My head popped up. Her son’s fighting for his life, and this bozo wants her to come to a fund-raiser?
“Mr. Krause, the only thing good for me right now would be for my son to recover,” she answered in a voice dripping with ice.
Krause’s eyes widened imperceptibly as her put-down penetrated his thick skin. “Naturally,” he said, rising and pressing a hand on her shoulder. “I just stopped by to see if there’s anything I can do. If there is, please let me know.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Krause,” she said without looking up.
Mrs. Larsen waited until Krause was out of earshot. “Humph,” she whispered, leaning across the table. “The only reason he stopped by was to check on free air time.”
I gave her a puzzled look. “Huh?”
“The reporters have been such pests,” she answered in disgust.
“I know they’ve been hanging around—one waylaid me leaving the hospital Monday. Have they been bothering you?”
“A little,” she conceded. “Security has tried to keep them away from me, but Mr. Krause…” Sitting back in her chair, she gave her head a disgusted shake. “…he’s sought them out…and not only that, he wanted me to join him.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not. And this fund-raiser…I may be old, but I’m not stupid.” She sniffed indignantly. “He can’t fool me. He wanted to parade out the grieving mother to make some kind of political point.”
“So,” I said with an evil grin, “he’s not only smarmy as hell, he’s a political ambulance chaser.”
A true smile lit her face. “Very well put, Ophelia.”
Seventeen
I loved the Internet. Anything you wanted to buy was only a click and a credit card away. Like plane tickets. I’d decided if Karen Burns wouldn’t answer her phone, I would fly to St. Louis and talk to her in person. Unfortunately, because of my late booking, the only flight I could get had a three hour layover in Detroit. It would take me almost seven hours to reach my destination instead of the six if I drove.
But this is better, I told myself. If I’d driven and Bill got wind that I left town, he could’ve had me apprehended. By flying, I could slip down to St. Louis and be back before anyone knew I left. I’d covered my bases with Abby by calling and telling her that I planned on a hot bath and then retreating to my bedroom. She wouldn’t try and contact me until that evening. By then I’d be at the hotel, and pretend I was home. Thank goodness for cell phones—she’d never know that I was six hundred miles away.
I think. A little flutter of doubt shook me. No, this would work.
And if it didn’t?
I shrugged. It wouldn’t make a difference. I’d be in Missouri—she’d be in Iowa. The worst that could happen would be the hell of a lecture that I’d receive when I arrived home.
As I dug my needlepoint out of my carry-on, my thoughts drifted to the conversation I’d had with Tink. She sounded happy and excited. It appeared she now saw the trip as an adventure instead of a banishment. I had also spoken briefly with Aunt Dot, who wanted to know all the details of the latest family “problem.” I’d blanched a bit when she mentioned maybe it would be good for her to pay another visit. Just to help, of course.
Right.
I dearly loved Aunt Dot, but the thought of her on the loose again in Summerset gave me the shivers. I emphatically told her we needed her to protect Tink. With that, she chortled and told me all about the forgetful spell Great-Aunt Mary had placed around the property—any stranger without an invitation would have a hard time finding them.
I didn’t question the spell, nor did I question the fact that, according to her, the fairies were happy to see Tink.
Whatever—as long as Tink was safe, it was all that mattered.
Paying attention to my needlepoint, I saw that I’d, once again, balled the thread into a tight little knot. I gave up and shoved it back into the carry-on. Next, I picked up my latest J. D. Robb paperback, but even the exciting adventures of Eve Dallas couldn’t keep my mind from wandering.
Tapping my foot, I checked my watch for the hundredth time. Crap, I still had two more hours before the flight. I’ll call Karen again.
I hit the now memorized numbers and listened as it rang and rang. It was weird. Surely she knew that her boss had been shot. One would think she’d have contacted someone by now. Could she have spoken with Bill? Finally, the voice mail clicked on and I left another message. One way or the other, I intended to track the woman down and question her about Stephen. I had her address—I’d camp out on her doorstep if I had to.
