The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  We walked into the building and headed straight for the elevator.

  “Wait,” the concierge called out, rushing out from behind his desk. “May I help you?”

  Pivoting, we both stared at him. “Ah…ah…” I stumbled. I hadn’t expected the gates to be guarded.

  Abby stepped forward and extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Abigail McDonald, and this is my granddaughter, Ophelia Jensen. We’re friends of Miss Burns.” She gave him a gracious smile. “You know Miss Burns, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he replied with hesitation.

  Abby’s smile slipped away. “Did you hear of her misfortune?”

  His eyes popped wide. “No, what happened?”

  “She was mugged last night.”

  “No.” His brows knitted together. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Yes, they’re releasing her from the hospital today. In fact, we’ve just come from there.” She smiled again. “Karen asked us to stop by Mr. Larsen’s and pick up some important papers for her.” She motioned to me. “We have her keys.”

  On cue, I removed the small key ring from my pocket and dangled them in the air.

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked first at me, then Abby.

  Abby met his gaze with an innocent one of her own.

  Sizing us up, his face relaxed. “All right…you can’t be too careful, you know. Our tenants don’t like strangers wandering around the halls.”

  Abby gave him a small nod. “I’m sure they appreciate your diligence.”

  The concierge preened at her praise. “I do my best,” he replied as he smoothed his tie.

  “We’ll just be a minute,” she said, holding up one finger.

  “Oh, take your time, ma’am.”

  In the elevator, I kept my eyes on the numbers as I rocked back and forth on my heels. “For someone who doesn’t like lies, you sure spin a good one.”

  I caught her smirk from the corner of my eye.

  “It wasn’t a lie—I simply took the truth and bent it a bit.”

  “Uh-huh,” I answered with a nod. “I’ll remember that one.”

  As I stepped from the elevator, I heard Abby’s chuckle.

  Crossing to Stephen’s door, I inserted the key, unlocking it, and carefully pushed it open. I stepped inside. A musty, not-lived-in smell greeted me. With a soft click, Abby closed the door.

  Curtains covered a bank of windows along the far wall of the large room. Brick walls rose to a vaulted ceiling. A fireplace, flanked by rich burgundy leather couches, took up space on the wall to my left. A long table with a glass top, ringed by eight padded, wrought-iron chairs, sat adjacent to the kitchen. From where I stood, I could see a fine layer of dust covering the table’s surface.

  “This is kind of a lonely place, isn’t it?” Abby said in a quiet voice. “It’s beautiful, but it somehow lacks spirit.”

  I understood what she meant as my eyes roamed the carefully decorated room. Lovely, but it said nothing of the man who lived here. Is that why Stephen spent so much time on the road, so much time writing? Was he trying to escape the loneliness by creating a different world in his mind?

  My gaze landed on a hallway jutting back from the kitchen.

  “Come on,” I said, striding across the room. “Stephen’s office must be down the hall.”

  Abby followed me as I passed a bathroom and two bedrooms. Double doors marked the end of the hallway. Opening them, I stepped inside Stephen’s office.

  The atmosphere in this room was definitely different. This was where Stephen spent his life.

  Framed covers of his books hung on the walls, along with photographs of Stephen at various book signings. A large desk faced a window with a magnificent view of the river. His computer screen sat on top of the desk along with his keyboard. A Nerf football was placed next to it, and I imagined Stephen playing with it as he studied his notes. Louvered doors covered the wall to my right.

  The closet—I would have bet the fire box was in there.

  Turning sharply, I pulled the doors wide, and there it was, on the closet floor. I squatted down and, using the key, opened the lid. It was crammed with rows and rows of disks.

  Great, I hope Karen had labeled them.

  I picked up a handful and shuffled through them. There was one marked terror on the seine. Another set had just the word mob written on the top case—notes for the book Darci had mentioned. Boy, I bet they contained some juicy information.

  I felt the sudden sensation of someone standing close. Whipping my head around, I noticed Abby wandering around the room, a distance away. I shook the feeling off, but rifled the disks faster. Finally, I saw a set of disks labeled BOSTON. Karen had said the inspiration for his new book had come to him there. These had to be the right ones.

  I shoved them into my purse, got to my feet and turned toward Abby. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Perplexed by my sudden haste, she said nothing, but without comment followed me down the hall and out of the condo. In the hallway, I spun around and quickly locked the door. I almost fled to the elevator.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Abby asked in a puzzled voice.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, punching the Down button a couple of times, “I just am.”

  Shifting my weight back and forth on my feet, my eyes were glued to the numbers above the elevator. I watched as each floor slowly lit up as the elevator rose. And as they did, the tension I felt seemed to build. Finally the doors opened, at the same time as the one next to us did. Hustling Abby into the elevator, I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man exiting the other elevator.

  The doors slid smoothly shut, and with them, my nervousness slowly ebbed away.

  As we crossed the lobby floor, I noticed that the concierge was gone.

  Twenty

  As Abby and I left the building, I saw the concierge down the street, arguing with a cab driver. Whatever the argument was about, it looked heated. Abby gave him a little wave, but he was too busy with the driver to notice.

