Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries

by Angela Pepper

  “So, it was an accident?”

  “We won't know for sure until we get the coroner's report. Our best guess is he must have slipped and fallen while trying to get a better view. Or maybe he was taking a leak. I don't know. Sometimes you never find out.”

  “Oh.” She looked up at the ceiling. Two fly-catching strips hung from the ceiling, both dotted with dead bugs. “What about our art supplies?” That was the question she'd been asking before he'd interrupted to assure her the ranch was safe. “We left all our stuff up there on the mountain. Paints, canvas, everything.”

  “Of course you did.” He rubbed his chin. “I'll have someone gather your personal effects and drop them by the ranch, so you don't have to go back up there again.”

  “But are we allowed to go back there?”

  “Why would you want to?”

  For the view, she wanted to say but didn't. Now the view was fixed in her mind, and she'd see it whenever she looked at the paintings of the famous view. Red mountains over a valley with a meandering river and a dead body.

  She ducked her head and studied the room's carpet. It was stained. A potted cactus stood in the corner. Someone had hung a red ball cap on the arm of the cactus, as though it was a hat rack. The cactus had been getting either too much water or too little. It was sagging, about to drop the ball cap from its arm.

  Someone knocked on the room's door frame. “Taxi's here,” said a woman.

  “Off you go,” the officer said to Katie.

  She jumped up so quickly, she nearly lost her balance and fell against the potted cactus. She steadied herself with the arm of her chair as she glanced behind her. She'd been so sweaty and nervous, she'd left a dark patch of moisture on the blue vinyl chair. The dark shape's edges receded, shrinking as she watched. That morning, she'd dressed for the snow—in multiple layers of half the clothes she'd packed. She'd been too horrified by the discovery of Clive's body to think about removing layers. Now she was probably dehydrated, in addition to being in shock.

  “Taxi's waiting,” the woman said gently.

  “Off you go,” the bullet-shaped officer repeated.

  Deja vu washed over Katie. She followed the woman from the door of the private room, all the way to the front exit of the sheriff's office. She didn't look up or around. She kept her eyes on the backs of the woman's sensible pumps. The administrator wore pantyhose, and she had a bandage on her left heel.

  The woman patted her on the back. “You're going to be okay, dear,” she said in a reassuring tone.

  Katie knew she should thank the woman for her kindness, but she had no words.

  The taxi was running, polluting the clean New Mexico air. There was no snow on the ground here at the lower elevation.

  Lee was already sitting in the back seat. He leaned over and lowered the window. “Tilda and Holly both left an hour ago,” Lee said. It was implied that he could have gone with them but chose to stay for her.

  She climbed in next to Lee.

  The driver glanced back. “You two again,” he said. It was the same loquacious, silver-hair-dappled man who'd given them a ride from the airport two days earlier. “Back up to the ranch? Are they expecting you this time?”

  Katie looked at Lee's face for an answer.

  “I don't know,” Lee said, to both her and the driver. “But I would need to pick up my bags before I leave town. I don't have my ID on me.”

  “To Spirit Ranch,” Katie told the driver.

  The vehicle began moving.

  “And then keep the meter running so you can take us to the airport,” Katie said.

  “As you wish,” said the driver.

  Lee turned to her. “You're leaving?”

  “You're not?”

  “Why would I leave?”

  “A man died. We need to let Tilda and Marco grieve.”

  Lee turned in his seat to face her. His paint-splatter eyes looked bigger than before, hungrier to take her in. “You didn't mention Holly just now. Do you think she had something to do with his accident?”

  “Do you?”

  “You heard the way he talked to her. And you've seen her temper. Maybe she finally snapped. It happens sometimes. A person takes heaps of abuse for years and years, and then one day, there's the final straw that breaks the camel's back.”

  “Sure,” she said carefully. “Let's not forget, he went after you pretty hard last night, too.”

  Lee pulled a face. “That was nothing. Clive was just joking around. He likes to give us young artists a hard time. The more he picks on you, the more it means he thinks you're worthy of his attention.”

