Charmed to Death

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the envelope.

  Mother had crossed to Abby’s bed and was silently stroking Abby’s hand.

  When I joined her, she gazed over at me. “Did you find your answers?”

  “Part of them.” I hesitated. “Gus and Brian were killed because of their relationship to me.”

  “You don’t know that,” she replied, shocked.

  I let out a long sigh. “Yes, I do, Mom.”

  “But I thought a serial killer murdered Brian?”

  “Everyone did. It’s probably what he wanted us to think. It’s not the same killer; I’ve seen both of them. Took me a while to figure it out, but I’m positive I’m right.” I sighed again. “Now I have to convince Henry Comacho.”

  “You talked to him? Did you tell him how you knew?”

  “I had to.”

  Mother squeezed Abby’s hand and, pulling up a chair, sat. I moved to the one next to her and flopped down.

  “Well. Well…” Her eyes moved around the room while she tried to think of something to say.

  In spite of the seriousness of our conversation, I chuckled. For the first time in my life, I’d rendered my mother speechless.

  “You’re surprised?”

  “Yes. It took a lot of courage for you to do that.”

  “I don’t know about courage, but I came this close,” I said, holding my thumb and forefinger up, an inch apart, “to being led away in handcuffs.”

  My mother grinned. “I would’ve posted bail.”

  “Thanks,” I said, returning her grin.

  My grin faded while I thought about how to ask her my next question. “Mom, what’s the deal with Harley Walters?” Reaching out, I placed my hand on her leg. “And please don’t say, ‘It’s not my story to tell.’ Harley could’ve been the one responsible for hurting Abby.”

  “I know,” she said, staring at Abby’s still form. “All right. Ten years ago I helped Harley’s wife leave him.”

  “What?”

  “He was drinking—a lot. And when he was drunk, he was abusive. It was the summer you went with your father to Mexico to help him with his research on the Aztecs. I was in Summerset, visiting Mother.” She picked up her needlepoint and slowly followed the pattern with her fingertips. “For some reason, Elaine came to me. Maybe because I’d been a good friend of her older sister—”

  “Elizabeth, right?”

  “Yes, Elizabeth. Do you remember her?”

  I nodded. “Sure I do. She came to Iowa City a couple of times when I was a kid. She died, didn’t she?”

  A look of sadness crossed my mother’s face. “Yes, cancer.” She took a deep breath. “Their parents were dead too. I guess Elaine felt alone, with no one to help her, so she came to me.”

  A look of disgust quickly replaced the sadness on her face. “She had bruises up and down her arms. And one eye was starting to turn black. She had their two little boys with her,” she said, her voice cold. “I wanted her to go to the sheriff, but Elaine wouldn’t, she was ashamed.” My mother snorted. “In my opinion, the shame wasn’t hers, it was Harley’s. I thought about asking Mother to put a hex on him, I was so angry, but I knew she wouldn’t.” She paused and frowned. “We left that day for Iowa City. I found her a job at the university and a place for her and the boys to live. Harley’s never forgiven me for helping her.”

  “Abby knew the story?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. What happened to Elaine?”

  “She went to counseling, eventually remarried, and had two more children.”

  “The story has a happy ending.”

  Mother made a face. “For Elaine it did. Not Harley. He was a jerk ten years ago and he’s a jerk now.”

  I stood and walked to the window. Gazing out the window at nothing in particular, I thought about Elaine’s story.

  “Mom,” I said, turning around. “Does Harley hate us enough to commit murder?”

  “Oh, he hates us and he’s a bully,” she scoffed. “I can see him hurting Abby, trashing her greenhouse, but murder?” She chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t know.”

  I turned back to the window. Somebody better figure out if Harley’s hate was great enough to kill for. Maybe I could talk Comacho into investigating Harley? Reaching in my pocket for my cell phone, I found the envelope the nurse had given me. I’d forgotten about it.

  “Hey, here’s the envelope the nurse handed me,” I said, waving it in front of me.

