Suddenly, I was pitched forward to the ground. Falling, I heard a pop followed by a loud hissing sound. Great clouds of yellow smoke swarmed in the air. The smell of sulfur stung my nose and the smoke billowed around me, making my eyes water. Covering my nose and mouth with one hand, I scrambled to my knees. I had to get away, but I was caught. My right foot wouldn’t move. I threw myself down flat, still trying to block the smoke with my hands. But it seeped through my fingers and clogged my lungs while I lay there. I choked and gasped for air.
I don’t know how long I lay trapped, coughing and sputtering, but finally the hissing stopped and I raised my head. The smoke no longer surged around me, but hung in wispy layers. When I pulled myself to a kneeling position, I found a thin green wire wrapped around my ankle. Attached to the end was an odd little metal piece, like some kind of pin. I unwrapped the wire from my ankle and tugged on it, but it didn’t budge. It was tied to something. I crawled on my hands and knees and followed the wire to where its end was wrapped around a small tree. But where had the end with the pin been attached? I sat back, looking around till I saw a metal stake shoved in the ground with some kind of can wired to it. Yellow residue coated the stake and covered the ground around the stake in a wide circle.
Afraid to stand, I crawled over to the stake, but stopped at the edge of the yellow circle. Even from where I knelt, I could feel the heat. The metal cylinder attached to it looked similar to a bug bomb. A bug bomb that spewed smoke? This close to the stake, the smell of sulfur was overwhelming.
It was some kind of booby trap. Some unsuspecting fool—in this case, me—walks along, trips on the wire, and sets off the can of smoke. Why? It didn’t seem intended to hurt anyone. The can itself didn’t explode, just sent smoke and sulfur into the air. No flying shards of metal. Lucky for me. Was it someone’s idea of a joke? Or was it more sinister?
Either way, I knew Abby would have a stroke when she found out about this. Should I tell her? If I did, she might come out here alone to drive away the intruders. That could be dangerous. But what if she decided to take a walk, like I did, and stumbled across another booby trap? Equally dangerous—a fall, a broken hip, exposure to the weather—the woman was seventy-three years old. If anything ever happened to Abby, I don’t know what I’d do.
That reasoning was pointless. I could sit here in the woods on my butt for the rest of the day, wondering about all of this, and not solve anything. I pushed myself to my feet and started back toward Abby’s.
The smoke had dissipated, and now the sun shining through the bare trees dappled the ground in sunlight. Little bits of metal reflected the light. The ground was littered with them. I bent down and picked one up. It was a shell casing, but not from a shotgun. It was about the size of my little finger and made of brass. What kind of a gun shot shells like this?
What was going on?
Fourteen
When I reached the edge of the clearing behind Abby’s house, the scene before my eyes was one I had seen many times, but it still amazed me. Abby was tucking her bee colonies away for the winter. The slight breeze lifted the tendrils of white hair peeking out from her head scarf and swirled them around her face. And her clogs rustled the dry grass while she moved slowly around each hive. Her old flannel shirt—one that had belonged to my grandfather—hung loosely off her shoulders.
While she worked, insulating the tall white supers, she murmured soft sounds—old sounds. She was thanking the bees for their gift of honey and promising them, come spring, gallons of sugar water would be waiting for them. I could almost hear the humming and buzzing while the bees gathered in a tight ball around the queen to protect her from the harsh winter ahead. Many would die in the months to come, especially those farthest from the queen, but the colony would survive.
Two deer, a buck and a doe, lay not five feet away from where Abby worked. Their big brown eyes watched her, their ears perked to catch the sound of her voice. I stood downwind from them, so they hadn’t caught my scent. I doubted it would matter if they did, they were so intent on listening to Abby. They had no fear in their eyes. The deer seemed to pulse with a quiet energy. I hesitated, not wanting to spoil the peace that existed in the clearing. I almost believed in Abby’s magick.
