Tales of the Witch

by Angela Zeman

  The other guard gripped B.J.’s arm so tight that B.J. squeaked. To his horror, the first guard turned to him and growled into his face, “You killed the judge, you summbitch! You’re gonna fry!” B.J. fainted.

  Later, B.J. emerged from unconsciousness to realize that he had been lying sprawled—beltless, watch-and-wedding-ringless, shoe lace-less, and with empty pockets—on a bare mattress thrown onto a steel shelf in the Wyndham lockup. He twisted to press his forehead against the artfully etched cement block wall and moaned, “Oh, Joyce, what will happen to me now?”

  “Maxwell, you finally awake? Visitor,” called out the guard outside the barred door. B.J. looked up.

  To his astonishment, it was Mrs. Risk. She stood looking patiently down at him, but said nothing. He stared back helplessly, remembering how he’d refused her help. Remembering how he’d run out into the darkness from her cottage, and how his efforts had killed the judge.

  After a pause, he muttered, “I’m going to be charged for murder, aren’t I?”

  “It’s called ‘arraignment.’”

  “I—I’m sorry about the judge.”

  “Glad to hear it, Mr. Maxwell. Here, I’ve brought someone to see you.”

  “Another visitor?” He turned lifeless eyes back to the wall, uninterested.

  She turned aside and up stepped Brian McKee, Mrs. Bachrach’s lawyer.

  B.J. heard a nervous throat clearing and looked around. “Brian? I—I hadn’t thought about hiring a lawyer, but I guess I ought to. I’m guilty, you should know that.”

  “Oh, I don’t do criminal cases, but uh—” Mrs. Risk prodded him with a sharp elbow. “I came to tell you—” he took a deep breath and flushed bright puce around his freckles. B.J. didn’t notice, his interest having been drawn again to the wall. He fumbled with his glasses, and discovered they’d been scratched sometime in the night. He wasn’t surprised.

  “Mr. McKee has some information that you should hear, Mr. Maxwell,” put in Mrs. Risk crisply. “Please pay attention.”

  Brian licked his lips. “I’m sorry you’re in here—for killing the judge and—uh. Anyway—the painting. I didn’t tell you because—why get you all upset over something that couldn’t be changed? I thought she’d already sold it, but Mrs. Risk says she gave it to you before her cruise. It’s. Well, B.J.,” he gulped, “she really liked you. I like you, too, I don’t care what you did.”

  B.J. slowly rose from his bunk, eyes narrowing. He settled his glasses into place on his nose. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Brian backed away. “That, uh, you didn’t need to feel so guilty for selling that painting.”

  Grasping the bars, B.J. mashed his face between them as far as his glasses allowed. “Oh, yeah? WHY NOT!”

  “Because, uh, she left it—to you.”

  “In her WILL?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “BUT YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!”

  “I know.” Brian looked like he might throw up any second.

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

  Mrs. Risk gently moved Brain aside and stepped forward again. “Yeeeess. And then there’s the question of why you didn’t inform Mr. McKee that you had the painting in your possession, isn’t there, Mr. Maxwell?”

  B.J. gaped at Mrs. Risk as if just realizing at that moment that she was there. He wilted. “I—because I—”

  “You were such a nice guy!” exclaimed Brian. “I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing the disappointment on your face when I told you of the million or so you could have had if she hadn’t sold it for that mangy hospital. You understand, don’t you? Listen, my law firm is awfully upset with me, but I told them what a great guy you are and how you’d—”

  “I’m not a great guy,” interrupted B.J. “I guess even then I wanted to steal the painting. If I’d been really honest, I would’ve told you about it right away.” He dropped his grip from the bars and shuffled back to the bunk. “I deserve to be here.”

  “B.J.?” a soft, feminine voice said.

  B.J. looked up. Joyce was leaning against the bars, looking at him with uncharacteristic tears in her eyes.

  “Joyce? I thought you’d have left me by now. Guess you’ve been right all along, I’m a stupid jerk.”

  “No. You’re a kind, wonderful, upright and honest man, who I didn’t appreciate. I was the jerk. Listen, B.J., listen… I was so full of guilt over not helping out with our finances that I couldn’t live with myself. It ate me up inside, thinking how you were making all kinds of sacrifices for my career that hadn’t even happened yet. Might not ever happen.