  “Let me see it,” Mother said, holding out her hand.

  She took it from me and flipped it over. “Hmm, it doesn’t have a name on it. Do you suppose we should open it?”

  “I guess. The nurse said she found the envelope in here. If it’s not for Abby, we’ll give it back.”

  “Okay,” Mother said and tore the envelope open. “It’s not a card.” She pulled out the contents. “It’s a newspaper clipping.” Her eyebrows arched in surprise while she read it. “The clipping’s from The Hawkeye, the university’s student paper. You’re mentioned in the article.”

  “What?” I asked, taking the clipping from her.

  My eyes quickly scanned the article. It had been written five years ago, before Brian’s death, when I still worked at the university’s library. The clipping related how a girl, a student, had suffered a grand mal seizure while studying at the library.

  “I remember this,” I said with a quick glance at Mother. “A student went into convulsions. I was working that day and was the first one to assist her. I held her head while someone called 911. Later, she learned from the doctors the convulsion had been brought on by the medication she was taking for an infection. Why would anyone send this?” I flipped the clipping over. “Oh my God.”

  On the back, in big red letters, was one word:

  WITCH!

  Twenty-Five

  Mother took the clipping from my numb fingers. Frowning, she looked at the word written on the back.

  “I thought you and Mother had been more careful than this.”

  “We have been. We are,” I exclaimed. Jumping up, I paced the room. “I don’t understand this. Who would have this clipping? How did they get it?”

  “Someone who was in Iowa City five years ago,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  I skidded to a stop. “Maybe Harley. Maybe the killer,” I exclaimed, my eyes darting to Abby’s bed.

  “Shh, keep your voice down. You’re in a hospital. Do you want the nurses running in here to see what the commotion is?” she said sternly.

  Ignoring her, I flipped my cell phone open and punched in some numbers, numbers I knew by heart after the past few months.

  “Yes,” I said when the voice answered, “this is Ophelia Jensen. May I please speak to the sheriff?”

  Raking my hand through my hair, I waited for the call to be transferred to Bill.

  “Sheriff Wilson,” his gruff voice answered.

  “Bill, Ophelia. I can’t explain now, but I think you need to have a guard posted on Abby’s room.”

  “What? What’s happened now?”

  “I told you I can’t explain, but if you could send someone over,” I said in a rush, “my mother will fill them in.” I snapped the phone shut. Pivoting on my heel, I headed for the door.

  “Wait right there, young lady,” my mother commanded. “What am I supposed to say when Bill shows up?”

  I stopped midstep and raised a shoulder. “I don’t know—make something up. You’re creative. But don’t tell them about the clipping.” I ran back to her, grabbed the clipping, and gave her a peck on the cheek. While I moved toward the door, I looked back over my shoulder at my mother. “I’m stopping by the cafeteria for coffee and I want Comacho to meet me at the spot where I found Gus.”

  While I waited for the elevator, I dialed Comacho. He answered on the fourth ring and I turned my face to the wall, speaking softly into the phone.

  “Will you meet me at the spot I found Gus?
”

  “Now?”

  He sounded irritated.

  “Yes, now. Why? Are you tied up?” I asked.

  “I’m fishing.”

  “What?”

  My voiced echoed down the hall.

  “I said ‘fishing.’”

  “‘Fishing’?” I hissed. “You’re supposed to be finding the killer.”

  “Hey, it’s my day off. I’m trying a couple of the spots Bill’s been bragging about. This is the second time today you’ve interrupted me.”

  “I don’t believe it. A killer’s running loose and you’re”—my voice raised a notch—“FISHING!”

  Okay, maybe more than a notch. I lowered my cell phone and saw two nurses at the station, watching me. Lucky for me the elevator door opened at that instant. Calmly smiling at the nurses, I moved inside the elevator and hit the DOWN button.

  I put my cell phone back to my ear in time to hear Comacho say.

  “…nothing wrong with that. I do my best thinking fishing. It’s quiet. I don’t have to listen to crazy people.”

