Wicked Witch Murder

by Leslie Meier

  When Lucy arrived at the Stoughton homestead a half hour later, she found Miriam conscious and lying on the couch. “The ammonia worked,” said Sara.

  “I’m so grateful your girls were here,” said Miriam in a weak voice. She was dressed in the sort of wraparound cotton housedress Lucy remembered her grandmother wearing, and her thin, bluish legs were propped on a pillow. With her thinning hair and sagging skin, she looked quite frail and elderly, much older than you’d expect for a woman whose children were still in their teens.

  “Is there anything I can do?” asked Lucy, irritated that Sara hadn’t called to tell her that Miriam had recovered. “Take you to the doctor?”

  “Oh, no, I’ll be fine,” said Miriam.

  Lucy didn’t think she looked fine at all; her arms and legs were like sticks, she was trembling, and her lips were decidedly blue. “Abby, I think your mother could use a blanket,” she suggested.

  “Oh, don’t bother her,” said Miriam. “I’m fine. Really.”

  Abby scurried off and returned with a flannel summer blanket, and Lucy tucked it around Miriam. “Maybe some nice hot tea with sugar?” she suggested.

  “I’ll make it,” volunteered Abby.

  “I shouldn’t be lying here like this,” said Miriam, struggling to sit up. “What will my husband think?”

  “I hope he’ll think that you need to see a doctor,” said Lucy. Sara and Zoe were standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, obviously eager to leave.

  “My husband doesn’t believe in any medicine except prayer,” said Miriam, smiling. Lucy thought she looked like some of the sainted martyrs she’d seen in paintings, pictured just before they left their mortal coils behind and were welcomed by the heavenly host.

  “I know prayer can be strong medicine,” said Lucy, “but sometimes God needs a little help. Why don’t I take you to see Doc Ryder right now, before your husband comes home?”

  “You can’t do that!” exclaimed Abby, dropping the mug of hot herb tea she was carrying. It splashed against her bare legs, but she didn’t flinch. “Father would be furious,” she added, reaching for a cloth to mop up the mess.

  “Oh, dear, let me see your legs,” said Lucy, rushing toward her. “Do you have ice?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, and so is my mother,” insisted Abby, dropping to her knees to wipe up the mess. “Father will be home any minute now, and I think it would be better if you left.”

  “Abby’s right,” added Miriam, throwing back the blanket and slowly swinging her legs off the sofa. “My husband doesn’t like me to waste my time gossiping with visitors.”

  Looking at Abby’s and Miriam’s anxious faces, Lucy knew she’d seen that expression numerous times before. It was the same frightened look she’d seen in the county courthouse, when victim’s advocates tried to get bruised and battered women to apply for restraining orders against their abusers—the same stubborn expression they wore when they were asked to testify against their abusers and refused. “It was just an accident,” they’d insist. “I’m so clumsy. It was all my fault.” No wonder the poor girl was drawn to Diana and her promise of personal power through witchcraft.

  Lucy knew there was nothing she could do here, but she couldn’t leave without throwing out a lifeline. “If you need anything, anything at all, give me a call,” she said. “I’m just on the other side of the bridge.”

  “Oh, same here,” chirped Miriam. “That’s what neighbors are for, right?”

  Lucy was shaking her head as they left the house and splashed across the squishy lawn, past the garden where everything seemed to be thriving. One particularly handsome plant caught her eye. She suspected it was an heirloom tomato, perhaps a potato. The contrast struck her: the healthy, green vegetation outside the house and the sickly woman inside.

  In the car, the girls were quiet as they buckled their seat belts. Lucy called the office to let Ted know she was on her way back to work. He sounded put out, and she assured him she’d gotten solid information about Malebranche as well as some flood pictures. She then started the car and headed down the long drive, sending up waves of water as she drove through the puddles. The rain was still falling, the sky overcast with heavy clouds.

  “Mom,” said Sara, “I think Abby and her mom are afraid of her father.”

  “That’s what I think too,” said Zoe.

