Witch Way to Murder

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “I knew part of it. I felt the tragedy coming, but I didn’t know where it would strike.”

  “What a burden for you,” I said, reaching over and touching her shoulder.

  “Yes, sometimes it is a burden, but it can be a great joy, too. Someday you’ll see the joy,” she said, patting my hand. “What did you see last night?”

  “Could we talk about it later? So much has happened the past few days, and I’m so far behind in paperwork. In fact, I’m staying late tonight to work on it.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? Staying here alone?”

  “I’ll be as safe here as at home. I promise I’ll call right before I leave, so you know I’m on my way home, okay?”

  “Whatever you think, dear. Well, I must go.”

  We both stood and Abby gave me a tight hug.

  “Don’t forget to call, all right?” she said, taking a step back while she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, and kissed her cheek. “I won’t forget.” Sitting down at my desk, I grabbed a pile of papers. “Oh, and Abby?” I remembered one last thing. “No salt.”

  She smiled mysteriously and glided out the door.

  The rest of the day flew by. I’d made a sizable dent in the pile on my desk and was surprised when Darci stood at the door.

  “Time to close, Ophelia.”

  “I know, but I’m just about finished with all of this. I’m going to stay till I am. I don’t want to deal with it tomorrow.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. Tomorrow’s Friday, and since we don’t open until after lunch, maybe we can get together in the morning and compare notes.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  Two hours later I finished. I grabbed my backpack and headed up the stairs. Darci had thoughtfully left the lights on, so I wouldn’t have to feel my way across the library. I shut them off as I went.

  When I locked the door, I thought I heard something. I stopped and listened closely. Nothing, I thought while I shot the lock home. It was just my imagination, stimulated by Darci’s and Abby’s concern. Then I heard it again. A rustling followed by a groan. Do I investigate or call 911?

  The groan came again, followed by, “Ophelia.”

  I turned, trying to see what stood at the bottom of the steps. In the dim light of the streetlamp, I made out a shadow to the left of the steps. While I watched, it moved forward, into the light. It was Rick, and even from where I stood, I could see the blood dripping down his face.

  Twenty-one

  “What happened?” I said, running over to him. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I shoved it in his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said, holding the cloth to his head. “Somebody was waiting for me when I got back to my room. I don’t know, must have been behind the door and swung at me when I came through. I saw stars and that was it.”

  “Come on, we need to get you to a doctor,” I said, grabbing his arm.

  “No, no doctor,” he replied, jerking his arm away from my grasp.

  I reached out to steady him as he staggered. “Why? You might have a concussion.”

  “No,” he said, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “Too many questions.”

  Okay, then. I watched the blood continue to leak past the handkerchief and down Rick’s face. We could stand here arguing while he bled all over the sidewalk, or I could take him to someone who could at least stop the bleeding.

  “Get in the car,” I said, and tugged on his sleeve.

  “No doctor?” he asked, looking at me suspiciously.

  “Nope, no doctor,” I replied while leading him to my car. After he slid into the passenger side, I got in, started the car and pulled away.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Abby’s. She knows a lot about first aid, but if she says you need a doctor, you’re going.” I peeked at Rick from the corner of my eye.

  He sat with his head drooping. And his skin, lighted by the dim glow of dash lights, looked pale.

  I nudged his arm. “Hey, don’t go to sleep on me. I do know you can’t do that with a head injury. Insult me or something, will you?”

  He lifted his head and smiled weakly. “Sorry, I seem to be fresh out at the moment. Don’t worry, I won’t go to sleep. My head hurts like a sonofabitch.”

  “Why didn’t you call for Georgia? She would’ve helped you. Why drive, bleeding, to the library?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, and you’re the only one I could think of who’d help me without blabbing about it all over town.” He leaned his head back. “Georgia would’ve called 911, and then her boyfriend, Alan, the deputy. Too much attention, too much suspicion, I don’t need that right now,” he said, and his eyelids drifted down.

  I poked him again. “No sleeping, remember?”

  He snapped his head forward. “Ouch. That hurt.” He dabbed at his scalp. “Remind me not to move my head so much, will you?”

  “Are you going to tell me why you don’t want too much attention?”

  “Not right now.” He held the cloth out and looked at it. “You can grill me later, okay?”

  I tapped my finger on the steering wheel as I drove. Ha, me grill Rick? What a switch. Usually it was the other way around. Could be fun. I looked at him from the corner of my eye. His face was too pale. I tightened my grip on the wheel and pushed the gas pedal down a little farther. If he passed out, I couldn’t question him. I needed to get him to Abby. She’d know how to deal with his injury.