Bored beyond belief, my eyes traveled around the airport. Maybe I could amuse myself by people watching? Businessmen sat with their Bluetooth headsets clipped to their ears while they tapped away on their laptops. Not much of interest there. In the next row, a mother tried to keep her toddler entertained. I could relate—he appeared as bored as I was. He caught my eye from over his mother’s shoulder and gave me a toothy grin. I smiled. Satisfied he’d been noticed, he returned to tugging on his mother’s hair.
I stole another look at my watch. Well, that took all of fifteen minutes.
Bouncing my knees impatiently, I glanced toward the gift shop. Okay, let’s give that a try.
I stood up, slung my carry-on over my shoulder, and strolled over to the wide doorway. Travel pillows, lap rugs, candy, souvenirs of Detroit, magazines—everything a weary traveler would want lined the shelves. Taking my time, I browsed the magazines, studied the selection of candy, fingered the soft lap robes. From behind me, I felt someone staring at my back and my nerves jangled. With a sideways look, I noticed one of the clerks watching me, suspicion written on her face.
Oh man, she thinks I’m a shoplifter.
Crossing to the counter, I picked up a pack of gum, paid for it, and beat a hasty retreat out of the shop.
From across the way, I caught sight of a bookstore. Tucking my gum in my pocket, I wandered into the store. Immediately my attention was drawn to the display of the latest best-sellers. Placed in a prominent position was Terror on the Seine by M. J. LaSalle. Striding over, I picked up the hardcover and skimmed the blurb on the back.
As I read, icy fingers tickled up my spine.
The novel told the story of a man hunting a group of neo-Nazis as they tried to build a new Third Reich à la Frankenstein’s monster.
Was Stephen a World War II buff? If so, had my connection with him been so strong that I sensed it on some level? Was it why I’d suddenly started dreaming about Paris and the German occupation? What if the dreams were not mine, but his?
Clutching the book, I hurried over to the counter and paid for it. I rushed back to the waiting area and flipped the cover open.
For the next hour I sat lost in the story. No doubt about it—Stephen spun a good tale. One scene that drew my attention portrayed a dinner party eerily like the one in my dream. The one I’d experienced as Madeleine. Stephen had even mentioned Drancy and Auschwitz in the dialogue.
Was that the connection? What if somehow, while his body was in a coma state, his mind was reaching out and touching mine?
I grimaced. If his mind was indeed invading mine, I wished his message would be a little more specific than showing me the life of a Parisian model living over sixty years ago.
Tangled up in all the questions, I almost missed the boarding call for my flight. Hurrying, I shoved the book in the pocket of my bag and joined the other passengers.
Once strapped in my seat, I entertained myself by looking out the window. In a short time we were in the air, flying through cloudless skies over the Midwest, back toward St. Louis.
I leaned my head against the window and watched the earth below. The fields resembled the patchwork quilt lying on Abby’s bed. Squares in shades of light and dark green marked the pastures and growing crops, while brown rectangles showed fallow land. Scattered amidst the fields were houses and farmsteads, reminding me of the little pieces to a Monopoly game.
Lost in
my fanciful imaginings, I felt my eyes grow heavy.
The sound of the flight attendant pushing an empty cart up the aisle woke me with a start. Dang, I’d missed the free peanuts. Turning toward the window, I spied the city of St. Louis and the Gateway Arch gleaming in the early evening sun.
Good, I’m almost there. I can get on with my mission to find Karen Burns.
Thirty minutes later I stood at the baggage claim waiting for my luggage to shoot down the ramp onto the carousel. As I did, I went over my list in my head. Call Abby and tell her a big, fat lie; try Karen Burns again; my reservation at the Renaissance Grand near Laclede’s Landing was already made. But did I want a taxi, or did I want to rent a car?
Tapping my foot, I thought about it. I didn’t know my way around St. Louis, so I’d need a car with GPS. And by chauffeuring myself around, it might be easier to track down the elusive Karen Burns.
