Charmed to Death
Page 24
“May I talk to you?” he asked.
My eyebrows drew together, puzzled. “Sure.”
“Let’s go outside,” he said as he placed his hand on my elbow to guide me.
I led the way to Abby’s wide front porch without speaking. We moved across the porch to the swing, where so many times in my dreams, I’d seen Henry and Grandpa talking. A sense of déjà vu came over me, but I brushed it aside. Sitting on the swing, I motioned Henry to join me.
For a few moments we sat, swinging slowly back and forth, enjoying the quiet.
Henry broke the silence. “We questioned Thornton. Once he started talking,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment, “we couldn’t get him to shut up. The guy is paranoid and all night we had to listen to his theories on witches.” He shook his head again. “Kept mentioning Cousin Lucy.”
My lip curled in disgust. “Yeah, he talked about her in the library too.”
“Anyway, along with spouting opinions on witchcraft, he also confessed to everything—Brian’s murder, setting Gus on fire, hurting Abby, and murdering Beasley.”
“Why did he kill Beasley?”
“Beasley was determined to get something on you, so he tried his old trick of badgering people till they told him what he wanted to know. On Charles. Only this time, the trick didn’t work so well. Charles, in his paranoia, was convinced Beasley had found out about him.”
“And he killed him,” I said, my voice hushed. “What about the woman in Massachusetts?”
“He didn’t say anything about her.” Henry stared down at his hands resting on his knees. “But after you gave me her name, I called the sheriff’s department. Your hunch was right.” He lifted his head and his eyes met mine. “The woman did laundry for the Thornton family.”
I felt the sadness settle around my heart while I thought of the woman and how she died. “Charles knew her.”
“Yes. And she disappeared two months after his mother died. We’ll question Charles again and ask about the woman. The sheriff out there is going to question Charles’s relatives concerning his whereabouts when the woman disappeared.”
“Relatives?” I said with a scowl. “Cousin Lucy?”
“Not likely. She died about a month after his mother. The sheriff said both sides of Charles’s family have medical histories of heart problems that can cause seizures. Cousin Lucy went into a seizure, had a heart attack, and died. In front of Charles, and—”
I interrupted him. “Confirming what she’d told him about bewitching. He blamed witchcraft for the death of his mother and cousin and he went after the woman he thought was a witch.”
“That’s my guess,” he said. “When he saw the girl in the library go into the convulsion while talking to you, the scene set him off.”
“Witches were afoot,” I said, my tone sarcastic.
“Something like that.” Henry gently laid a hand on my knee. “It’s not your fault. The guy was pretty far around the bend to start with. If it’s true about the woman in Massachusetts, he’d already killed once, before that day in the library. He would have killed again. It was only a matter of time.”
I gave him a weak smile as he moved his hand away. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but…?” I sighed. “It’s going to take a while to work through the part I played in Brian’s death. And Gus’s.”
He gave a quick nod. “Remember while you’re doing that, if it hadn’t been for you, we might not have caught him. More people might’ve died.”
He noticed the shocked look on my face. “What? You don’t think I can be understanding?”
I laughed. “I haven’t seen too much evidence of it since I met you. You’re the Iceman, remember?” I replied, teasing him.
A chagrined expression crossed his face. “Yeah, well, there’s more to me than what appears on the surface.”
Oh, Enrique Comacho, I’m sure there is, I thought, but kept my thought to myself.
“Hey,” I said, nudging him, “what did Abby whisper to you?”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “She said I had a nice aura. It doesn’t have any holes in it.” He looked perplexed. “Whatever that means.”
“It means Abby thinks you’re a good person,” I answered, my voice low.
“Yeah, well she’s okay too.” He fidgeted in his seat. “So are you, Jensen,” he said, averting his eyes.
Comacho sure needed a lot of work on giving compliments.
A comfortable silence settled as we moved back and forth in the swing. I felt the tension and worry of the past few days ease away from me, leaving a sense of peace.
It didn’t last long.
Comacho stopped the swing’s motion and turned to me. “There’s something I want to ask you. Can you do this all the time? Find things, I mean?”
“Do you mean ‘things’ or do you mean ‘bodies’?” I asked, afraid of what his answer would be.
“Bodies, but not always dead ones,” he assured me. “People who are missing? Who, maybe if we find fast enough, we can save?”
He didn’t have to spell it out for me. I knew what he was asking. He wanted me to tap into my gift to help them with impossible cases. Could I do it? Did I want to do it?
Before I answered, his next words rushed out at me. “See, I’ve got a couple of files I’d like you to look at—”
I held up a hand stopping him. “Henry, I don’t know. I’ve worked hard to come to terms with my gift, my heritage. I’m just now starting to understand things about my talent, about myself. And truly, I don’t know if I can help you.”
He looked embarrassed. “Sure, sure,” he said, rising quickly. “It was only a thought. Ahh, if you decide you want to try, you’ve got my card.” His eyes darted to his car and I felt the air around us take on a chill while his ice wall crystalized around him. “I’d better go. I’ve got a lot of paperwork waiting. See you around, Jensen.”
Whipping his sunglasses out of his pocket and adjusting them firmly on his face, he moved down the steps to his car. A moment later he was gone.
