Shaman's Moon

by Sarah Dreher

  Good, Stoner thought. The sooner the better. The accounts can wait.

  The trouble with that was, it meant Stoner had to handle the softball practice. Which meant she couldn’t work on The Problem herself.

  But what would she do, anyway, if she had the time? She had no ideas whatsoever.

  Nobody had any ideas. That was the frustrating part. Nobody knew where she should start, or how she should go about it. What do you do when one of your loved ones is being driven insane?

  She glanced at her watch. An hour and a half to the practice. She had time to drop in on Travis Kolek, M.D.

  Jamming her paperwork into the desk drawer, she reached for the phone.

  Yes, he certainly remembered Hermione Moore. Anyone who had ever met her probably remembered her. He was delighted to have the opportunity to meet her niece. And he had time free right now.

  She liked his office. It was sunny and cluttered and devoid of shiny chrome instruments of torture.

  Before he’d discuss her aunt, he said, he had to get her permission. Stoner appreciated that, even though any delay made her as jumpy as a grasshopper. It showed he was careful.

  Calling the number he’d written in his file, he connected with Aunt Hermione and said her niece was in his office. What and how much information did he have her permission to share? And would she be willing to sign a release on her next trip in so he wouldn’t be defrocked and she couldn’t sue him.

  They had a laugh together, then he took out a note pad and pen and began to make a list. It was, she assumed, a list of the things Aunt Hermione didn’t want her to know.

  Stoner was puzzled and a little hurt. She’d never thought Aunt Hermione had secrets from her, or didn’t trust her. She wondered how long that had been going on, and what she’d done to raise her distrust. She wondered if it had been that way since she’d first arrived at the brownstone in Boston. She wondered what else she didn’t know about Aunt Hermione. She wondered if she really knew her at all. She wondered...

  “Would you repeat that?” Travis said into the phone. Then he nodded and wrote some more.

  She was beginning to feel foolish. She wished Aunt Hermione had told her she didn’t want anything known about her medical condition. But, then, Stoner hadn’t asked, had she? It was her responsibility to say what she was about to do and get permission.

  But it had been a spur-of-the-moment idea.

  And Alexander Graham Bell had never invented the telephone. One simple call would have...

  “Okay,” Travis said. “I’ll tell her.”

  He tore the page from the note pad.

  “Your aunt said…” He handed her the note. “…could you possibly stop by the grocery and pick up these things?”

  Stoner wanted to bore through the floor and pull it in after her. “About talking to you,” she managed to get out through the clouds of embarrassment, “is it okay?”

  “Of course.” He leaned back in his chair and made the leather squeak. “She says the two of you have never had secrets between you.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Stoner said.

  “Until recently. She attributes that to her current mental distress.”

  “Distress?” Stoner said in a shrill voice, apprehension reducing her to stupidity.

  “Her condition. I’d call it distress. She’s certainly distressed.”

  “We all are,” Stoner said.

  He smiled a little. “I know, it’s an upsetting situation. How can I help?”

  She relaxed a little. “Did you find anything wrong with her?”

  “Other than the symptoms? Forgetfulness, mental confusion, anxiety? No, I didn’t.”

  “And the blood tests?”

  “Completely normal.”

  “Did you test for drugs? Poisons? Anything like that?”

  “Absolutely. Even LSD, MDA, speed, the whole bunch.” He rocked in his chair. It sounded like a porch swing. “Though she certainly didn’t look like a user to me.”

  “What about herbal drugs? You know, the kind that don’t show up. Like mushrooms and stuff.”

  “Those are a lot rarer than the mystery writers would have us believe. And most of them do show up eventually, at autopsy if not before.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a comfort,” Stoner said wryly.

  He noticed her wincing at his squeaking chair and stopped rocking. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I do that unconsciously. It makes me feel like a real doctor.”

  Stoner stared at him. “You’re not a real doctor?”

  “I am. I just don’t feel like one. Do you feel like a real travel agent?”

  She shook her head. “But I’m not sure there is such a thing.”

  “I might have met one once, at least she claimed she was a travel agent, always wanted to be, couldn’t imagine any other life” he said. “I’m not certain. She was very bustling and efficient, and seemed to have a packed suitcase behind her desk.”

  “It couldn’t have been anyone at Kesselbaum and McTavish, then. Sometimes Marylou bustles, but she’s not efficient. And she wouldn’t have a packed suitcase on hand. She hates to travel.”

  “Interesting vocation, then,” he said.

  “She likes to think about traveling. And to look at photos and slides. Our customers enjoy that.”

  “But she could work for a photo processing business. More pictures, less worry.”

  “Personally, I think what she really likes is telling people where to go and what to do.”

  “Aha,” he said, and lapsed into a brief silence. “Well, where do we go from here?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I’d like her to have a neurological work-up. It might be a waste of time, but I’d feel more comfortable if we ruled out every possible medical cause.”

  “Okay.” It would make me more comfortable, too, she thought. No matter what, at this point I just want to find out what’s wrong.