  “I think you’re right,” said Lucy, braking at the end of the drive to check that the road was clear before making the turn. She switched on the turn signal, and that’s when the car died.

  “Mom! What are we gonna do?” wailed Sara.

  “Maybe I gave it too much gas,” said Lucy, remembering her father’s warnings not to flood the engine when he was teaching her how to drive. That was when she was sixteen, though. She hadn’t heard anybody mention that warning in quite some time. “We’ll give it a minute and try again.”

  They sat for a while, just as her father had instructed all those years ago, and then Lucy attempted to restart the engine, being very careful not to press her foot on the gas pedal when she turned the key. She was rewarded with a click, nothing more.

  “I think the battery is dead,” she said, reaching for her cell phone. “Maybe Dad can come and give us a jump.”

  But when she called Bill, all she got was voice mail.

  “We could walk home,” suggested Zoe.

  It was true; their house was less than a mile or so away, on the other side of the bridge over Scorton Creek. “I can’t leave the car like this. It’s blocking the driveway. And besides, it’s raining hard.”

  “What if Abby’s father comes home?” asked Zoe anxiously.

  “Maybe he could help us,” said Sara, sounding doubtful.

  Lucy wasn’t eager to encounter Ike Stoughton, but she didn’t see any alternative. “Maybe he’ll be a good Samaritan and help us,” said Lucy, determined to be cheerful in the face of adversity. She didn’t really think it very likely, especially since he knew that Diana was staying at her house. At the very least, he’d scold her for sheltering the witch; at the worst he’d…Well, really, what could he do? He couldn’t attack her physically because he’d get in trouble. The worst he could do was yell at them. That cheered her until she realized that he would most likely take out his anger and frustration against her on his wife and daughter. Lucy gave the key another turn, hoping to start the car, but only got the click.

  She decided her only option was to call for a tow. She reached for the glove compartment, where she had a business card from a towing service she’d used in the past. Suddenly, somebody started tapping on her window. Startled, she whirled around and made out Rebecca Wardwell’s face through the steamed window. The power window didn’t work, so she opened the door.

  “Are you stuck?” asked Rebecca. She was wearing an oversized man’s slicker, bright yellow, and had a soft cap dotted with a colorful assortment of flies for trout fishing on her head.

  “I sure am,” said Lucy. “I think the battery is dead.”

  “Pop the hood and I’ll take a look,” offered Rebecca.

  Lucy did, then hopped out of the car to help lift the heavy hood. They stood side by side in the rain, and Lucy watched while Rebecca pulled out the oil stick to check it, and twisted this and that. “What are you doing out in this weather?” asked Lucy. “Though I’m awfully glad you came along.”

  “I was tickling trout over at Blueberry Pond. Rain is the best time—it gets them excited.”

  “Did you catch any?” asked Lucy.

  “I got a nice big one for my supper,” said Rebecca. “I almost hated to take him—he’s so handsome, and he did so enjoy the tickling, but a body’s got to eat.” She looked skyward. “All this rain is too much. The pond’s just about overflowing its banks.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Lucy, who was fascinated by the idea of tickling trout. “Do you actually tickle the fish?”

  “Yup. I stick my hands in the water and call the fish. I don’t have to call much because they re
ally enjoy the tickling.” She winked at Lucy. “It’s kind of a mean trick, but at least they’re happy right up until the end. There now,” she said, producing a rag from her pocket and wiping her hands. “I think it’ll run just fine. Why don’t you try?”

  Lucy got back in the car and turned the key, and the engine caught, just like magic.

  “I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Lucy. “Thanks so much.”

  “No problem,” said Rebecca, stepping back from the car and waving. “You’d best not tarry, as the creek is rising.”