A couple of hours later, I found myself standing with Abby in the clearing, where a short time ago I had asked for the strength to face my destiny.
The tall weeds had been dry and brittle that night, but now tender shoots of green sprouted from their base. Overhead the branches were covered with new leaves. A sense of complete peace filled the clearing—and me.
“Ahh, it’s good to be outside,” Abby said, taking a deep breath.
“Aren’t you tired from all your company?”
I had questioned the wisdom of walking to the woods, but Abby was insistent. She needed to reconnect with the earth, she said.
Not looking at me, her eyes stared out over the clearing. “No, not now. This recharges me,” she said holding her arms wide.
I didn’t want to disturb the quiet moment, but I had some questions for her about the past few days.
Reading my mind, she smiled at me. “What do you want to ask me? You look puzzled.”
“I guess I am.” I gazed off in the distance. “Have you ever heard of a witch bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Charles made one to use against me,” I said, frowning.
“And he became ill,” she said with finality.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said with a snap of my fingers. “The next day, when I called him about the flowers, he said he had food poisoning. How did you know?”
“It wasn’t food poisoning.” She arched an eyebrow. “Think, Ophelia—what are the properties of a fire agate?”
I squinted my eyes while I thought about her question. “It protects the wearer against harm. And if anyone casts negative energy toward the wearer, the energy bounces back at the one who wished ill.” My eyes widened. “Of course. Charles got a dose of what he wished for me.” I placed my hand on the talisman. “This talisman thing is kind of a handy thing to wear, isn’t it?”
Her face lit up with amusement. “Yes, it is. Why do you think I gave it to you?
”
“Any other questions?” she asked.
“No, not right now,” I replied and let the silence wrap around us.
And in the silence, I felt the peace, the promise of new life everywhere around us. Looking to the horizon, I watched the sun setting in the west. The sky was aflame with colors of rose, mauve, and yellow. An absurd thought popped into my mind.
Grinning, I looked at Abby. “This scene reminds me of an old movie—the murderer’s brought to justice, the mystery’s solved. We’ve reached the happily ever after part.” I paused. “You know, the part where the heroines ride off into the sunset. Right?”
I watched her strong profile in the fading light while the sun sank lower on the horizon. A trace of a smile played at the corner of her mouth and her green eyes stared out over the quiet clearing.
Taking Abby’s hand in mine, I gave it a squeeze and tried again. “We get to ride off into the sunset. Right? Right?”
Her eyes moved to meet mine and one eyebrow arched.
“Not exactly,” she replied.
Acknowledgments
The success of a novel truly is a team effort, and I’d like to thank “my” team:
Stacey Glick of Dystel and Goderich Literary Management, for finding Avon Books as a home for Ophelia and Abby.
Sarah Durand, Senior Editor at Morrow/Avon, and her assistant, Jeremy Cesarec. You’ve guided me, held my hand when necessary, and been unbelievably patient with me. Your input and ideas were invaluable to me in the writing of this novel.
Nadine Badalaty and Tristan Elwell, for designing such eye-catching covers for the series.
Danielle Bartlett, for steering a new author through the shoals of promotion.
All the copyeditors, proofreaders, sales reps, and other staff members at Avon who’ve worked so hard behind the scenes to make this series a success.
Pat and Gary (Hey, Michael), Sheila, Amy, Beth, Diana, Kate, Karen, Ursula, and all the booksellers I’ve met over the past few months. You’ve gone above and beyond to help promote this series.
Dr. Jerri McLemore and Paul Steinbach of the Iowa State Medical Examiner’s Office, for their expertise on how poor victims might meet their untimely end.
Sharon Jurgensen, Autumn Dean, and Bob Cook, for sharing all their research and answering my questions concerning hog confinement facilities and their impact on the environment.
Theresa Powell and Donna Reynolds, for covering all the bases in my absence.
My friends—Bea Coe, Kristi Elick, Linda Eckles, Cheryl Powell, and Cindy Vokes—for their support and their willingness to cajole everyone they know into reading this series. (And to Cheryl and Cindy—only you could’ve come up with the idea that a book about witches would make a good Christmas present!)
R.J., for insight into the Latino culture.
My family—my children, Ellen, Aunt Betty, and Uncle Arnie. You’re always there to encourage me when I need it.
And last, but certainly not least, all the readers who’ve taken the time to express their interest in this series. You’ve paid me the highest compliment one can pay to a writer—you’ve enjoyed my stories. It doesn’t get any better than that!
About the Author
Take a life-long interest in the paranormal and mix it with a vivid imagination. Let the potion simmer in a small Iowa town. And the result is the Ophelia and Abby mystery series written by Shirley Damsgaard.
Shirley, author of numerous published short stories, resides with her family in small-town Iowa, where she has served as Postmaster for the last twenty years. She is currently working on the next Ophelia and Abby mystery, which again touches delightfully on the paranormal.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Ophelia and Abby Mysteries
by Shirley Damsgaard
CHARMED TO DEATH
WITCH WAY TO MURDER
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHARMED TO DEATH. Copyright © 2006 by Shirley Damsgaard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition May 2007 ISBN 9780061740428
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