I knew Henry had a problem accepting my talents, but his remark cut deep. I took a step back. “You just don’t get it, do you? I couldn’t help you so that means I’m a fake?” I narrowed my eyes and stared at him. “You had a front row seat to what I can do, but you don’t want to accept that there might be more to the world than you can explain.”
“What’s to explain?” Henry reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out his sunglasses. “Sure, I gave it a shot, to see if you could help me, but it didn’t work. I get more results dealing in facts, not hocus-pocus.”
The next thing I knew, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the kitchen. The last thing I heard was Henry slamming out of the door and out of my life.
I paced the small space between the beds and the dresser. Queenie lay curled up on one of the pillows, while Lady slept in the corner with her head resting on her paws.
I guess I wore her out with my pacing.
The room Rick had reserved for us at the motel was nice, nothing fancy, but nice. Floral bedspreads covered the two queen-size beds, and a little table, with an armchair positioned next to it, sat by the window. Abby sat in the chair now, trying to read and ignore my pacing. After an uneventful trip from Summerset to the Twin Cities, we had decided we’d stay in St. Paul that night, meet Brandi’s family, then drive to Gunhammer Lake in the morning. Right now we were waiting for Rick to pick us up and drive us to the Peters home. And as usual Rick was late.
I paused in my pacing and glanced at my reflection in the mirror.
“My hair,” I said while I fluffed the dark brown strands with my fingers, “are you sure it looks okay?”
Abby’s eyes met mine in the mirror and she smiled. “Yes, Ophelia, it looks fine. The highlights Darci persuaded you to add are very becoming.”
“What about these jeans?” I asked. Turning sideways and sucking my stomach in, I critically eyed myself in the mirror. “Do they make me look fat?”
“No, dear, they don’t make you look fat.”
In the mirror, I saw Abby pick up her book and start reading again.
“You’re sure?” I fluffed my hair again.
With a sigh, she laid her book on the table. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m also sure your hair looks fine, the top you’re wearing is lovely, and your makeup is just right.”
“Rick’s late, you know,” I said, turning and leaning against the dresser.
“Yes. I know. Maybe he was held up at the newspaper.”
“He could’ve called,” I said, twisting back around to the mirror and brushing a stray hair away from my face. In the mirror, I saw Abby shake her head. “Well, he could of,” I said, my tone defensive.
“Would you please sit down? All your pacing and preening is wearing, not only Lady, but me out.”
Reluctantly, I walked to the bed near Abby and sat, clasping my hands tightly in my lap.
She watched me with a wry look on her face. “I swear, you’re like a spring wound too tight.” Reaching over to me, she placed a gentle hand on my knee. “What’s wrong with you tonight, Ophelia?”
I tugged at my lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Is it meeting Rick again after all these months?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I replied, lifting my chin.
A look of disbelief crossed Abby’s face. “You haven’t seen him since last November.”
“So?” I said, popping to my feet and striding to the window. “Rick is only a friend, nothing more.” I pulled back a corner of the curtain and peered out the window into the parking lot. Truth was, I didn’t know how I felt. Letting the curtain fall back into place, I walked back to the bed and plopped down.
Abby eased back in the chair, lowered her head and studied her folded hands.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” I asked.
She raised her head and looked at me. “No, I don’t. You and Rick shared a very intense experience, a life threatening experience. That can draw people together, create a bond—”
“Maybe, but whatever bond might have existed last November couldn’t stretch over the three hundred miles that separated us.” I leaned toward Abby. “And remember, at the time, you told me Rick wasn’t the one for me.”
“Yes, I did. And at the time, he wasn’t. But now…” Her voice trailed off.
I leaned closer. “What do you mean ‘but now’?”
Abby lifted her shoulders. “Life’s pattern can change. What is true one moment, might not be true the next.”
“And now? What’s true now?” I asked.
Before she could answer, we heard a sharp rap at the door.
