The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  A garbled voice answered him, but from where I sat, the only word I caught was “rain.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Bill answered into the radio. “They’ve probably been washed away, but maybe we’ll get lucky.” With a flip of his finger, he turned the radio off.

  “Bill, I don’t mean to interrupt, but would you please explain to me what’s going on?” Abby asked in a calm voice that belied the tension I felt emanating from her.

  “Your granddaughter is determined to mess up my investigation,” he said unkindly, “and in the process, get herself killed.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I opened my mouth to defend myself, but one look at his face and I snapped it shut.

  He proceeded to give Abby a rundown of his theory with me as the victim. While he did, Abby grew visibly paler and her hand stole out to clutch mine.

  I didn’t appreciate how his recitation was affecting her. “Do you think it’s necessary to give her a blow by blow, Bill?” My fingers squeezed Abby’s hand.

  “Yes, I do,” he replied, his head bobbing empathically. “Maybe she can talk some sense into you.” Picking up his cup, he sipped his tea as he skimmed over his notes. “Did anything out of the norm happen today?”

  Well, let’s see…Was almost getting conked on the noggin with falling tile out of the norm? Yup, I’m sure Bill would have considered it unusual. But I didn’t want to tell him about the visit to the winery. I lowered my head and plucked at the hem of my shorts while I argued with myself. Suck it in, Jensen, and get it over with.

  When I raised my head, the words flew out of my mouth. “I went to the winery after work, paid a visit to the old church, and about got beaned by some falling tile. I—”

  “You what!” Bill jerked the hand holding the tea, making it slosh over the rim and down the front of his shirt. He set the cup down, grabbed his handkerchief and dabbed at the wet spot.

  “Here, let me,” I said, standing.

  “Sit,” he barked, jabbing a thick finger at the spot I’d just vacated.

  I sank to the couch.

  “My God, Ophelia, you are trying to get yourself killed!” He scrubbed at his chest furiously, sending the notebook on his lap flying to the floor.

  “I am not,” I replied hotly. “It was an accident. Right before I went inside the church, I saw a squirrel. It probably ran across the roof and knocked the tile through the hole.”

  Bill scowled at me.

  “Look, I’m telling you I know I wasn’t the intended victim yesterday—”

  “What about tonight?” he asked, challenging me.

  “Okay, tonight somebody took a potshot at me, but whatever is happening right now—it’s not about me, it’s about Stephen.”

  “You’re sure?” he sneered.

  I ignored the sneer. “I know you don’t think I can help you, but I can,” I blurted out. “I took a look at the crime scene—”

  His eyes narrowed even more. “Did you cross that tape?”

  “No.” Clenching my hands in my lap, I stared at him defiantly. “I stood on the other side and tried to get a reading on what happened.”

  He wadded up his handkerchief and shoved it in his pocket. “And?”

  “Not much,” I admitted reluctantly. “The shooter stood in the shadow of a tree, so I couldn’t see his face.” My voice brightened. “But I could probably show you which tree.”

  “No, thanks,” he said, picking up the notebook. “We know where he was standing…we found the shell casing.”

  “Bill,” Abby said, the soft rhythm of the mountains thick on her tongue. “I know you don’t fully believe there is such a thing as a sixth sense, or what Ophelia is telling you, but I do.” She patted my tight fists. “If my granddaughter’s instincts tell her you’re on the wrong track, you’d best believe her.” Abby’s eyes traveled to the wet spot on Bill’s shirt. Raising them to his face, she smiled sweetly. “Care for more tea?”

  After all the cops had finally left, I locked the door and turned to find Abby standing right behind me. “Let’s talk,” she said in a firm voice.

  I snuck a longing look over her shoulder for a possible escape route. “Gee, Abby, I’m kind of tired.”

  Her eyebrow arched and she crossed her arms. “You weren’t tired when you were creeping around the backyard in the middle of the night.”

  “But,” I motioned to my front door, “there’s been a lot of excitement, and—” Her lips tightened and I gave up. “Okay, but I’m not drinking any tea,” I said vehemently. Trudging behind, I followed her into the kitchen and yanked out a chair, then sat down and waited for her to pour her tea and join me.

