by Cate Martin
Body at the Crossroads
A Viking Witch Cozy Mystery
Cate Martin
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
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Also by Cate Martin
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Chapter 1
My name is Amanda Clarke, and I have a secret.
But I'm not sure how to describe it.
It's not like I can see the future or anything, and I wouldn't call it luck, but sometimes I wake up in the morning, and I just have a feeling about something. A strong, not to be argued with feeling that I either have to do something or absolutely cannot do something. I've never not obeyed that feeling, not even once.
Take for instance a perfectly ordinary Monday morning last April. I woke up an hour before my alarm was set to go off with a strong urge to go into work. I got dressed in my server's uniform and headed out my apartment door without even making any coffee or grabbing a bite of toast. I walked the couple of blocks from my building to the diner that has been the focal point of my entire life, my mother's workplace before it was mine, and let myself in the back door.
And found Mr. Schneiderman, the man who was like a grandfather to me, collapsed on the kitchen floor.
Heart attack. The paramedics said I saved his life. I wouldn't have found him in time if I hadn't woken up early and headed straight to the diner. Mrs. Schneiderman had been visiting her sick sister, and he had been alone.
Or that cold winter morning my senior year of high school when I had woken up with the certainty that I should call in sick to school, although I felt fine. Just before noon, as I was huddled in a nest of blankets watching Titanic for the umpteenth time, my mother had given a cry of alarm and staggered out of the kitchenette to collapse on the couch beside me.
Brain aneurysm. There was nothing I could do to save her. Maybe that's why I don't call these feelings any kind of luck. But I was there to hold her hand as the light faded from her eyes. I was the last thing she ever saw. I'm grateful to the powers that be, the ones who send the feelings, that I didn't go to school that day. That my mother didn't die alone.
But the strongest feeling I ever had didn't have a clearcut beginning. It seemed to grow, pretty much from the day my mother died over the four and a half years until the day Cynthia Thomas entered the diner and my life.
The beginning may have been vague, but the feeling was not. It was very clear in my mind. Under no circumstances would I leave my hometown of Scandia, Iowa.
No one thought anything of it when I quit the traveling hockey team. My mother had just died, and the season was winding down with no shot at any playoff wins since all of our best players had graduated the year before.
And it didn't strike anybody as odd when I stayed on at my diner job. I had applied to a few colleges before she had died, but I didn't even bother opening the letters that came back. I wouldn't have been able to afford it anyway.
And not leaving after that wasn't odd either. I was saving every penny I earned with the hope of someday soon having enough to get a trailer of my own in the park on the edge of town.
But even if anyone had asked me, I wouldn't have admitted that I just had a feeling. Scandia, as the name probably suggests, is populated with the descendants of Scandinavian immigrants, dairy farmers mostly. They are practical people, stoic, logical.
I can imagine the looks I'd get from the regulars at the diner if I admitted to even having these feelings, let alone letting them dictate my life.
Strangely, the most impulsive decision I ever made, the one prompted by Cynthia Thomas the day she appeared in the diner and took a table like any other customer off the highway, wasn't based on a feeling. Quite the opposite.
When Cynthia had finished her patty melt, leaving most of her fries but drinking six cups of coffee, her eyes never leaving me as I worked all my other tables, she waved me over. Thinking she was in a hurry like most off the highway were, I already had her ticket ready.
Instead, I found myself looking at a cream-colored business card, with Cynthia Thomas, Attorney embossed on it.
I sort of heard what she was saying, but it was like listening to someone talking on a boat while your head's underwater. Something about a Miss Zenobia Weekes who had recently passed, and how her will had been very clear that I must be present at the reading. And the reading had to take place at midnight on the next full moon.
I know, weird. But I didn't think anything of it at the time.
Because I was too distracted by the sudden feeling of freedom. I hadn't even realized I wasn't free until just then. But it was like I had been shackled, both ankles, with balls and chains like in the old cartoons. And now I wasn't.
I could leave Scandia.
I could go anywhere.
But Cynthia Thomas had handed me a thick envelope filled with traveling money and a map to Miss Zenobia Weekes' Charm School for Exceptional Young Ladies on Summit Avenue in St. Paul, Minnesota.
I had played hockey there once or twice, or rather in some of its suburbs. It was a pretty city. As good a place as any to see some of the world outside of Scandia. Because I still wanted that trailer to myself, and this trip was being paid for by the estate of Miss Zenobia Weekes.
How could I say no?
