Witch Way to Murder

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “Spent the night at Abby’s last night, did you?”

  Rick smiled. “Yes we did. We went to the bar and stopped by here after. Abby didn’t want us on the road after we’d been drinking, so we crashed here.”

  I could see by the look on Bill’s face that he wasn’t buying it. But unless he called Rick a liar to his face, he’d have to swallow it.

  “I take it Ophelia knows who you really are now?”

  “Yeah, can’t keep a secret from her. She’s too smart.”

  One of Abby’s favorite expressions came to mind with that remark. “Roll up your pant legs, ’cause it’s too late to save your boots.” I had to put an end to this.

  “I already knew you were at the bar. Heard you were playing pool with Larry Durbin last night.”

  “Yeah. That’s not illegal, is it?”

  “No, but what Larry did after was. Went over to the Clancy place and tried to steal a tank of anhydrous with his pickup. The fool got it stuck in the field, so he tried stealing a tractor. Guess he thought he’d use the tractor to pull his truck out.” Bill spit on the ground. “Cecil heard the racket. Came out with his shotgun and held Larry at gunpoint till we got there and arrested him.”

  “Oh.” Rick sounded like he didn’t care about Larry’s fate and was only making polite conversation. “Did he confess to the other thefts?”

  “He’s not saying anything, says it was all a misunderstanding. He say anything to you last night?”

  “About stealing? No, even Larry isn’t that stupid.”

  “Oh gee! Look at the time,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I’m going to be late, Rick, if we don’t hurry.”

  “One last thing before you two take off. I want to remind you, we are conducting a murder investigation, and I wouldn’t take kindly to any interference from a reporter and a librarian. One who’d be safer doing what this town pays her for.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of interfering, would we, Rick?” I pulled on his arm.

  He was as easy to move as a block of stone. His eyes never left Bill’s face. I pulled again, this time harder.

  “No, I’ve always had a lot of respect for law enforcement,” Rick said. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that might let a murderer get away.”

  “That’s good to know, Delaney. ’Cause sometimes innocent bystanders can get caught in the crossfire by being at the wrong place at the wrong time. And I don’t need any more dead bodies turning up.”

  Bill turned sharply on his heel and hiked off in the opposite direction.

  Rick stood and watched him leave. When Bill was out of sight, he kicked at the ground. “Damn, Bill’s not going to let me get within ten feet of Larry’s jail cell. There goes that plan. We’re back to square one.”

  We started walking back to the house.

  “Obviously, anybody stupid enough to get their truck stuck during a theft isn’t smart enough to run what you said was a major drug ring,” I said.

  “I never thought Larry was the brains behind this operation, but I thought he might have heard something I could use.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t have much choice. I’m going back to Minneapolis.”

  “You’re quitting?” For some reason, my heart took a little dip at the thought.

  “No, I never give up on a story. I’m going back and talk to a friend who’s with the crime bureau. Maybe I can get some information from him, or get him to call Bill.”

  “Would he do that for you?”

  “Yeah, he owes me. I gave him a tip that cracked a big case for him.”

  I thought for a moment. “Could you tell anything by the mark on the tree?”

  Rick shook his head. “Could’ve been a smoke grenade, hard to tell now, but I didn’t see any wires or shells.”

  Pausing, I stared off into the distance and faced the truth. It was too late to stop Rick from worming his way into my life; he was already there. And I’d miss him when he left.

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked, keeping my voice even.

  “A few days maybe. I don’t know if I can reach him over the weekend. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Sure. What do you want Darci and me to do while you’re gone?”

  Rick frowned. “Nothing. Just try and stay out of trouble, will you?”

  I thought about Rick’s warning while I drove home after work. I’d stay out of trouble, all right. I hadn’t wanted anything to do with this in the first place. It would take me about ten minutes to get more clothes, and I intended to stay at Abby’s.

