Tales of the Witch

by Angela Zeman

  “But why would Byron kill her?”

  “He probably lusted after her in his heart, and when she refused him, for she was a virtuous woman, he killed her in anger. He’s used to having his way with women, and doesn’t expect them to be chaste.”

  “Oh, puhleeze,” moaned Byron.

  “I—he just paints them, he doesn’t molest them,” declared Allyn indignantly.

  “Couldn’t she have fetched it here herself?” asked Mrs. Risk.

  “No!” His chin quivered. “It was her habit to tell me every detail of her day, every morning. She would’ve spoken of bringing something like this home, even if never saying what it was. She hadn’t the imagination to lie.”

  “Nevertheless—” began Allyn.

  “QUIET!” From a desk drawer the reverend withdrew a large pistol, then shuffled backward until he could lower himself into a chintz-covered easy chair. He trained the pistol on Byron, his young wife’s body at his feet like a sacrifice before an aged idol. “I have judged. I condemn.” His voice shook, the pupils of his eyes pinpointed from shock. “I shall…execute.”

  The blood drained from the two brothers’ faces.

  “Stay calm, boys,” murmured Mrs. Risk. Casually she moved forward until she had inserted herself into the line of fire.

  “May the accused be granted his right of intercession?” she inquired formally, as if confronting a real judge.

  Reverend Floyd regarded her with displeasure. “I know you. Some say you’re a witch. Supernatural beings have no power in this house.”

  “Tchah, not relevant.” She waved that away. “If you insist on judging, uh, Byron—then at least make the trial fair.”

  After a long moment, he shrugged. “Intercede.”

  Mrs. Risk took a deep breath and used the moment to survey the living room in which they stood. The first, most obvious detail she noticed was widespread disorder. Dusty, overstuffed furniture littered with clothing and other items left little floor space in the room except where Zella lay. Behind her, next to the front door, a large leather bag bristling with golf clubs stood propped against the wall. And on a table at the reverend’s elbow, a phone/answering machine sat with the light blinking.

  The dining room, similarly disheveled, could be seen through a wide open arch behind the reverend’s chair. Across its opening was taped a garish metallic banner of letters that spelled out ‘Happy Birthday.’ Further in, on the dining table could be seen a pink box inscribed with a local baker’s name. Mrs. Risk guessed that the box held a birthday cake.

  As for Zella, her body lay sprawled face down on the huge canvas, face to face with her own image, beneath her head a glaze of congealing blood. A stench of copper, body odors, plus traces of paint fumes filled the sultry air. Zella’s fingers gripped the painting’s edges. Her tousled blonde hair mercifully covered her face, but exposed the gash above her forehead.

  “How long do you suppose she’s been dead?” asked Allyn suddenly. “Maybe we have an alibi. We were with you and Rachel all morning, remember?”

  Mrs. Risk hmmphed. “The Reverend doesn’t seem to use air conditioning. This sticky heat prevents an accurate guess without an autopsy.”

  Byron asked, his voice quavering. “How do we know he didn’t do her in himself? I don’t think his beans are all in a row, you know? And look at these golf clubs, Mrs. Risk.” He pointed sideways at them. “This ‘five’ iron. It’s got a little of the, uh, red stuff on it.”

  Allyn glanced nervously at the reverend. “He probably had his clubs on his shoulder when he entered the room, saw her with the painting, was seized with a fit of rage, and—”

  Mrs. Risk stopped him with a warning lift of her palm.

  Byron bent to read a shipping tag and a small brass plate bolted to the bag. “Hey! He got these clubs yesterday! From the Governor, for his birthday. In recognition of services to our state, if you can believe it. Whew. Monograms and everything!”

  Allyn lifted his unimpressive chin. “Hah! He figured it’d be too hard to dispose of a fancy monogrammed club, so he washed it and put it back. Lousy job of washing.”

  “Those clubs were here all morning,” the reverend said gruffly. The gun still pointed straight at Byron. “The weather forecast predicted rain and I didn’t want to get them muddy. I played with my old ones. HE must’ve used one to strike her down. Then HE washed and replaced it. He wanted to escape punishment. But evil will out!”