I wanted to stand there forever and let the tranquility wash over me. Lord knows, after the past few days, I needed some, but I couldn’t. Abby had to be told about what I found in the woods. I only hoped I could talk her out of going there herself.
I stepped forward. In unison, both deer looked at me, and before I took another step, they were gone, their white tails bobbing as they ran for the woods.
Abby saw me, too. She held up her hand, for me to stop. I couldn’t enter the clearing until she was done. She lingered at each beehive in turn, whispering. After she finished with the last hive, the energy seemed to slowly slide away, until it was gone. Then she turned, head down, and walked to where I stood. When she lifted her face, she wore an expression of contentment and peace. Her eyes met mine, and her expression changed.
“What’s happened?” Abby reached out and touched my arm. “Oh dear, this isn’t good. Come to the house and tell me what you found.”
“You know?”
“No, but I felt your distress. What happened?”
I pulled the small shiny casing from my pocket and handed it to her.
“I found this in the woods, along with some kind of booby trap. A trip wire had been strung between a tree and a stake. When I tripped on it, some kind of smoke bomb was set off. Did you see it—the smoke?”
“No. Were you hurt?”
“No, but I don’t know what this all means. Have you heard any gunfire?”
“Of course not, no one hunts those woods anymore.”
“Abby, that’s where I found this casing. Someone’s been shooting, about three miles from here, near the old Jones place.”
“Benny Jenkins farms that, doesn’t he?”
“You think he did it?” I stopped walking, and she did, too.
“No, Benny’s not like his brother. There’s no hate in his mind.” She looked at the shiny object in her hand and rolled it around in her palm.
“What are you getting from that?” I asked, watching her closely.
Abby shook her head. “Nothing. Whatever the feelings were of the person who shot this, they’re gone now. You could show me the spot and I’ll try and see what I pick up.”
“No. That’s not a good idea. What if the person who shot these shells came back and caught us snooping around?”
Abby’s eyes narrowed. “That is my property, and I don’t appreciate trespassers.”
“Listen.” I grabbed her arm. “You can’t go charging out there, especially by yourself. Promise me you won’t.”
Abby stood, eyes still narrowed, and stared at her woods. I could almost see the thoughts racing around in her mind.
Suddenly, she smiled. “All right. I won’t go out there. Come on, I’ll make you coffee.”
That wasn’t good. Abby had given in too quickly. But before I could question her, she marched toward the house. I caught up with her at the back door.
“What have you got planned?”
“Nothing,” she said innocently.
I followed her to the kitchen and waited while she made the coffee.
“Abby, I know you’re planning something. It’s not like you to give in without an argument. Are you going to tell the sheriff about this? Is that your plan?”
“No, I think the less people who know, the better. We don’t know who’s involved.” She handed me a coffee cup. “But I think I can keep strangers out of those woods.” She smirked.
Now was as good a time as any to tell her about Darci. “Ahh, did you know Darci knows about your secret pastime?”
“And what pastime would that be, dear?” she asked, laying a hand on my shoulder and smiling down at me.
“Oh, nothing much, just that you practice magick,” I said, watching her reaction.
Instead of the shocked lo
ok I expected, Abby shrugged.
“That doesn’t surprise me. Darci’s a smart girl. People tend to underestimate her.”
“She’s one of the biggest gossips in town. Doesn’t it upset you that she knows?”
“No, Darci may like to gossip, but she’s also very loyal. She would never do anything to hurt me.”
“Yeah, that’s what she said.” I stared at the coffee cup. “You trust her?”
“Yes, I do. You’d do well to trust her, too, Ophelia. You could use a friend. You’ve stayed inside your shell far too long. It’s time to start trusting people again.”
“Abby, I don’t want to talk about what happened four years ago. We have enough new problems without bringing up old ones.”
“Yes, and have you ever considered Darci may be able to help? She knows everyone in town, and as you pointed out, she likes to gossip. Maybe she’s heard something, knows something, has a piece of the puzzle.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her to help. How do I do that without telling her everything?”
