The Witch Is Dead

by Shirley Damsgaard

  Aunt Dot’s little family history lesson was just getting interesting, and I wasn’t going to let anything, like food, interfere until I ferreted out all the dirt Abby was trying to hide.

  “More wine, Aunt Dot?” I asked sweetly, and ignored the evil look Abby cast my way.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said, holding out her glass for more.

  “So,” I said after filling her glass, “Walter didn’t want Annie to marry Robert?”

  “No,” she replied vehemently. “Father was dead set against it, and nothing Annie or my mother could say would move him. Finally, Robert and Annie took matters into their own hands—”

  I scooted forward in my chair. “They eloped?”

  Aunt Dot gave Abby a wary look. “No—they had a lovely spring wedding in 1932. I think Father would’ve rather given Robert a horsewhipping than his daughter’s hand in marriage, but they didn’t leave him much choice.”

  I did some fast mental arithmetic. Spring of 1932, huh? Abby was born in the fall of the same year. What a juicy family secret—Abby was conceived out of wedlock. I caught her shifting uncomfortably in her chair as a red stain spread across her cheeks.

  Trying to put Abby at ease, I gave her a big grin. “I think that’s really romantic.”

  “Humph, that’s not how most people looked at it back in the thirties,” she said as she firmly grasped the remaining wine bottles and removed them from the table—a safe distance from Aunt Dot and me. “Tink, would you set the table, please.”

  Guess wine time was over.

  Three

  Oh, Lord, even my eyelids hurt, I thought, as I cautiously peeked at the bright sunshine spilling through the windows in one of Abby’s spare bedrooms. I had the mother of all hangovers, thanks to Aunt Dot’s lethal elderberry wine. Not even the wonderful sandwiches, homemade pickles, and potato salad that Abby served us last night had soaked up the alcohol contained in that wine. At the images of food, my stomach threatened to revolt, so I shoved them out of my head.

  Coffee. I need coffee.

  I grabbed one of my old robes from the closet and made my way down the stairs to the kitchen. Each step seemed to jar the headache pounding right behind both eyes.

  Aspirin. Add aspirin to the coffee.

  Wow, if I feel this bad, I can’t imagine how Aunt Dot must feel. I had a good sixty years on her. She’s probably still in bed.

  I rounded the corner of the kitchen, and there she was. She was dressed in an old flannel robe that had seen better days, and was hustling around the kitchen without a care in the world. And to my bloodshot orbs, her hair looked even bluer than it did last night.

  “Aunt Dot, what are you doing up? Are you feeling okay?” I stumbled over to the freshly made coffee and poured a generous cup.

  “Ach, of course I am,” she replied, dismissing my concern. “It would take a lot more than one little bottle of our wine to get me snookered.” Aunt Dot gave me the once-over. “But I must say, Ophelia, you don’t look so good.”

  A sound suspiciously like that of a sob came out of my mouth. I’d been drunk under the table by a ninety-one-year-old woman. Digging around in Abby’s cupboards, I searched desperately to find something to take away the throbbing.

  “I think you need agrimony, centaury, and wormwood tea, Ophelia.”

  I turned to see Abby in the doorway, her hand resting on her hip.

  Taking pity on me, and tsk-tsking all the way, she crossed to the sink and filled the teakettle with cold water. She removed packets of herbs from the cupboard and set about making the tea. While the leaves steeped in the boiling water, she removed a bottle from the refrigerator, and after sprinkling a bit of liquid on a square of muslin, handed the cloth to me.

  “While you’re waiting for your tea, hold this on your forehead. It’s tincture of witch hazel.”

  I did as Abby told me, and instantly the throbbing in my head lessened.

  “Ohhh, thanks.”

  “Humph. I could’ve told you about the elderberry wine. It may taste like juice, but it’s got a kick like a mule.”

  “Yeah, I found that out,” I said without opening my eyes. “And it feels like he kicked my head. Man, that’s potent wine.”

  “It’s the ’shine,” Aunt Dot said casually.

  I opened one eye. “’Shine?”

