Blackwork

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Blackwork Page 8

by Monica Ferris


  So this wasn’t as serious. Still, Jo-Jo was alarmed because something alarming had happened. While not as scary as the vandalism, maybe it was a setup for something more serious. And it had happened because Leona had been thinking and acting so non-Wiccan at the time of the first attack. She had let that attitude—and sheer busyness at the pub—prevent her from performing a cleansing ritual in her house and rebuilding the psychic protective barriers around her property.

  That was an omission to be taken care of at once. As in now.

  She went into her kitchen and opened a lower cupboard fitted with shallow shelves holding canned goods. A hidden latch turned the shelves into a second door, behind which she stored herbal preparations in dried, powdered, and liquid form. She selected three mixtures and poured them into a silver bowl that had a raised pattern of quartered circles, stirring them with her fingers. There were a great many herbs and dried flowers in this mixture, everything from African violet to willow bark. It had an amazing scent, the hops, cloves, and anise the most potent, but dill, onion, and caraway seed doing their part as well.

  “I call upon the Goddess in all her aspects,” she murmured, “protectress of home and hearth, of crop and livestock, of birth and death, of the welfare of women, the avenger of wrongs done to the earth. I summon Bast and Sekhmet, Freya and Hecate, and all those who would help me make the walls, floors, and ceiling of my house impervious to harm.”

  She scooped up a part of the mixture and put it in a porcelain bowl, then poured in about half a cup of salt, again blending it with her fingers, and repeating the charm. She went from room to room turning on every light, scattering the mixture on windowsills, door jambs, and into corners. Snap trotted along behind her, eager to sniff at every strew. Jo-Jo came to sit in the exact center of each room as she went into it, watching, but saying nothing.

  Finished, Leona went back to the kitchen and picked up a censer—a pierced lidded pot on a chain. With a little effort, she got half a charcoal briquette glowing in the bottom of it. She added crushed white sage and cedar shavings, and the powerful aroma—almost like marijuana—wafted to the ceiling.

  “I call upon the Father-God in all his aspects, Tyr, Odin, Thoth, Ganesh, and Thor the Mighty,” she said, “and all those who right wrongs, protect the innocent, and repel boarders.” Trying not to cough, she censed the house, driving out any evil influences remaining. Then she went back through and opened windows, turning on fans, clearing the air.

  Satisfied, she went to the old brick fireplace in the living room, over which hung a battered antique saber used in battle by her great-great-grandfather in the Spanish-American War. She pulled it from its scabbard and whirled it three times over her head, a summoning gesture, invoking both Kali and Shiva, bloodthirsty Goddess and God. She could feel a warmth flow off the sword, down her arm, and into her breast. She went back to the kitchen, scooped up the silver bowl, and went out the back door. She stood awhile in the semidarkness—the lit-up house cast enough light to see by around the weedy yard. It had stopped raining.

  Beginning in the southwest corner at the rear of the house, she sprinkled some of the mixture, calling on God and Goddess to stand guard, to cast out malice and evil intent. She erected a psychic barrier (she imagined it as a very tall, thick, gray, stone wall with cut glass and razor wire on top) against those who would harm her, or anything of hers, within these precincts. A believer in angels, especially the kind who had swords, she recited a prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel, the lead warrior of all angels. “Defend us in battle against the wiles and wickedness of our enemies,” she prayed. “Cast out those who go about the world seeking the destruction of the innocent. Selah,” she pronounced at the end of the prayer. Be it so.

  She raised the saber, and suddenly envisioned it as flaming. She brought it down hard so its tip struck into the wet ground at the very corner of her property, and began to walk the border, pulling the blade behind her, its tip still stuck in the earth. At the northwest corner she stopped again, sprinkled more herbs, repeated her prayer, then cut a line to the northeast corner, repeated the prayers, then to the southeast, then back to the southwest corner, to complete the circle. She raised the sword again and felt it trembling in her hands as she set the wards, made the protection spell permanent.