“You mean about you?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to do a lot of explaining.”
“Then tell her part of the truth. She’ll probably sense you’re hiding something. Like I said, she isn’t stupid. But I think she’ll do everything she can to help you.”
“How do we know Darci isn’t involved in this?”
“She isn’t. Trust me, there’s no harm in the girl.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to her. I don’t really see what she can do to help, but we’re not getting anywhere on our own.”
“Good.” Abby smacked the table and winked at me. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say in a long time.”
When I returned home, I called Darci and invited her over for pizza and beer. Maybe the beer would help my usual reticence. It wouldn’t do, however, to get plastered and tell too much. It had been so long since I’d tried to be friends with anyone; the whole thing made me jittery. By the time Darci arrived, my entire house was clean and the pizza was in the oven.
Darci arrived at six o’clock, a twelve-pack in one hand and a chocolate cake in the other. Beer, pizza, and chocolate, does it get any better than this? Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad after all. She followed me to the kitchen. She put the cake on the counter and the beer in the fridge.
“The pizza will be done in a few minutes. Would you like a beer?”
“Sure.” Darci’s eyes traveled around the kitchen. “I see your plant hasn’t died yet.”
I handed her the beer and glanced at the mum. “No, so far I haven’t killed it. I don’t seem to have the same touch with plants that Abby does.” Whoops—that statement could lead the conversation in a direction I didn’t want to go. “Ahh—would you like a glass?”
Darci smiled. “No, this is fine. This is hard for you, isn’t it, Ophelia? Having company, I mean.” She tipped the beer back and took a long drink.
I checked the pizza before I answered her. Do I get right to the point? Or try and make polite conversation first? Right to the point won. I picked up my beer and pulled out a chair across from Darci.
“I’m sorry. Yes, this is hard. I never have made friends easily. During the past four years, I haven’t even tried.”
“That’s okay. I understand,” she said, her voice kind.
“No, I don’t think you really do. Have you ever wondered why I left my job at the university and moved to Summerset?”
Darci shrugged her shoulders. “I always thought it was to be closer to Abby.”
“Well, that too.” I picked at the label on the beer bottle with my finger. “Four years ago I became ill and had to be hospitalized for three weeks. When I was released, I couldn’t go back to the job at the library. Abby suggested I move here and find a job. I needed a different environment, a different life—so I came here.”
“Three weeks? That’s quite a while to be in the hospital.”
Half the label was peeled off and I was working on the other half. A little pile of shiny wet paper formed at the base of the bottle.
“I wasn’t on a regular floor, Darci; I was in the psych ward.”
“Oh.”
The buzzer on the oven stopped any further explanation. I took the pizza out, cut it, and placed it on the table. It was so quiet that I could hear the clock above the cupboards humming. I understood Darci’s silence. What does one say to someone when they announce that they’ve been hospitalized for mental problems?
“Would you like another beer, Darci?” I asked stiffly. I didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see what was written on her face.
“Yeah, I think I’d better. The pizza looks good, Ophelia,” she said in a cheery voice.
And the moment passed.
The aroma of the hot pizza pervaded the kitchen. Darci chatted while we ate, carrying on the conversation without much help from me. Finally, she put her pizza down and looked at me.
“Would it be prying to ask why you were in a psych ward, or would you rather not talk about it? I mean, you seem pretty sane to me, and if you don’t want to talk about it, well…”
She looked so kind, so sympathetic, that I smiled. “It’s okay. Thanks for the vote of confidence about my sanity.” The smile vanished while I thought about four years ago. “It is hard for me to talk about. The whole experience made me feel weak and helpless. I hated it.” I exhaled a shaky breath. “I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome.”
“What was the trauma?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
I took a deep breath. Okay, Ophelia, you can do it. Just blurt it out.
“My best friend, a professor at the university, was murdered—the case was never solved.”