  Lucy lowered the window. “Thanks again!” she yelled, pulling into the road just as Stoughton’s big pickup truck crested the hill. Lucy was relieved to be on her way, suspecting she’d avoided an awkward confrontation, but Rebecca wasn’t in a hurry. Lucy could see her in the rearview mirror, standing in the drive, apparently studying the garden. Then her attention was caught by the roaring water of the creek tumbling along beside the road.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucy had never seen little Scorton Creek like this. True, sometimes in spring it filled up with snowmelt and tumbled over its rocky bed in a succession of mini waterfalls, but it always dwindled down to nothing more than a trickle in summer. Fall rains gave it a bit of a boost, but once freezing temperatures arrived, it settled into icy stillness. This torrent of brown, foamy water threatening to overflow its banks was a frightening sight, especially since it was carrying all sorts of debris, and not just tennis balls and fast-food wrappers. Big logs, tangles of branches, mangled garden furniture and even a dog house went floating by as they approached the bridge.

  “Mom, this is scary,” said Sara, who was riding shotgun. In the backseat, Zoe was very quiet.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” said Lucy, who was trying to think of alternate routes so she could avoid the bridge. Problem was, the creek wound its way through the hills around Tinker’s Cove, and you had to cross it sooner or later if you wanted to get anywhere, and most of the bridges were older than this one, which had been built about fifteen years ago to replace a dilapidated covered bridge.

  “I’m going to check it out,” said Lucy, stopping the car and setting the emergency brake but leaving the engine running so she didn’t have to worry about starting it again. The wind was blowing hard, and she struggled to force open the car door. When she finally succeeded and stepped out into the storm, the wind immediately blew her hood off and whipped her hair into her eyes. The rain was coming down in buckets; the water streaming down the pavement was ankle-deep. Lucy had never experienced anything like this, and it took all her strength to advance to the bridge embankment. There she held on to the wooden railing and gazed upstream. The filthy brown expanse of roiling water seemed endless; it just kept rolling onward, carrying along everything in its way. It wasn’t over the bridge yet, though it was rising, and quite an assortment of junk was collecting against the pilings that supported the bridge. Lucy knew the force of the water must be enormous, but the pilings seemed to be holding up fine. Also in her favor was the fact that the bridge expanse wasn’t very wide, maybe thirty feet at the most, and they would be over in seconds.

  Back in the car, she announced her decision. “It looks safe to me,” she said, releasing the brake. “We’re going for it.”

  “But what if the car dies again when we’re on the bridge?” asked Zoe.

  “It’s running fine,” said Lucy, releasing the brake and crossing her fingers. “And we’ll be over in no time at all.”

  Reaching the end of the road, Lucy stopped once more. The rain was pelting the roof and rolling down the windows, and the wipers were swinging back and forth at top speed, giving her pause. “Maybe you girls should get out and run across.”

  “We’ll be over in three seconds,” said Sara. “Just go.”

  Lucy took a deep breath, switched her foot from the brake to the gas pedal, and gently accelerated. The car rolled forward, onto the bridge, and she gave it a little more gas, keeping her eyes fixed on the other side.

  Zoe suddenly shrieked, and Lucy turned her head just in time to see an enormous tree in the river, headed straight for them. She floored the gas pedal, and the car jumped forward, reaching safety at the same moment the tree hit the bridge. Behind them they heard a terrible groaning noise, and then a slow tearing sound as the bridge was ripped off its pilings and went sailing off, caught in the leafy branches of the tree.

  “That was close,” said Sara in a shaky voice.

  “You can say that again,” said Lucy, struggling to keep the car on the road with hands that shook as they gripped the steering wheel.

  Zoe was crying. “I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

  “Almost home, baby,” crooned Lucy. “Almost home.”

  Minutes later, they were. Lucy parked the car and they all dashed for the porch stairs. Diana and Libby were waiting for them in the kitchen, where Libby had wiggles and wet doggy kisses and Diana had towels.

  “I’ll put the kettle on for tea,” she said, at the very moment the lights went out.

  “Thank goodness for a gas stove,” said Lucy, precipitating a round of hysterical, nervous laughter. But as she watched her girls laughing so hard they had to clutch their stomach, she sent up a little silent prayer of thanks that everything had turned out all right. If she’d waited a second or two longer before crossing the bridge, they would have been carried downstream in the flood.

