Witch Way to Murder

by Shirley Damsgaard

  I was anxious to get home. Although it was only November, a surprise snowstorm had hit. The wind racing across the flatlands sent the flakes swirling in the air. Gusts rattled the windows of the library, and currents of cold air circled us. The ancient furnace pumped and pumped, trying to fight the chill. By late afternoon Summerset looked like a ghost town. The limestone buildings that Darci had so proudly told Mr. Davis about loomed like specters in the gathering dusk. The only traffic was the snowplow passing by with its orange lights spinning. I sent Darci home and began closing up the library when I remembered our visitor in the basement. He had spent the entire afternoon cloistered in the archives.

  “Mr. Davis, we’re closing now,” I called from the top of the stairs. I jumped when he appeared without warning at the bottom, a briefcase in hand. Where had the briefcase come from?

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was. I got carried away reading,” he said, climbing the stairs toward me. He stopped two steps down, putting us at eye level. Once again I felt that tingle.

  “For a small town, you sure have had a lot of excitement around here this fall, haven’t you? All the unsolved thefts of the fertilizer, the anhydrous ammonia?” He closely observed my reaction to his statement.

  Not wanting to meet his gaze, I glanced to my left and said nothing.

  “It sounds like there’ve been several,” Mr. Davis continued. “The article said the thief or thieves were siphoning off the anhydrous tanks at night while the tanks were sitting in the empty fields.” He pursed his lips, then said, “A dangerous chemical to be stealing, isn’t it? Anhydrous freezes on contact, doesn’t it?”

  Hmm, a chemical salesman was asking me about anhydrous ammonia? Odd. The tingle became stronger.

  “I suppose it does.” I turned, breaking eye contact, and headed to the counter where I kept my backpack. I heard his footsteps as he followed me.

  “I bet it had the gossip mill running overtime.”

  “Yes, it did,” I said over my shoulder, and walked behind the counter.

  “What was the most popular rumor?”

  I turned sharply and looked at him with suspicion, my eyes narrowing. “I suppose the one about the drug ring.”

  “The anhydrous is used to manufacture methamphetamines, isn’t it?”

  The tingle was jangling, but I tamped it down and met his stare straight on.

  “You work for a chemical company, don’t you know?” After the words came out, I questioned the wisdom of discussing illegal drugs with a man I didn’t know, and in a building that was all but deserted.

  “Of course. I have a degree in chemistry. I just wondered what you thought.” He gave me his disarming smile.

  My nerves hummed. There were things below the surface that I couldn’t see, didn’t want to see. “We really need to leave. You never know how bad the roads will be during these sudden snowstorms. Getting snowed in at the library is not my idea of a good time.”

  From behind the counter, I shoved my things into my backpack. He stood on the other side, watching the snow pepper the windows.

  “You’re right, it does look bad out there. Will you make it home safely, or would you like me to follow you?”

  My bag thudded to the floor. When I bent to pick it up, I felt my right eyelid begin a rapid twitch. I heard the blood pound in my ears. He was standing too close. I had to get out of there and away from him.

  “N-N-No, I live nearby. I’ll be okay, Mr. Davis.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. Good sense fought with my desire to run. I looked back once to make sure he followed.

  “If you’re sure—and by the way, call me Rick.”

  “What?” I said, stealing a glance over my shoulder.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Rick. My name is Rick. You seem nervous. Are you sure you don’t want me to follow you?”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. Storms make me jumpy, that’s all.” I locked the door behind me.

  The snow came down in tiny icy pellets while we made our way down the library steps. He followed me too closely, and the twitch increased its rhythm. I pressed cold fingers to my eye to stop it.

  “At least let me walk you to your car and make sure it starts. Like you said, you wouldn’t want to be stranded here.”

  We were almost to my car when it happened. In my haste, I didn’t see the patch of ice. When I started to slip, he reached out and grabbed my arm. I cringed while the jolt ran up my arm. My senses felt like they were frying.

  I jerked my arm back and rushed to my car.