Exchanging a look with Abby, I rose slowly and walked to the door. After turning the dead bolt, I opened it.
The light in the hallway made his dark brown hair gleam. His brown eyes were as warm as I remembered them. His face, a little thinner than the last time I’d seen him, wore his trademark grin. And the confidence that had always seemed to wrap around him like a cloak, which had been both annoying yet at the same time endearing, still poured off of him in waves.
Before I could take a step back, he reached out and gathered me in a hug that took my breath away.
I guess Rick Delaney was happy to see me.
Four
After exchanging pleasantries with Abby, Rick whisked us out of the motel room and to his car. I was still confounded by the massive hug, so I let Abby and Rick carry the conversation, half listening while Rick repeated to Abby what he’d already told me about Brandi. Me? I busied myself watching the suburban landscape fly by.
Strip malls, large malls, car dealerships, passed by one after another. And cars were everywhere I looked—cars whizzing by us on the beltway; cars on the entrance ramp waiting to crowd their way into the rushing stream; cars sitting in the packed parking lots of the malls. So many cars and so many people. The air hummed with the vibrancy of the city. It was such a different lifestyle than the one in our small Iowa town, and it was the one Rick had chosen.
After a few miles, Rick pulled off onto the exit ramp, and after traveling a few blocks, turned onto a quiet street. Large trees stood on both sides. And well-kept houses nestled on neat yards beneath the trees’ sheltering branches. It looked like a nice, peaceful neighborhood. But I knew behind the facade of one of those nice, attractive homes lived a couple who had no peace in their lives. Their daughter was missing.
He slowed the car to a complete stop in front of one of the houses. Ever the gentleman, he got out and walked to Abby’s side and helped her out. Together we walked up the flagstone path, and Rick rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door was probably in her late forties, but she looked older. A webbing of fine lines gathered around her eyes, and deep creases bracketed her mouth on both sides. Her hair, blond with gray streaks, was dull and flat. Lifeless.
But it was her eyes that caught my attention. They were the saddest eyes I’d ever seen, and when they traveled from Abby and me to Rick, I saw the light of hope flicker in their depths.
“Hi, Joan,” Rick said, giving her a quick hug. Turning, he ushered Abby and me through the door. “I’d like you to meet Abigail McDonald and her granddaughter, Ophelia Jensen.”
Abby quickly stepped forward and took the woman’s hand in both of hers. “Hello, Joan. It’s nice to meet you.”
From where I stood, slightly behind Abby, my senses picked up Abby’s energy. She was sending a current through their joined hands and into Joan. She was sharing her strength with the poor woman.
Joan’s face seemed to brighten as Abby held her hand, the lines around her mouth less pronounced. She didn’t speak for a moment, but then smiled at Abby. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. McDonald.”
“Please call me Abby,” she answered, releasing the woman’s hand.
Joan’s eyes turned to me. “Hi, Joan,” I said, lightly shaking her hand.
She acknowledged me with a slight bob of her head. “Come in,” she said, and waved us into the living room on her l
eft.
The room looked like a picture out of a folksy decorating magazine. Country cute was everywhere. Dried flower arrangements sat on the end tables next to bowls of potpourri. Candles in heavy jars flanked the mantel above the fireplace, and I could smell the faint aroma of apples and cinnamon.
Set between the candles, in a prominent place, was a picture of a young woman. Walking over, I studied it.
The young woman held a graduation certificate tightly in one hand. I couldn’t see much of her hair beneath the mortarboard she wore, but it looked to be a strange orange color. Underneath the mortarboard and the orange hair, her face wore a totally bored expression, not a glimmer of a smile, not a look of pride at having completed high school. It was almost as if she posed in the traditional graduation garb to humor her parents.
Joan joined me at the mantel. “That’s Brandi. The picture was taken at graduation. In May.” She traced a finger slowly down the side of the frame. “We were so proud, watching her receive her diploma. We wanted her to go to college, but she wasn’t interested. Instead, she took the money her grandmother had given her for her education and left. She said she needed to find herself, before she made any decisions about the rest of her life. Within a week of moving out, she was living with that group at Gunhammer Lake.”