  “When you write a book, who knows whether it’s going to sell or not. For all I knew, I was going to be taking advantage of your kind nature for years without any end in sight!”

  She glanced tearfully at the witch. “I talked it all over with Mrs. Risk, and she made me realize that it was my insecurities that made me so mean, so greedy. I resented that you weren’t doing better financially because I hated feeling so damned guilty!

  “It’s all twisted, I know. You probably can’t understand. I don’t blame you…”

  B.J. stood and hugged her through the bars. “Oh, but I do!”

  She sobbed. “You—you DO?”

  “You bet I do. I’ve learned a lot about guilt these last few weeks…and minutes.”

  “But, B.J., you shouldn’t feel guilty at all! I goaded you into this mess. You only wanted to do the right thing all along. We could’ve made it without the money from the painting, one way or another. We would’ve thought of something.

  “Listen, Joyce, I’d already—”

  Mrs. Risk stepped forward. “As fascinating as all this is, you can sort out your joint guilt at another time. For now, let’s get Mr. Maxwell out of here. Arthur?”

  Judge Parmdell came from around the corner, and instructed the attendant to unlock B.J.’s cell.

  B.J. staggered back, shocked at the resurrection. “You—you’re dead!”

  “Oh, I have a few years left.” Judge Parmdell smiled sheepishly. “I was always good on stage. Helps you in the courtroom to be able to act, you know. You’ll find your painting on the desk outside, with your belt and the rest of your things.”

  “HOW—”

  “How did Mrs. Risk manage this?” asked Judge Parmdell. “She’s done more for the people in Wyndham and beyond, than we could ever repay, Maxwell. I’m afraid I’m obliged to do anything she asks me to do.”

  Mrs. Risk gazed at him with a deceptively sweet smile. She added, “Especially since a bathroom WAS an awfully peculiar place to hang a Da Vinci, wasn’t it, Arthur?”

  Arthur reddened, but gamely returned her smile.

  B.J. turned humbly to Mrs. Risk. “I should’ve listened to you, like Joe advised.”

  Mrs. Risk eyed a flushing Joyce. “Yes, well, I can understand your lack of faith in female acumen. However, I hope you’ll both take a new attitude towards each other in the future.”

  B.J., quivering in gratitude, turned to the judge. “Sir, the painting’s yours, you paid for it. Please keep it.”

  “Ah, no. Thanks anyway, son. It was stolen property when I bought it…although I didn’t know that at the time!” he added quickly. “I really can’t keep it.”

  “Then I’ll pay you back.”

  Mrs. Risk smiled grimly. “That’s very sweet, Mr. Maxwell, but Arthur will do nicely without a refund. I hope you ALL now realize that money isn’t the most important aspect of what something costs.”

  Judge Parmdell grinned at B.J. and shook his hand with vigor. “I hope you’ll reward my assistance in this matter with your generous support in my bid for the Senate?”

  “Tchah!” Mrs. Risk rolled her eyes.

  THE WITCH AND UNCLE HARRY

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Rachel demanded brightly, but her scowl alerted Mrs. Risk that Rachel would put up with no conflicting opinions.

  Tactfully hiding her amusement, Mrs. Risk scanned the shop-lined street around them, her eyes brimming with
proprietary pleasure. The May sun, busy with its morning chore of gilding rooftops, toasted their chilled noses and hands. It was one of her favorite early morning occupations, walking the boardwalk that edged the bayfront village of Wyndham-by-the-Sea. The boards under their feet plonked in a cheerful rhythm, Rachel’s boots producing a deeper half-beat behind the clack of Mrs. Risk’s slippers. Both were fairly tall and their strides matched well.

  Rachel was not only much younger, but also more buxom than the leaner-framed older woman. As usual, Rachel wore jeans and a cotton shirt, her mass of curls dangling darkly down her back in a ponytail. Mrs. Risk’s straight hair lifted and snapped like an unkempt black banner in the breezes coming off Wyndham Bay.

  Finally she said, “If gold is what you want, I suggest you buy the metal itself. You’d have something you can physically hold or even wear, and it appreciates. But gold futures? Pure speculation, dear. Possible high yields, true, but the risk is even higher. In the commodities market, one can lose even more than one invests.”

  Rachel snorted impatiently. “I can’t afford to invest in something to wear!”