  Numb fingers struggled with the door. I wrenched it open and slid in, shaking, behind the wheel. The keys rattled as I shoved the correct one in the ignition.

  A tap on the window drew my attention. Rick stood there, shoulders hunched, his dark hair frosted with snow. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth set in a grim line. Totally embarrassed, I rolled the window down.

  “What in the hell is wrong? Let me take you home; you’re in no condition to drive,” he said, looking puzzled.

  My brain scrambled for another lie to explain my agitation.

  “I’m all right now. I told you, storms make me nervous. I’m really not myself today. I must be coming down with something. I think, um—” I knew I was rambling. “I’d better go.”

  Then I drove off, leaving him standing in the street.

  My little Victorian cottage sat on a street lined with maple trees. In the fall, the landscape was beautiful, with the leaves vibrant shades of red, yellow, and orange. Now it was ugly. The wind whipped through the skeletal trees, and I could hear them creaking. Icy blasts buffeted me as I plowed through the snow to my front door.

  Relief eased my quaking muscles when I leaned against the inside of the door. Safe at last. I felt the calm seep into my body.

  A cold, wet nose nudged my clenched hand. One brown eye, one blue, stared up at me from a face like a wolf’s. Her body, like a German shepherd’s, pressed close to my thigh, and her white pointed ears were cocked forward, as if she were asking a question.

  “Sorry, Lady, did I worry you?” I laughed as I scratched one of my dog’s ears.

  Her question answered, she bounded down the hall, wheeled, and ran back toward me.

  “Stop,” I said, holding out my hands. “Don’t jump.”

  Too late. Her paws couldn’t gain purchase on the slick wood floor and eighty pounds of dog slid into me, knocking me down.

  She laid her head in my lap and gazed at me with a forlorn look.

  “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not going to send you back to the pound.” I cupped her long, sharp face in my hands. “You know, you’re a good roommate, Lady. You don’t ask questions. You don’t talk nonstop. Not like some people I know. And except for the occasional mess and a few hair balls, you’re pretty easy to take care of,” I said, smiling.

  At the tone of my voice, Lady flattened her ears and cocked her head to one side, and I knew she understood every word I said.

  From a distance my cat, Queenie, disdainfully watched us—too cool to show her concern. Her green eyes stared at Lady and me, not blinking, while the tip of her black tail twitched back and forth, beckoning me to pick her up.

  I stood and walked over to where she sat. Bending down, I gathered her in my arms. “So you want your share of attention, too, huh?” I said, nuzzling her fur with my chin.

  Her eyes drifted shut and a purr rumbled deep in her throat. The sound eased the last of my frayed nerves.

  Putting Queenie down, I went to the kitchen, where I poured a glass of wine. Drinking on an empty stomach wasn’t smart, but the thought of food made my stomach churn.

  After feeding the dog and cat, I built a fire in the living room. Curled up on the couch, drinking my second glass of wine, I thought about Rick Davis, feeling a thousand times the fool for the way I had acted. Normally, I’m very level-headed and practical, not prone to hysterics at all. My only consolation was that no one else had seen me. The whole thing would have made a great
story for the Courier: LOCAL LIBRARIAN RUNS AMUCK DURING SURPRISE SNOWSTORM. Details page two.

  Lost in my thoughts, feeling cozy, and finally relaxed, I picked up the phone before it rang. I usually avoid doing that. It tends to throw people off.

  “Ophelia.” The voice on the other end of the phone still carried the soft rhythm of Appalachian mountains, where she’d been raised.

  She’d be sitting at her kitchen table now, with the soft light from the kerosene lamps warming the room and making the crystals by the window glow from within. The scent of dried herbs would be mixed with the smell of wood smoke from her cook stove. The modern conveniences sat unused. She did things the old way, the way she’d been taught in the mountains.

  Abby, my kind, loving, seventy-three-year-old grandmother, whom I adored. And who happened to be a witch.

  She got right to the point. “I wanted to call you before the phones went down and tell you to be careful.”

  I didn’t ask her how she knew the phones would be dead soon. I knew the answer.