  Kate nodded. Was telling someone they're full of crap a sign of respect? Not where she came from.

  “Too bad he's gone now,” Lee said wistfully. “I wonder who'll manage Tilda's career now. This could be a great opportunity for someone.”

  “Like you?”

  Lee scoffed. “I don't have the business acumen. Maybe in a few years.”

  Katie crossed her arms and turned to look out the taxi window. The driver could hear everything they were saying. She didn't want to talk about a dead man right now, especially not with Lee Elliot. And if there was more to Clive's accident than there appeared to be, it was up to the police to determine. They had forensics and all sorts of tools. Plus they had a body. Poor Darlene's body might never be found. Her parents might never get closure.

  Lee tapped her on the arm gently. “Katie, do you know something?”

  “No more than you,” she said. “You heard the police. It was an accident. Mr. Kingfisher had no business being out there on the mountain. Maybe it was suicide. I don't know. He didn't seem terribly happy to me. Or, if you want to play detective, you should talk to Mr. Kingfisher's girlfriend.”

  “Clive had a girlfriend?”

  She shivered. A cold chill had passed through, even though the taxi's windows were up and the heater was on.

  She corrected herself. “I meant to say Mr. Kingfisher's wife. I don't know anything about the man's business, other than what Marco said about him staying at the ranch whenever his wife was mad at him. If anyone pushed Clive over a cliff, it was probably his wife.” Especially if she knew he was going to the ranch specifically to hit on young college girls.

  “You've put a lot of thought into this,” Lee said.

  She snorted. The cold chill passed over her again, and she shivered uncontrollably. Had she put a lot of thought into how to murder Clive Kingfisher? She could certainly see it clearly inside her mind.

  Chapter 14

  The gate was open, and the taxi drove them up to the door.

  Neither of them had their wallets to pay, as they'd gone with the police to the station directly from the body site. Lee asked the driver to wait while he ran inside the house for his bank card.

  “Hold up,” the driver said. “I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Is it true that Clive Kingfisher is dead?”

  Lee and Katie exchanged an uncertain look. Were they allowed to tell people? Neither had thought to ask at the sheriff's office.

  “He's dead,” Lee said.

  “But don't say anything to anyone,” Katie said. “It just happened today, and we don't know if his next of kin has been notified.”

  “I happen to know Mrs. Kingfisher is in Mexico,” the driver said. “The real Mexico, not New Mexico. I drove her to the airport myself five days ago.”

  Lee and Katie exchanged another look. If Clive's wife left town the previous Thursday, why did he show up at the ranch on Sunday night, claiming she'd kicked him out of the house after a fight?

  “Don't worry about me spilling the beans,” the driver said. “I'll keep the news of Clive Kingfisher's untimely demise under my hat. In fact, I have a hat in the car, and I'll put it on so I have somewhere to keep this information.” He rubbed his stubbly white beard. “Do you mind telling me how he passed?”

  Lee answered, “He fell. It was an accident. Nothing anyone could have done to prevent it.”


  The driver gave them a sidelong look. “Most folks fall and break a hip or an ankle. Where did he fall from?”

  Katie pressed her hand over Lee's mouth quickly. “We shouldn't say,” she said. “I'm so sorry. Does Clive have children? I'd hate to have them hear about it the wrong way.”

  “Ain't no right way to hear about something like that,” the driver said. “But no, he didn't have any kids. Not as far as I know.”

  Lee took a step toward the snow-covered adobe house. “Just give me a minute to grab my wallet from inside.”

  The driver waved his hand. “The fare's on me today, folks. You've had a rough one.”

  “But you deserve to get paid,” Lee said.

  The driver grinned. “All right, then. I'll charge you double the next time I see you folks. Have a great stay in New Mexico.” With a cheerful wave, he jumped into the cab and drove off before they could force money on him.

  “What a nice man,” Lee said. “People can be so kind sometimes. It really—” He cut himself off with what sounded like a suppressed sob. He cleared his throat. “We've had quite the day. Shall we go inside?”