  Allyn scoffed. “Byron’s never washed a thing in his life. That’s why I can’t live with him. He’s a godawful mess. No offense, Reverend.” He glanced around the grubby, disheveled room. “Not that I can see you taking offense.”

  “Hey, at least I’m not compulsively clean,” said Byron. “Why do you think you’re still single? You scrub everything your girlfriends touch until they leave, insulted. Rightfully so, too. No, if anyone washed something, it’s Allyn, here.” He sucked in his breath. “What am I saying! Well,” he said, recovering himself. “He’d do a much better job of it than this.

  “Actually,” blurted Byron again after a pause, “it’s a stretch to think you’d believe the weather report, Rev. Everyone knows they’re always wrong. Today’s been perfect! No golfer’d pass up a chance to play with beauties like these, especially with them being brand new.” He straightened his shirt collar as if saying, ‘so there.’

  “Excuse me, but no one’s mentioned something I’d like to know…how the bloody hell did the painting get here?” Everyone stared in astonishment at a flushed and irritable Allyn.

  He looked at his brother belligerently. “Despite Hal’s opinion, I decided not to give her the painting. So who did?”

  Byron blinked, startled. “Don’t look at me! You’re so organized I can never find anything of yours, dear brother. I know, well, because I looked for it. She sounded so—” he cast a nervous glance at the reverend. “Anyway, I never found it.”

  “Well. That’s interesting,” said Mrs. Risk.

  The reverend made a bitter sound. “Don’t tell me you believe these buffoons?”

  “We’re trying to swallow your story of the weather man, aren’t we?” asked Byron.

  Mrs. Risk pointed. “Reverend. The light is blinking on your answering machine. Would you mind playing back the phone messages?” She took a step towards the phone.

  He frowned at her with annoyance. “Why should I? No.”

  “Reverend. It’s a reasonable request, under the circumstances. Unless you lied about allowing me to intercede. Did you lie?”

  Sullenly, he stabbed at the message ‘play’ button.

  After lengthy rewinding, they were rewarded with four recordings of a male voice, heavy with static, begging Mrs. Floyd to return his call. Each message included a phone number and a time the message had been received. The times were 8:40, 9:07, 9:35, and 10:02 a.m. As they listened, Mrs. Risk took another step closer.

  “Man, you could use a new tape,” Byron told the reverend. “Still, sounded like the same guy to me all four times. Let’s call the number. See who it is!” he said excitedly.

  Allyn flapped a hand to calm his brother. “That was Hal. Calling Mrs. Floyd like he promised. To talk to her for us.”

  Byron sagged. “Oh. I thought we had a mystery man. Someone she was seeing on the—” he glanced quickly at the reverend and shut his mouth.

  Mrs. Risk moved again. Disregarding how close she now stood to the gun, she bent over the answering machine and examined it. “Your machine clock is behind by an entire hour. What time did you leave this morning, Reverend?”

  “Eight exactly.”

  “And arrived home…?”

  “I left the 16th hole a few minutes before eleven—eleven’s when she wanted me here. She’d planned a birthday—I was anxious to see her—” He swallowed.

  “Did you play here? Bellequot Hills?” asked Allyn.

  The reverend nodded.

  Allyn said to Mrs. Risk, “Five minutes away.”

  “Did anyone see you leave?”
ventured Byron.

  Allyn said, “I wouldn’t think so. They run the sprinklers on Tuesday morning. Hardly anybody plays then.”

  Byron planted his fists on his hips. “If the time’s off by an hour, then the last message came in at 11:02 instead of 10:02. She never played the messages, I bet she arrived home after that, when he did. He’s got to be the—”

  Mrs. Risk cut Byron off with a fierce gesture. She turned to the reverend. “After seeing her…like this…you called—”

  “Enough!” Newly agitated, the Reverend Floyd cocked back the hammer of the gun. His narrow chest rose and fell. “You just want to trick me. Wear me down! Vengeance—” His voice sounded thin.

