by Leslie Meier
“Now for my doubting Thomas,” said Diana, repeating her invocation over the crystal ball. “Visions, now appear to me, only true ones will I see.” Then she opened her eyes, stared into the ball, and recoiled as if she’d been stung. She repeated the process, but it didn’t seem to work. Whatever she was seeing was still there, and Lucy knew it wasn’t good. “I don’t like what I see,” said Diana, pulling a pack of cards from beneath the table and shuffling them. “I’m going to try a different method—the tarot,” she said, laying out five cards and turning the first one over to reveal a figure hanging upside down. “The Hanged Man, Le Pendu.”
“That sounds ominous,” said Lucy.
“It’s not bad,” said Diana. “It means devotion to a worthwhile cause, but you might find that circumstances are turned upside down for a bit. Change is in the air.”
Lucy nodded and watched as Diana turned over the next card, revealing a knight on a handsome white stallion. This must be something wonderful, she thought. Her knight had come to rescue her. But Diana’s face was grave.
“Le Mort, Death,” she said, sighing. “Of course,” she added, “it can mean the end of a phase, not necessarily the end of life.”
“Absolutely, the end of a phase,” said Lucy, determined not to let this nonsense rattle her. “Let’s look on the bright side.”
But the next card, which pictured a blindfolded and caged figure, didn’t seem to offer much hope.
“The Eight of Swords. It generally indicates major difficulties and adverse circumstances,” said Diana.
“Well, I’ve still got two more,” said Lucy.
Diana revealed the fourth card, which showed a lively figure in medieval garb who seemed to be dancing. “This is better,” she said. “The Fool. I see energy and optimism, perhaps the beginning of a journey or an unexpected happening that will challenge you.”
“I’m up for it,” said Lucy, laughing, as Diana reached for the fifth and final card, which pictured a group of figures battling with staves.
“Five of Wands, the Lord of Strife,” said Diana, sounding disappointed. “I’m glad you’re ready, because it looks as if trouble is coming and it can’t be avoided.” She looked at Lucy. “I’m sorry. I wish I had better news for you.”
“Oh, well,” said Lucy, shrugging. “I don’t suppose it matters, because I don’t believe in this stuff anyway.”
Diana pressed her lips together, as if debating with herself. After a moment or two, she spoke. “I think you need to be careful.”
Her tone was so serious that it gave Lucy pause. “What did you see in the crystal ball?” she asked.
Diana’s face went pale. “I didn’t want to tell you—that’s why I used the cards. I was looking for more information so I could understand it better, perhaps find a broader context.” She paused and reached for Lucy’s hand. “It was fire,” she said, “and that’s not all. There were screams…screams in the night.”
Lucy considered for a moment, then smiled. “Well, as it happens, I put new batteries in the smoke alarms last week. So I think we’re covered.”
“I hope so,” said Diana, smiling back. Then, signaling that the reading was over, she covered the crystal ball with a cloth and collected the tarot cards. Rising from her seat and holding the dagger, she walked counterclockwise around them. “O mighty circle that has preserved and protected us, I now withdraw your force and release thee. So mote it be.”
Understanding that the session was now concluded, Sue asked how much they owed her for the readings.
“I cannot request or demand payment,” she said. “That is not the way of the craft. But if you would like to offer me something in return for my time, I would be honored to accept it.”
The four friends looked from one to the other, unsure what to do next. Finally, Rachel spoke. “Is there a customary offering?”
Diana produced a printed card. “Here are some guidelines,” she said, handing it to Rachel and then withdrawing through the curtain to the front of the shop.
Rachel held the card and they gathered around, looking over her shoulders at the neat list. In addition to readings, they saw that Diana offered spells, charms, and potions.
“Maybe you should get a protective charm, Lucy,” advised Pam. “They’re only fifteen to thirty dollars.”
“Everything is fifteen to thirty dollars,” observed Sue.
“Let’s give her twenty apiece and be done with it,” said Lucy. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s all a big scam. She scares you and then offers protection—just like the Mafia!”