  I felt the disruption in the air when I opened the door, a faint energy that didn’t belong there. Going from room to room, my eyes scanned each one while I tried to find anything missing. There wasn’t. My needlepoint was the only thing out of place.

  The energy grew stronger as I walked up the stairs. I eased the door to my bedroom open. Anger, frustration, whirled around me like a mist. I blinked at the impact. Whoever had been in my house had been very angry by the time they reached this room.

  I ran my hands over the dresser and across the bed but could sense nothing. Standing in the middle of the room, I closed my eyes and willed the images to come, but nothing. Nothing except a song—the same song from my dream.

  Twenty-five

  The rain drummed on the roof while I lay in my childhood bed at Abby’s. Familiar things looked down at me from the shelves. My favorite doll from when I was six, the rock that looked like a toad, which I’d found in the stream that ran through Abby’s woods, a drawing of a tree I’d done for Grandpa when I was nine. They represented security, safety, and I was in desperate need of them. I was exhausted, worn-out by all the stress of the past week.

  I rolled over in the bed and listened to the rhythm of the rain, looked at my old toys, and thought about the peace I always felt at Abby’s. I shut my eyes and prayed for a good night’s sleep. But sometime during the night the vision began to unfold in my mind.

  The neon sign was burning out. The T in MOTEL flashed above the parking lot with annoying regularity. On the bungalows, paint peeled from the weathered boards, and the once dark green shutters were now a chalky green.

  The red convertible whipped into the motel’s gravel parking lot and the soldier got out. While he was gone, the girl sat behind the steering wheel, at first drumming her hands on the wheel, then studying her face in the car mirror. She made a little pout while she applied more lipstick. She fluffed her long blond hair with her hands and then tossed her head, sending the curls tumbling around her pretty face. When she saw the soldier come out of the manager’s office, dangling a key in his hand, she gave him a big smile and jumped out of the car.

  He threw an arm around the girl’s shoulders. And together they staggered across the parking lot, while the hot wind blew dust around their feet.

  When they reached the bungalow door, the soldier fumbled fitting the key into the lock. Balancing his body against the door frame, he tried again. Suddenly the door swung open, and he tripped across the threshold.

  The girl made a move to follow, but she hesitated at the door and allowed her eyes to travel the sad little room.

  Covering the bed was a olive green and gold bedspread, its colors shadows of what they once had been. In a cheap frame above the bed hung a painting that looked like it had been made from a “paint by the numbers” kit. The curtains hanging on the painted window were stained and crooked. And the musty air circulated by the noisy air conditioner seemed to reach out and grab her. She took a half step forward and rubbed a sandaled foot across the matted and dirty shag carpet, frowning in disgust.

  After turning on the light in the bathroom, the soldier crossed to the window, grabbed the wand hanging from the curtain rod and pulled sideways. But the curtains moved only halfway to the center, leaving a gap that let the blinking light from the neon sign illuminate the room. With a shrug and a smile, he took the girl’s hand and pulled her into the room, shutting the door with a kick
. He walked her to the bed and drew out a bottle from a deep shirt pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he handed it to the girl.

  Old bedsprings groaned when the girl, with the bottle in her hand, sat down. She gave the soldier a teasing look and took a swig. In an instant she sputtered and coughed as the booze burned her throat.

  Leaning close, the soldier took the bottle from her hand, and as he did, pushed her back on the bed. The girl looked startled at first, but her look turned to a smile when the soldier stroked her face with his finger. He scooted closer until his body covered hers. Running his hands up her body, he grasped both of her wrists and held her hands tightly over her head. He bent his head and pressed his mouth to her neck. The girl murmured in response.

  And then, to the rhythm of the flashing neon light, the age-old dance between male and female, man and woman, began.