  “It is done,” she murmured then and had to sit down among the soaked thistles for a minute or two as her knees threatened to give way.

  With her vision of the real world still blurred and her perceptions altered, Leona did not see the movement of a short, slim figure behind the trees at the back of her lot, slipping away into the night.

  Seven

  BUT I did look, and there’s not a dead mouse in there anywhere.” At the breakfast table, Shelly and Harvey talked about yesterday’s discovery of an unpleasant smell in Shelly’s sewing room.

  “Let me see.” Harv hunted and Shelly made another search, without success. Harv went and fetched a claw hammer, and he pried off a section of baseboard near the door, where the smell seemed strongest. To his amazement, not one but two dead mice tumbled out.

  “Whuff!” he said, trying not to inhale. Shelly retired to the kitchen. She may have been a strong, independent woman, but she still considered some things to be man’s work.

  Remembering an old trick, Harvey went up to the bathroom and found what he remembered was in the medicine cabinet: an old jar of Vicks VapoRub. He put a dab under his nose, which killed his sense of smell for anything but menthol, and went back down to the basement.

  He pulled Shelly’s little desk away from the wall, stooped, and pried another length of baseboard off. There was another mouse in a nest of insulation with her babies, dead. In total, he found four adult mice and four babies, all in about the same degree of decrepitude—and he had a feeling there were more higher up in the wall.

  Since Shelly insisted they not use any mousetrap but the old-fashioned kind, with metal springs—much as she hated mice, she couldn’t bear knowing of the long suffering surrounding their deaths by poison or sticky-board methods—there should not be dead mice in the walls. So why were they there? And why only in Shelly’s sewing room? Harvey did a careful search of the basement, including an experimental pulling away of a section of drywall near the washer and dryer. Nothing, nada, no more dead mice. Nothing upstairs, either.

  He told Shelly what he’d found, put the problem in her capable hands, and went off to work, sure she could handle it.

  Shelly called an exterminator and explained the dilemma. The exterminator, despite a busy schedule, made an appointment to come out that afternoon, as soon as Shelly got home from work at three-thirty. While as puzzled as she was, he seemed more alarmed.

  “You haven’t been putting down poison?” he asked on arriving.

  “No, we only use traps.”

  “And this is the only place in the house where there are dead mice?”

  “We haven’t found any in the rest of the house, and don’t smell them anywhere else, either.”

  But people miss things. He took a careful look himself but found nothing. Still, a lot of dead mice could mean some kind of disease, and sick mice could mean, eventually, sick people.

  “Well, isn’t this a strange thing,” he said at last. “Have you heard from your neighbors about them finding dead mice in their houses?”

  “No. But I haven’t told anyone about this yet, either. Isn’t it strange that there should have been baby mice dead, too?”

  “Not if it’s some disease. Did you find any dead rodents in the garage or maybe in the grass the last time you were out raking your lawn?”

  Shelly’s fact twisted up in distaste. “Ish! No.”

  “Well, maybe it’s a coincidence that you found them all in one place. But if some kind of disease did this, it could be the start of an epidemic.”

  While writing up a report, the exterminator asked her if anything odd had happened in her house about five days ago. “Flood, or gas leak, perhaps?” he hinted.

&nbs
p; “A man died in that room last Sunday night. But the medical examiner said it was from natural causes.”

  The exterminator strongly recommended she report the presence of the dead mice to the Minnesota Department of Health, and gave her their dead bodies in a plastic bag. “They’ll want to take a look,” he said.

  But the first person Shelly called was police detective Mike Malloy.

  JILL Cross Larson came into Crewel World that afternoon, a reflective look on her face. Her infant son, Erik, whom she carried in a sling, was making motor noises inside his cocoon of blankets. All that could be seen of him was the rich carrot color of his hair. He was a big baby, seventeen pounds and twenty-five inches long at four months old, and very cheerful.

  “Where’s Emma Beth?” asked Betsy. Emma Beth was Erik’s big sister.

  “Preschool,” said Jill briefly.

  “Already? It doesn’t seem all that long ago she was a babe in arms like little Erik there.”