  “Your aunt was reluctant, but she agreed to make a temporary appointment in Worcester for early next week, for your sake. Should I go ahead and confirm it?”

  Stoner nodded.

  Travis spread his hands. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.” He got to his feet. “It’s a helpless feeling, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Stoner said.

  If there was anything she really wasn’t up to, it was softball practice. The team was a bunch of hard workers and hard players, but it seemed whenever Stoner was around the practice deteriorated into raucous giggling, pushing one another with hips and hands, overly aggressive base running and guarding, and other show-off performances.

  Marylou found this enchanting and referred to it as “baby dyke courtship behavior.”

  Stoner didn’t find it enchanting—though if she thought about it, she knew she’d remember similar activity on the part of her own adolescent self. Mostly she found their hero-worship difficult since it required her to pay a lot of attention to everyone so nobody’s feelings would be hurt and nobody would get the idea she was playing favorites. It was exhausting, and sometimes nerve-wracking.

  Today she found it nearly impossible to keep herself from shouting, “Will you please grow up and play the damn game?”

  Which, of course, she wouldn’t do. Not with a pair of mothers lounging on a blanket over by first base. Instead she appointed herself coach/umpire so she had to pay attention to balls and strikes.

  She kept them going until they were sweaty and out of breath and no longer in the mood to preen, then called a five-minute break. The mothers had brought an ice chest full of soda and bottled water, which softball mothers were supposed to do. And they had seated themselves in a place where they wouldn’t be obvious, but could see every play their daughters made so they could describe it over the dinner table. Which softball mothers were also supposed to do.

  Stoner wandered over and got herself a Pepsi, then sat down close enough to the mothers to ward off teenagers. But far enough away not to be
thought eavesdropping. She was as hot and tired as the players. She hoped they were impressed.

  “...that strange man who loiters around the Buddhist Temple,” she heard one of the mothers say.

  She took a lazy swallow of soda and lowered her head to her knees as if she were resting.

  “But what was he doing here?” the other asked.

  “I don’t know, but if they’re going to allow that, I really have to think twice about Betsy staying on the team.”

  The other was silent.

  “What could they be thinking of?”

  “Well,” the other said, “they’re new in town. Maybe they don’t know better.”

  “Maybe they don’t.”

  Another silence.

  “Someone should tell them.”

  Another silence.

  “Yes,” the other mother said, “someone should.”

  Nobody moved.

  Stoner got up, stretched, and ambled over to them. “Excuse me,” she said.

  The mothers looked embarrassed and smiled hugely. “They look good, don’t they?” said one, gesturing toward the field.

  “I especially like the tie-dyed tee-shirts,” the other said. “It reminds me of my youth.”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing you,” Stoner said, and settled herself on the grass beside them. “Who was the man you were talking about?”

  “You mean you’ve never seen him?”

  “No, but Marylou, the other coach… I’m Stoner McTavish, by the way… is here a lot more than I am. She might have.”

  “Well.” The mother took a long drink of spring water, undoubtedly priming the gossip pump. “He’s an older man, though it’s hard to tell his age, really. He looks every age at once, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen him around town,” the other picked up. “He wanders around in ratty old clothes. They say he lives in a tent out in the woods, by that Buddhist place.”

  “He probably smells terrible,” said the first. “Not that I’d get close enough to find out.”

  “God only knows where he gets his food. But I have my suspicions.”

  “Where?” Stoner asked innocently.

  “Out of dumpsters, if he doesn’t steal it. Oh, I suppose now and then someone gives him a handout.”

  “Probably Ethel,” said the other. She turned to Stoner. “Do you know Ethel? Over at the Trolley Stop?”

  Stoner nodded.

  “I’m sure I’ve seen him in there. With the other shell-shocked derelicts.”

  “And you say he hangs around here?” Stoner asked.

  “That’s what the girls say. Oh, he never comes down on the field, but they’ve all seen him lurking at the edge of the woods.”

  Stoner pretended to be mulling over new information. “Have you heard anything,” she asked at last, “to make you think he’d be a danger?”

  “Well,” second mother said eagerly, “there’s nothing that would stand up in a court of law, but there have been rumors.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “A few years back, there was a young man down in Adams who killed a girl. Cut her to pieces, from what I hear. He wasn’t quite right, had been in the state hospital on and off since he was a child. After the murder, he disappeared into the woods up in the state forest. They looked for him for months. Because he could do it again, don’t you know? And they couldn’t find a trace.”

  The other couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Months later,” she broke in, “some hunters found him dead. Stark naked and hanging from a tree limb by his neck.”

  “Of course the official word was that he’d committed suicide in a fit of remorse or something. But everyone knows who did it.”

  The police, Stoner thought. Vigilante justice, to save the taxpayers a trial.

  “The crazy man,” first mother said, in case Stoner had missed the clues.

  She couldn’t think of anything to say but “Oh.”

  “I have to give the devil his due, though,” said second mother. “He’s never lifted a finger to anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

  “Not yet,” the other said ominously.

  “There’ve been other incidents?” Stoner asked.