  Mrs. Risk touched his sagging shoulder. “Vengeance never warms an empty house. Is this how you want to honor her memory? Repaying unjust murder with unjust murder? Let me finish. You promised!”

  After a tense silence, she added, “Won’t you feel better to know Byron’s guilt for certain? What you’re doing is bad enough without risking a mistake.”

  He growled, “Finish.”

  “When you first saw her, you were shocked. It took you a few minutes to recover…”

  He shut his eyes.

  “The painting, right away you knew who had made it. You wanted Byron, to make him pay. Then you used a few minutes more dialing Mr. Rigstone—how did you know his number?”

  “I used the phone book.”

  “That took even more time.”

  The reverend nodded, then hesitated. “But the wall clock chimed eleven while I dialed Rigstone’s number. I remember hearing it. I counted the chimes.”

  Allyn said softly, “Your clock’s a few minutes slow. Look at this place. Look at the condition your answering machine’s in. Your wife was obviously no great housekeeper, no disrespect for the lady, but who knows how well that old wall clock runs?”

  “Well first, look at the painting,” said Mrs. Risk. “It’s lying face up. We can safely assume she was examining the painting when she was struck. The direction of her body indicates she faced the door as she looked at the painting. From the position of the wound we can conclude that it was inflicted from in front of her, with a downward arc. She pitched forward, pulled by the painting’s weight.

  “Reverend. Boys. If her husband walked in as she stood facing the door, looking at her painting, he wouldn’t have known what it showed. He would only see the back. So he’d have no reason to become enraged and strike her. Plus, if she was facing her husband as he walked in, don’t you think it likely that she would have proudly turned the painting around, so he could see it?

  “You’re correct about the housekeeping, Byron. But turn the facts this way: his love of golf must be well-known or else the governor wouldn’t have presented him with a gift set. He left at eight this morning and returned at eleven. Three hours. Nine holes, which is a natural stopping place, can be played in two hours or less on a mostly empty course. So, understandably, he played a few more holes.

  “But he interrupted his game, right in the middle of the sixteenth hole, to rush home to be with her at the time she specified. He must’ve found great joy in his wife to stop just two holes short of a complete eighteen. The course was deserted, remember! Maybe twenty minutes more and he could’ve finished. Twenty minutes is a short time to be late—very forgivable. So he must’ve been eager to please her. Regardless of housekeeping or cooking, I think he adored his wife. And she must’ve loved him very much, too, to give him such a present. Reverend Floyd would never have harmed his wife.”

  She added softly, “He might even have loved the portrait, if he’d had a chance to receive it.”

  A swiftly choked-off cry came from the reverend.

  Tears welled in the brothers’ eyes.

  However, Mrs. Risk hadn’t finished. “Now. Look at her fingers. See how tightly they grip the edge. The painting is heavy. Still, she held on to it when she died. The pool of blood beneath and surrounding her head lies unmarked by any disturbance. Therefore, no one tried to pull the painting away from her dying grasp. And as the reverend knew, the painting points out Byron’s presence.

  “But think. Why would he bring it here at all? If Byron was disturbed enough about the situation to kill her, why make himself the main suspect by leaving behind so obvious a signature of his presence? He didn’t even want her to have it!”

  “NO!” Reverend Floyd’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Byron LeFarge killed her. Byron…or Allyn, protecting his brother…” He stood, pushed the gun shakily towards Byron. Everyone froze.

  A minute passed. Another. Finally, he replaced the cocked hammer, then opened his fingers. The pistol clattered as it hit the thinly carpeted floor.

  Byron exhaled. Allyn hung a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “Then who?” the reverend whispered.

  “The agent. Harold Rigstone,” said Mrs. Risk.

  Byron’s mouth dropped open.

  “That’s ridiculous,” stated Allyn with dignity.

  “Allyn, dear. How many people know—ah—who actually paints those nudes?”