  “I know, I know. Betsy, I have something important to tell you.”

  Mildly alarmed—Jill almost never rushed or pressed—Betsy said, “Jill, what is it?”

  “They found a pack of dead mice inside the walls of Shelly’s sewing room.”

  Betsy frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Whatever it was that killed Ryan McMurphy also killed every mouse hiding in that room, too. And a slew of Japanese beetles and box elder bugs looking for winter quarters as well.”

  “All over the basement, right?”

  “No, just in that sewing room.”

  “Oh, Jill.”

  “You bet. Someone from the Department of Health went over the house and yard, but the dead critters were all in that sewing room. The medical examiner will be retesting some specimens he kept after Ryan’s autopsy, to see if he missed something, and the MDH is autopsying the mice—and the insects.” Her smile at this mild jest was frosty.

  “So what do you think happened?” Betsy asked.

  “You’re the sleuth, I never made detective. What do you think?”

  Betsy thought. “First, I don’t think we’re talking about natural causes anymore, of course. But what is it, then? Poison gas? No, how would you get poison gas into a room and not get it all over the rest of the house? Some other form of poison, maybe? Suppose Ryan brought some food into the sewing room that was poisoned, and the bugs and mice ate the leftovers.”

  “I’ll ask Lars if there was a dirty plate in the room.”

  Jill left and half an hour later Police Sergeant Mike Malloy called Betsy. “Are you getting involved in this?” he demanded angrily.

  “I think I might have to, the way people keep bringing it up to me,” she snapped back, feeling harassed.

  “It’s just that when you do, things get screwy.”

  “I know. I’m sure all of us wish this was just what it seemed at first: a man drinks too much and dies in his sleep. But Mike, what do you think about the dead mice and bugs? Isn’t that strange?”

  “Of course it’s strange. But strange things happen all the time.” His anger flared again. “Especially when your name comes up!”

  “So leave my name out of it,” she said in her most reasonable tone. “But before you do, tell me: Was there a dirty plate in Shelly’s sewing room?”

  “No. She wouldn’t allow food in that room. And I already asked her if he could’ve fixed something in the kitchen, and she said no, unless he washed the plate and put it away, and he never washed a plate before while he was there.”

  “And that won’t do anyway. He would have needed to bring the poison into the room so the mice could come sneaking out after he went to sleep and eat it. And then the bugs would have had to eat the last crumbs.”

  Mike said, “The man who brought him home says he didn’t have a carryout box with him.”

  There was a thoughtful silence.

  Mike said, “So, what do you think?” Once upon a time, he would have cut out his tongue before admitting he wanted the opinion of an interfering amateur. But Betsy had proven herself competent and useful a couple of times; maybe she could do so again.

  “Well, if it’s not poisoned food or drink, then it seems to me it could only be poison gas—but how to confine it to just the basement room? Is it airtight?”

  “Close. The window is tight, and if you stuff a blanket or rug under the door, it might work. But I’m amazed Fogelman or Donohue didn’t smell something, or wake up sick the next day. And they didn’t. Maybe it’s simply someone with a big, soft pillow and a grudge.”

  “And what kind of teensy pillow would you use to smother a box elder bug?” asked Betsy.

  Mike laughed. “Damned if I know. Let me know if you come up with something.”

  As it often did when word got around that Betsy was working on a case—and in Excelsior, the grapevine was a vigorous plant—the shop was crowded all the next day. People came in to look at the trunk show of Peter Ashe needlepoint canvases, to buy a skein of DMC or Kreinik or Weeks Dye Works floss, to choose among the just-arrived mohair-blend skeins of knitting yarns—or so they would have Betsy and Godwin believe. What they really wanted was to know what Betsy was going to do about Ryan’s murder.

  They’d all decided it must be murder, even as they decided Betsy must solve it.

  “I think it’s Leona,” said one of the first customers. “Oh, maybe not with witchcraft, but it’s Leona, definitely. I don’t like her—I never did like her. And now she’s a murderer. I guess we should have known.”