  Katie stood in the snow and sagebrush, reluctant to go inside. Going inside would propel her forward through time, and everything would start rushing by, out of control. She wanted everything to freeze, to “hold on a gosh-darned minute”—as her mother would always say when she was getting the camera ready to take a picture of another family gathering.

  Oh, the irony. She'd come here to the mountain resort to get away from death. Travel by plane was more expensive than by bus, but she'd chosen to spend the airfare specifically because of the superstition about the speed at which ghosts travel. She'd tried so hard to shake death, yet it had found her anyway. Well, technically, it had found Clive Kingfisher, survived by a vacationing wife and no kids.

  The sound of the departing taxi faded to nothing. Lee was still in the front yard, kicking at the melting snow.

  The big wooden door of the house abruptly swung open, and Tilda came running out to greet them with open arms. She stood barefoot in the snow, her skin a painful-looking red, as she hugged Katie and then Lee.

  “My artist babies,” Tilda said, holding Lee's face between her pointed fingers. “You wouldn't leave me here by myself, would you?”

  Lee gave Katie a told-you-so look. He hugged Tilda a second time before steering her toward the door. “Ms. Onassis, I'm going to stay here as long as you need me,” Lee said. “I'm at your service. Your beck and call. I'll do anything for you.”

  Tilda crossed the threshold and glanced back at Katie. “And you, sweetheart?”

  Katie wondered if she was being called sweetheart because Tilda had already forgotten her name.

  “I'll stay,” Katie said. “If that's what you want.”

  “Good, good, good,” Tilda said.

  Inside, the social room was sweltering hot from a blazing fire. Marco crouched at the hearth, fortifying the flames with even more dry wood. His movements were slow and deliberate.

  Holly sat on the edge of a wood chair, staring straight ahead and wringing a dish towel in her hands. Her mismatched hairline looked askew above her stunned expression. She was sitting completely still, but breathing heavily, all in the upper chest. Her dark-blond hair was even more disheveled than usual. An elastic band at the top of her head held a handful of hair, twisted in on itself. Katie felt a pain in her chest, an anxiousness, just from looking at the distraught housekeeper.

  Tilda, however, appeared calm and radiant, as though she'd been born expecting tragedies like this. She'd changed clothes since that morning. Instead of her usual paint-spattered men's shirt, she wore a loose-fitting black dress over her angular frame, cinched in at her tiny waist with a silver and turquoise chain belt. Her face was free of makeup, and her pale-red eyebrows were so fair without eyebrow shadow, she looked almost alien.

  Tilda took Katie's hand. “Sweetheart, are you Jewish?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither. But will you sit shiva with me?” She looked over at Lee, who was hovering behind Marco at the hearth. “That's what it's called, right?”

  “I'm familiar with the practice,” Lee said. “We will stay with you and sit shiva, Tilda. We're not going anywhere.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Holly jumped up, tossed her twisted dish towel over her shoulder, and raced to open the door.

  It was the female police officer who had been the first to interview Katie at the police station. She was a sturdy-looking woman, all rawhide, like a dog bone. Tanned face and short hair that was neither blond nor brown. She stamped the snow off her boots and came inside.

  “You're all here,” she said dryly. “This saves me the trouble of having to hunt you all down.”

  Marco, who'd been tending the fire, stood and faced her. “Why would you have to hunt us down?” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets, rotating his arms to show the dimples at his chubby elbows. As radiant and ready as his mother appeared, Marco looked boyish and younger than his age of twenty-eight.

  The police officer gave the younger redheaded Onassis a tense smile, her straight teeth a lighter shade of rawhide than her cheeks. “Just a figure of speech. I'm sorry to burst in on you folks like this, but I have some follow-up questions.”

  “It's no problem,” Lee said, gesturing toward an empty sofa. “Have a seat. Holly and I will rustle up some refreshments.” He placed a hand on Holly's shoulder. “Isn't that right, Holly?” The housekeeper nodded meekly, and the two left for the kitchen.

  The visitor, who introduced herself as Officer Kendall, took a seat, her utility belt and equipment squeaking with her movements. Tilda and her son sat across from her.