  “I will be. I’m not going out again tonight,” I said.

  “That isn’t what I meant, as you well know. This is the night of the mourning moon—a time for ending and a time for beginning. There is an evil circle that must be closed, ended, before there are any new beginnings. And it will be up to you to close it.”

  “Whoa—wait a second, not me. I’m not ending, beginning, or closing anything. I just want to be left alone,” I said, jerking straight up on the couch.

  “This isn’t optional,” she replied in a no-nonsense tone. “You need to know things are not what they appear to be. That young man you met today represents danger. The moon will be waning soon, and I want you to let me put salt and pepper around the house. It will offer some protection.”

  “No. No spells. You know how I feel about that, Abby.” My head suddenly felt as if a tiny hammer tapped at my right temple—from the inside. With each tap, a dull ache circled my head.

  “At least promise me you’ll wear your amulet. The evil is growing and you must be cautious. Oh, one more thing—be sure to sleep on the anise pillow tonight.” The phone went dead.

  The little hammer pounded now. Looking at the silent receiver in my hand, I pictured Rick, the man with a thousand questions, meeting Abby. No, I thought, slamming the receiver down. I couldn’t let that meeting happen. I had to protect Abby.

  Two

  The next morning the hazy sunlight flowed through the open curtains in my bedroom. I don’t know if it was the sun or the wet tongue stroking the side of my face that stirred my fuzzy brain to consciousness. I nestled deeper under my quilt. I am not a morning person, and woe to he, she, or it who disturbs me. But Lady didn’t care. She had needs requiring immediate attention. It was either get up or clean up, so I got up.

  After throwing on my old, threadbare robe, I stumbled to the door with Lady in hot pursuit. I felt well-rested. No dreams last night. Four years ago, when the nightmares first began, Abby had given me a small pillow with anise seeds tucked inside. According to folk magick, sleeping on such a pillow prevents nightmares. At that juncture of my life, I’d have done anything to stop them. They were so hideous. The pillow worked and the dreams stopped. My nights were peaceful, but my days were not. They were filled with feelings of guilt and recrimination, and there wasn’t a magick pillow to fix that, even though several psychologists had tried. The consensus was that I had post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  I wanted to talk about my best friend Brian’s murder at the hands of a killer who was never caught, but they wanted to talk about my childhood. So after six weeks of therapy I gave up on the doctors. But I felt too fractured, too fragile, to return to my job at the University of Iowa’s library; instead I came back to Summerset, where I’d spent my childhood summers with Abby and Grandpa. I would deal with my problems in my own way, in my own time.

  These thoughts brought me back to what Abby had said on the phone about the evil growing. Do I believe in evil? Most certainly. Evil and I had met up close and personal. Did I want Abby to do a spell for protection? Absolutely not. I’d turned my back on Abby’s beliefs years ago, but I still feared magick, feared the doorways it might open. And I’d learned the hard way that some doors were better left shut. I would cooperate with her up to a point, but more for her peace of mind than anything else. What was going to happen would happen.

  As if conjured up by my mind, Abby’s truck pulled into my driveway. She stepped out of the vehicle dressed in her work clothes of jeans, a cotton shirt, denim jacket, and clogs. In her arms she carried a large bag—and I knew what was in it. Lady, with her head down and tail wagging, approached her. Among other talents, Abby had a real way with animals. She had never actually said they talk to her, but she always seemed to know what they wanted. After greeting Lady, Abby walked to the door at a steady pace. Queenie, wanting her share of attention, waited for Abby by the door.

  “Good morning,” Abby said when she handed me the bag and picked up the cat. “Did you sleep well?”

  “You have the sight, so you tell me.”

  “No need to get testy. Where you’re concerned, I don’t always see things clearly. My guess is you did because you used the pillow,” she said, stroking Queenie.

  “What are you planning on doing with these? As if I didn’t know,” I said, lifting a big black candle, a rock, and some herbs out of the bag.

