The Witch's Bones

by Iris Kincaid

  “You just wanted to talk to him? I think a lot of people have gotten the impression that you wanted to teach him a lesson—a painful lesson.”

  “Sure, I did. I wanted to smash his face in. But what good am I going to do my family if I’m in jail? That’s where I would’ve wound up. I’ll bet he had all kinds of fancy lawyers who would put me away.”

  Jeremy looked away uncomfortably.

  Joel continued, “If he was going to kill himself, I just wish he had done it a couple of years earlier. That would’ve suited me just fine.”

  “Maybe he didn’t commit suicide,” Martine suggested, studying Joel’s reaction. “Maybe someone who was destroyed by him killed him and faked his suicide.”

  Joel shrugged. “If that’s the case, I guess he had it coming. You know, when we close up the restaurant this fall, we won’t be coming back. This place . . . this is what I wanted to do with my life, and he took it all away from me and my family. So, I hope you’re not expecting any tears from me. Not for The Destroyer.”

  “Got a daily special?” Jeremy inquired.

  “Cheesy shrimp and grits.”

  “We’ll take three of those, to go.”

  “Hmmph.” Joel stomped off to the kitchen, somewhat mollified.

  “I’ve eaten here before,” Jeremy explained to Martine. “Really good stuff. If he’s guilty, any prison kitchen would be lucky to have him.”

  Good thing Joel Isaac was out of earshot.

  *****

  Jeremy and Martine were walking back to his car.

  “I really appreciate all of your help. And I kind of hate to ask for another favor, but I’m going to be meeting with Kingston’s nephew, Brady. By the way, what did you think of him?”

  “Not much.”

  “He’s not easy to like, that’s for sure. Not just because he’s a cold fish. But it’s just all moving so fast. And he’s planning on leaving town. What’s the hurry? It feels like the something might be happening under the surface.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  I’m just curious about what he’s up to. How did he spend his time? How does he spend his money? How much money has he got? I know, I know. I generally frown on poking at people’s bank accounts.” Jeremy flinched guiltily.

  “Tell me everything you know about him, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  You can tell a lot about a person from their bank statements. Brady Kingston was fond of Wendy’s burgers and Boston Chicken dinners. He ate out so often, and at a single serving amount, that Martine doubted that he and his uncle ever sat down to a meal together. Jeans, jackets, gelato. Nothing too unusual there.

  More interesting was the incoming cash. There were frequent deposits of five hundred dollars—that would be accounted for by the commissions that he got on yacht customers. But there was a single twelve-thousand-dollar deposit last year that came from a Boston antiques dealer. A quick zip into local police records showed that Theodore Kingston had reported a missing antique stolen from his house just one week before Brady’s twelve-thousand-dollar windfall.

  And right between these two events, Theodore Kingston had submitted a poisonous review accusing his contractor of thievery. Brady Kingston had allowed another man’s livelihood to be shattered without saying a word.

  In short order, Martine was at work on the Theodore Kingston’s computer, which was temporarily in Jeremy’s custody. It was a very easy entry into Kingston’s account on Angie’s list to remove the false allegations. Although they were likely to be greeted by irritating denials, a confrontation with Brady couldn’t be avoided.

  Brady was dumbstruck about how they could possibly have known about the payment from the antiques dealer. Of course, they didn’t mention Martine’s access to his bank account because that would really have freaked him out. Not to mention, its being a felony.

  “So, what. What does it matter? I’m his sole beneficiary. Even when he was alive, I knew that. Everything he had was destined to be mine. So that antique would have been mine after he died. And so, in a manner speaking, it was as good as mine when he was alive. So, that’s not even a crime. The only person I inconvenienced was myself. Because I did have to sell it on the down-low, and if I’d waited till after he died, I probably could’ve gotten a much better deal.”

  “You are the only one who was inconvenienced? How about the contractor? You know exactly what happened to his business,” Martine demanded.