  “We don’t even know it’s murder, much less that Leona is responsible,” Betsy said to her, and to others, over and over. “There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for his death.”

  Coming out of the back room after making a fresh urn of coffee, Betsy overheard, “There’s no such thing as witchcraft!” and brightened.

  But, “Yes, there is,” came the prompt reply. “I saw it on a television show—it was on The Learning Channel, so it must be true—about psychics and witchcraft and ghosts and everything. They said the police use psychics all the time.”

  “They do? Well, maybe there’s something to it—maybe to some of it, then.”

  Over by the knitting yarns: “What do they call it? Sky clad. That means they go naked. Even in winter!”

  And among the overdyed silks: “Have you ever seen her eyes? There’s a strange look in them. She looked at Irene Potter in the grocery story yesterday, and Irene says she went all trembly.” But surely no one took Irene Potter seriously.

  Billie Leslie came in, and for a wonder just grimaced dismissively at the gossip about Leona. She had something more important to talk about, and it was rolled in a towel in her hand. “Maybe you can help me with this.” She unrolled the towel to reveal a piece of dark gray even-weave fabric about twelve by twelve inches. Centered on it, at about ten by ten inches, was a square border made of two rows of cross-stitching in a checkerboard pattern of darker and lighter shades of yellow-green. Inside the border was a complex pattern of white geometric lines, like vines conceived by an Art Deco artist. There was an opening in the center, wider at the bottom than the top.

  “Say, that’s attractive!” said Betsy. “Where did you get the pattern?”

  “I made it up. That is, I think I made it up. I woke up two days ago with it in my head. I may have seen it somewhere, but if so, I can’t remember where. You know how that is.”

  “Yes,” said Betsy, who indeed knew how it was. She had often worked out problems with a knitting or cross-stitch pattern in her sleep, waking without memory of a dream but the solution clear in her mind.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’ve got two problems with it.” Billie turned it over to show that the backside of the piece was as flawless a design as the front. “Blackwork is supposed to be the same on both sides. But see, I missed a few stitches.”

  “Is this blackwork?”

  “Yes, of course.” Billie seemed surprised that Betsy didn’t know that. “Didn�
��t Lisa tell you? It doesn’t have to be black on white, it can be white on black, or red on white, or green on purple, even blue on blue.”

  “I’m afraid my first blackwork lesson is this evening,” said Betsy.

  “Oh? Oh, I thought you’d already taken the class. Darn. Well, I can’t figure it out. I’m not sure it can be done without missing at least one stitch right in that place.” Billie touched a spot on the fabric with a disappointed expression.

  “Well, can’t you fudge it somehow? You know the motto of this shop, don’t you? Better done than perfect.”

  Billie nodded sadly. “Yes, I know.”

  “Maybe after my class I can be of more help.”

  “Maybe.”

  Attempting to cheer her up, Betsy asked, “What are you going to put in the middle?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the other problem.”

  Betsy felt more confident in helping with this one. “Another border? A square won’t fit, will it? And even a rectangle will have the vines coming across it here, I think, unless it’s really narrow—but then there will be too much space down here, at the bottom.”

  “Maybe a triangle?” said Billie, interested now, frowning and looking at the pattern. “No, that won’t do, there’s still too much room at the bottom. Oh, maybe I should just give it up!”

  “No, don’t do that, you’ve done too much work to quit now. And it really is pretty. Here, I’ve got an idea.” She took a scrap of paper and a Sharpie pen and drew three elongated diamonds, shaped into a triangle. “You and your Mitsubishi—don’t you see? Look, their emblem fits as if you had it in mind.” She picked up Billie’s fabric and held it up to the front window then slipped the sketch behind it. A trifle too large for the space, otherwise it fit comfortably into the shape Billie had worked with her vine pattern.

  Billie turned her head this way and that, looking at it. “Well, aren’t you clever? That’s just perfect. I’ll stitch it in silver and hang it on the rearview mirror!” Billie was very fond of her Mitsubishi.

 

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