  “Umm-hmm. Moonshine. It’s part of the secret recipe. We add a little bit to each bottle.” Aunt Dot laid a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Sister I told you.”

  Wincing, I rubbed the cool cloth against my forehead. No wonder I got tanked. If Aunt Dot had shared her secret with me last night, I might not have gulped down as many glasses.

  “Sit down, and I’ll get you that tea,” she said. “That will help, too.”

  Peering out of one eye, I walked to the table and sat, placing my elbows on the tabletop and holding the cold cloth to my head. The smell of frying bacon now filled the kitchen, and miraculously, my stomach rumbled in response.

  “I’ve read all of Abby’s letters about the wonderful ways you’ve used your talents, Ophelia.” Aunt Dot set the steaming cup of tea in front of me. “Annie would be proud of you.”

  Taking the cup in both hands, I let its warmth seep into my fingers before taking a sip. “I have her journals, and when I don’t understand what the runes are saying, it helps to read the notes she made.”

  Aunt Dot gave my arm an affectionate pat. “The more you use the runes, the more you’ll hear their song.” She hesitated. “I got so wrapped up in telling you family stories last night that—”

  From across the kitchen I heard Abby snicker.

  Ignoring Abby, Aunt Dot continued. “We didn’t talk about you and your life. I’d like to know more about your adventures.”

  I guess you could call getting shot, shut in a box, hexed until you were ill, throttled, and threatened with jail several times “adventures.” I didn’t. I called it “being scared spitless.” And after my involvement with the latest murder investigation a scant couple of months ago, and almost taking another bullet in the process, I’d hung up my snooping for good.

  “Oh gee, Aunt Dot, I, ah…” My voice trailed away.

  “You don’t want to hear those stories, Aunt Dot,” Abby said, rescuing me. “Let’s make plans for your visit. We have a wonderful art center in Des Moines…I thought we’d drive in, have lunch, then—”

  “I don’t want to go to an art center.” Aunt Dot folded her arms over her ample chest and gave Abby a mutinous look. “I told you, I’m planning on having a good time—I want an adventure of my own.”

  I choked on my tea.

  “That nice man on the plane, you know, Mr. Buchanan, the funeral director?” Aunt Dot settled back in her chair. “We talked a great deal about you and Ophelia.”

  Funeral director? Well, that explained Tink’s reaction to him. The man dealt with death as his occupation, and Tink picked up on it. In much the same way as when she passed a cemetery.

  “You told him about us?”

  Aunt Dot uncrossed her arms. “Yes, and he was very interested, particularly when I told him about my fairies.”

  I set my cup on the table. “You told him you see fairies?”

  “Yes. So?”

  My eyes met Abby’s. We needed to fill Aunt Dot in on the ground rules around here. We did not talk about our talents to strangers.

  “Ah, Aunt Dot, this isn’t the mountains. People around here are kind of funny when it comes to witches.”

  She cocked her head as if the idea was totally foreign to her. “How so?”

  “Umm, well…” I struggled to think of a way to explain it. “They see witches as evil—”

  “We’re not,” she said, interrupting me.

  “I know, but there are a lot of stereotypes—old crones in league with the devil—you know, that kind of stuff. It’s just easier if we don’t broadcast what we do.”

  Aunt Dot looked puzzled. “That’s a shame you have to hide your talents. How do you explain what
you can do?”

  How did we explain?

  We didn’t.

  I suspected Sheriff Wilson wrote off my talent for stumbling over bodies as just his bad luck and a product of my overactive and unhealthy curiosity. And Abby? She’d always been careful not to give away too much information whenever someone came to her with a problem. She’d mask her psychic intuition as good old-fashioned common sense. And the neighbors never wondered what lay behind Abby’s amazing wisdom. My assistant and friend Darci had been the only one who ever questioned whether there was more to Abby than met the eye.

  Aunt Dot’s bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “You’re not expecting anything to happen while I’m here?”

  “No, sorry to disappoint you, Aunt Dot. Summerset is really pretty quiet. It’s not a hotbed of crime, and I don’t expect any bodies to be popping up in the near future.”

  “Shoot.” Aunt Dot frowned. “I really wanted to help you solve a murder. Life is so boring on that danged mountain.”

