A Killer Maize

by Paige Shelton

  For a moment, Ward seemed perplexed by the question, but then a wave of understanding crossed his face.

  “Jerry seems pretty harmless to me,” he said. “I don’t know why Dianna said what she said except that she’s a little paranoid and even more so when it comes to strangers. You might have picked up on her paranoia during the poker game.”

  “She seemed concerned that the police might investigate her because of her involvement with Virgil, but she didn’t seem paranoid about anyone else.”

  “That’s because you were only around her a short while. Given more time, you’d see more of it. She’s a nice person, but that’s just Dianna.” He said it so sincerely that I couldn’t find one thing that rang false, no matter how much I wanted to.

  “What about the Bellingses?”

  “What about them?”

  “I met Renard this morning,” I said.

  “You did? That’s interesting. Where? They’re not all that available.”

  “I noticed that, but I’d heard they might be interested in opening a farmers’ market here. I asked one of the guys at the service station to help with the communication. He did and we met.”

  “How’d that go?” Ward sat forward in the chair. It must have been the most interesting thing I’d brought up.

  “Okay.”

  He circled the air with his hand as if to prompt me on.

  “Renard liked the idea of a farmers’ market, but I don’t think he liked me very much.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  It was my turn to shrug. I realized that the kitten had fallen asleep on my chest and the kneading had softened so that I barely felt the ends of the sharp claws. I was reclined almost all the way back on the couch and it was the perfect time to remove the kitten, but now I didn’t want to.

  “So, the Bellings family made their money from tobacco farming?” I asked. Ward nodded. “Does their seeming ‘rule’ over the town bother people?”

  “No, not at all.” Ward sat back. “They are beloved. We all . . . well, we all owe them a lot.”

  “Jena Bellings was Renard and Sebastian’s grandmother, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s with all the gypsy magic that’s associated with her?”

  “Ah, s’nothing.”

  “Ward, I’ve got to be honest with you, that’s part of what’s creepy. The Bellingses sound like a combination of royalty and deity, which makes me wonder if they aren’t more like godfather and dictator. And everyone is weird about Jena. Some people don’t even want to say her name.”

  Ward laughed nervously. “It’s just old gypsy lore.”

  “Just old gypsy lore?”

  “Yeah.” He paused.

  And there it was again: gypsy lore, gypsy magic. This was the point where everyone except my mother stopped talking about it. So, I tried a different approach. I didn’t say anything but merely stared at Ward over the kitten on my chest and hoped the silence would gain more than my questions had.

  I played it right.

  “Shoot, there’ve always been stories about the old Mrs. Bellings. She was the woman who married Sebastian Renard Bellings, the patriarch of the family. She was something else, that much I can tell you. I remember her scaring the silliness right out of me when I was a teenager. So you met Renard, you know what he looks like?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, he’s the one who got his grandmother’s exotic dark hair and unusual-colored eyes. Anyway, she was beautiful and wild, always had big funny hair and wore long funny dresses.”

  “My mom was a hippie. She still wears some of that stuff,” I said, but I kept to myself that my own grandmother had made some of Jena’s first dresses.

  “This would have been before your mom’s time even, I’m sure. And as stories have it, Jena Bellings just showed up in town one day. This was a long time ago, back when we were a thriving farming community. She showed up on a wagon, with a band full of gypsies, and put a spell on Sebastian.”

  “Really?” I said, wondering how she’d managed to get a seat on that wagon. “Sounds kind of spooky and kind of romantic.”

  “I suppose. But this spell she put on him was a good one. Their tobacco crops thrived, and Jena made sure that Sebastian spread the wealth and took care of the community.”

  “So, she was a good witch?”

  “We like to think so.” He smiled. “She died tragically, though, and you know how legends can grow when someone dies tragically.”

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  Ward hesitated again. “He was acquitted.”

  “Who?”

  “Sebastian Renard Bellings himself.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Jena was found hanging from a tree, a belt from one of her exotic dresses as the noose. For a good long time, everyone thought Sebastian killed his wife, but no evidence was found. It was just difficult to believe that Jena would kill herself. She was so full of life.”

  “Hanging. Just like Virgil Morrison,” I said.

  “No gun wound,” Ward said.

  “No.”

  “Anyway, each year the fair begins on the anniversary of her death. It was originally a festival put in place to celebrate her . . . her . . . well, magic, I guess. She was just one of those people who everyone else was drawn to. You know the type?”

  “I think so,” I said, though I knew she hadn’t been that type of person in Monson. She’d changed more than just her clothes and bathing habits; her entire persona, it seemed, had transformed when someone had, probably offhandedly, called her a gypsy. I didn’t share that part of the story. “Renard was cagey, but he told me there was a good reason they opened the fair this year. Was it simply the superstition? Something to honor his grandmother?”

  “Maybe. I guess. I don’t know.”

  “See what I mean, Ward, your town is kind of creepy.” I lifted the kitten off my chest.

  He laughed but didn’t reach for the creature I was holding out to him.