  “Okay, that’s a bum deal. It’s a shame, it is. But that was my uncle’s doing.”

  “He did it because you stole something from him, and then you lied about it. It happened because of you. And now this contractor is finished.”

  “Look, we’ve all got problems. My . . . my uncle just died,” Brady said, trying to sound bereaved.

  “The $1.8 million from his yacht business should console you,” Martine shot back.

  Jeremy sighed. “Speaking of which, I assume you’ll be doing a wire transfer. I should probably be present and have a quick look at the sales documents. No charge. Just my responsibility toward Theodore Kingston’s estate.”

  “Uh . . . sure, sure. I’ll call you when Mr. Brooks is ready. Now, if you two will excuse me?”

  *****

  Of course, the contractor had to be told that he was in the clear. But Martine and Jeremy knew full well that it was definitely a matter of too little, too late.

  “I removed the review from Angie’s list,” Martine explained to the incredulous Gavin Ramsey.

  “What? That’s it? No apology. No retraction. No damages. That little bozo owes me damages.”

  “He really does,” Martine agreed. “But he’s right. Stealing his own inheritance is not going to wind up in court. Which leaves us nothing but his conscience.”

  “Oh, this can’t be the end of it. I need to go and have a word with him.”

  “You have to cool down first,” Jeremy cautioned. “You’ve got a serious, very legitimate grievance here. But a bad decision right now could make your life much, much worse. Please don’t do anything rash.”

  Ramsey was clearly still seething, but he accepted Jeremy’s outstretched hand shake. Martine also offered her hand, which brought along with it an unexpected and alarming vision. She saw a clear picture of Gavin Ramsey with both of his hands outstretched, around her neck. She backed away with a startled gasp.

  “Everything okay?” Gavin asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Martine managed to get out.

  Why? Why are you trying to kill me? I didn’t do anything to you.

  “Just a little stomach problem,” she added.

  More like a neck problem.

  *****

  There was no reason that Gavin Ramsey and Martine should ever have crossed paths. It was all due to Brady Kingston’s theft of his uncle’s antique and all that was set into motion because of it, including the ruination of Gavin Ramsey, who was soon going to try to strangle the life out of her.

  If Martine hadn’t been fond of Brady Kingston before, now she had a serious beef with him. And now, finding out who killed Theodore Kingston was no longer a matter of helping Jeremy out. Her own life was now at stake.

  A nice cup of herbal tea was in order to calm Martine’s nerves. What on earth was she going to do? Who could help her? She knew that Delphine would if she could, but she had said that she herself didn’t have the power of foresight.

  The police certainly wouldn’t intervene. They don’t exactly issue restraining orders based on future premonitions. In fact, that would probably earn her another psychiatric referral. Speaking of whom, Dr. York’s response would only be to delve into Martine’s fractured childhood to find someone who represented her imaginary assailant.

  She even hesitated to tell Jeremy, as sympathetic as he would be. What could he do?

  Brady Kingston was the key to a puzzle she had to figure out ASAP. Did he have anything to do with his uncle’s death, and how did his newly-minted enemy, Gavin Ramsey, come to the conc
lusion that he needed to wring her neck?

  Martine wasn’t the only one who would come to the coffeehouse to soothe her nerves. Across the room, frowning and agitated, was the woman who had come to the Kingston residence to express condolences—Naomi Webster. She had said that she was part of Theodore Kingston’s church community. Hmm. Maybe, maybe not. At any rate, she had just seen something or someone outside the coffeehouse window that made her jump up, gather her things, and run out the door.

  Martine had had her fill of unanswered questions. She wanted to know what was up and made a beeline for the door. She was awarded by the sight of Naomi and Brady Kingston about half a block away, speaking very intensely, with many hand gestures, but with a noticeable attempt to keep their voices down. This was an especially strange turn of events, given the fact that they had given the impression that they barely knew one another.