  I didn’t want to watch. The vision I was witnessing in my mind made me feel like a voyeur, and I fought to free myself. Wake up, wake up, my brain screamed. I tried shutting my eyes, but it seemed like tiny clamps held them open. I tried turning my head away from the scene on the bed, but it felt like a vise held my head in place. My arms hung at my sides and I didn’t have the strength to lift them and shield my face. Helplessly, I stood, in my mind, invisible to the couple on the bed, and watched the young girl play grown-up games.

  When it was over, the soldier rolled over on his back and grabbed his pants, drawing out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket. After lighting one, he took a deep drag and settled back on the pillows. He stared at the ceiling while he blew lazy smoke rings.

  The girl lay on her side, curled in a tight ball. And I felt her anger. Tonight she had expected to be petted and pampered, as she had been before, but the drunken soldier had thought only of his own pleasure. When he touched her shoulder, offering her his cigarette, her rage exploded. Knocking the cigarette from his fingers, she surged out of the bed and stood glowering at him.

  The soldier, too busy hunting for the cigarette, didn’t notice her. He found the cigarette smoldering on the ancient bedspread and grabbed it. Stubbing it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, he turned, with a smirk, and for the first time looked at the girl.

  Her face wasn’t smirking. It was full of fury, and I saw her mouth moving. But the sounds were indistinct, muffled, as though my ears were stuffed with cotton.

  I watched the smirk slide from the soldier’s face while she derided him. His skin became mottled with angry, red spots and a vein on his forehead stood out.

  The girl, so wrapped up in her indignation, failed to see the warning signs on the soldier’s face and continued her tirade.

  The vein on his forehead began to throb, slowly at first but faster while the girl ranted on. Finally, with a roar, he threw off the sheet and loomed in front of her. Surprised, she drew back her hand and slapped him with enough force that his head snapped to his right. He slowly turned to face her. Now the angry, red spots had fused together, turning his skin almost purple. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her till her head bobbled up and down like a toy dog with its head on a spring.

  She grasped his wrists, trying to wrench them from her shoulders, but the soldier’s grip was too strong. She pummeled his chest with her fists, but he didn’t move. Finally, she kicked him with her foot, putting all the force and strength she had as a dancer behind it.

  The soldier hollered when her foot connected with his shin. He grabbed her upper arms and slung her away from him.

  Time slowed. And the girl seemed to float toward the bed. For an instant it was as if she hung suspended above its surface. Suddenly, time sped up, and she crashed onto the mattress. Her body landed on the bed, but her head and neck hit the sharp edge of the nightstand with a crack that echoed on and on in the dingy room.

  The girl exhaled a long, slow breath. And I could see it. The breath came out in a stream of pale white light that gathered over her body. After lingering above her an instant, the light began to drift away.

  While I watched the light grow fainter, I heard the song again. The melody the girl had danced to with vibrancy flowed through the room. And on the last, final note the light flickered and died.

  Oh my God—he’d killed her.

  The next morning my eyes felt gritty and it seemed like I’d run a marathon. And I couldn’t shake the vision I’d had the night before. Dragging myself out of bed, I dressed and went in search of Abby. Maybe she could make some sense out of the dream. Not finding her in the house, I wandered to the greenhouse.

  The last of the season’s mums sat clustered by the door. Purple, deep yellow, dark burgundy, and white—their colors looked too bright to my tired eyes. Thanksgiving cactus were next to the mums, their buds ready to burst into blooms of coral and pink. Around the pots of flowers, Abby had placed small pumpkins and squash. Near them were bushel baskets full of green, gold, and orange striped gourds. Nailed to the posts by the baskets were bundles of Indian corn. The earth had given Abby a rich harvest this year. Food to fill the body and beauty to fill the soul, and for some reason it made me sad.

  I took a deep breath of the warm, moist air, and the smell of fertile soil filled my senses. The scent held a promise, a promise of next year’s harvest. But for the young girl in my dream there would be no harvest. She would never experience the changing of the seasons, never see the earth’s cycle of life. Her life was cut too short.