  She got right to the point. “Whether or not you were a target at the winery yesterday and today, you’re a target now and—”

  My thoughts leapt ahead of her words. “Tink,” I said with a soft whisper.

  She leaned forward and stared into her cup. “We need to protect her.”

  “I agree. And with school in session, it’s going to be hard.” I tugged on my bottom lip. “I don’t think she’d care for one of us attending her classes with her.”

  Abby softly chuckled. “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t…” She paused and traced a delicate flower painted on the side of her cup. “I have an idea.”

  “Not police protection.” My voice rang with certainty. “She won’t like that either.”

  Abby looked up and her eyes drilled into mine. “Send her to the mountains.”

  “What?” I jumped out of my chair. “To Great-Aunt Mary’s? Are you nuts?”

  “Aunt Dot lives there, too,” she answered defensively, and sat back in her chair. “She and Tink formed a tight bond during her visit. They’d love to have her.”

  I paced over to the counter and whirled. “What about school? We don’t know how long this investigation is going to take.”

  “Aunt Mary was a country schoolteacher for forty years,” she scoffed, scooting around in her chair to face me. “She’s more than capable of home-schooling Tink while she’s there.”

  Leaning back, I gripped the edge of the counter. “Abby, the woman’s almost a hundred years old,” I said, shocked at the idea of Great-Aunt Mary keeping up with a fourteen-year-old.

  “True, but Aunt Mary is as spry now as she was fifty years ago. She can handle Tink.”

  “What if she can’t?” I argued.

  “I have cousins in the area. I’m sure they’ll help Aunt Dot and Aunt Mary keep Tink occupied.” She gave me a smug look. “It will be good for Tink. She can learn a great deal from Aunt Mary.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I grumbled.

  “Ah, you mean her gift—there’s that, too.” She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Aunt Mary shares Tink’s abilities—we don’t. She’ll be a good guide for Tink.”

  With a scowl, I loosened my grip and turned toward the window. I didn’t know if I wanted the mean, prickly, old, Great-Aunt Mary as a guide for my sweet young daughter. How did I know what she might teach Tink? What if Tink came home ready to pulverize rabbit poop, carry the right eye of a wolf inside her sleeve for protection, tie the heart of a bat with a red string to ensure she won at games. I’d read those journals, too.

  From the window, a car driving slowly down the street caught my attention. I took a step back and watched as it stopped under the street lamp at the intersection. Through the pelting rain, the light bar on top of the car reflected back at me.

  Bill had assigned officers to do drive-bys.

  With a sigh of resignation, I crossed the kitchen and stood by Abby’s chair. “When you talk to them, please ask Aunt Dot to lay off the fairy thing, okay?”

  Thirteen

  The dreams, when they came, left me breathless. The scent of expensive perfume surrounded me as I sat in a car speeding past houses, the windows either shuttered or the curtains drawn. I wasn’t happy—I did not want to be here, but something told me I’d had no choice. Looking down, I saw I wore an evening gown—black lace covered flesh-toned sil
k on a bodice that dipped dangerously low, showing cleavage I didn’t know I had. A satin skirt with tucking covered my legs down to my ankles. Something dug at my waist, and I shifted uncomfortably. My whole torso felt like I was bound by elastic.

  My God, I’m wearing a girdle. I’ve never worn a girdle in my life.

  My hand stole up to my hair. I fingered loose curls covering the top of my head and spilling down onto my forehead. The rest was held up and off my neck by combs. I felt the soft petals of a flower attached to one of the combs. Turning my head, I caught my wavy reflection in the car window.

  Amber eyes, slanted slightly up in the corners, stared back at me from a pale face crowned with dark red hair. I’m a redhead? A small, well-shaped nose sat above lips almost too big for the face. I didn’t know who stared back at me, but it wasn’t Ophelia Jensen from Summerset, Iowa.

  “Madeleine?”

  Right—I’m supposed to be Madeleine.

