Speaking of Chihuahuas, Toots…don’t you realize that a full-sized, heavy-coated French briard like moi doesn’t need to be tied up in one of these silly things?
“Just shut up and wear it. The bright yellow complements your sandy fur. I bet if Honeycomb were here, she’d be most impressed. Now your job, as I see it, Scruffy, is to blaze a trail to the garage.”
Hey, Toots—it’s up to my ass out there.
“Oh, go on, you protein-packed sissy.”
To his credit, Scruffy soon got the hang of forging through the heavy drifts, and I followed in the path he had broken through. We trudged out to the garage for Grandma’s old snow shovels, kept waxed just as she’d taught me. Not lightweight plastic, they were smaller and heavier, but they worked just fine and had for decades.
I used one of the shovels to clean off the back stairs to the kitchen door, feeling elated, in full pioneer mode, almost reluctant to go inside. Then I realized it was a minute past time for my phone appointment. Hastily I tried my cell. No answer! Well, perhaps Joe was in the midst of jockeying his car out of the drift.
After giving Scruffy a brisk toweling, and cleaning the ice off his paws, I assembled storm supplies: flashlights, kerosene lanterns, candles, and my battery-operated radio, items that no self-respecting resident of the South Shore would be caught wanting. Yes, I was prepared. The only thing I had left to do in order to earn my Superwoman merit badge was to set about making soup in the kitchen fireplace.
I was kneeling down arranging a nice crisscross of kindling when I heard stamping on the porch. Scruffy did his friend-not-stranger woof, and I looked up to see Tip grinning through the glass pane in the door. That boy had certainly sprung up tall!
Pioneer woman or not, I suddenly felt relieved not to be alone. I flung open the door, nearly as effusive in my greeting as Scruffy. Tip was leaning the snowshoes he’d been wearing against the porch wall next to my shovel, and he had a second pair slung on his back.
“Did you advertise for a handyman, lady?”
“Tip, am I glad to see you. But I thought you’d be busy packing up stuff at your house.”
“Naw, I got time now. What with the special circumstances, Uncle John got me permission to transfer to Plymouth for the rest of this year so’s I can keep an eye on the house until we get it sold. Then it’s back to Wiscasset for my junior year. But now I guess we’ll be snowed in for a while. Where’s Joe? I brought him these snowshoes,” He shrugged them off his back and held them out, grinning. “They were Paw’s, and Joe isn’t much taller, so they should fit. I’ll just take this shovel and clean up the paths.”
“Joe’s stuck in a drift somewhere between here and Home Warehouse. Which reminds me. Hang on a minute while I try the cell again. We just lost our lights and phone. And don’t worry about those paths yet. They’ll only fill up with snow again. But I could use your help when it stops.”
Still no answer from Joe, but no need to panic yet, I told myself. Maybe his cell needed a charge. Tip insisted on shoveling out the garage so I could get the Jeep out later. I messed about in the kitchen, making a fire and setting on it my old black cauldron, which I filled with beef, vegetables, herbs, and water, thankful that we weren’t dependent on a well run by an electric pump as some residents were.
When Tip came back to the house, I told him that Joe wasn’t responding to my repeated attempts to call him. I would leave Tip to watch the fire while I took the Jeep out to find Joe. I knew just where he was. Coming out of Standish Plaza, he would have cut across by Owl Swamp Road to Route 3A. He should have gone by Route 44. But a little storm never daunted us pioneer types.
“Hey, Cass, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Tip said. “The plows can’t keep up with this storm, and the roads are a mess.”
“Now, don’t you start.” I leaned over to stir my cauldron, feeling primitive and powerful.
Smells mighty good, Toots. Scruffy tried to position himself on the hearth rug, but I hefted him off. “Not here, big fella. You go lie on your bed, away from the fire.”
“Well, then,” Tip said, “I’m going out to clear away more snow from the sides of the garage door. Give the Jeep room to turn.” He was gone before I could stop him.
The world without power had gone quiet except for the vicious wind howling off the Atlantic. What a surprise, then, when I looked out the window at the sound of a familiar motor and saw my Jeep cautiously edging out of the newly shoveled driveway. Seeing my face slack-jawed with unbelief, Tip had the chutzpah to wave when he drove by. I glanced at the small hook by the back door where I hang my car keys. Gone, of course. The boy was nervy enough to have taken over my rescue mission.