Chapter Two
The Pennysaver came out on Thursdays, so that was always a light day for Lucy, who took the morning off but usually went in for a few hours in the afternoon to help Phyllis, who handled reception duties as well as the listings and classified ads.
“So how was the reading?” asked Phyllis, who was sitting at her usual spot behind the reception counter. She had recently lost quite a bit of weight and had given up her colorful muumuus in favor of more sedate clothing that showed off her figure, but she still dyed her hair a bright tangerine color and wore multicolored reading glasses. And her nail color changed weekly—this week it was lime green.
“She’s good, I’ll give you that. I don’t know how she does it, but she was right on target. She told Sue that her money troubles with Little Prodigies will clear up, told Rachel that Miss Tilley will be around for a good long while, and, you won’t believe this, told Pam that Ted was having car trouble out by the chicken farm.”
Phyllis’s jaw dropped. “That’s amazing. He called, just a minute or two before you came in. That expensive newfangled hybrid of his wouldn’t start when he finished interviewing Bruce Clark!”
Lucy took a minute to absorb this information. “There must be some rational explanation,” she said.
“What about you?” asked Phyllis. “What did she predict for you?”
“Nothing good,” said Lucy. “She said she saw fire and a lot of disruption in my life.”
“Oh, dear,” said Phyllis, handing her a stack of press releases to sort. “Are you worried?”
“I don’t believe in it, so why should I worry?” she replied, seating herself at her desk and checking her e-mail. There was nothing but a few jokes from friends, so she settled down to the task at hand, filing the press releases according to date. She was just finishing up when the little bell on the door jangled and a middle-aged man with shoulder-length gray hair and a silver beard walked in and went up to the counter. Despite his unconventional haircut, he was dressed like most men in town—in khaki pants and a plaid sports shirt. Lucy recognized Ike Stoughton, whom she’d encountered at various county meetings.
She knew that Ike, a licensed surveyor, had built a sterling reputation with his title-search company. If the title to a piece of property was unclear—which was a common occurrence thanks to missing or damaged town records and ancient deeds that set boundaries by referring to long-gone landmarks such as “the large elm tree” or “the stone fence”—it was generally agreed that Ike was the man to call, even though he didn’t come cheap. He had a gift for parsing ancient terminology and tracking down old wills and bills of sale to establish a single thread of ownership from a tangle of competing claims that had made him one of the county’s most successful businessmen.
“Can I help you?” asked Phyllis.
“Why, sure,” he said, producing a white business-size envelope. “I’ve got a letter to the editor.”
“Ted’s not here right now, but I’ll make sure he gets it,” said Phyllis.
“I’d really appreciate it,” said Ike, looking around the office. “I was hoping to meet him. I just moved into town, you see.”
Hearing that, Lucy got up and approached him, hand extended. “I’m Lucy Stone. I’ve covered a few county meetings where you spoke.”
Ike took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
“When did you move to Tinker’s Cove?” she asked.
“
I bought the old Whipple homestead back in April, but we moved in only a couple of weeks ago,” he replied.
Lucy knew the Whipple place, an eighteenth-century house just down the road from her house, on the other side of the creek. She rarely went that way and hadn’t noticed the long-vacant property was now occupied.
“That’s a beautiful old place,” she said. “I’m glad it’s not going to be empty any longer.”
“That’s a real antique,” said Phyllis, slipping the letter into Ted’s mailbox.
“You said it,” said Ike. “It needs a lot of work, but it’s going to be worth it.”
“Lucy lives out that way,” said Phyllis.
“That’s right, we’re on Red Top Road. Our place was a wreck when we first bought it. It took a lot of work and a lot of money, but I wouldn’t give it up now for anything.”
“Are you in the old farmhouse on top of the hill?” he asked. When Lucy nodded, he continued. “I think my daughter Abby has met your girls. Sara and…”
“Zoe,” said Lucy.
“That’s right. Zoe. They’re nice girls.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, feeling slightly unsettled. How did he know her kids but she didn’t know his? It was time to get better acquainted. “The folks on Prudence Path are holding a neighborhood potluck this Saturday. Why don’t you come and bring the family?”