  Mrs. Risk tried to explain, but Rachel overrode her.

  “Remember how St. Boniface Hospital hired me to supply the flowers for their Gala Fundraiser next week? Well, when I get that check, for the first time since I opened my shop, my rent and bills will be paid up to date, with a chunk left over. This is my chance to earn a little extra, using that chunk. Mel Arvin, the broker, he says—”

  “Tchah! If that man told me fish lived in water I wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Yes,” Rachel crowed in triumph. “But would you trust Harry Fitch?”

  “Absolutely. But what does Harry know about gold futures, or any commodity, for that matter?” Mrs. Risk lifted her face to the sun and sniffed. The yuppie coffee craze had arrived at Wyndham-by-the-Sea and roasted bean aromas wafted seductively through the salty air.

  Rachel said, “Harry sells gold all the time!”

  “He sells antique gold coins. Entirely different. Lets skip our herbal tea and get coffee this morning, do you mind?”

  “Not now. Harry said if I came over early, we could talk. And FYI, some of his gold thingabobs are new. He said he could explain about the world markets. A noble metal, he called gold. One of the three in the world.”

  Mrs. Risk nodded. “Gold, platinum, and silver, but gold has the most ancient history.”

  “How’d you know—oh, never mind. You know everything, I forgot.” Rachel giggled—being in those tender twenties when she could still do it attractively—and because of the giggle missed the sounds erupting from the Dallour Coin and Stamp Collector’s Shop. Mrs. Risk whirled Rachel backwards and around, choking her giggle into a squawk.

  She mashed Rachel against the realtor’s window next to the open door of the coin shop. She pointed a finger at sun-faded photos of Hamptons summer rentals (probably already snatched up for the coming season) and commanded, “Hush!”

  Rachel, ignoring the order, growled, “If you want me to invest in real estate, you’re going to have to be nicer about it.”

  “Listen!”

  Puzzled, Rachel huddled with her against the plate glass and listened. The she straightened up. “Oh, that’s Aunt Margeurite.”

  Mrs. Risk snorted. “And they call me a witch!”

  Because of Mrs. Risk’s eccentric spirit (which Rachel shared) and eerie ability to see what others often missed, the residents of Wyndham-by-the-Sea believed Mrs. Risk to be a ‘witch.’ Most were intimidated by her—an impression she shamelessly took advantage of—but some were intrigued, and some accepting. It was from this last small group that she selected her friends. After Mrs. Risk had rescued Rachel from nearly committing a fatal act of desperation, Rachel too had been ‘selected’ by Mrs. Risk—typically without consulting her.

  Two years into the sometimes prickly friendship, Rachel had begun calling herself Mrs. Risk’s apprentice witch—and wasn’t always sure she was kidding.

  From inside the coin shop came a high pitched, derisive warble, rising in volume and pitch with each breath: “Don’t you dare say it’s unnecessary, you undersized slug. After all I’ve done for you, you owe me a little sweat. I gave you your so-called career. Bought this shop for you, didn’t I? Without me you would’ve ended up—if I hadn’t—Harry! Where are you going? Don’t turn your back on me! You’d still be sleeping in doorways, that’s where! So! Like I said before, for every stamp and coin in this shop I want a detailed description, with value, commentary, and provenance notes. And forget fudging with your usual good-for-nothing quick scribbles. I can’t understand those. Just remember. Nobody else’d hire a lifeless lump like you. Just me. With my soft heart.

  “Hmmph. I’ll be checking on you, too. If you’ve been playing fancy with the books, I’ll soon know it. At any rate, another thing. Start keeping the shop open nights. We need more business to make you worth the expense of keeping you. Great expense, with that apartment I let you use upstairs! I could be collecting rent on that.”

  “Yeah,” whispered Rachel to Mrs. Risk. “At great expense, she lets him live in a that rat-trap efficiency, making him a built-in watchdog twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. No expense spared to keep him from drawing a real salary somewhere better. The guy can’t afford three solid meals a day! And no health insurance. Remember last year’s flu? If Dr. Giammo hadn’t taken care of him for free, he’d be dead now!”