  After supper, Diana volunteered to wash the dishes. The power was still out, and they couldn’t use the dishwasher, so Lucy offered to dry. It seemed an old-fashioned, homey thing to do, especially since they were working by candlelight. Bill had gone into the family room after joking that he was going to watch TV by candlelight; he was making do by reading TV Guide so he’d know what he was missing. The girls were there, too, setting up the Monopoly game.

  “Did you talk to Peter?” asked Diana, rinsing a plate and setting it in the dish drainer. “I’ve been worried about him. His place is right on the river.”

  “I helped him carry things upstairs,” said Lucy. “I think his house is going to be flooded.”

  “Poor man,” said Diana. “All this on top of losing Malcolm.”

  “He didn’t seem healthy,” said Lucy. “Is he ill?”

  “Not that I know of. It’s probably grief.” Diana was scrubbing a pot.

  “He wouldn’t tell me much about Malcolm,” said Lucy, toweling off a glass. “Except to say the medical examiner is wrong, that Malcolm never would have attempted a dangerous escape trick.”

  “He knew Malcolm better than anyone,” said Diana.

  “If he’s right, it means Malcolm was murdered.”

  “I think that too,” said Diana, rinsing off the pot. “It’s the same old story. People are afraid of witchcraft, and fear makes them do terrible things.”

  “Don’t you want to help the cops find the killer?” demanded Lucy. “It’s obvious Malcolm was a member of your coven and Peter still is. What’s the point of all this secrecy?”

  “It’s in the ordains,” said Diana.

  “Well, if one of my friends was burned alive, I think I would bend the rules a bit to help the police find the killer,” exclaimed Lucy, giving the damp towel a snap before folding it and hanging it on the oven door. “Especially if I was getting death threats!”

  “I know. You’re right,” said Diana, slumping into a chair at the kitchen table. “Malcolm was the high priest of our coven.”

  “Do you think someone in the coven might have killed him?” asked Lucy, slipping into the opposite chair.

  “Oh, no! All members of the coven practice perfect love and perfect trust, and besides, we’re all one flesh.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We were all initiated sexually by Malcolm.”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  Diana shrugged. “It’s not all that unusual. Wicca, unlike most other religions, celebrates sexuality, and sometimes we use it in our rites.”

  “Oh, my,” said Lucy.
At the same time, she was congratulating herself on refusing to let Sara attend the Midsummer Sabbat, she remembered that Abby had attended. “Don’t tell me that little Abby Stoughton—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Diana. “She’s a novitiate, not an actual member of the coven. It takes years of study before a novitiate is ready to be initiated as a member.”

  “That is a relief,” said Lucy.

  “You disapprove?” asked Diana.

  Lucy was trying to imagine the congregation of the Presbyterian church she’d attended as a child taking part in Dionysian revelry at midnight. It seemed impossible; all she could think of was the black straw pancake of a hat trimmed with battered velvet violets that her grandmother used to wear every Sunday and the way her bosom used to swell right down to her waist. “Look, as far as I’m concerned, it’s your religion and you can do what you want, as long as you don’t hurt anybody, and that includes sexual exploitation.”

  “Of course not,” said Diana. “Wicca is life-affirming and celebrates the power of nature. Malcolm never, ever took advantage of his position as high priest.”

  “That may be true,” said Lucy thoughtfully, “but if somebody even thought he did, well, that could be a motive for murder.”

  Diana’s face was serious as she returned to the sink and pulled the plug, watching the water drain. “Oh,” she finally exclaimed, wringing out the sponge and setting it on the drainboard. “Life would be so much better if everybody was Wiccan!”

  But as Lucy folded the dishtowel and hung it on the rack, she wondered if Diana’s faith in the goodness of the coven members was justified.

  The next morning, the downpour had subsided to a steady drizzle, although the forecaster they heard on the battery-powered radio warned of more heavy rain, so Lucy and Bill took advantage of the break to get out and check for damage. Their house was untouched, even though there were a number of fallen branches in the yard, some of them quite large.