Charmed to Death

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “Why would I?”

  “Maybe a van was stolen around the time Brian was murdered.”

  “Yeah, but it was five years ago. There surely wouldn’t be any evidence left by now, even if they found the van.”

  “It seems to me, each time you dream, you’re getting a little closer to the killer. Each time you learn something new.”

  “Seems that way to me too. Oh, and I also did a rune reading.”

  “Good for you. What did the runes say?”

  “I’m facing grave danger. If I don’t use my resources correctly, the outcome won’t be good. But I have the gifts I need. If I use them, success will be mine.”

  “Very good.”

  “Did you ever try the runes?”

  “Yes, my grandmother tried to teach me, but they don’t speak to me like they do you. I have better results scying with a candle.”

  “I don’t. No matter how long I stare at the flame, I don’t get any insight into my questions.”

  “Maybe we’re trying the wrong element. Your zodiac sign is a water sign, not a fire sign. Maybe a bowl of water, with some crystals to help your concentration, would work.” Abby sighed. “I wish we had more time.”

  I felt fear squeeze my heart. “What do you mean, ‘more time’?”

  “I can’t shake the feeling things are happening faster than we think. And I think this is going to be a path you’ll walk without me.”

  The fear squeezed tighter. “But you’ll be there if I need you, won’t you?”

  “Of course, always.”

  “No matter what?” My voice squeaked.

  “No matter what,” Abby said, her tone reassuring.

  The fear loosened its grip a little. I couldn’t imagine Abby not being with me. The emptiness I would feel without her would be unbearable.

  “I’m more worried about you right now. How are you? And how’s the battle going?”

  “Poorly. If you haven’t seen the paper, the legislature overturned the DNR’s recommendation on the level of hydrogen sulfide emissions in the air. The argument was made that it would penalize all livestock operations, including those on small family farms. Our group disagrees. We feel the only ones who would have to modify their operations are the large corporations. But the legislature doesn’t seem to be listening to us.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For now, concentrate on stopping PP International from building the new hog confinement. We have good people working on it. If the radicals would work with us, within the framework of existing laws, we might be successful. Instead, someone’s being stupid.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone slashed the tires on a truck belonging to one of PP International’s managers, the one who oversees their farrowing operation. It happened night before last. Everyone suspects Harley and I know Sheriff Wilson talked to him, but they can’t prove anything.”

  “I hope Bill put the fear of God into Harley.”

  “I’m sure he tried, but I doubt Harley will listen. Edna’s worried about him.”

  “Abby, are you sure you want to continue with this fight? Things could get messy and I don’t want you hurt.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to be hurt. It’ll be fine. We need to convince these people to work within the law. If it gets worse, I’ll talk to Harley myself.”

  “I don’t know if that would be such a hot idea, Abby. Harley’s got a bad temper and if Bill can’t intimidate him—”

  “I can be more intimidating than Bill.”

  Well, she was right about that. I’d seen her stop someone with a look. But I didn’t want her talking to Harley alone.

  “Will you promise me that if you do talk to Harley, you’ll take Stumpy, sorry, Arthur, with you?”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll promise. But I told you: Quit worrying. You’ve got enough to think about now. Concentrate on what’s going on around you, on developing your gifts, please. Use them to find the solution. Remember, the runes said you’re in grave danger.”

  “All right, all right, I will. But you be careful.”

  Before Abby answered me, I heard a loud noise in the background and a male voice talking, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  “Abby, I hear someone. Do you have the television on?”

  “No, it’s Arthur. He’s here for breakfast. Got to go,” she said in a rush. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow when you get home.”

  Click. Abby had hung up. I sat staring at the receiver in my hand. Arthur? Breakfast? My God, it was what? I looked at the clock, six-thirty in the morning. What was he doing at Abby’s at six-thirty? A thought popped into my mind. No, no, couldn’t be. The woman was seventy-four years old. And he had to be at least the same age, if not older. I wiped the mental image away. I’d think about it later. Right now I had something to do.

  In the bathroom I grabbed a washcloth. After looking up the number in the phone book, I dialed it. On the second ring, a woman answered.

  “Police Station. May I help you?”

  Placing the washcloth over the receiver, I said, “Tell Detective Perez to check the stolen vehicle records from five years ago, from the month of November. He’s looking for a stolen blue van. It might have been used in the Brian Mitchell murder.”

  As I hung up the receiver, I heard her say, “Wait, who is this? What’s your name?”

  The washcloth trick always worked in the movies, didn’t it?

  Boy, I hope so.

  Nine

  The colored lights above the dance floor flashed to the rhythm of the music while hot sweaty bodies moved to the same beat. Cigarette smoke hung in the air in gray wispy clouds. Darci’s bright red lips were smiling and her eyes surveyed the room, taking it all in.

  “Isn’t this great?”

  “Well—” I eyed the room skeptically.

  Darci’s head swiveled in the opposite direction. “Oh, look over there. At the couple by the steps. That guy’s a good dancer, isn’t he?”