  Naomi Webster. Hmm. Perhaps Martine should return to the coffeehouse, pop open her laptop, and see all there was to see about Ms. Webster.

  Police records are always the first stop. Bingo. Naomi had a very serious drug problem that had landed her in prison for possession on more than one occasion. But perhaps that was all a thing of the past. The last arrest of the forty-seven-year-old had been nearly fifteen years ago. She appeared to be on the straight and narrow in recent years. Either that, or she had gotten really good at not getting caught.

  Now she was a shift manager at the local grocery store. Her life appeared to be dull and mundane—in a good way. Had Theodore Kingston really been a church buddy with this drug felon? More importantly, why had she and Brady pretended not to know one another? Perhaps the answers were to be found in the produce aisle.

  *****

  Holloways was the largest grocery store in town, and Martine had been most grateful for their free delivery policy for orders over sixty dollars. The store actually felt smaller than she remembered it, but then, her final visit had been in a wheelchair, and she had been so self-conscious of all the space she had been taking up.

  Martine was hoping to grill Naomi Webster on her relationship with both Kingston men. But she wasn’t holding her breath for any earth-shattering revelations, seeing as how Naomi had already proven herself capable of putting on an act.

  But it turned out to be a fruitful place to dig up information. Arriving two hours before Naomi’s shift began gave Martine plenty of time to chat with her coworkers and subordinates.

  “I’m an old friend of Naomi’s,” Martine began. “I just wanted to look in on her and make sure that she’s okay, you know, after the Theodore Kingston suicide.”

  There was no shortage of opinions weighing in on this topic. Martine had struck the stool pigeon bonanza.

  “Maybe it’s cruel to say, but it had to be something of a big relief to for Naomi.”

  “How so?” Martine asked.

  “Well, he was stalking her big-time. Didn’t she ever mention that to you?”

  “I don’t know if she ever used the word ‘stalking’.”

  “That might be a little bit of an exaggeration. But he was in here two or three times a week, pestering her. It really got her bothered and upset. I mean, he was such an old man, but he really must have had the hots for her. She kept telling him to stay away from her, but he kept coming back. Finally, security had to get a heads-up to keep an eye on her and wouldn’t even let him approach her.”

  “They should’ve banned him from the store,” another employee chimed in, “But, rich guy—you know how that goes.”

  If Theodore Kingston had been stalking Naomi and acting as a big-time annoyance, why was she showing up at his door offering condolences? This was going to be a pretty interesting story, if she could only get to the bottom of it.

  Since Martine had a little time to kill, she might as well pick up a few groceries. She was in the toothpaste and toiletries aisle, bending over to take a look at the bottom shelf. When she abruptly stood up, she backed right into another customer.

  It was an error most people would have forgiven. But this woman, dressed all in black, who looked as if she had a permanent scowl on her features, was not one of those people.

  “You clumsy oaf. I don’t know why I even bother walking amongst the riffraff. You should know that there are consequences to be had for disturbing my peace. Why do you look at me like that?”

  Martine was looking at her with wide eyes and a sorrowful, apologetic expression. Her brief physical contact with this woman had resulted in the glimpse of a very sad occasion. She saw this woman, still attired in black, alongside an identical twin, standing over a freshly created grave.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for your . . . your . . .”

  She was sorry for her loss. Except that the loss had not yet occurred. And so that would be premature consolation. And impossible to explain.

  “Inconvenience,” Martine said unpersuasively. I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

  The way the woman was staring holes in her was too much. She decided it was best to wait out in the parking lot to intercept Naomi before she went in.

  Naomi didn’t recognize her from their brief encounter at the Kingston residence, which was just fine.

  “Hi. I’m an associate of Jeremy Todd, Mr. Theodore Kingston’s attorney. I just wanted to clear something up. Your colleagues tell me that Mr. Kingston made quite a pest of himself, coming here several times a week, having heated arguments with you and having to be monitored by store security to stay away from you. Is that true?”