  The voice droned on: “And keep those neighborhood brats out of here, I’m warning you, Harry! And while you’re at it, scrub this place down. It’s getting frayed around the edges. Like you!” She hooted with amusement. “Reminds me. Get that tux cleaned that I bought you last fall. You’re going to escort me to—NOW where’re you going! Stay put! St. Boniface’s Gala’s coming up. Everybody will be there. That old bat, Velma, I heard she’s bringing her sister, isn’t that priceless? Big comedy star, can’t get a date.” She tittered.

  Then her tone changed to a coaxing croon. “Now don’t be difficult. Mommie will make sure you won’t be sorry. Mommie loves you. Would I leave you everything I own in my will if I didn’t? Nowwww, give a kiss.” A juicy sound followed.

  Mrs. Risk plunged through the coin shop doorway, banging the door back against the wall hard enough to rattle the entire building’s windows. Inside, a corpulent woman in a violently-flowered jersey dress sprang back from the slight figure with greying brown hair who she seemed to have been swallowing. “Gah! What the—OH!” Margeurite Dallour’s scowling bulldog features rearranged themselves into a simper when she identified the intruders. Lifting an arm, she patted her tightly pincurled coiffure, exposing a dark sweat-stained circle on her dress. Crusts of face powder drifted to her gelatinous billow of bosom. “Mrs. Risk! How lovely, but startling, to see you so early in the day.” Having swiftly assessed the social insignificance of Rachel, Ms. Dallour ignored her. “I’m surprised you don’t sleep in, mornings, instead of running about like us poor working girls. Naps are so preserving for women your age.” She dug deep in her handbag, then lit a cigarette. “And how do you manage to make black look so, uh, airy on a hot day?” She fanned at her damp, numerous chins. (Mrs. Risk, who was not quite two decades younger than Ms. Dallour, habitually wore long black gauze dresses in hot weather, wool in winter.)

  Behind her, Harry, with sickened eyes, turned away and pretended to straighten pennies in a dish on the glass countertop. Rachel winked at him, which brought a healthier color to his cheeks.

  Mrs. Risk considered the woman. “Regarding your comment about the Gala. Velma Schrafft is a dear friend of mine and a worthy human being. She is not so insecure as to need an escort to go anywhere she wishes to go.

  Purple mottled Ms. Dallour’s cheeks. She warbled, exhaling smoke, “Oooh, getting late. Must rush. We should lunch some time. I’ll call you.” She billowed away like a soiled battleship, the odor of unwashed flesh lingering in her wake. Rachel shuddered.

  The rest of the hour passe
d in a discussion between Rachel and a subdued Harry Fitch about gold and its relative stability in world markets.

  As they left, Rachel announced, “Somebody should boil Aunt Margeurite in all that oil on her unwashed face.”

  Mrs. Risk asked, “Why in heaven’s name do people call that woman ‘Aunt?’ Even though this is our first meeting, I’d heard of her, but never understood the appellation.”

  “Because everybody calls him Uncle Harry. I think calling her ‘aunt’ is a sarcastic thing, because of how opposite they are, but still connected. Nobody can stand her, but everyone adores Uncle Harry. He draws kids to him like a magnet. They’re in the shop every afternoon, listening to his stories about the coins and stamps. That’s where his nickname came from-the kids.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that quite a few teachers and parents are grateful for his influence.”

  They walked on in silence. Then Rachel said, “Harry joined my pottery class a few weeks ago, at Randy Blume’s. That’s how I got to know him.”

  Mrs. Risk asked, “Why does he put up with that—that Marguerite?”

  “Well. Only what I’ve heard, mind you. Every time he wants to leave, she dangles that inheritance in his face. She’s over twenty years older than he is, so he has a good chance of collecting. It’s true, though, about him living in the street. He told me. He was a Viet Nam veteran, and never re-adjusted to normal life until she put him in that shop. Stamps and coins were his hobby, before the war. He said the quiet life in Wyndham and his love for those stamps and coins slowly turned him around. He says he can’t forget what she did for him.”

  “That explains a lot,” said Mrs. Risk thoughtfully.

  “Well, I think he’s earned his inheritance by now. He should murder the old gargoyle!”

  Mrs. Risk gazed at Rachel with narrowed eyes. “Is that your past repeating itself? Be careful what tragedy you wish on your fellow man.”

  “Hmmph. The real tragedy is, there’s the greatest woman in our class. Named Christa. He and she—”