The dumb soup didn’t keep me busy enough. I wrung my hands and paced the kitchen. It would get dark early. I’d call Deidre. When not on duty, Will often earned extra income by helping the town maintenance crews plow the roads. Maybe she could reach him, have him check Owl Swamp Road for Joe and Tip, the traitor.
Deidre didn’t answer. Phillipa didn’t answer. Fiona?
My finger was poised to punch in Fiona’s number when my cell at last rang. “Hi, sweetheart. Everything is fine. Great idea to send Tip with the Jeep. He’s just finished hauling me out of the drift, and we’re on our way home.”
I was relieved, angry, and nearly speechless.
“Thank Goddess. But that boy stole my car!” I complained.
“Now, now. He explained that to me. Sometimes guys have to take things into their own hands and do what they believe is right.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Love you.”
“Yeah. Love you, too.” I poured myself a medicinal brandy and went back to stirring the soup.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For a few days, the roads were closed to all but emergency vehicles. Plymouth was shut down, many homes and businesses without power for nearly a week, but I was lucky, it was only two days before the electric and phone lines were restored on our street. Gradually, we all got in touch again, and I walked over to check on Patty, too. Lee Deluca had not surfaced anywhere, and no more poison attempts had been made. It was almost peaceful. A lull in the continual agitation of the past weeks.
I found Patty in good spirits, all smiles, with Loki weaving himself around her legs in a proprietary manner. She served tea and cookies by a cozy fireplace cheerily glowing with one of those fake logs that has a peculiar smell.
After we’d drunk our tea and Patty took up her knitting, some shapeless peach garment, she said, “Terrible thing, this storm. Treacherous walking, you know. Personally, I’m always careful to wear my galoshes with the ribbed tread. But, alas, Mrs. Pynchon went out into the driveway wearing shoes with slick leather soles, hurrying to give the paper person a piece of her mind for depositing the Pilgrim Times in a puddle of melting snow. Slipped on the frozen snow and cracked her ankle, poor dear. Crutches being too dangerous on icy walks, she hasn’t even been able to attend services. Wyn paid a call, of course, and tried to pray with her, but she was not receptive, he said, to accepting her mishap as the Lord’s will.”
“Well, who is? It’s human nature to accept the misfortunes of others better than one’s own. But here’s what we believe, Patty,” I said, noting the impish grin she was trying to suppress. “Thoughts are things. Whatever you send out into the universe comes back to you threefold. Not that it’s easy monitoring one’s innermost impulses.” I felt somewhat hypocritical delivering this Wiccan mini-sermon, remembering how I’d once had just such an evil thought toward Wyn Peacedale when he’d kicked Scruffy in the backside for dumping on the church lawn. But that was before we all got to know and like each other better. Possibly Wyn’s broken leg had had nothing to do with me, anyway.
“‘Do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you,’” Patty quoted. “I try to be a good Christian, Cass. I even brought Mrs. P. some homemade brownies to perk up her spirits.” Now Patty was grinning shamelessly. “I wonder if she dared
to eat one, don’t you?”
“Brownies!” I squeaked. “I hope you made them yourself.”
“Hmmmm. Yes. Easy enough with a mix. I don’t think that evil boy had any problem turning out batches of the things. I understand he was enrolled in a school cooking class, and his grandmother is famous for her pastries.”
“His computer is located in her basement room. I wouldn’t be surprised if he concocted his deadly treats in her kitchen.”
“Bianca Deluca is quite active at Holy Family,” Patty said. “She’s over there almost every day, assisting in one parish project or another, from flowers to fetes.”
“So with Grandma at the church organizing a rummage sale, Lee would have a clear field to play around in her kitchen.”
“Play, indeed!” Patty sniffed.
“Detective Stern has talked to Bianca Deluca about giving up her grandson for his own good. He thought he got through to her, that she’d help to bring him in for questioning.”
Patty laughed merrily, but her laugh had an edge to it. “That Bianca! Omerta is her middle name.”