  “Huh?” I turned back to the woman sitting next to me on the smooth leather seat. I recognized her as one of the tall, thin women from my last dream. She, too, wore an evening gown in red with fine quilting around the top. Had she forced herself into a girdle, too? The name “Giselle” popped into my head.

  She picked up a small evening bag lying beside her on the seat and removed a tube of lipstick and a compact. Opening the compact, she uncapped the lipstick and, after a couple of deft turns, began applying the bright red cream to her lips.

  I saw the driver glance back at us in the rearview mirror.

  “You’d better change your attitude,” she said under her breath, using the compact to block the driver’s view of her lips.

  “I hate these parties,” I replied, settling back in the seat. That comment sounded like me.

  “Shh,” she hissed, with a jerk of her head toward the driver.

  I knew what she meant—keep my mouth shut or I’d be reported. How did I know that? How did I know I was being forced to attend a party? Yet I did.

  Staring out the window again, I watched darkened monuments, parks, churches flash by. The car’s headlights, partially covered with tape to lower their brightness, reflected dimly off signs, once in French but now in German. Everywhere, the presence of the Nazis scarred our streets.

  This is so weird. I’m still me, Ophelia Jensen, but at the same time, I’m someone else—the woman everyone calls Madeleine. I know what she knows, I feel what she feels.

  A sudden bizarre realization hit me.

  I’m speaking French, and I don’t know French. When I woke, would I still be able to converse in the language? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I felt like giggling.

  Wait, I never giggle.

  What’s going on? Am I under so much stress that I’ve begun to suffer from multiple personality disorder? That I’m developing a new persona called Madeleine? What if she decides to make an appearance while I’m awake?

  The thought scared me and I tensed—I had enough problems.

  Relax, said a voice in my head, go with the dream.

  I tried, and as I did, I felt the “Ophelia” part of me fade away as if going into a deep sleep, and the “Madeleine” part take control.

  Looking at the back of the driver’s head, my hatred of the Nazis filled me, but I schooled my expression to show nothing. Like so many others, my life depended on my ability to hide my true feelings. The effort turned my mouth to dust.

  The car slowed as it approached a grand house with iron gates. The gates opened and we pulled into a paved drive. At the entrance, the car stopped and the driver got out and opened my door as a servant opened Giselle’s. Pulling my stole around my shoulders, I exited the car as gracefully as possible in my tight gown. With a smile, Giselle linked her arm with mine, and we climbed the wide steps leading to the heavy doors. As if by magic, the doors swung wide at our approach, revealing a magnificent entry, light and bright. A sharp contrast to the black shadows that hung over the city now.

  Antique Persian rugs lay scattered on marble floors polished to a mirrored shine. Fine art by some of France’s most well-known impressionists hung on the walls. From the salon on my left, I heard laughter and the sound of clinking glasses.

  I thought of the poor gathering in dark rooms, around their meager meals, and my lips twisted with bitterness. A sharp jab in the ribs from Giselle made me remember where I was, and, as I crossed the threshold, I forced myself to smile at the servant taking my stole.

  As an officer strode out of the salon toward us, Giselle stepped forward and offered her hand.

  Taking it, he dipped his head stiffly. “Mademoiselle, so kind of you to join us,” he said in a clipped voice as his cold green eyes appraised her.

  Giselle rewarded him with a gracious nod. “Colonel Vogel, it’s our pleasure. Thank you for the invitation.”

  The colonel’s focused his attention on me.

  Striving to mimic Giselle, I nodded, too. “Yes, thank you, Colonel.”

  “Ah, Madeleine, no need to be so formal,” he replied, lifting my hand and pressing it to his lips. Releasing it, he motioned toward the salon. “Ladies, please join us.”

  As I followed the colonel and Giselle across the polished floor, I still felt the pressure of his lips on the back of my hand. I fought the desire to wipe away the feeling on my expensive gown.

  The salon was much like the entryway. Priceless paintings adorned the cream-colored walls, and heavy crystal chandeliers sparkled in the candlelight. Women, powdered and rouged, lounged gracefully on antique furniture covered in satin, chatting with men dressed in uniforms. Servants, carrying trays laden with glasses filled with dark red wine, mingled with the guests.