  “Well—”

  “What about that guy over there? Do you think he’s cute?”

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. And waited.

  Darci’s head swiveled back. “You know, Ophelia, you might have more fun if you tried talking a little more.”

  Shaking my head, I smiled at her. “Darci, how can I? You won’t let me finish a sentence.”

  “Oops. Sorry. I guess I get carried away sometimes, but honestly, isn’t this just the best? I wish Summerset had a place like this.”

  “Summerset and a singles bar, huh? Let’s see how many single men are there in Summerset? Five? I don’t know if that would be enough to keep the place open.”

  Darci laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. And their work boots would scratch up the floor.” She laughed again. “I guess we’ll have to go to Des Moines next time.”

  I groaned. Crud, now she’d want me to party with her all the time. I saw visions of my nice, quiet life slipping away in a haze of booze and men. I groaned again.

  “Oh, stop it,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re going to have fun tonight if it kills you. Something has to get your mind off all the stuff that’s going on.”

  She might be right. I guess my life wasn’t that quiet to begin with—serial killers, weird dreams, and a grandmother who practiced magick by the light of the moon. Nope, not quiet at all.

  Abby was right too. My friendship with Darci was a good thing, a very good thing. And I knew no matter how many times Darci promised me to stay out of it, she wouldn’t. How in the devil was I going to find Brian’s killer and protect her at the same time? The thought scared me.

  Darci reached across the table and lightly touched my hand. “I told you to stop it.”

  “Stop what?” I asked, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m just sitting here.”

  “Yeah, with a frown plastered on your face.” Darci settled back in her chair. “Relax, forget about the runes and the dreams. It’ll b
e okay, really. I’ve got faith in you. You’ll handle the trouble when the time comes.”

  She had more confidence than I did, I thought, while my eyes scanned the bar. In the dim light my eyes locked on a man standing near the bar. He looked familiar, wearing a baseball cap and a shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. Damn, he looked like Harley Walters. Why would Harley be in Iowa City?

  “Darci, is that Harley Walters standing at the bar?”

  Darci spun around in her chair to look. “Where?”

  “Over there,” I said, motioning with my head. “Baseball cap, shirt with sleeves cut out.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see him.”

  I peered around Darci. The man I had seen was gone. Oh well, couldn’t have been Harley. He was too busy causing Abby trouble to come to Iowa City.

  “Hey, look at the guy over there. Now, he’s cute,” Darci said, her eyes widening.

  I looked around the dance floor. “Which guy?”

  “The one with the black hair, red shirt, tight jeans. Ohhh, he’s got a great butt too.”

  “Dancing with the redhead?”

  “No, not him. The one with the brunette. He has his back to us now.”

  Scanning the dance floor, I saw the man Darci was talking about. He had his back to me and I couldn’t see his face. Dark hair, wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. And, yes indeed, his butt wasn’t bad. Perfect, really. He danced well too. His perfect butt swayed in perfect rhythm with the music. It was a pleasure to watch him.

  His partner thought so too. Her eyes never left his face and she’d toss her hair and smile at him. She danced in close to him and grabbed his waist. Soon her hips were moving with his to the same rhythm.

  “Jeez, why don’t they just get a room,” I said to Darci. Glancing over at her, I saw her eyes were focused on the couple too.

  “Wow, he is so hot. And she’s trying hard to pick him up.”

  “The way they’re dancing,” I said, not taking my eyes off the swaying couple. “I’d say she’s succeeded.”

  “Umm, I don’t know. I don’t think so. If you notice, it’s her hanging on to him, not the other way around. Watch and see what happens when the song ends.”

  When it did, the man took one step back, away from the woman. Maybe Darci was right and they weren’t together. He took the woman’s arm to escort her off the dance floor, and when he did, he turned.

  No, not again, not twice in the same week! The man was Henry Comacho. Ewww, I’d been having lascivious thoughts about Henry Comacho’s butt. I’d be scarred for life.

  “What’s wrong with you? You look like you swallowed something sour.”

  I reached across the table and grabbed Darci’s wrist. “We’ve got to get out of here. It’s Comacho.”

  “Who?”

  “Comacho, Henry Comacho. You know, the detective, the one I refer to as the spawn of Satan?”

  “Oh, that Henry Comacho.”

  “Yes, and we have to leave before he spots me,” I said, ducking my head and slinking down in my chair.

  Darci looked over her shoulder. “Too late—here he comes.” She looked back at me. “Sit up straight. Act as if nothing’s wrong. It’s not like he’s going to arrest you.”

  “Maybe it would be better if he did. I wouldn’t have to talk to him. Jail might not be bad.” I felt my eyes glaze over. “Three meals a day, my clothes picked out for me every day…”

  Darci leaned forward and shook my arm. “Shh. You’re babbling.”

  I clamped my jaws together to stop my runaway tongue.

  “Hi, Ophelia, we meet again. What a coincidence. Haven’t seen you in five years, and now, twice in the same week. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, real odd,” I said through my clenched teeth.