That was a month ago. Since then I've had more time to think, and yeah, the few details of the will I know are strange. And I'm not even sure why I of all people am being summoned to the reading. Cynthia couldn't - or wouldn't - tell me why. She said it would be clear at the reading.
She did tell me, when I asked, that Miss Zenobia Weekes wasn't a relative of mine. Which might seem like an odd question to ask a stranger, so let me explain.
I was born in the diner parking lot. My mother and the man who must have been my father were in a car going far too fast down the road in a sleet storm. He had hit a patch of ice and spun into a utility pole. By the time Mr. And Mrs. Schneiderman had gotten outside, he had been dead. My mother looked dead too, unconscious and bleeding from a blow to the head, but she jerked awake at Mr. Schneiderman's touch.
Then she went into labor. The nearest hospital was several miles down the highway, and I was born before the ambulance could make it there.
My entire life, my mother never spoke a word. She never wrote a word, either. She understood when others were talking and could nod or shake her head, but she largely preferred not to.
I don't know her name. My father had been wearing a work uniform with the name Clarke written on the breast pocket. Mr. and Mrs. Schneiderman named me Amanda when I was about three months old.
My mother worked in the kit
chen at the diner and took care of me just fine. But she could never tell me anything about where she came from or who our people were.
But somehow this Miss Zenobia Weekes must have known her because she certainly hadn't known me. I would've remembered a name like that.
And if I was nervous at all at attending the reading of a will at midnight on September's full moon, I just remembered Cynthia Thomas. She hadn't looked like someone up for summoning spirits or engaging in bloody sacrifices. She had looked exactly like what her business card said she was: a lawyer. Slacks and nice shoes, a business jacket over a cream-colored blouse. Not showy - she wasn't a corporate lawyer (if she had been, I probably would have had a different impression of her likelihood to be mixed up in sacrifices) - but clearly expensive, especially compared to the normal Scandia crowd around her.
But more than that, she had been kind. I had seen it in her blue eyes, in the wrinkles that a lifetime of soft smiles had etched into her skin. I had heard it in the tenor of her voice and the way she kept calling me "Miss Amanda." I had felt it when she had taken my hand just before leaving, a handshake that had lingered affectionately although we had just met.
I didn't know who Miss Zenobia Weekes was but hearing the reverence in Cynthia's voice every time she said her name, I knew she had been someone very special. I was sure to learn more about her when I visited her school.
And I tried to not get my hopes up about the reading of a will. I was getting a free trip to a nice city, and a free stay in a house on the fanciest street in that city. That was treat enough for me.
But another part of me felt like all of that time I had spent trapped in my hometown, I had been waiting for something amazing.
And now that amazing thing was about to happen.
Chapter 2
The problem with being from a small town in northwestern Iowa is that it's really hard to leave it if you don't own a car. My mother had never driven, and I had never even learned.
Another one of those things about me no one ever found weird. I guess when you're born in the car crash that kills your father and probably damaged your mother’s brain in a permanent way, it's not crazy to decide you never want to drive.
But mostly, since I could walk to work in less than five minutes, and could walk to the grocery store in less than ten, I never saw the point. That, and the expense of it all. I doubted I would have anything left to save of my wages and tips if I had subtracted out gas and insurance money, let alone the cost of an actual car.
So getting out of town, even with a thick envelope of cash, was tricky. But Mr. Schneiderman arranged it all for me. He was still too weak from his heart attack in the spring to drive even so far as Sioux Falls, but he knew pretty much everyone in town, and they all owed him favors. He found someone that was heading that way to deal with a legal matter and who agreed to give me a lift to the bus station.
It took eight hours to get to St. Paul. The less said about the bus trip, the better. I've had happier days. And I nearly got lost trying to get from the bus station to the local bus that would take me across the river from Minneapolis into St. Paul. But I didn't panic. I had Cynthia's card in my bag (the only bag I owned, the one that used to carry my books in high school, now stuffed with a few changes of clothes and my toothbrush); if worse came to worse I could just call her, and she could pick me up.
But I'd rather arrive on my own.
I got off the bus in front of the cathedral in St. Paul. Somehow, its height was more moving than the skyscrapers of Minneapolis. My eyes just kept going up and up, following the ever narrower tapering of its spire as it stabbed up into the deep blue sky.
I'm sure they have ones in Europe that are more impressive, but it seemed unlikely I'd ever see any of those. I wondered how old it was, how much history had it seen pass by right where I was standing?
Did they still ring the bells? Would I be able to hear them from where I would be staying? What a lovely way to wake up in the morning, to the sound of bells tolling.