A slow tear crept down Joan’s face, and she absent-mindedly brushed it away. Her eyes left the photograph and traveled to mine. “Can you help us find her?” she asked in a whisper.
I felt my heart squeeze at the pain and desperation in her voice. I thought of my failure in locating Henry’s missing man, and Henry’s reaction. Is this what he faced every day on the job? Worried families frantic to find their missing loved ones? If so, no wonder he kept the wall of ice wrapped around him. He had to. No one could survive serving witness to this kind of distress on a daily basis.
“I don’t know, Joan. I—”
“Ophelia, Joan,” Rick interjected, “why don’t you sit down? And Joan, you can tell Ophelia and Abby about Brandi.”
Joan nodded and motioned to the couch. I took my place next to Abby, with Joan and Rick sitting across the coffee table from us in a couple of wing-back armchairs.
“I don’t know where to start,” Joan said, twisting her hands in her lap.
“When was the last time you heard from her?” Abby asked gently.
“About a month ago. She called from a pay phone near the lake. She sounded upset, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Just things weren’t turning out like she expected them to.”
“In what way?” I leaned forward.
Joan chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before she spoke. “At first she’d seemed happy with PSI—”
“PSI? Isn’t that how some refer to paranormal phenomena?” I asked.
Joan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I think so. She mentioned something about how it was an acronym. The letters stand for Psychic Study Institute. Until Brandi got involved with this group, I never paid much attention to that kind of thing.”
“Rick said you found books in Brandi’s room about spiritualism. Did Brandi believe she was psychic?” Abby asked.
“Oh heavens, no.” Joan’s tone was emphatic. “Her father wouldn’t have stood for such nonsense.” A slight blush crept up her face when she realized what she’d said.
Abby’s eyes slid over to mine and one eyebrow lifted. Hmm, the father thought psychic talent was nonsense, yet they were asking two psychics for help?
My eyes moved from Abby’s to Joan, sitting in the chair. “Does your husband know that you’ve asked for our help, Joan?” I asked.
Joan’s hands balled into tight fists. “He knows you’re going to Gunhammer Lake to investigate Brandi’s disappearance.”
“Ben’s in Duluth right now on an overnight business trip,” Rick interjected. “We thought it would be best if you and Abby met with Joan alone.”
Abby fixed a look on Rick. “How much have you told her about us?”
“The truth—that you’re both very talented psychics.” Unspoken words passed between Abby and Rick.
Rick had left out that we were witches. Wise choice on his part. Joan was so anxious to find her daughter that she was willing to believe in anything. But if her husband had problems believing that psychic abilities existed, how would he feel about two women who were not only psychics, but witches, trying to find their missing daughter?
“Let’s get back to how Brandi sounded the last time you talked to her,” Abby said calmly. “She was upset?”
“Yes.”
“But prior to that conversation, she’d sounded happy when she called you?”
“Yes. Happy and excited. She didn’t go into details, but she said Jason—Jason Finch, the leader of the group,” Joan explained, “was amazing. He could do things she’d never imagined.”
“Like what?” Abby asked.
“She didn’t go into details, but she hinted that he could talk to the spirits, make things disappear, read minds. I guess things that most psychics can do,” Joan said, staring down at her lap.
Abby glanced toward the window. I knew what she was thinking. Although psychic talent covers a lot of different abilities, I’d never heard of anyone who could make something disappear. Talk to spirits, read minds, yeah, but make things disappear? Sounded to me like a parlor trick to pull in the gullible.
“You mentioned, Joan, that Brandi had money from her grandmother. Do you know if she was giving any of it to the group?” I asked, leaning forward.
Joan shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. We don’t have access to her bank account, so I really don’t know.”