  “Vandalism. Tire slashing. Painting words on cars. In the parking lot behind the grocery.”

  That sounded like adolescent ruffians to her.

  “Anyway,” first mother said, “better safe than sorry, I always say. It makes me very uneasy, him hanging around where there are young girls in shorts.”

  “Yes, really,” the other said.

  The young girls in shorts had rested their sylph-like adolescent bodies and were taking the field. Much to the delight of all the local peeping perverts, no doubt.

  Stoner got up. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll certainly pass along your concerns to my partner and we’ll see what can be done about it.”

  She went back out onto the field, leaving the mothers very satisfied with themselves.

  Marylou was pleased with the way she had handled the Mogwye situation. So pleased, in fact, that she refused to tell them anything until after they’d eaten, then built the tension even more by lingering over her meal. Marylou, who never lingered over anything and certainly not over a meal. There was a good, steady pace about everything she did, especially eating. She claimed to have worked it out so that she had time between bites for both enjoyment and anticipation.

  “That’s why I’m thin,” she often said, although she wasn’t. It was her mother who was the thin one. Dr. Edith Kesselbaum, who ate in fast food restaurants whenever possible and was never without a handy Twinkie or Milky Way.

  Marylou loved the fact that her mother was a contradiction to everything the dietitians and nutritionists said. “Besides,” she’d declare, “look at them. Skinny, skinny, skinny, every single one. So what do they know?”

  But tonight Marylou was making them all wait for her to finish, deliberately drawing the energy in the room toward herself.

  Stoner didn’t blame her. In fact, she liked that about Marylou. Marylou believed that she had nothing to offer to what she called “Stoner’s crime-fighting business.” So now that she had a chance to contribute, she was going to milk it for all it was worth.

  She finally announced that it was time to “retire to the living room for after-dinner coffee and a touch of dessert.”

  When she had them all seated and arranged to her satisfaction and trying not to giggle, she began. “As you know, I was sent undercover to determine the true nature of the witch Mogwye. I was able to get an appointment immediately, which tells me she is neither retired nor popular. She gave me directions to her house, which I followed to the best of my ability only getting lost on two occasions and having to retrace my steps. The way led far back into the woods, over roads that have yet to see the benefit of the Department of Highways in this lifetime. In a word, dirt. These roads have not been touched since the spring run-off, and are uncomfortable and deeply rutted. Sorry about the mud on the car, Gwen. Just be glad you weren’t there to see what almost happened.”

  Gwen covered her face with her hands and groaned.

  “Fortunately,” Marylou went on, “I was able to arrive at Mogwye’s house nearly on time. It’s a small frame house, in a clearing in the forest. Surrounded by about three-quarters of an acre of yard. I say ‘yard,’ not ‘lawn’ because this is an unusual kind of yard. She has had it completely cemented over. As she explained to me later, she sees no reason to suffer unnecessarily from insects and weeds.

  “She answered the door herself, and ushered me into her ‘office,’ which is also her living room. In addition to this room, there is a small bedroom and a minuscule bathroom, which I know because I asked to use it. This ‘convenient room,’ as she calls it, is about the size of a stall in a public rest room. Large enough to remove a tampon but too small to insert one.”

  Stoner rolled her eyes.

  “This does not seem to be a problem for the lady, however, as sh
e appears to be well beyond the change of life.”

  “Of course she is,” Aunt Hermione interrupted. “She’s a Crone.”

  “Her house is furnished with only the most rudimentary necessities of life. Very little furniture, and a single plate, glass, and silverware setting.”

  “What did you do?” Gwen asked. “Go through her cupboards?”

  “I didn’t have to. There are no doors on anything. She says mice are less likely to infest when there’s no place to hide. Though I suspect it’s because of her very large and vicious-looking cat. She calls it a Maine Coon cat, and has named it Bangor. Which I suppose is better than Boothbay Harbor.

  “To anticipate your next question, no, it is not her familiar. Mogwye claims that many practitioners—that’s what she calls herself, a practitioner—believe house pets don’t make good familiars. Being all too familiar on a daily basis.”

  She looked to Aunt Hermione for confirmation.

  Aunt Hermione nodded.

  “For the reading she asked to hold a personal object of mine, something I handle frequently. This was difficult, since I’d dressed for the occasion and wasn’t wearing any of my usual clothes or jewelry. We finally settled on my Gold Visa card. The reading was actually amazing. She knew things about me that even you all probably don’t know—like falling down and chipping a baby tooth when I was quite young. She knew that my mother was divorced from my father, and that my step-father is a retired Government worker. She guessed IRS but that’s close enough to FBI. She told me the exact nature and quality of my love life, which is none of your business.

  “She didn’t tell me I had been cursed, or that she could improve my life if I’d give her ten-thousand dollars. In fact, she didn’t even urge me to return unless I felt the need. Her rates are in line with what you charge, Aunt Hermione, and she has never been tempted to become a reader on a psychic hot line. From what I can gather, the woman is legitimate and honest.”

  “But what about Aunt Hermione,” Stoner asked. “Could you tell if she might want to hurt her?”