  Katie wanted to sneak away to her room and avoid the interaction, but she calmly took a seat in the reclining chair. As she sat, she remembered Clive sitting in the same chair the night before. Despite the sweltering heat from the roaring fireplace, she shivered. The man had been there with them yesterday, and now he was a cold body on the way to the coroner.

  Officer Kendall calmly explained that she was just following up on some details that had arisen in the last hour.

  Tilda demanded, “Where's Mrs. Kingfisher? That woman hated Clive almost as much as she hated me. I don't know why she didn't ask him for a divorce.”

  “Mrs. Kingfisher is in Mexico with her family for the holidays. She left last week. She'll be flying back shortly to make arrangements.”

  Tilda snorted. “Was she even surprised?”

  Officer Kendall frowned. “When I spoke to her on the phone, she sounded strange, but people experience loss in different ways.”

  “So, she has an iron-clad alibi,” Tilda said. “How convenient.”

  “Mom, it was an accident,” Marco said, putting his arm around his mother.

  “Oh. Right.” She blinked and adjusted the top of her black dress. It had a wide neck, and had fallen aside, exposing her pale freckled shoulder. “An accident,” she repeated.

  Marco chuckled. “I can see why the police have questions, though.”

  Officer Kendall leaned forward. “And what makes you say that?”

  Marco stopped laughing and withdrew his arm that had been around his mother. “Clive Kingfisher was a challenging man to be around,” he said.

  Officer Kendall opened a sturdy-looking laptop, typed in a few keystrokes, and looked up at Marco. “Did Mr. Kingfisher have many enemies? Anyone who'd want to see him dead?”

  “No,” Marco said. “I mean, sure, he made a few enemies, but he had a strong personality. That's why he was such a good business manager for Mom. He looked out for her needs at all times, which is a rare thing in the business. Nobody wanted to kill him.”

  Tilda turned to her son. “How would you know for sure?”

  Marco frowned and looked down. “I don't know.” He chuckled. “This is all crazy. I mean, you have to laugh, right? Here we are, talking to a cop, about all the various people who wanted Clive Ki
ngfisher dead. I mean, where do you start?” He kept chuckling, as though it was simply the sound he made while breathing.

  “My son laughs when he's nervous,” Tilda said to Officer Kendall. “Please, keep going with your questions. We're doing our best to get through this difficult day, and we want to help with your investigation, or report, or whatever it is.”

  Holly and Lee returned with trays of drinks and hastily made sandwiches.

  Officer Kendall took a bottle of water and turned her laptop to face out to the group before she took a sip. She wiped her mouth. “These are the clothes Clive was found wearing. Do you notice anything unusual?”

  Holly pointed at the screen. “Those are Marco's hiking boots,” she said. “Marco, remember you were looking for them this morning? Here they are. Clive took them. Why did Clive take your boots?”

  Tilda gasped, “A setup.” She covered her hand with her mouth.

  Marco's low chuckling ceased abruptly. “That's odd,” he said. “But Clive liked taking things that weren't his, so it's not too surprising. It was snowing last night, so I guess he wanted to dress for the weather.”

  “That's what we thought,” Officer Kendall said. “But why isn't he wearing a jacket? Look at this picture.” She brought up a new image on the screen. “He was found wearing only a thin T-shirt. Why would a man borrow hiking boots but not put on a jacket? It was cold on the mountain last night.”

  “He was drunk,” Tilda said. “Clive doesn't think when he's drinking. We don't even know why he went up there.”

  Marco said, “He might have gone up there to meet someone. Or to take pictures.”

  Holly said, “Oh, I love those time-delay photos. When you see the sun rise and the sky change colors in a minute.”

  “Funny you'd mention time-delay photos,” Officer Kendall said. “There's a nature documentary crew observing a coyote den not far from here. They're set up along the second trail, the one that hikers don't use as much. It's the longer way down. Less scenic but also less steep. Early this morning, the crew captured an image of someone on the trail.”

  Marco asked, “And is that why you're here? This is the new evidence that's come to light?”