Okay, next step—rent a car.
A sudden hand on my shoulder made my heart jump. They’ve found me ricocheted in my head.
And they had—I whirled around to face my lovely grandmother with a steely light shining in her green eyes.
“You didn’t think you could go off without me, did you?”
I didn’t need to rent a car. Abby had beaten me to St. Louis by driving instead of flying. We picked up my bags and headed toward the hotel.
Buckled in, I rubbed my palms nervously on my thighs. I couldn’t make myself look at Abby. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” I blurted.
Her eyes darted toward me. “I don’t like lies and secrets, Ophelia.”
Shamefaced, I hung my head. “I know…I just wanted to keep you safe.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Abby’s sardonic grin. “May I remind you I’ve managed to do just fine for over seventy years?”
“I know…” I hesitated, lifting my head and studying her. “But it appears I’m a target, and I don’t want you caught in the cross fire, be exposed to danger.”
Abby snickered. “My darling girl, I had a life before you were born. I grew up in the mountains. Poverty, moonshiners, revenuers…” Her voice faded and her eyes took on a faraway look. “I’ve seen my fair share of violence.”
Surprised, I shifted sideways in my seat. Abby had always talked as if life in the mountains had been idyllic. I’d never considered that there might have been a darker side. “Really? Like what?”
Her head snapped toward me and back. “Never mind.”
Subject closed.
“How did you find me?” I asked, studying her profile.
“Your password,” she replied with a smirk. “It took me about five minutes to figure it out, by the way. Once I’d done that, I checked your e-mails and saw your flight reservation.”
Okay, so maybe I didn’t love the Internet.
I slumped in my seat. “Don’t you think that’s an invasion of my privacy?”
“Drastic times…drastic measures,” she said simply.
“What were you doing at my house in the first place?”
“I brought you lunch. I knew how upset you were with Tink gone, and I was afraid you wouldn’t eat. I stopped by Stumpy’s and Arthur made your favorite sandwich.”
“Hot sausage?” My stomach rumbled. I had forgotten to eat. I’d even missed out on the peanuts.
She heard the gurgling. “Yes,” she said with a quick “serves you right” glance.
“Shoot.” I pressed on my stomach as I twisted in my seat. “Let’s eat after we check in, okay?”
“Fine, but no food until you tell me exactly what you’re doing,” she replied, her voice determined.
“You’re going to starve me?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
She grinned. “If you’re near starvation, then I suggest you start talking.”
In the time it took us to drive to the hotel, I spilled everything—the instant connection I’d felt with Stephen, the dreams, leaving out the more titillating parts, of course.
Finished, I watched her, trying to judge her reaction. “What do you think?”
“Oh my,” she whispered.
My forehead wrinkled. “That’s it…‘oh, my’?” I groused. “That’s not very helpful.”
Abby pursed her lips. “I’ve never come across something like this before. I need to contemplate all the implications.”
“Do you know what happens in the mind when someone’s in a coma?” I snapped my fingers. “Of course you do—you were out of it for a couple of days when Charles Thornton conked you on the head. What was it like?”
“Dreams—” she faltered. “Lots of dreams that never end.”
I thought back to that time when Abby lay in the hospital and we were so afraid she might never wake up. “Remember when I almost unleashed the Elements, but your voice stopped me at the last minute?”
“Yes, and it’s a good thing it did,” she said stridently.
“I agree,” I answered with a wave of my hand, “but that’s not what I meant. Were you aware of what I was doing?”
She tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “I can’t answer that. My memory of that time is rather jumbled. I do remember feeling your need for vengeance.”
“But you don’t remember reaching out to me?”
“Not really,” she said with a shake of her head.
“I need to know if that might be what Stephen is doing—contacting me with his mind. And the Paris stuff is some kind of symbolism.”
“Maybe.” She looked thoughtful. “You said you felt an immediate and strong link with him?”