  I think he meant me. If he did, too bad for him. I had more crazy stuff I intended to tell him.

  “Look,” I said impatiently, “meet me at the ditch.” Not waiting for him to say “no,” I rushed ahead. “How long will it take you to get there?”

  A long sigh answered me.

  “Forty-five minutes,” he said, resigned. “And Jensen, this better be good.”

  Oh, it was, I thought while I strode down the hall to the cafeteria. I checked my watch. Plenty of time to grab a coffee and meet Comacho.

  The cafeteria was full of the late lunch crowd. I hesitated at the door and scanned the room. My eyes darted back to the man standing by the condiments.

  Fletcher Beasley, dumping sugar in his coffee. Like he didn’t have enough—the counter next to him was littered with empty sugar wrappers.

  I made a move to go, but I was too late. He spotted me and came toward me at a jog, spilling coffee all over the floor.

  “Jensen, Jensen,” he hollered.

  I turned around and walked away from him.

  “Heard your grandmother was here. Tough break.” His voice followed. “But you’ve had several tough breaks lately, haven’t you?”

  “Go away, Beasley,” I said with a quick look over my shoulder.

  He was right behind me.

  Beasley scooted along until his steps matched mine. “Can I get a statement from your grandmother?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, increasing my pace.

  “How ’bout you? Want to tell me about your new boyfriend?” he asked, bouncing along next to me.

  “He’s a friend,” I said without slowing my steps.

  “You got yourself a big catch there. Only kid, mother was sickly, father too busy. Wound up being raised by a governess, a poor relation. Doesn’t your heart just ache for him?” he asked snidely before continuing to run his mouth. “Has money up the wazoo. Family’s a big deal in Massachusetts.”

  “You’re slime, Beasley.”

  I had to think of a way to ditch this guy. I didn’t want him following me.

  “Just doing my job,” he panted.

  “Do your job somewhere else,” I said while I turned the corner in the hallway.

  Glancing at my watch again, I saw that I had thirty minutes before I met Comacho. Maybe I could lose him once I reached my car? If he tried following me, I’d drive around the country roads till he was dizzy. The thought made me smile.

  “Maybe you don’t want to talk about your new boyfriend ’cause you’re worried he might turn up dead too? Or maybe your grandmother?”

  I jerked to a stop, accidentally hitting Beasley’s coffee cup. The cup flew, flinging coffee all over him, the wall, and the floor.

  “Whoops,” I said with a grin.

  Big wet spots of coffee covered Beasley’s cheap suit. He wrenched a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to pat the spots dry. Raising his head, his face wore an expression of fury.

  “You’d better listen to me. You think I won’t find anything out, don’t you? Don’t you?” he yelled. “I’ve known from the start there’s something weird about you. And I’m going to dig and dig until I know what it is. You’re my ticket out of the minors, sister.” His hard brown eyes glazed over. “With the story I’m going to do on you, I’ll hit the big time. I’ll have the respect I deserve.”

  “You’re nuts,” I said, making a move away from him.

  Before I took a step, his hand shot out and grasped my arm, pulling me around to face him.

  “By the time I’m finished with you, I’ll know more about you than your own mother,” he said, shaking my arm for emphasis. “You’re going to be sorry you ever met me.”

  “I already am,” I said and jerked my arm out of his grasp. I took a step forward. Beasley retreated, but I was still right in his face. “You’re an annoying little twit. And a second-rate journalist. It would take more than a story on me for you to hit the big time.”

  His face flushed a dark red. “You’ll see how second-rate I am. Your name’s going to be plastered in every newspaper in the state. Everyone’s going to know what a spook you are.”

  “Ha. You don’t have that much clout, Beasley.” I took another step forward till we were eye to eye. “You’re not going to badger me the same way you did five years ago. This time you mess with me and you’ll be sorry.”