  This house was fit for a king…or a conqueror.

  We joined a group gathered by the fireplace. And as we approached, I overheard the words “Russia” and “Leningrad.”

  The colonel’s voice rang out over the conversation. “With such charming company,” he chided, “let’s have no talk of war tonight.”

  He stopped the servant nearby, and seizing two glasses from the tray, handed them to Giselle and I. Taking a glass for himself, he raised it high. “To the Fuehrer,” he toasted in a loud clear voice.

  Giselle lifted her glass, and after a warning glance at me, took a drink.

  Reluctantly, I tipped my glass toward her, but holding it to my lips, only pretended to sip. I would not drink to Hitler.

  After the colonel’s warning, the conversation shifted to the latest gossip from Berlin. Caring nothing about the quirks of the Third Reich’s upper echelon, I tried not to look bored.

  “Madeleine, you seem very quiet tonight,” the colonel whispered at my elbow.

  I carelessly lifted a shoulder in reply. Be charming, be witty, insisted the voice in my head, but it was impossible.

  “When is Henrick returning?” he asked.

  A moment of disorientation threw me. Henrick? Who’s Henrick? Then it hit me, Madeleine—me—we had a lover. Wow—a lover! A Swedish businessman involved in selling much needed iron ore to the Third Reich. I hid the surprise on my…Madeleine’s face.

  “Next week,” I answered quickly to cover my confusion.

  Colonel Vogel smiled. “Good. I miss his dry humor.” His expression turned to a slight leer for an instant as his eyes wandered to the flesh spilling out the top of my dress. “I’m sure you miss him, too, but maybe for other—”

  The colonel’s remark went unfinished as one of the servants announced in a loud voice, “Dinner is served.”

  Offering me his arm, Vogel escorted me to the dining room.

  A sideboard laden with food sat along one wall, and the various aromas filled the room. Again I thought of the families doing without tonight while Vogel fed his guests a sumptuous meal. Any appetite I had slipped away.

  Vogel led me to the head of the table and pulled out the chair on the right. Masking the disdain I felt, I looked down the table, over the expensive china and crystal, at the other guests. The wine had flowed freel
y in the salon, and the conversation was becoming louder and louder as they continued to drain their glasses. The din hurt my ears, and I tried blocking it out by concentrating on the courses spread out before me.

  Foie de gras followed by rich onion soup; rack of lamb with roasted potatoes; green beans in a heavy cream sauce; thick, crusty bread; cheeses. I picked at the food that was placed in front of me in rapid succession.

  Vogel leaned to his right. “Madeleine, aren’t you feeling well?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  I grabbed my goblet of water and drank thirstily. Finished, I put the goblet down. “My apologies, Colonel,” I replied, giving him a stiff smile. “The room is becoming rather warm, and—”

  With a snap of his fingers, he had a servant scurrying toward the head of the table. “Mademoiselle is warm. Open a window,” he commanded.

  “Really, Colonel, that’s not necessary.”

  Before the colonel could reply, I heard the officer sitting two chairs away say “Drancy” over the noise. Vogel’s attention immediately shifted from me to the young officer, who quelled at his glare.

  “Drancy?” I asked, drawing Vogel’s eyes back to mine.

  He waved his hand and let it fall on my wrist. “Don’t concern yourself, my dear.” He shot the young man a last angry look. “It’s merely a holding area for enemies of the Reich, criminals, and malcontents,” he answered, with a hard squeeze.

  It was as if I’d been slammed back into my body. I could still feel the pressure of Vogel’s fingers around my—Madeleine’s—wrist. Confused, my eyes roamed my familiar bedroom, searching for reassurance that I was in my own body, in my own time.

  Sensing my tension, Lady lifted her head and gave a low growl from her spot by the window. In the gray light, I saw her coarse, white hair stand in a ridge down her spine.

  “Shh,” I whispered. “It’s just me.”

  I think it’s just me. I ran a hand over my face. Yup, my nose, my lips. Taking a strand of hair, I held it in front of my face. Brown, not dark red. Thank God—I’m Ophelia, not Madeleine.