“You know her?”
“Oh, yes indeed. Jean introduced us at the Interdenominational Gospel Day. Jean’s a member of Wyn’s congregation, as was her aunt Lydia, even though the boy’s been brought up Catholic. Lydia Craig was not pleased about that.” Patty counted stitches, a lock of hair falling across her broad, fair forehead.
“From what I hear, Lydia Craig was never much pleased about anything her niece and nephews did or believed that departed even slightly from her own views.”
Patty looked up from the indefinable peach garment—a shawl perhaps? “You could have knocked me over with an angel feather when she left all that money to Wyn.”
“But you’re adjusting to the notion of being rich?”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways…blessed be the name of the Lord.” Patty surveyed her handiwork more closely. “Money in Wyn’s hands will be used for worthy causes, because basically he’s a really good person. I believe that’s why the Lord has spared Wyn from all those close calls with the poisoned desserts, the deadly salad, and the damned Naturally Nice juice.”
“You may be right, Patty. It is rather miraculous.”
“I owe you so much, Cass. And Heather. Especially for convincing me to adopt Loki. Such an unusual personality. I always wondered if animals had souls, and now I’m convinced not only that they have souls but that they connect us to the Holy Spirit in an utterly pure way. So I’m hoping, when the Craig will is probated, that Wyn will make a nice contribution to the Animal Lovers Shelter.”
“Amen,” I said.
It was the first of February, Imbolc, the Wiccan end of winter. The aftereffects of the Cape blizzard had reluctantly melted away, leaving the land rutted and muddy and the roads potholed. But the skies were clear blue again, and there was a whiff of something hopeful in the air. Could it be, as this Sabbat promised, the first stirrings of spring? We’d gathered at Deidre’s to abolish the season of darkness and sweep away all negative influences. It was also an occasion for promoting fertility, but our hostess and priestess Deidre said she’d had quite enough fertility for the time being.
“Not for you, dearie,” I’d said. “For you, we’re calling the Universe of Infinite Solutions to bring you the ideal au pair. And fertility doesn’t necessarily mean more babies, you know. What about creative inspiration?”
“Yes, let’s focus on that,” Phillipa had agreed. “Although you, Cass, might already have enough fertile ideas to keep us busy in the foreseeable future.”
When our ceremony was concluded and the circle had been dispersed, it was time for the merry part of the meeting, with an excellent sherry provided by Heather and delectable almond moon cookies baked by Phillipa. But the merriment was somewhat muted by our mutual sense of foreboding.
“Where is he?” I asked Fiona. “You’ve always been our finder, and we need to find Lee Deluca.” Weeks had passed without a clue to the missing boy’s whereabouts. On the good side, no one had been poisoned, or threatened with poison, during the hiatus.
“That poor boy has ruined his whole life with impatience and greed,” Fiona said. “And to tell you the truth, I have tried to dowse him out of hiding, but for some reason he’s been able to throw up a very creditable cloak of invisibility. Maybe he is a changeling. And I’m not infallible, you know.”
“No! I can’t believe you mean that,” Phillipa said with one of her wicked smiles.
“Yes, and what about the Plymouth Police Department?” Heather chided. “Foiled by the ‘cloak of invisibility,’ also?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Every year thousands of young persons disappear off the face of the earth, and Goddess Herself can’t find them, let alone an understaffed police force,” Phillipa said. “Stone thinks that the Deluca boy, with his interest in the theater, may have headed to New York and lost himself in the crowd of young theater hopefuls.”
“He’s one slippery fish, all right. Squirmed right out of my hands, too,” Deidre said. “A Pisces, naturally. Born on the Ides of March, Millie told me. I’ll never forget how chilled I felt—Well, all I can say is, I’ve heard a lot about the ‘evil eye,’ but that boy really has a look that’s everything I conceive mal occhio to be.”
“I’ve seen that look. ‘Soulless’ is how I’d describe it.”
“So how come many of his teachers described Lee as ‘enchanting’?” Heather asked.
“They never encountered his anger,” I said.
“Or scratched his pretty face,” Deidre added. “That gives me an idea. Do you remember when we needed to find that bomb-maker, Thomas Gere, and we called him back to us? Why don’t we try that with Deluca?”