  “Yes. That was true,” Naomi admitted reluctantly.

  “Now, Mr. Kingston is dead. This man who was such an annoyance, and possibly a threat to you. Maybe you’re feeling relieved, maybe ambivalent. But what’s kind of out of left field is your stopping by with condolences. For your stalker. What’s up with that?”

  “At heart, he was a good man.”

  “You may be the only one to think so. What was good about him?”

  “He loved his family. He loved his nephew, and he wanted only the best for him.”

  “Speaking of whom—how well do you know Brady Kingston?”

  “Oh, not that well at all. Just . . . not at all, really. Maybe we’ve crossed paths in . . .”

  “Church?”

  “Yes, maybe so.”

  There was no point in bringing up her tête-à-tête with Brady on the street outside the coffeehouse. It would only be denied.

  “Well, I need to get to work.”

  “Wait!” Martine reached out a hand to slow Naomi down.

  “Sorry, I can’t be late.”

  It was the briefest touch of Naomi’s arm, but it was enough to see the sight of a loaded gun being pointed directly at Naomi Webster.

  Didn’t anyone’s future involve something besides death?

  *****

  Saving a cat is one thing. Saving a human being requires their trust and belief. Telling them that they would soon be facing a bullet because you had a vision about it . . . she knew exactly how she was going to come across—like a lunatic.

  Feeling somewhat guilty and distracted, Martine had to prepare for a rather important day with Morgan. He wanted to her to take a quick look at his cable station, and then to spend the afternoon sailing. It was a chance to get to know one another better, and the sailing sounded like a blast.

  First stop, the drugstore for some sunblock. She had never used it as a child in Haiti, or even immediately after moving to Oyster Cove. Her darker skin offered quite a bit of natural protection against the sun’s harmful rays. But having spent the last two years inside, she was considerably paler than her younger years, and the chance of a burn was a lot more likely.

  At the front register, Martine found herself behind a harried looking mother and her four-year-old son. She was buying lottery tickets. She turned to Martine and shrugged.

  “I should be buying bread with this money. Or spaghetti noodles. Or milk. But I’m trying to hit the jackpot and see if I can get enough money to pay my bil
ls for the next six months. Silly, huh?”

  “Well, I’ve never been big on the lottery myself. Although, I have seen the odds. I hate to tell you, but they’re pretty bad.”

  “I have my lucky numbers. At least, I hope that one day, they will finally be lucky numbers. Maybe today.”

  She looked so tired. Martine would have been scared to touch her—her future seemed so bleak. But she did come up beside her, and without thinking, she laid her hand against the store’s lottery tickets dispenser. Even with her eyes open, the six numbers floated in front of her eyes, as clear as could be.

  “Give me a pen. Give me a pen,” she ordered the woman.

  Martine quickly scribbled down the numbers and handed them to the woman. “Use these numbers instead. Not your numbers. These numbers. You want luck? Here it is.”

  Any rational, sane person would have laughed at her and made some excuse for why they’d like to stick to their own numbers. Then again, this was a desperate lottery enthusiast who had a greater faith in luck than the average citizen. She eagerly switched her numbers and thanked Martine for her good wishes.

  Martine was left wondering—what if she really could predict lottery numbers? She’d never have to work another day again in her life. Perhaps that should have been a thrilling prospect, but it sounded a bit slothful and monotonous. She didn’t know if she was always going to be a hacker, but she was always going to want to be something. And not just the mother of little Tilapia. Speaking of which, time for her date.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Morgan had not been exaggerating when he spoke about how small and modest his cable station was. It was literally the size of a basement with a couple of side rooms that would hold a washer, dryer, sink, and basement pantry very nicely.

  There were three broadcasters, four camera personnel, the weather guy, and Morgan, the sole producer. With such a shoestring staff and budget, their broadcast was surprisingly high-quality. Martine doubted that anyone watching it could imagine the modest circumstances behind it.