ve discreetly replaced the pipelines and still maintained your lifestyle…maintained your—your rightful position—in the village, and in the Manhattan society of which you’re so fond.

  “But instead,” she continued, “you were greedy. In order to stop construction, you chose to kill the poor carpenter. When the police decided the murder was an accident, work on the project continued. Then you were driven to kill someone else, but this time merely broke the leg of the construction boss. Nothing seemed to go your way. Nobody would stop working on that house. Mark never publicized your anonymous letters, either, which might have stopped things. You must have been horribly frustrated.”

  “I was,” he said. “I was.”

  “Poisoning the water nearly brought you success…nearly. You didn’t want to keep murdering people, but what else could you do, Matthew? What else could you do?”

  Matthew Drexel let out a long, pen
t up breath. “Everybody was frantic to get that house built, to have that rock star live here. I didn’t care, myself, until they picked out that one piece of property. I just couldn’t let it happen. But nobody would give in!”

  Then Matthew Drexel looked her quizzically in the eye. “How did you figure it out?”

  “I found an underwater spring flowing through Phantom’s property. It tasted good, which made me wonder why his well water tasted so bad. I had both waters tested. The water from the water table was polluted. Tainted with natural gas. Natural gas isn’t found on Long Island, Matthew. NSIC has it brought in by ship, and then they store it. Everyone knows who Aisa trusted to carry out his wishes, his orders, for NSIC’s cleanup. You, Matthew.”

  “Phantom’s got money, more money than God,” he said bitterly. “I knew that when he tasted the lousy water, he could afford to get experts in to fix it. And they’d figure out that NSIC had polluted the water table. And…and then everybody would find out everything.”

  “You mean, Aisa Garrett would find out everything, don’t you? And disinherit you?”

  Mr. Drexel seemed to shrink as he sat there.

  “But Aisa Garrett just kept getting older,” said Mrs. Risk.

  “That old man might’ve have lived to be a hundred—if…if he hadn’t died just then,” Mr. Drexel said petulantly.

  “If you hadn’t killed him.”

  An angry murmur spread through the people standing nearest Mr. Drexel. He seemed oblivious. Or uncaring. He looked exhausted. Beaten.

  Detective Michael Hahn took a firm grip on his arm and pulled him up from the chair. They moved towards the Hall door and the waiting patrol car just beyond.

  “After Aisa’s death,” suddenly continued Mrs. Risk, as if she’d just thought of something. The detective paused, pulling Mr. Drexel up short. “Because you thought you’d soon inherit the company and the income to go with it, you no longer had a need to prevent Phantom’s arrival. Aisa’s money would soon solve everything. The fire probably seemed to you to be a bonus. A huge stroke of luck.”