  The reverend’s head lifted. “Actually paints them?”

  “Uh—me, Byron, you, Rachel, and…Hal. Or did you tell anybody else, Byron?”

  “Nope. Who else could keep a secret like that?”

  “Secret?” repeated Reverend Floyd.

  Mrs. Risk turned to the reverend and asked gently, “Who purchased that cake on the table in the dining room?”

  “Cake? My wife did. This morning.”

  “Then she had to have been murdered after 9:00 a.m. That bake shop doesn’t open until nine. Both brothers were at my house, with myself and Rachel, since before nine, until we arrived here. And other than us, only Hal knew in whose studio to find the painting to bring it here. The murderer was Harold Rigstone, by process of elimination alone.”

  “But the phone messages?” insisted Allyn. “That was his home number he asked her to call, not his cell. His house is at least—a half hour from here! If she’d called him back at his house, he couldn’t have made it here and back in less than an hour. He had no time to do that in between any of those messages, listen to the times! And if he’d used his cell, he would’ve blown his alibi!”

  Mrs. Risk smiled patiently. “That’s right. Remember the answering machine clock is behind by an hour? Exactly one hour! If a clock runs poorly, how often would it be wrong by exactly sixty minutes? I’m guessing, therefore, that the times of the first three calls were genuine: 8:40, 9:07, and 9:35. She probably returned home after his 9:35 call and called him back. He probably told her he was coming to deliver the painting. After all, someone was supposed to deliver it before her husband came home at eleven.”

  Allyn frowned. “Yes, but she didn’t know I’d decided to keep it!”

  “So she expected delivery. And Rigstone knew you boys would be with me today. He called me to deliver the reverend’s phone message! So he took the painting from the studio after you left, Allyn, then went home to wait. After Mrs. Floyd returned his call, he arrived here, let’s guess, around 10:10, spent 10 minutes or so discovering that he couldn’t blackmail her—”

  “Blackmail!” shouted the other three in chorus.

  “—killed her, then set the answering machine clock back by an hour. He drove home and called again at 11:02, leaving a recorded time of 10:02. A perfect mechanical alibi. He didn’t know that a malfunctioning clock would be normal here. He assumed the gaps between the calls would be believed, and would let him appear to have been at home all morning.

  “The Reverend’s speeches enhanced Byron’s and Allyn’s fame and fortunes. And you, Reverend, have also benefited, as Hal pointed out to the boys. However, someone else profited. The agent who collected a percentage from every LeFarge painting sold. As prices spiraled, so did the commissions.

  “From Byron’s description of Rigstone’s greed, it would be logical to conclude that he wouldn’t miss this opportunity for more profit. He no doubt e
xplained how your wife’s painting could harm your career, Reverend. He would assume her desire would be to protect you.

  “But he found that the cliché is true…you can’t cheat an honest man—or woman. Your wife, according to you, was meticulously open and honest. Besides, she liked her painting and had no intention of hiding it. And do you agree, Reverend, that it would be characteristic of her to immediately inform you of Rigstone’s blackmail attempt?”

  Reverend Floyd muttered dazedly. “Of course. She would.”

  “However, being not particularly clever, she informed Rigstone of her intention, making her swift elimination imperative.

  “And he didn’t hesitate. He knew what you didn’t, Reverend, that the brothers are kind, good-hearted men. They would’ve despised him for the blackmail and fired him. Even more likely, they would’ve handed him to the police. And he knew it.

  “So it was vital to conceal his blackmail. Plus, consider the publicity: the body of the wife of the notorious firebrand Reverend Floyd, found sprawled, dead, across her own nude portrait, painted by his even more famous client. The headlines would scream. Too good an opportunity to miss. So he didn’t miss it.”

  In a smooth swoop, Mrs. Risk retrieved the gun. She tucked it within her skirt. “A gun, ‘tchah’. It’s a good thing it was never here, think of the trouble it would cause.”

  At a nod from Mrs. Risk, Reverend Floyd, his hand, visibly shaking, dialed 911.

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