“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Ike. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting our neighbors.”
“See you Saturday,” said Lucy as Ike gave Phyllis a parting nod and left the office.
“Seems like a nice guy,” said Phyllis as the bell on the door jangled behind him.
“I hope so,” said Lucy. “You never know with neighbors.”
Phyllis adjusted her glasses and peered at her computer screen. “Yup. I love my neighbors, the Reeds. They’d be just about perfect if it weren’t for that noisy leaf blower.”
Lucy chuckled and went back to her filing, popping the last few press releases into the folder. “Budget meeting tomorrow?”
“Nine o’clock,” said Phyllis.
Lucy put on her jacket and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll be here,” she said, and headed for the door. “Have a good evening.”
“You too,” said Phyllis as Lucy made her way through the office to the back door and the parking lot.
She was exiting onto Main Street when she remembered that she had planned to have strawberries for dessert, so instead of turning right, she went left, toward Rebecca Wardwell’s little homestead on the other side of town. Rebecca kept chickens and sold a variety of produce that was far superior to the supermarket version.
The strawberries were also a lot more expensive than the ones at the IGA, she discovered when she handed over a ten-dollar bill for two pints and got only a dollar back
“Your price has gone up,” she commented, tucking the money in her pocket.
“My costs have gone way up,” explained Rebecca. As always, she was dressed in an old-fashioned sprigged cotton dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves. A starched lace cap covered her fine white hair, which was twisted into a straggly bun, but her feet were bare. Though she was approaching sixty, her pink cheeks were as plump and round as they ever were, but a few lines radiated from her eyes when she smiled, which was often.
“Oh, well, they’re worth it,” rationalized Lucy. “They taste a lot better than the ones from California.”
“I wait until they’re ripe before I pick them. That’s the trick,” said Rebecca. “Want to see my garden?”
“Sure,” said Lucy, jumping at the chance. She was an enthusiastic gardener, and Rebecca’s little plot was legendary for its productivity.
Lucy followed Rebecca through the squeaky gate. “I have to fence it because of the woodchucks,” she said. “Yesterday I left the gate ajar and look!” She pointed at a row of young pea plants, all nibbled down to nothing but stubs.
“It’s early—you can replant,” said Lucy, taking in the neat rows of vegetables interspersed with colorful cosmos, marigolds, and zinnias. “Your Swiss chard is ahead of mine,” she observed. “But my lettuce is bolting.”
“It has been awfully hot and dry this year,” commiserated Rebecca. “I’ve had to water, which I don’t like to do so early in the summer. It’s not even July.”
“Me too,” said Lucy. “My tomato plants wilted so badly I had to rescue them by watering them in the middle of the day, which I don’t like to do because they say it causes shallow root growth.”
“Once or twice in an emergency is all right, as long as you don’t make a habit of it,” said Rebecca, sounding as if she equated daytime watering with alcohol or drug abuse.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” vowed Lucy, bending down to examine a thriving young squash vine. “What’s this? Zucchini?”
“Pumpkin. I saved some seed from last year and have high hopes for the giant pumpkin contest,” said Rebecca. She was staring at Lucy with an odd expression.
Lucy ran her tongue over her teeth, wondering if a piece of spinach or a poppy seed from her lunch had gotten stuck. But that wasn’t what was bothering Rebecca.
“You need to very careful for the next few days,” she said in a very serious voice. “Check smoke alarms, wear your seat belt, keep an eye out for trouble.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Lucy.
“No reason,” replied Rebecca with a shrug of her shoulders, sharp and bony under the lavender and black sprigged cotton. “I say that to everybody. It’s good advice. Trust me.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, carefully carrying the strawberries, which were packed in recycled cartons without tops, back to the car. Twice now she’d been warned, in the same day. If this kept up, she told herself, she’d have to rethink her views about the supernatural.