  “Dark thoughts for so early in the morning, isn’t it?”

  Abby’s voice startled me out of my brooding. She paused in the doorway to the back of the greenhouse, her watering can held loosely in one hand, before she crossed over and laid her hand on my shoulder.

  “She’s dead, Abby,” I said, my voice bleak.

  “The girl you’ve been dreaming about?” she asked, and squeezed my shoulder softly.

  “Yes.” I wandered over to where her ancient cash register sat on the counter. Pulling out a stool, I sat and watched while she plucked the spent blooms from the mums.

  “I figured as much,” she said, her attention on the flowers.

  “Why? Why did you think that?”

  Abby sighed deeply. “It’s the way things work. The bad catches our attention more than the good.”

  “That sucks,” I said with a scowl.

  She brushed my remark aside with a shrug. “Everyone has the habit of focusing on the negative. Do people gossip about positive things? No. They usually gossip about their neighbors’ misfortune.”

  “I suppose.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way.” She straightened and crumpled the dead blossoms. “By sensing the good around us, we can send its positive energy back out into the world to fight the negative. That’s the secret of our gift, the secret of magick.”

  “I don’t see it,” I scoffed. “How can there be anything ‘good’ about a young girl’s death in a run-down motel? How do I turn something so tragic into something good?”

  “You were given the dream for a reason,” she said, walking to the trash can behind me. “Figure out the reason.” She tossed the blooms inside the can and slammed the lid.

  “I can’t,” I said, my voice rising in frustration.

  “Yes, you can,” Abby said with certainty. “Make the connection between the dream and what’s happening now. And you’ll have your answer.”

  “What connection? I don’t know who she is. And I don’t know where or when the girl died. All I know is she died after having sex with a soldier in a wretched, little motel.”

  “Did you recognize the motel?”

  “No. I’ve never had much experience with seedy motels,” I said sarcastically.

  Abby chuckled. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, studying my hands. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  She patted my arm. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant. Let me rephrase my question. Have you ever driven by the motel you saw in your dream?”

  “No. I don’t think it’s in Io
wa. The weather didn’t seem right,” I said with a frown. “It was hot, but not like it is here.”

  “Drier?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, trying to remember the dream. “And dusty. Like a desert.”

  Images floated in my head—hot, dry wind blowing dust over the girl’s shoes. Did I see vegetation, like a cactus or tumbleweeds? No, in the vision it was too dark.

  “Arizona?” Abby asked.

  I shook my head, baffled. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What branch of the service was the soldier in?”

  His uniform? What color was it? Closing my eyes, I tried to summon the vision from the corners of my brain, concentrating on what the soldier looked like.

  “Umm, dark green pants and shirt, shirt has stuff on it—”

  “What kind of ‘stuff’?” she asked, her voice sounding far away as I sank deeper into my mind.

  “A—A kind of a triangle, gold on a black circle, on his sleeve. A rectangle above the circle, gold and red wavy lines.” My eyes popped open. “His pocket has a name—”

  “What’s the name?” Abby butted in.

  “Smith.” I rolled my eyes in disgust. “How many Smiths do you suppose there are in the service?”

  “Several, I would imagine.”

  “Right.” I pushed off the stool and jammed my hands in my pockets. “Several thousands, you mean. And how in the devil am I supposed to narrow it down to one?”

  “Dark green clothes, that’s the Army isn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  “And the patches—wouldn’t they represent what unit the soldier belonged to?”

  “Maybe,” I answered, confused. “I don’t know anything about the military, Abby.”

  “But you can find out on that computer of yours, can’t you?”

  I jerked my hands out of my pockets and snapped my fingers. “That’s right. I can look up Army patches on the Internet, find out what the rectangle with the wavy lines means. If it’s his unit insignia, I’ll know where he was stationed,” I said, almost skipping to the door. “Then I can search for news reports of the girl’s death. It might take a few days, but I bet I can find something.”