“Oh, my gosh. That’s terrible.” Darci’s hand darted across the table toward mine but hit the bottle of beer instead. The bottle wobbled, then tipped. Foamy beer sloshed over the table and down to the floor.
Darci made a dive for the bottle, while I grabbed a towel and began mopping the spilled beer.
I felt relief at the distraction. The next part would be hard. How did I tell her about the garbage collectors finding Brian’s broken and mutilated body in a Dumpster, as if he were trash? How did I tell her, when the investigation began, I’d been their prime suspect?
The humming clock sounded louder. Standing, I stared at the half-eaten pizza and the snippets of shiny paper littered on the table.
Darci shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry for your loss. It’s hard losing someone, but to lose them that way—”
“That’s not all, Darci,” I said, picking up the plates and carrying them to the sink. “It was bad enough that Brian was murdered, but they didn’t have any suspects.” With my back to her, I flattened my hands on the counter. “I was the last one to see him alive.”
“They didn’t question you, did they? They didn’t think you had something to do with it, did they?”
“Well, yes, they did, at first. They even searched my apartment. Oh, man,” I said, rubbing my face. “It was a mess. Brian had stopped by my apartment after his last class. He wanted me to go to a local hangout with him, but I was busy. I told him I’d meet him later, but he wasn’t there when I arrived.” I crossed to the table and sat down. “In fact, he hadn’t been there at all. His body was found four days later. When the police questioned me, one detective thought I was hiding something. They questioned me over and over. They had this stupid idea I was in love with Brian and he had rejected me. Those idiots. Brian was gay. I tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t believe me.”
I amazed myself. I sounded so calm, telling Darci the story. None of the fear or the terrible sense of helplessness I had felt crept into my voice. I had been so scared, and the police were so sure I was hiding something. They were right, but I wasn’t going to tell Darci that part of the story.
“What a nightmare.”
“It was, but it got worse. A reporter picked up on it. The police weren’t giving any information to the press, but some
how this one reporter learned I was being questioned. He wrote a rather vague story about the police investigating my connection to Brian’s murder. The story made my life even more miserable than it had already become. I had lost my best friend, the police were at me all the time, and everytime I turned around, there was the reporter.” Suddenly, my throat felt dry. I finished my beer in one swallow. “Would you like another beer? Mine seems to be gone.”
“Sit still, I’ll get them.”
Darci handed me another beer. The next swallow eased my tight throat.
“What finally happened?”
“The police entered Brian’s murder in the national crime database. Two weeks after Brian’s death, they received a report. A murder had been committed in Illinois two years before with the same M.O. as Brian’s. And before that, one in Ohio. The police decided they were after a serial killer who preyed on homosexual men. And that was it—they were out of my life.”
“What about the reporter?”
“Oh, a serial killer makes a much better story than a lust-crazed librarian, so he left me alone, too.”
“Was that when you had your breakdown?”
“Yeah, my nerves were wrecked. I kept asking myself, ‘Why didn’t I go with him? Maybe if I had, this wouldn’t have happened.’ I felt so guilty. I couldn’t go back to the library after I was released from the hospital, so Abby suggested I come here. Take the job at this library.”
I picked up my bottle of beer; it was empty. When did I finish this one? Darci got two more.
“And now there’s another murder,” Darci said, and tipped her bottle back.
I shuddered. The image of the body by the river played through my mind. I knew this man had nothing to do with Brian’s murder, but once again I was involved.
“So, you talk to a lot of people,” I said. “What does the town think of all this?”
Darci shrugged. “Last week the big news was the fire at Ned’s and the anhydrous thefts. Now it’s the body you found. Of course, town gossips think kids set the fire at the newspaper office and the murderer was from out of town. Nobody in Summerset would commit murder. If we didn’t believe that, we might have to start locking our doors. Do you suppose Ted Bundy’s neighbors thought the same thing?”
Witch Way to Murder Page 11