  Boring. Right. Two little old ladies, living in the boonies, one was a medium who talked to spirits while the other believed that she communed with fairies. Oh, and what about their wine’s secret ingredient? Illegal booze. Did they run their own still, or just know people who had one? It didn’t sound boring to me, but now she wanted in on a murder case? The thought made me shudder.

  “Nope, no bodies, Aunt Dot,” I reiterated, and as I did, I sent a silent plea that I’d be right.

  Monday morning, as I returned the stack of books that had filled the library’s night drop over the weekend to the shelves, Darci came bounding in the front door. Dressed in her usual skin-hugging blue jeans, today she had her blond hair piled high on the top of her head. Her mules with their three-inch heels slapped her feet as she strode toward me.

  “Ophelia, I need to talk to you,” she said in a breathless voice and grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the counter.

  “Okay,” I replied, gently extricating my arm and following her. “You’re late, by the way.”

  She fluttered a red-tipped hand in my general direction. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but I couldn’t find this.” She plopped a magazine down on the counter and pointed at it proudly. “Look.”

  “What?” I asked. “The latest copy of In Style? Or is it People this week?”

  She gave me a quick nudge with her hip. “Silly. It’s a catalog for Des Moines Area Community College.” She grasped my shoulders with both hands and gave me a slight shake. “I’m going to college!”

  I was stunned.

  Even though several people in the community liked to think of Darci as the poster child for the phrase “dumb blonde,” I knew better. The “silly, little me—I don’t get it” attitude was nothing more than a big act. She was shrewd, sharp, savvy, and could cut right through the bs when she wanted to. But going back to school?

  “I thought you didn’t want to try college because of your dyslexia?”

  “I’ve thought it over, and I’m not the same person I was in high school. I know how to deal with the dyslexia now. Before, I was so afraid of failing that I didn’t want to try.” She faltered and I saw tears suddenly spring into her big blue eyes. “You don’t think I’ll fail, do you?”

  I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. “Of course not. You’re one of the smartest people I know. In fact, you’re so smart that sometimes it’s almost like you’re psychic.”

  She stepped out of the hug and sniffed. “Good. I really, really need you to support me in this, Ophelia.”

  “I will—that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

  “Will you help me study?”

  “Sure, no problem. I might be a little rusty. It’s been a few years, you know.”

  Darci snorted. “You always talk like you’re sooo old. You’re only thirty—”

  “Hey,” I said, stopping her. “Let’s not talk about age.” Turning my attention to the catalog, I flipped it open and scanned the classes. “So what are you taking?”

  “Just the general education classes for now, but I want to go on and major in psychology.”

  “That’s terrific. Are you going into counseling?”

  “Um-hum.” Darci’s eyes wandered over to the bookshelves. “Ever since last spring, I’ve thought about that waitress out at The Viper’s Nest.” She turned and looked at me. “You remember her, don’t you?”

  “Sure, Janet? Wasn’t that her name? She lived in a crappy trailer and was trying to support two little kids on her tips as a waitress.”

  “Right. I want to help women like her, help them make better lives for themselves and their kids.” Darci glanced over her shoulder nervously and then back at me. “And if you promise not to say a word to anyone, I’ll tell you what I really want to do.”

  I made an X over my chest. “Cross my heart.”

  “I want to open a women’s shelter here in Summerset for women down on their luck. Give them a place to live until they can get back on their feet.”

  “Darci!”

  “Shh,” she said, giving my arm a shake.

  “That’s very admirable. Why don’t you want people to know?”

  “They’ll laugh.”

  “Ah, let ’em laugh,” I said with a wave of my hand. “You’re going to be making a difference in someone’s life.”

  “You don’t think it’s too high a goal?”

  I shook my head. “Are you kidding? If anyone can do it, you can. You’re a master at getting people to do what you want.” I laughed. “I can just see you at fund-raisers—you’ll have the men turning out their pockets before they know what hit them.”

  “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “I would be good at raising money, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, you would,” I said with a big smile, but as a thought struck me, I sobered. “What about the library? Are you going to quit?”