Recalling the first set of dreams, the erotic ones, I blushed. “Yes.”
“It was as if you’d always known him?”
“Yes.” I shot her a perplexed look.
“Hmm.” She fell silent.
“What?”
Still not answering me, Abby parked the car, got out, and handed the keys to the valet. We removed our luggage and headed toward the entrance.
I scrambled after her, hurrying to catch up. When I did, I tugged on her jacket.
“What do you think?”
“Well, when someone feels such a strong tie to a person they’ve just met, it could mean…” Her voice trailed away as she looked at me with a question in her eyes. “Have we ever discussed reincarnation?”
Eighteen
The hotel lobby was elegant. Muted light reflected off soft neutral walls, and pots of large green plants placed around the room offered a sharp contrast. After entering, we turned left to the reception desk. Abby handled the desk clerk, while I stood silent, still turning over the reincarnation thing in my head.
What I knew about it would fill one page in a very small notebook. I did understand the concept that we all had lessons to learn, and according to some, we kept going around lifetime after lifetime until those lessons were mastered.
A nudge to my side brought my thoughts back to the present, and I followed Abby over to the gorgeous Art Deco elevator. Once inside, I watched the floors zip by. The bell dinged and the doors slid smoothly open. Exiting, we got our bearings and proceeded down the carpeted hall to our adjoining rooms.
Abby glanced over her shoulder. “You’re very quiet. Did I upset you?”
“No,” I muttered, pulling my small suitcase behind me. “If you’re right about reincarnation, it’s just one more thread leading nowhere.”
At the door to my room, Abby released her suitcase and placed her hands on my shoulders. “We’ll talk later, but let’s eat first. I’ll call Arthur, then we’ll find a restaurant. Okay?”
“Fine,” I mumbled, giving her a peck on the cheek.
My room matched the elegance of the lobby. A king-size bed, piled with pillows, sat along one wall; on the other wall, a large TV armoire with drawers, and a small desk next to the armoire. All the furniture was made of a dark, rich wood. A comfy chair, with a small table nearby, was placed by the long window.
After stowing my suitcase in the closet and my carry-on in the tiled bathroom, I cr
ossed the room to the window. Holding back the sheer curtain, I stared out over the city.
The sky held no stars, their twinkle blocked by the lights of the city. I found it hard to imagine living in a place with no stars. Looking down, I watched the busy city street and pondered Abby’s theory.
A person coming back again and again? My first reaction was: How crazy is that?
Wait a second—how crazy is believing in magick, premonitions, runes, even fairies? Scratch the fairies—the jury’s still out on that one.
I shifted my weight uncomfortably. My reaction to reincarnation was disturbingly similar to that of the skeptics I’d been dealing with all of my life. My former fiancé, who dumped me when he learned of my peculiar heritage; Henry Comacho, a cop and my onetime nemesis who later became a friend; Bill.
My lips twisted in a wry grin. Ethan. He’d accepted my gift from the start. Funny, considering ninety percent of our conversations ended in an argument, that he’d never questioned my gift. Maybe that was why his lack of confidence now bothered me. I wondered where he was. He hadn’t called since our heated discussion on Monday—not unusual—but since he seemed to stay in contact with Bill, he surely knew about the potshots in my backyard. He hadn’t called to lecture me.
Hearing Abby’s knock, I dropped the curtain and moved away from the window.
“How’s Arthur?” I asked, swinging the door wide.
“Fine.” Her lips lifted in a shy smile. “He has my keys, so he stopped by your house and checked on things.”
“The animals were okay, weren’t they?”
“Yes, they came scampering through the doggy door when they heard Arthur in the house.” She chuckled. “He wondered if you knew you’d left your TV on.”
“Did you explain I do that for Lady, Queenie, and T.P.? He didn’t turn it off, did he?”
“Yes, I explained, and no, he left it on.” She chuckled again, crossing to the chair and sitting. “He said he never knew animals enjoyed watching TV.”
The Witch's Grave Page 12