  On the way to the hotel, we made the decision not to drive back to Iowa today. It was approaching four o’clock, and Abby didn’t relish driving six hours at night. I reluctantly agreed, mentally cursing myself for leaving my laptop at home. I was dying to read what was on the disks snuggled safely in my purse.

  Hmm, maybe there’s an Internet café nearby? Or I could use the hotel’s business center? Patience was never my strong suit, and I was eager to peruse those disks. Nope, better not. The runes had stressed caution, and maybe now would be a good time to put that into practice. I could wait twenty-four hours.

  In my room again, I called Tink for a quick update. Yes, she was having a good time. Yes, Great-Aunt Mary was making her do her lessons—but she was a hard task-master.

  That comment caused me to smirk. I’d told Tink that Great-Aunt Mary wasn’t a pushover, but she hadn’t believed me.

  But then Tink spoiled my moment by informing me that Great-Aunt Mary wasn’t nearly as ghastly as I’d said. She was actually kind of nice in her own way.

  Her reaction didn’t stack up to my memories of the woman, but then again, maybe Great-Aunt Mary just didn’t like me.

  Tink concluded the conversation by grousing about getting up early with Aunt Dot to commune with the fairies. No, she hadn’t seen them, and no, Aunt Dot hadn’t been tippling the elderberry wine that early in the morning.

  After my phone call to Tink, I felt antsy. I missed her, I missed my pets, and I missed my cottage. Suddenly, I regretted our decision to wait until morning to go home. Maybe a walk would help? I’d never been in St. Louis before and it seemed a shame to return home without at least getting a closer look at the Gateway Arch. I picked up the brochure on the nightstand and read it.

  The arch was less than a mile away. A short distance for someone who’d grown up roaming the woods around Abby’s farm.

  I rapped sharply on the connecting door to Abby’s room. When she opene
d it, I saw she was on the phone.

  “Just a minute,” she said into the receiver, then mouthed Arthur to me.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m feeling cooped up. I’m going for a walk. Want to come?”

  “Thank you, dear, but I’m rather tired. I think I’ll rest a bit before dinner.”

  “Okay, I’m going to walk down to the Gateway Arch. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will,” I replied, shutting the door. Grabbing my purse, I checked to make sure I had my key card and removed the disks.

  “Hmm,” I said to myself as I slapped the case on the palm of my hand, wondering where to put them.

  My suitcase—it locked.

  Confident the disks were safe, I left the hotel and began walking east toward the Mississippi River. I passed office buildings and a couple of restaurants before turning to my right and heading south.

  The tall buildings along this stretch cast deep shadows on the sidewalk. The air seemed close, and I felt hemmed in. As I got closer to the arch, the office buildings were replaced by a parking ramp. On the next block sat the Old Courthouse, taking up the entire space. I stopped and admired the fine old building.

  In the background, the arch rose above the green dome of the Old Courthouse like a silver rainbow. And atop the white building, a tall flagpole extended high into the cloudless sky. An American flag fluttered from its pinnacle.

  Pulling the brochure out of my back pocket, I read about the building.

  The Dred Scott trials began in there, and now, two of the historic courtrooms had been restored to hold mock trials. It also contained a museum with artifacts and a theater showing a film about the history of St. Louis. That would be interesting—a nice break from all the mayhem. I scanned the brochure for the hours. Dang, it closed at four-thirty.

  Turning my head, I glanced across the street. A green park, with wide paths and a pool with sprays of water shooting up around a statue of a runner, took up the other block. I switched my gaze to the Old Courthouse—the arch was on the other side, to the east. Did I want to continue walking, or plant myself on one of the benches in the park?

  The cool greenness and the sound of splashing water coming from the pool called to me. I voted for the park.

  I meandered to the center of it, passing tourists in T-shirts snapping pictures of the Old Courthouse, mothers pushing babies in their strollers, and teenagers just hanging out. Near the pool with the statue, I sat on one of the benches and tried to relax.

  It was less than a week since Stephen’s shooting—and so much had happened. My head felt crowded with bits and pieces of information that lacked any kind of a connection. I didn’t know how I would ever make sense of it all. I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen some of the tension. Closing my eyes, I lifted my face to the sun as a breeze from the river stirred the air around me.

  My peace lasted only a moment—I jumped when the cell phone in my pocket began to vibrate.

  Damn. I flipped the phone open and answered.

  “Where the hell are you?” asked a gruff voice in my ear.

  Bill.

  “Um, you see…” I hedged.

  Oh, get it over with, Jensen.

  “I had to come to St. Louis,” I blurted out.

  “You’ve pushed me too far this time, Ophelia,” Bill yelled in my ear.

  Frowning, I held the phone away as he continued.

  “I’m going to throw your butt in jail. I’m going to charge you—”

  “Hey,” I yelled back as I moved the phone back to my ear, “you didn’t tell me not to leave town.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary.” His tone sounded scathing. “I thought you had more sense than to go traipsing off somewhere. I don’t have the time to chase you down.”