When I finally stopped staring up at the cathedral and found my way to Summit Avenue I was blown still further away. Every building around me looked like it had been there for a century or more. And they were all so huge.
My hometown was a cluster of buildings on a crossroads just off the highway, and not a major highway at that. I lived in a tiny box of an apartment, just two rooms, and that's with counting the bathroom as its own room.
But now here I was, walking along a wide sidewalk past lovingly maintained yards and gardens, looking up at grand stone mansions built by the lumber barons and railroad men of another century. The building my apartment was in was only a few decades old, and it was already falling apart all around me and the other tenants. But these places looked like they could happily stand for centuries more and still be worth millions.
I was gawking too much and walking too slow, I realized as a man jogging with a dog had to stray out onto someone's lawn to get around me.
"Sorry!" I said, hugging my bag closer to my side and getting out of the middle of the sidewalk. I didn't think he could hear me with those earbuds in but he glanced back at me with a smile in his green eyes and flashed me a thumb's up. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the Irish setter whose leash was tied around his waist suddenly picked up the pace, and he was compelled to do the same.
It was time to figure out where exactly I was going. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket.
It was the most expensive thing I owned, a first generation smartphone I had gotten refurbished at a terrific bargain.
I wouldn't call it a steal. But that word might be more appropriate than I'd like to think about. I didn't ask a lot of questions.
Since I usually got everywhere by foot and never left my hometown, I hadn't had the need to use the map feature ever before. Now I was discovering in addition to its other little eccentricities of age, my phone's GPS was perhaps a bit subpar.
I squinted at the screen, then looked up at the buildings around me. There was no way I was in the right place, was there?
Then I remembered Cynthia Thomas in her expensive yet not flashy clothes. Cynthia Thomas definitely belonged in this neighborhood.
I looked again at the address then looked up at the surprisingly modern-looking building in front of me. Condos. I could just see the view beyond the building, overlooking the valley and the Mississippi River as it swept past St. Paul for points further south. Even the condos must cost millions.
The house number was too high. I had gone too far. I frowned at the phone, which was telling me I had arrived at my destination. I poked at the screen until I made the street view appear. Perhaps if I saw what the front of the building looked like I would have an easier time finding it.
The street view filled the screen. Quite literally in this case, as a bus parked on the side of Summit Avenue in the picture was blocking me from seeing anything beyond the street itself.
With a sigh I heaved my bag up higher on my shoulder again and retraced my steps, studying the trees on the phone image and hoping to match the branches to anything around me.
"Mind the hostas," someone said to me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Excuse me?" I said, trying to find the woman to go with the voice.
"The hostas," she said again, and I spotted her. Her yard was completely enclosed by a dense hedge that she could just barely look over. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and a shock of chaotically frizzy gray hair jutted out from under her sunhat as if refusing to be tamed. Her dark brown eyes darted down to the ground then back up at my face, like she was using them to point at something.
I looked down. There at my feet were a row of small hostas. I had veered a bit to one side while looking at my phone and nearly had stepped off the sidewalk I had been so anxious not to block the middle of, although surely not so far as to disturb her plantings. Still, I felt the need to apologize.
"I'm very sorry. I shouldn't walk distracted," I said.
"It's
just that they're new," the woman said. "Challenge enough to keep them going, what with all the dog traffic."
"Yes, I suppose," I said. "I wonder if you can help me? I'm looking for a house that should be here between yours and that condo building, but I don't see it."
The woman's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That's not kind," she said.
"Pardon me?" I asked.
"I know I'm old, but my mind is as sharp as ever," she went on.
"I'm sure that's true," I said, confused.
"As are my eyes," she continued.
"Okay," I said, not sure what I had done to offend her. "Sorry," I said again.
"You should be," she said, still determined to be annoyed with me. "It's not like anyone could miss it."
"Well, I'm afraid I have," I said, and her eyes narrowed still further. There was no getting out of hot water with this woman, apparently. I looked down at the phone in my hand and realized at once how I could win her over. "Perhaps I missed it because I was looking at my phone."
"Those things are a nuisance," she said with a certain gleeful vitriol. "You nearly trod on my hostas looking at your phone."
"I am sorry," I said. "But I was using it to help me find the house. Only the picture on my phone is just a bus, and I can't even see…"
I trailed off as I glanced behind me, mid-gesture to show the woman where I had been when I had started looking at my phone.
There, towering over me, was a Queen Anne house complete with tower topped with a spire, covered front porch that made the front door appear to be in the back of a cavern, elaborate carvings in the details around the windows and along the rooftop. The sort of place the Addams Family would buy if they wanted to upsize.