I turned to Rick, who had been silent as we questioned Joan. “What did you learn about the group’s finances while you were at the lake?”
“Not much. On the surface, they seem to be financially independent and they give quite a bit of money back to the community.” Rick leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “It’s an economically depressed area up there, and their generosity has endeared them to the people. One of the reasons people won’t talk about them. My instincts tell me this whole deal isn’t about money.”
“What then?” I felt perplexed. I knew Rick believed if you followed the money, you’d find the solution.
His eyes twinkled and he grinned. “I’m counting on you finding that out.”
I rolled my eyes and hoped I earned his faith.
“Tell me more about the group,” I said, instead of sharing my thoughts. “How many people and where are they living?”
“I don’t know for sure; about ten, I think. Most of them spend all their time at the compound. The most visible ones are Juliet, Jason’s wife, and a woman they call Winnie. Winnie’s the one I saw the most. She appears to be some kind of a gofer for Jason and Juliet. Short, dumpy woman, can’t miss her. And then there’s a young girl. I heard she’s Jason and Juliet’s foster daughter, but I never saw her. Her name is Tink.”
Who in their right mind would name a kid Tink?
“Did Brandi ever mention any of these people?” Abby asked.
“She talked about Jason, of course, and Juliet. She held Jason in awe, but seemed close to Juliet. And when she talked about this woman, Winnie, she made disparaging remarks. She didn’t like her.”
“What about the foster daughter?” I asked. “This Tink? Did she mention her?”
Joan smoothed her hands over the arms of her chair. “Once or twice. She described the girl as ‘spooky.’”
“In what way?”
Joan lifted a hand. “I don’t know. She never explained. Our phone conversations were always short. The group disapproved of contact with the members’ families, so Brandi had to be careful about calling home.”
Abby stood abruptly. “Do you have any other pictures of Brandi?”
Joan also stood. “Of course. The photo albums are in the den. This way.”
Abby and I followed her out of the living room and down the hall. She stopped in front of a set of d
ouble doors and swung them open.
“The albums are in here,” she said.
Abby paused at the doorway and laid a hand on Joan’s arm. “Would you mind if we looked at them alone?”
Joan’s eyebrows knitted into a small frown. “No. They’re all on the bottom row,” she said, pointing to the bookcases lining the walls behind the desk.
“Thank you,” Abby said, smiling at her.
Passing Joan, I followed Abby in. It was definitely her husband’s room. Very tweedy and masculine. No frou-frou or flowers anywhere. And the air still carried the faint aroma of cigar smoke.
Abby and I each grabbed a photo album, sat down, placed them on the desk and opened them. Mine began with the first months of Brandi’s life. As I flipped through the pages, I saw her change from a chubby-cheeked toddler to a little girl in pink dresses with matching ribbons in her hair. Her smile went from toothless to bright and innocent.
“Cute kid,” I mumbled as I flipped through the pages showing Brandi as a gawky adolescent.
“What, dear?” Abby asked.
“I said ‘cute kid.’ It’s hard to imagine these are pictures of the same girl as the one on the mantel. The one with the orange hair.”
“Take a look at these.”
Abby pushed the album toward me and we switched albums. The photos on the first few pages were similar to those in the album I’d already seen. But about halfway through they began to change. Brandi wasn’t a wide-eyed little tot anymore, or a young girl on the edge of womanhood. Her smile changed to a sullen grimace. The pink dresses had morphed into ripped black T-shirts and low-slung black jeans. An eyebrow ring hung above eyes ringed in black eyeliner. And the hair—in the last picture it looked like Brandi had used Easter egg dye to color it. Strands the colors of candy pink, robin’s-egg blue, and lime green stuck up in stiff spikes from her scalp.
I glanced at Abby. She stood, her head tipped back and her eyes closed as she ran her hand over the slick surface of the photos.
“Anything?” I said, watching her.
“Umm?”
The Trouble with Witches Page 4