  I watched a mother carrying an infant walk by. “I’m safe,” I replied with a smug smile. “And I have some information for you.”

  “What?” he barked.

  “Karen Burns? Remember her? Stephen’s assistant—”

  “Yeah, what about her?” he growled, not letting me finish.

  “She was mugged and the disks to Stephen’s new book were stolen.”

  “Were the disks in her purse?”

  “Yes,” I said with hesitation.

  “What do most muggers take, Ophelia?” He questioned me as if I were a child.

  “The purse.” I spit the answer out.

  “Ms. Burns lives in a city, and I take it the attack happened at night?”

  “Okay, you don’t have to draw me a picture,” I replied, my voice grudging. “You’re trying to tell me they weren’t after the disks, aren’t you?”

  “Give the lady a free prize.”

  “No need to get snarky, Bill,” I objected forcefully. “I think it’s a big coincidence that she was mugged right after her boss was shot.”

  His tone softened. “Coincidences do happen.”

  “How’s Stephen?” I asked abruptly.

  “He’s still in a coma.”

  “No change at all?”

  “The doctors are a little more optimistic, but he’s still in intensive care. I hear you met his mother.”

  “Yes, I did…a very nice lady. She believes he was the victim—someone from his past with a grudge.”

  “I know. I spoke with her briefly…” He paused before continuing. “There’s another theory—”

  “I know, I know,” I cut him off. “I was the intended victim.”

  “No, you were right about that one,” he said guardedly.

  I almost dropped my phone. “What?”

  “There’s been a new development.”

  He stopped abruptly, and I could envision the debate going on inside him.

  “What the hell—you’re going to hear about it when you get back,” he said, making his decision. “Someone tried to assassinate Chuck Krause Thursday night. His aide was killed.”

  I sat forward on the bench. “Where?”

  “As they were leaving campaign headquarters. A witness saw a motorcycle peel away.”

  “I don’t get it—three shootings and no connection.”

  “It’s not up to you to ‘get it.’ You’re not the investigating police officer…” His voice faded. “But then again, neither am I.”

  “Huh?”

  “Since Krause is running for office, the DCI has taken over the investigation. I guess they don’t think a country sheriff is smart enough.”

  What a blow to his ego—getting pulled off his investigation. Now I felt guilty for all the problems I’d caused him. “You’re a good cop, Bill. Even Ethan thinks so, and he’s with the feds.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not important who catches the shooter, as long as he’s caught.”

  “So why do they think Stephen was shot?”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…they think the shooter mistook him for Krause.”

  “How?”

  “They’re both blond, they were dressed similarly—”

  “Oh, come on, give me a break,” I huffed. “They think the assailant was just lurking in the trees, waiting for the off chance that Krause might come strolling along?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Okay,” I said, switching gears, “forget that dumb idea for a second. Why did someone shoot at me?”

  “You were a witness…a loose end.”

  “Humph, I don’t buy that at all,” I exclaimed.

  “I doubt the DCI’s going to care whether or not you agree with them.”

  “Bill, I know they’re wrong,” I insisted.

  “Well, Ophelia, unless you have proof, I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you. These boys don’t strike me as the type to believe in your hocus-pocus.”

  “Great.” My jaw clenched. “While they’re pursuing their bogus theories, someone could get killed.”

  Like me?

  “Listen, the DCI has a lot more resources than I do, and they don’t make many mistakes.” H
e sounded disgruntled. “I was told to let the big guns handle it, and I suggest you do the same.” With that, he hung up on me.

  I snapped my phone shut while I fought the urge to beat my head on the bench. The DCI was wrong, wrong, wrong, and I had less of a chance getting them to listen to me than I did Bill.

  This development was not good.

  Looking to my left, I noticed that the sun had slipped lower in the sky. I decided to get back to the hotel before Abby became worried. Rising, I made my way out of the park and turned to go back the way I’d come.

  Since the sun had sunk so low, the shadows between the buildings were deeper now. And no breeze penetrated the concrete canyon as I walked. Lights were coming on in the office buildings and the doors were opening as office workers left for the day. Ties askew and briefcases swinging, they looked anxious to start their weekend. Their steps were hurried and their attention was focused straight ahead as they marched by, headed in the opposite direction, toward a parking garage.

  My steps slowed as I thought about my conversation with Bill. Part of me was sorry I’d ever gotten involved. I noticed a woman wearing a suit and tennis shoes rush past me, carrying her high heels and clutching a folder.

  I bet she isn’t worrying about someone shooting at her. No, I imagined all she cared about was having fun over the weekend. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  I gave my shoulders a little shake. Stop the pity party! I’d made a choice, and I needed to see it through.

  People had thinned out in this section of the city, and I found myself virtually alone on the street. Anxious for food and suddenly feeling sweaty, I increased my pace. Right now all I wanted was food and a hot shower.

  I thought about my plans as I walked. What would I do when I arrived home? First—read Stephen’s notes. A thought popped into my head. Would the DCI want to follow up with Bill’s investigation and talk to me? I hoped not—I’d answer their questions but wouldn’t volunteer any information.