  “We like our stories.”

  “I think some of you like to make up your stories,” I said.

  Again, he wasn’t offended.

  “Hey, you have a farm, right?” he asked.

  “I do,” I said.

  “You have a cat?”

  “No, a dog . . . no, hang on, I don’t have time to take care of a kitten.”

  “Sure you do. They’re easy. You’ll have to dropper feed this one for a while, but not for long.”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “Aw, her mama turned her away.”

  “And you’re doing fine with her.”

  “She needs a home. I’ve got plenty of cats and now kittens. I’m going to have to find homes for some of them. This would work. She’s attached to you already.”

  “She was literally attached to me. She just wants a place to put her claws. That place can’t be my place.” I didn’t know how Hobbit would react to my adding another animal to her world, but I didn’t want to risk it.

  “Shoot, well, it was worth a try. I’ll just have to take them to the shelter, see if they can find them some homes.”

  I wanted to punch Ward for such manipulation. And I wanted to cry when he finally took the kitten from my hands.

  As he pulled the evil creature to his own chest, she reached her lethal front paws to me and mewed.

  It was no big surprise to find myself driving home with a small black furry creature attached to my chest.

  Twenty-one

  And I drove right past my own farm. I actually saw Hobbit sitting on the porch waiting for me, but I lost the heart to introduce her to a new family member unless I absolutely had to, or had prepared her first. I’d fallen in love with Hobbit so quickly, I barely even knew
what hit me. My feelings for the kitten were beginning to get there, but I had another idea, hopefully a better one.

  I’d called Ian, who responded favorably to the idea of a kitten and future cat in his life, but he wasn’t sure he had the time to devote to caring for it either. He had yet another idea. He called George, who was going to be joining him at the farm, and asked if he’d be interested in taking care of the kitten at his house until they could both move to the lavender farm.

  If it had been to anyone other than George, asking the question would have been both rude and just plain wrong. But George would either welcome the idea or not, and he wouldn’t dance around the answer with the hope of sparing anyone’s feelings. If he said no, my next stop would be Allison—well, her son, Mathis, first. I could be just as manipulative as Ward had been.

  But George wasn’t only agreeable, he was enthused.

  “Oh, yes, of course I was meant to take care of you.” He took the kitten from my hands. She willingly let go of the grip she had on me and happily curled into George’s neck. “See, she feels secure right here. She feels my body heat and my heartbeat.”

  “She’s not weaned, not really, George,” I said. “Her mother rejected her, so feeding her could be a challenge.”

  “Oh, pshaw, I’ve dealt with such a thing before. Ian will be here shortly with all the accoutrements she and I will need.” He petted her back and tried to twist his neck so that he could look at her.

  George’s vision, though aided by thick-lensed glasses, was very poor. When Ian suggested that we ask George if he’d want to take on the task, his vision was my biggest concern. If George couldn’t see the kitten well, he might not be able to find her if she got away. But Ian said that George wasn’t worried in the least.

  George loved Hobbit so much that Ian and I had discussed getting him a dog of his own, but truthfully this might work out better. Cats didn’t need to be attended to quite as much. A litter box, some good food, lots of love (on their terms, of course), and a nice lap could please a cat forever. I could see that this kitten was pleasing George. As I watched the two of them, I wondered why we hadn’t thought of it before.

  But things happened when they happened.

  “What will you name her?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. I’ll have to get to know her better. It’s almost Halloween, and she’s as black as slick oil. I’ll have to come up with something appropriate.”

  I inspected the kitten. She wasn’t kneading, she wasn’t fussing, she was curled in the hollow at the base of George’s neck. I thought I caught her looking at me with an attitude of “See, this is how you do it.”

  I raised one eyebrow at her but was truly thrilled to have made a love match.

  Ian arrived moments later with an entire pet store—well, at least the cat care portion.

  We set up the litter box in the utility room off the back porch and figured out how to feed the kitten with a dropper and some appropriate food. Before long, she seemed to own the place, or at least she quickly became master of George. And it was a position he relished.

  We left them to themselves, promising to stop by later and make sure everyone was okay. George thought we were being silly to worry.

  As Ian walked me to my truck parked out front, he broached the subject I was so hoping I’d never have to broach.

  “Becs, we need to talk, don’t you think?” he said.

  “About?” But I knew the second I looked into those dark and wonderful eyes what he wanted to talk about.

  “That kiss, last night.”

  “Yeah. Maybe my heart wasn’t in it,” I said. “Care to give me another chance?”

  Ian smiled.

  So right there, in front of George’s house on Harvard Avenue in Monson, South Carolina, I stepped up to my toes and kissed my much younger, much wiser, and awesome boyfriend.

  “Hang on,” I said as I lowered back down to my flat feet. “That wasn’t just me, was it?”

  For the first time I could remember, Ian looked sheepish. He was intelligent, confident, and funny. Sheepish wasn’t his thing.

  “Ian, you felt the exact same thing I felt, didn’t you?” I said.