  He turned his head and looked at Darci, waiting for me to introduce them. Darci took the initiative.

  “Hi, I’m Darci West, a friend of Ophelia’s,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Darci. I’m Henry Comacho. Mind if I join you ladies?”

  Before we answered, he pulled the chair out and sat. I picked up my straw and bent it back and forth in my hand while my knee bounced up and down of its own volition. Dang, that man makes me nervous. Silence settled on the three of us.

  Darci broke the silence first. “Uhhh, Ophelia told me you’re a police detective here?”

  “Was, now I’m with the DCI.”

  “In Des Moines?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s close to Summerset.”

  I nudged Darci’s ankle with my foot. Comacho didn’t need to be reminded of how close Summerset was to where he worked. He might decide to pay the town a visit.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “And you investigate serial murders, don’t you?”

  I nudged her harder this time. Now was not the time to discuss serial killers.

  “I assist local police anywhere in the state with homicides, not only serial ones.”

  “Oh, were you in—ouch!”

  Whoops, nudged her too hard.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. My purse fell on my foot,” Darci said while she nudged me under the table and glared.

  A man came up behind Darci and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  “Excuse me, would you want to dance?”

  “Sure, love to.” With one last glare at me, she stood and walked to the dance floor.

  I watched Darci dance. She was smiling. And when her partner said something to her, she threw back her head and laughed. She was having such a good time and I couldn’t help but smile myself, watching her.

  “Your friend’s nice.”

  “What?” I asked, turning my attention away from the dance floor.

  Comacho leaned toward me. “I said your friend’s nice.”

  “Yes, she is. And if you try to pull her in on your investigation of Brian’s death, I’ll have to hurt you.”

  His eyes widened in surprise and he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

  “Yeah. Well, I didn’t know you knew how to laugh. And why is the idea of me protecting Darci funny?”

  “First of all, it’s illegal to threaten a police officer—”

  “You’re not on duty now,” I interrupted.

  “Doesn’t make a difference. And second, I’m twice your size. You think you could take me, Jensen?” He leaned closer.

  “You might be surprised,” I said with a confident look.

  He nodded his head, smiling. “Yeah, maybe I would.” The smile disappeared while his eyes searched my face. His eyes broke contact when a waitress set a drink in front of him.

  “Here’s your Cuba Libre, Henry,” the waitress said.

  “Thanks,” he replied and looked back at me. “Do you want anything, Ophelia?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Keep the change, Jill,” he said, handing her a five-dollar bill.

  “Thanks.” And she walked away.

  Henry took a drink and looked at me again. “You’re not the same person you were five years ago, are you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Didn’t think so. Moving to Summerset after you left the hospital evidently did you good.”

  I gasped. After Brian’s death, I’d spent two weeks in the psyche ward, being treated for Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. “How did you know about the hospital?”

  “I keep tabs, especially when it’s related to a case like Mitchell’s.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” I said, leaning away from him.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I understand. When I was in the service, a lot of guys had problems when they came back from Kuwait, the ones who had watched their buddies get killed.” He shook his head. “‘Survivors’ guilt,’ I think they call it. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Wow, understanding from Henry Comacho. Amazing.

  Not able to meet his
eyes, I looked around the room. From where he sat at the bar, Fletcher Beasley raised his glass to me.

  I shut my eyes. This was surreal: Henry Comacho and Fletcher Beasley.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I opened my eyes to see Comacho staring at me.

  “Are you and Beasley joined at the hip or something?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Huh?” His forehead wrinkled in a frown.

  I nodded my head toward the bar. “Beasley. He’s sitting at the bar and just tipped his drink at me.”

  Henry shifted in his chair, looking for Beasley. After spotting him, Henry turned back to face me. “That man’s a nuisance. Not even his colleagues like him. He’s screwed too many of them out of bylines. In fact, his nickname in the newsroom is ‘Weasely Beasley.’”

  “Well, I’ve never liked him very much.”

  Understatement of the century.

  “I know why. I know he made your life miserable during our investigation of Mitchell’s murder.” Henry picked up his glass and drained it. “I’ve always been sorry about that.”

  First understanding and now an apology?

  Comacho saw the shock on my face. “What? You look surprised. I’m a nice guy, really.”

  “You’re so nice that your friend, Perez, calls you the Iceman?”

  He smiled. “It’s a joke. Joe and I are old friends. We were in the Army together. When we got out, he helped me get on the force here. Went through the Academy together. He’s my hermano.”

  “Brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He called you Enrique?”

  “That’s my real name. Henry’s the Anglo version.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence hung over us again, but this time it wasn’t a bad silence. Not a heavy one like before.

  Henry swirled his drink in his glass, making the ice cube clink.

  “Ophelia, there is something I want to ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Last fall you were involved in another murder. You and some reporter from Minneapolis. Want to tell me about it?”

  That rat! He had been nice in order to lull me into spilling my guts. The apology, the sympathy, it was all an act. I felt the blood rush to my face.

  “You really are a jerk, Comacho. No, I’m not telling you anything,” I said, my temper blazing.