  Furious, I pivoted sharply on my heel and walked out the door to the parking lot. On the way I noticed the hospital staff quickly looked the other way. I didn’t care. If that little jerk didn’t back off, I’d slap a restraining order on him so fast. And I’d call his editor and complain. By the time I’d finished with him, he’d not only be out of Summerset, he’d be out of a job.

  Twenty-Six

  I leaned up against the side of my car, my arms crossed at my chest and my legs at the ankles, while I watched Comacho’s car pull to a stop behind mine.

  He got out of his car. Dressed in the same jeans he’d worn this morning, he’d changed into a T-shirt and wore a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. And the aroma of dead fish hung around him like cheap cologne.

  “Jeez, Comacho,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “you smell like a bait house.”

  “I was fishing. When you’re fishing, you smell like fish,” he said defensively as he approached me. “This better be important.”

  I handed him the note I carried in my pocket and watched while he examined the envelope.

  “Pretty fancy,” he said, flipping it over and looking for a name. “Where’d you find it?”

  “Abby’s room. A nurse found it on the floor while we were gone. She thought it had fallen from the flowers Arthur had sent Abby. But I don’t think Arthur sent it,” I said and stood straight.

  He pulled the clipping from the envelope and, turning it over, saw the word WITCH written on the back. A puzzled look crossed his face. He opened the clipping and read the article.

  Finished, he looked up at me. “Any idea why whoever left this article about you wrote witch on the back?”

  “They have a fascination with witches?” I asked not meeting his eyes.

  “But why would they pick an article about you?”

  “’Cause I am,” I said, still not looking at him.

  “Are what?” he asked, puzzled.

  I looked straight into Comacho’s eyes. “A witch.”

  “Je…” He choked the word back and stomped to the front of my car. He stomped back to where I stood. Shaking his finger in my face, his brown eyes drilled into mine. “You are pushing your luck, Jensen. First you expected me to swallow that psychic BS and now this. Next you’re going to tell me you worship the devil and fly on a broomstick.”

  Insulted, I closed the distance till we were only inches apart. “We do not worship the devil, we fight evil,” I said, poking my finger at his chest. “We don’t fly on broomsticks.” I took a step back and folded my arms. “And one other thing, we don’t wear
pointy hats either. We wear cowled robes.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Abby and me.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, throwing back his head and laughing.

  His laughter stopped when he saw my face.

  “You’re not kidding.” His jaw clenched and he took a step forward. “I should’ve locked you up when I had the chance. You are nuts. But hey, maybe it’s not too late.” He reached behind him for his cuffs.

  I scooted away, putting my car between us. “Wait. Let me explain. The women in my family, Abby’s family, were healers; granny women, in the mountains of Appalachia. We have the talent of tapping into energy—”

  “And shoot fireballs from your fingertips, I suppose,” he interrupted.

  “No, that’s crazy—”

  “Like you’re not?” he interrupted again.

  “Shooting fireballs, making people disappear, that stuff’s only on TV. It’s not real.”

  “Real?” he scoffed. “Okay prove it.”

  Prove it? How can I prove something that can only be felt, not seen?

  I kicked the tire of my car in frustration. “This isn’t to be used for parlor tricks. You have to have a need.”

  “Oh, you have a need,” he said, nodding his head. “Either prove it or I’m taking you back to town for some serious questioning. I stopped and stared up at the blue sky, where a hawk circled.

  Earlier today, I had called the elements, but now, the angry passion I’d felt was gone. Without the passion, I didn’t know if I could call them again. My need wasn’t great enough. And how stupid would that look, standing in the ditch, my arms stretched above me and have nothing happen? He’d arrest me for sure.

  I looked back up at the hawk. Last fall I’d used energy to set pigeons flying and rats scurrying. But I didn’t see any rats or pigeons—only the hawk. Suddenly I had an idea.

  “Okay, you want proof,” I called over my shoulder to Comacho. “Stay where you are and don’t move till I do.”

  I’d never tried this before, but Abby had explained it to me when I was a child. I only hoped I remembered all she’d said.