  I felt like a rat, a selfish rat at that, asking the question, but I couldn’t imagine the library without Darci.

  “No, silly. I’ve already talked to Claire, and she said it would be fine if I went to half time, and that you could hire another part-time assistant.”

  A soft groan slipped out before I could stop it. “I’ll have to train someone new.”

  “No, you won’t. I’ll train them. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone who actually understands the Dewey Decimal System.”

  “Humph.” I still didn’t like the idea of a new assistant, but I wasn’t going to let my feelings stand in the way of Darci pursuing her dream. “Life’s full of changes, I guess,” I said reluctantly.

  Darci’s face immediately took on a shrewd expression. “Funny you should say that—”

  “What do you mean?”

  Why did I feel that I’d just walked into one of Darci’s traps?

  “Here,” she said, pulling out a piece of paper from between the pages of the catalog and handing it to me.

  “Is this one of your latest plans to drag me off to some day spa?”

  “No, but a facial certainly wouldn’t hurt you.” She looked me up and down. “Though, I must say the blond highlights in your hair look nice.” She lifted a strand of my long brown hair. “But you need a touch-up. And I like how Nyla has cut your hair this time. It frames your face, accentuates your high cheekbones.” She crossed her arms and studied me as if I were some science experiment. “You could wear more makeup. You have such expressive brown eyes—a little more mascara and taupe eye shadow would really make them pop. And your clothes—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, tugging on my beige linen jacket and smoothing the matching linen slacks. “I get it. I need to put more care into my appearance.”

  “It would help, but you have come a long way over the past couple of years.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Why, thank you very much, Ms. Make-over Queen,” I replied sarcastically. Looking down at the paper in my hand, I said, “Now, what’s this?”

  “It’s next Friday night at the Marriott. We’re going and we’re going
to have a great time.”

  As I skimmed the words printed on the flyer, a feeling of apprehension marched down my back, making me shiver with distaste. Dropping the flyer, I grabbed a pile of books from the counter and stomped over to the shelves.

  Darci followed on my heels.

  “Not going to do it,” I muttered. “No way, no how. So you can forget about trying to talk me into it, Darci West.”

  “Oh, come on, we’ll have fun,” she wheedled.

  “No.”

  She took a book from my hand and shoved it onto the shelf. “You’re going to let me go by myself? That’s not being a very good friend.”

  I wheeled on her, my eyes wide with horror at what she had planned for us. “Darci, I’m not going to speed date!”

  Four

  A quick look at my watch told me that I was late. I’d agreed to meet Tink, Aunt Dot, and Abby for lunch at Stumpy’s Bar and Billiards, owned by Abby’s eighty-year-old boyfriend Arthur. And thanks to Darci’s little bombshell about the plan to drag me to a speed dating event, I was running behind.

  As I scurried past the turn-of-the century storefronts that made up the downtown section of Summerset, I thought about Darci’s latest plot to set me up with a guy. I don’t know why she couldn’t get it through her head that I was happy without one. When did it become her life’s mission to find my soul mate? Ha! Like that would happen anytime soon. I’d already been engaged once, and it had been disastrous. When my former fiancé found out about my “gift,” our relationship ended. He explained he had a real problem with the idea of marrying a witch. Well, I had a problem with marrying a jerk, so we were even.

  “I don’t need some guy complicating my life,” I muttered as I rushed down the sidewalk. “It’s complicated enough. I—”

  “Did you say something, Ophelia?” .

  I stopped short and whipped around. Edna Walters stood beside her parked car staring at me. Her arthritic hands clutched her walker tightly while she watched me with a puzzled look.

  Peachy. Edna, the biggest gossip in town, second only to Darci’s friend Georgia. By this afternoon the whole town would hear how I’d finally lost it and started talking to myself. There were already enough people in the community who thought I was a bit odd. My habit of stumbling into the middle of murder investigations tended to give people that conclusion. That was just one reason I was determined to turn over a new leaf. Another was the danger! Nope, no more murder and mayhem for me. I didn’t care how much Aunt Dot thought my lifestyle sounded like “fun.” I was putting all that behind me. Starting now.