  “The black candle is to banish evil. The rock is hematite for protection, and the herb is angelica. If sprinkled around your house, it will ward off evil.” Abby cradled the cat against her body while she spoke, and her hand continued to smooth the cat’s fur. Again and again her hand moved down the cat’s back.

  Queenie lay in Abby’s arms, her eyes half closed, her head hanging limply over Abby’s elbow.

  “Abby. Stop that. You’re mesmerizing the cat.”

  Abby looked down at Queenie with a shy smile. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  She placed Queenie on the floor, and with a twitch of her tail, the cat stalked off. Abby sat down at the table and primly folded her hands.

  I watched her while leaning against the counter. Her snow-white hair was wrapped in a thick braid around the top of her head, and little wisps of hair had escaped to frame her still lovely face. She really was a picture perfect Grandma; if it just weren’t for that witch thing.

  “Please, no spells,” I pleaded.

  “I know, but it won’t hurt for you to have these. At least, burn the candle. I meant what I said last night on the phone, Ophelia. Something is seriously wrong,” she said, deep lines creasing her forehead. “The order of nature is disturbed, and you are in the center of it, along with that young man from the library.”

  I sat down across from her.

  “How did you know about him? I suppose you ‘saw’ him?”

  “No, of course not. You know it doesn’t work that way. I heard about it from Mrs. Carroll, who heard it from Mrs. Simpson, who heard it from Darci.” Her lines on her forehead disappeared and her eyes sparkled.

  It figured. Darci had been a busy girl last night before the phone lines went down.

  “So, you know something is going to happen, but not what or when. Right?”

  Abby nodded.

  “How do you know he’s involved? Lucky guess?” Exasperated, I glared at her. “What’s the point of having the ‘sight’ if you don’t know?”

  She shrugged, and my frustration simmered.

  “It might help if I could meet this young man. I might be able to tell from his aura what his role in this will be.”

  “Oh, no. No way.” The blood drained from my face and I felt faint. “This guy is smart, and he’d be on to you in a second. This isn’t Appalachia, this is Iowa. People around here don’t understand folk magick. They go to doctors and hospitals, not the healer over in the next holler.”

  She laughed abruptly. “I’ve lived in this town fifty-three years and realize it isn’t the same here as in t
he mountains where I grew up. Around here they see magick as evil. For all they know, witches stir cauldrons, ride brooms, and wear pointed hats.”

  “That’s right,” I responded. “And what do you suppose would happen if your neighbors found out you were one of those witches? Hmmm?”

  “Well, burning at the stake’s illegal now,” Abby said, laughing again.

  “That’s not funny,” I said sternly. “You’d either be shunned by the entire town, or every nutcase in the state would be at your front door wanting you to cast some kind of spell or a curse for them. And you could kiss the greenhouse good-bye, too. No one would do business with you.” Slinging my arm across the back of my chair, I gauged Abby’s reaction. She loved her greenhouse and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it.

  “Don’t be silly.” Abby’s chin went up and she gave me a withering stare. “No one is going to learn my secrets. I’ve kept them for a long time, ever since your grandfather brought me here. Meeting that young man isn’t a danger to me.”

  Reaching across the table, I took her hands in mine. “I love you, Abby. It was your strength that pulled me through the last four years, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “This isn’t just about me, is it?” she asked, squeezing my hands. “It’s about Brian, what happened four years ago…” She paused. “…and your grandfather.”

  I looked down at our joined hands and felt the tears coming. And the familiar pain in my heart began to ache, an old wound that wouldn’t heal.

  “Magick couldn’t have saved your grandfather, dear. Even if we’d known he had heart problems,” she said in a quiet voice. “Some things are meant to be.”

  Releasing one of her hands, I wiped away the tears sneaking down my face and took a deep breath. “But why are they meant to be?”

  “I don’t know.” Abby shook her head sadly. “It’s just the way life is. My biggest regret is that his death caused you to lose faith in the good magick can do and to turn your back on your training.” She sighed. “When she was young, your mother wanted to learn the old ways. But she never had your talent. She had to choose another path, one that led to your father and a good life as a teacher and as a mother.”