  “Becca . . .”

  “No, no, just tell me. It wasn’t there for you either, was it?”

  “Let me answer my way, please.”

  I nodded.

  “Becca, I had so much fun with you yesterday. Our ‘investigation’ and time in Orderville was something I wish we’d done a long time ago . . .”

  “But?”

  “But I think it made me realize something, something you’ve already realized. We are really great friends.”

  “But not meant to be more than that,” I said quietly and almost involuntarily.

  “I’m beginning to think so.”

  I thought I might feel the stab of rejection or that hollow sense of being dumped, but he was right. Ian and I were very good friends, and though a good friendship is the basis for a successful relationship, I suddenly realized that ours wasn’t meant to become that.

  “Oh, Ian.”

  “Do you suppose there’s any way we can continue to be friends? I don’t want this to be the last time I see you. In fact, I’d like to be very good friends. I’d like to be able . . . well, to hang out with you. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Good, now get home to Hobbit. Do me a favor, keep yourself safe. And, if you need someone to be a sidekick again, give me a call.”

  I peered deeply into those beautiful eyes. Was this something he’d concocted because he knew that my heart wasn’t as into this relationship as it should have been? I truly didn’t think so. I knew that Ian was honest to a fault. I knew that he had been hurt by my betrayal, but I also knew he’d forgiven me. He wasn’t releasing me, he was releasing us.

  “That’s it, then?” I said weakly. I wasn’t devastated, but I suddenly couldn’t help but feel that terrible abyss of something ending.

  “Not even close. I think we should both stop by and visit George and that kitten over the next couple of days. Hopefully, we’ll stop by around the same time, maybe even call each other when we’re on our way. I think that’s a great way to continue our friendship.”

  Ian got in his truck and I got in mine. As I drove toward home and Hobbit, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I, or Ian and I, had been touched by a little gypsy magic.

  Twenty-two

  The evening was cool enough that I needed a sweater as I walked through what was left of my pumpkin crop. The boys Lucy sent to help me harvest them had come and gone. They’d been quick and efficient, loading the pumpkins into the back of my truck like pros.

  Something about the vines and wide leaves without the big orange gourds seemed to fit my mood. As Hobbit and I walked through the picked-over field, the sense of “ending” was magnified by the breakup, but only slightly.

  I’d been relieved to get rid of my two ex-husbands and hadn’t really felt any major loss—other than the welcome loss of an unwanted, grudging weight. Though I wasn’t relieved to be out of my relationship with Ian and I certainly felt a little sad, it also felt right, in that torturous do-what’s-best-not-what’s-easy way.

  “What do you think, girl?” I said to Hobbit. “You believe in gypsy magic?”

  I was pretty sure she nodded.

  The night was clear with a bright and brilliant half moon.

  Another year of farming and, despite the recent turn of events, I couldn’t have been happier about the life I had. I’d clear out the vines this weekend and then till some nutrients through the soil. I’d soon be spending all of my work time either in my kitchen preparing preserves, jams, and now syrups, or at the market, selling the items I made. The market was always busy but would slow down to a steady hum once Hallowee
n was over. Though many vendors left their stalls after the solstice, Halloween somehow had become the marker for the transitioning seasons.

  “You know, we won’t be seeing Ian as much,” I said to Hobbit.

  Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight, but she seemed to nod again, as though she understood that it was for the best.

  “Good girl. Let’s get inside.”

  I made myself some hot chocolate and carried it to my desk, where I sat down and flipped on my infrequently used laptop. Just about everyone out there leaves a mark in Cyberland, I thought.

  First I looked up “Ethel Jackson, Orderville, South Carolina.” I immediately found her obituary as well as the location of her grave. There was even a picture of the simple carved stone with her name and her birth and death dates. The stone bore no other details about her life, no engraving like “Loving mother, sister, aunt, friend,” which wasn’t all that strange, I supposed. But the obituary didn’t mention family either. She was the “only child” of her parents, who had predeceased her. I could find no reference to her having had a husband ever. How had she been an aunt? Unless the title had been a courtesy extended by family friends, Virgil could not possibly have been her nephew, at least biologically.

  Certainly, other people in Orderville knew this. Was Virgil not thoroughly questioned when he moved into her house? Someone must have thought it odd. But since it had happened twenty years ago and since Virgil was now dead, too, anyone who might have cared probably didn’t care any longer.

  That was the sum total I could find about Ethel Jackson.

  My next search brought a bunch of links. I typed in “Jena Bellings, Orderville, South Carolina.”

  The first link took me to a blog called “Real Gypsy Witches.” I laughed as I read the title. The post was from last year, last October, in fact, and read:

  Many years ago, it was said that a real gypsy witch ruled the land in and around Orderville, South Carolina. She charmed the land into bringing forth a hardy and bountiful tobacco crop so that her husband could become rich. She charmed herself so that she would give birth to a beautiful son, Wallace, who would grow to become wealthy and just as powerful as his father had become with his tobacco crops.