“One of Hazel’s spells, as I recall,” Heather said. “She had some innocent name for it. ‘Recipe for Bringing Home.’ What a hoot she must have been. I wish I’d known her. I remember I made special candles. Onion-skin yellow, in the old way.”
“Heartsease. Viola tricolor. Sweetgrass, too. And cinnamon oil.” I assembled herbal supplies in my mind.
“But do you also remember that we were all very sorry when Thomas Gere reappeared?” Phillipa reminded us.
“Oh, never mind that,” Deidre said impatiently. “I can’t stand the suspense. Let’s do the damn spell. I’ll make a poppet again, like I did then. A likeness to hang in the rafters with sweetgrass?”
“We wrote down his name and burned it in the candle flame,” I recalled.
“Well, we hardly need to consult Hazel’s Book, then,” Fiona said. “You girls remember that spell very well.”
“All except the gory results.” Phillipa was still the bringer of evil omens. We should have listened. But, no, the very next night we five gathered at my house and retired to the newly refurbished cellar workroom. Joe’s track lighting, while excellent for emergency appendectomies, was far too bright for spell-working. We settled for my old green-shaded, single-bulb, shadow-swinging light.
Heather had created a marvelous yellow candle, studded with dried forget-me-nots and a few shards of yellow onion skin. From her friend Millie, Deidre had obtained a yearbook that showed Lee among his classmates. Using this likeness, she’d made a tiny poppet, which we secured to the cellar rafters with a braid of sweetgrass. On a square of parchment, Deidre lettered in charming calligraphy, Leonardo Deluca. I folded it, inserted a sprig of heartsease, and scented the paper with cinnamon oil for its attractive power.
Phillipa relented enough to compose a rhyme. We joined her in chanting:
Longing fills you, breath and bone,
Heartsease draws you ever near…
When the Goddess calls you home
All life’s roads will lead you here.
Deidre burned the folded paper in the candle’s flame, dropping it neatly into our working cauldron. Humming to herself, Fiona added a chant, the age-old rule of spell-working, “‘To know, to dare, to will, to keep silent.’”
This should do it, we agreed
. And Deidre was feeling especially pleased with herself for having come up with the idea of bringing Lee home.
Chapter Thirty
Lee Deluca came home all right, just long enough to borrow his family’s car and embark on a vendetta. For some unimaginable reason in his twisted mind, he focused on Deidre. Perhaps it was her investigation of his early delinquencies. Or the scratch that marked his cheek, which had somehow festered and not healed adequately, leaving a crescent mark on his left cheek.
I’d been printing out my Internet orders for herbal products—thrilled to see that my new Psychic Visions dream pillows and Aphrodite’s Bath baskets were selling so well—when I got one of those nanosecond flashes that I ought to check out Freddie’s computer traps. It had been a long time, and with Lee on the run there was little chance that he’d be interested in the fake casting call, but maybe the other link—“Poisons in the Kitchen”—would still be intriguing.
I consulted the carefully noted step-by-step instructions Freddie had left me for penetrating Lee’s computer. As I typed in his personal password, “Puck,” I considered that my efforts might be considered illegal by some, but I dismissed the thought instantly, like brushing away an irksome fly.
Eureka! I was in! I could scroll through Lee’s files and open whatever I wished. Some of the file titles were rather obscure, so I realized I might have to go through them one at a time in order not to miss anything relevant. But there were hundreds. So that would take me hours. Why couldn’t I simply dowse them the way Fiona would? Worth a try.
I printed out several pages that listed the file documents in his PC. From the bedroom, I fetched the gold eagle pendant that Joe had given me to commemorate where and why we’d met. I held it dangling on its gold chain over the list of Lee’s files. It hung there unmoving. I closed my eyes and brought all my spiritual power to bear on the eagle. My eyes flew open as I felt the pendant begin to swing in lazy circles over the printed page, not unlike our own eagles soaring in Jenkins Park. Then, gradually, the circles turned into a horizontal track to first one and then the other file. The names read FAM HIST and SCHOOL REC.
Ladies Courting Trouble Page 27