But nothing happened on the way home. She had the road to herself. And the house too. Her husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, was out on a job, and the two girls who were still home, Sara and Zoe, were volunteering at the Friends of Animals shelter. Toby, her oldest, was now married and lived with his wife, Molly, and baby son, Patrick, on nearby Prudence Path. Elizabeth, a senior at Chamberlain College in Boston, was spending the summer as an intern at a Cape Cod newspaper. Only Libby the Labrador was home, and she greeted Lucy enthusiastically with lots of tail wagging and attempts to lick her face.
“Down! Down!” ordered Lucy, holding the eggs above her head, out of harm’s way. “I’ll take you for a walk, so calm down.”
Hearing the word “walk,” which was one of her all-time favorite words, Libby became more excited than ever, and Lucy opened the door, shooing her out of the house. Five minutes later, Lucy joined her in the backyard and they set off down the old logging trails that meandered through the woods behind the house.
Libby kept her nose to the ground, sniffing as she went, but Lucy was gazing at the cloudless blue sky and wondering when it was going to rain. Rebecca was right; it had been an awfully dry spring, and the summer ahead looked to be a scorcher. Fallen leaves and branches crackled underfoot, and the trees already had a forlorn, droopy appearance. It was so hot that even the birds were silent. Nonetheless, Lucy was enjoying herself. She’d had an especially busy week, with several nighttime meetings that ran late, and she needed to stretch out her muscles and use her body, even if it meant working up a sweat.
She put rather more energy into her walk than usual, and it wasn’t long before she realized she’d gone farther than she’d intended, following a path that she rarely took. She was also aware of an unpleasant, acrid scent and had decided to turn back when she realized the dog had disappeared.
“Libby! Libby!” she shouted, but all she got was a sharp bark, as if the dog was summoning her. Lucy checked her watch. It was nearly three. She really needed to get back home and start that pot roast, and here the dog had gotten herself into trouble. Stuck in a bunch of brambles or something. So she trudged on, calling the dog and getting barks in reply, until she came out of the woods and fou
nd the dog standing in the middle of a circular clearing.
“What?” she demanded. “You couldn’t come to me? I had to come to you?”
But the dog didn’t come to her, even then. She remained in place, fixed on a tree with a blackened, bulbous trunk.
A fire? wondered Lucy, stepping closer for a better look until she was practically overcome by a powerful stench of decay. There was no doubt, she realized with horror as she discovered whitened bones and bits of charred cloth, that she’d stumbled upon the burned body of a human being.
Chapter Three
Bent over double, Lucy stumbled to the edge of the clearing, where she was violently sick. Behind her, she could hear Libby barking frantically. When the retching stopped, she was still trembling, but she attempted to leash the dog. Libby, tail between her legs, was alternately darting at the thing on the tree and retreating. Once Lucy succeeded in fastening the clasp of the leash onto the dog’s collar and had her firmly under control, Libby began shivering and whining and pulling at the leash.
Giving the leash a yank, Lucy turned her back on the dreadful sight and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. It took a couple of tries before she managed to punch in 911. When the operator answered, Lucy could barely get the words out.
“A b-b-body, b-b-burned, in the w-w-woods,” she stammered.
“Where is your location?” asked the operator in a crisp, unemotional tone.
“Th-the old logging road, off Red Top Road,” she said. “This is Lucy. I was out walking the dog.”
“Oh, hi, Lucy. Sounds like a hell of a thing,” responded the dispatcher. As a reporter, Lucy was a familiar figure at the police station. “Just stay put. I’m sending everything out there.”
“That’s not really necessary,” said Lucy, but she could already hear the siren that summoned the volunteer firefighters wailing in the distance. They would answer the call as quickly as possible, but she knew she had a bit of a wait, being so far out in the woods, so she settled herself on the ground with the dog beside her. Holding tight to Libby’s collar, she tried not to think of the gruesome scene behind her and focused on soothing the dog. It was about fifteen minutes later when the fire department’s brush breaker came barreling down the dirt road. Libby, who was still a shivering heap of misery, was back on her feet, announcing its arrival with loud barks. Sirens could be heard in the distance, evidence that more rescue vehicles were on the way.