  She opened the door before I could even knock. Her thick braid lay over the shoulder of her plaid flannel robe. And the tiny buttons of her nightgown peeked out from the vee of her robe. I watched her brow knit together while she assessed Rick’s condition.

  “Back this way,” she said, taking his arm.

  I clasped Rick’s other arm and we guided him toward the kitchen. I didn’t know if she heard the car come up the drive or was waiting. Should I ask her in front of Rick? From behind his back I gave Abby a questioning look, but she shook her head, telling me, “Not now.” And I clamped my mouth shut.

  When we reached the kitchen, my question was answered. A fire burned in the wood stove, and the steam from a large pot of water filled the air. On the counter, next to the stove, a pile of clean white rags were stacked and waiting. Assembled on the worn top of the butcher-block table, along with her mortar and pestle, were various herbs. She knew.

  After seating Rick at her kitchen table, Abby settled into the chair beside him.

  “Ophelia? Will you put the kettle on and make some tea for yourself? The fire’s already stoked. I’ll check Rick out,” Abby said while she gently parted Rick’s hair and looked at the wound. It had stopped bleeding freely, but the cut was still oozing.

  “Well, you have quite a bump, young man, but it doesn’t seem to be serious. You must have a hard head.” She looked in Rick’s eyes. “Your pupils aren’t dilated; that’s a good sign. It means you don’t have a concussion. Looks like the cut’s the worst of it.”

  “He’s bled a lot, Abby.”

  “Not really, it just looks that way. Cuts on the head or face always seem to bleed a lot. I’ll get him cleaned up, and other than a headache, he’ll be as right as rain.”

  “Are you a nurse or something?” Rick asked.

  “No, my mother was a healer in the mountains of Appalachia. When I was a girl, I would help her tend our neighbors,” she said, rising and crossing to the butcher-block table.

  Taking her mortar and pestle, she ground dried leaves to a fine powder, then sprinkled it in the boiling water. The kitchen filled with the aroma of wood sorrel.

  “Ophelia, I need an infusion of rosemary for Rick. The rosemary is on the table. The infusion should help the headache.”

  She took the hot water from the stove. Using one of the rags from the counter, she cleaned Rick’s scalp.

  “What’s that stuff you sprink
led in the water?”

  “Wood sorrel. It’ll clean the wound and help it heal. Ophelia, the tea ball is in the left-hand cupboard.”

  I put some leaves and dried flowers in the ball and poured hot water over it. It needed to steep for about five minutes before he could drink it.

  Rick smiled. “This is a side of you I’ve never seen. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? You aren’t going to put any surprise ingredients in that cup, are you?”

  “Don’t tempt me, Davis. You must be feeling better—you’re insulting me now. Do you feel like telling us what happened?”

  “Like I told you, someone was in my room. I’d been playing pool at Stumpy’s and had dinner at Joe’s. The house was locked when I got there. I knew Georgia wouldn’t be there because she told me she had a date with Alan tonight. There was nothing to tip me off. I didn’t see any sign of a break-in. Maybe they came in through a window; I don’t know.”

  “No, that wouldn’t have been necessary,” I said. “Everybody in town knows Georgia keeps a key to the back door under the flower pot on the stoop.”

  He shook his head. “Georgia has some security issues, doesn’t she? By the way, how many room keys does she have floating around?”

  I flushed when I handed him the tea. “Okay, I’m not going to lie, but how did you know it was me?”

  “You didn’t get my boxers put back the right way.” Rick winked at Abby. “But we’ll talk about my boxers when your grandmother isn’t around.”

  “That told you someone had been there, but how did you know it was me?”

  “When Darci showed up at the door with that load of crap about the mouse in the basement. She saved you, you know. I’d already checked in the drawer and found the matchbook gone. I was about to check the closet when she knocked. You were hiding there, weren’t you? It’s where I found Georgia’s gloves.”

  “Drink your tea,” I said, my face turning a deeper shade of red.

  “Wow, that’s hot. What did you say it is?”

  “An infusion of rosemary, to help the headache,” Abby said.

  I picked up the bowl of water and carried it to the sink. “All right, so now you know the truth about me—”

  “I doubt that, but I’ll let it pass for now.”

  I frowned. “Let’s get to the point. I think it’s safe to say I know you’re not a chemical salesman, so you can quit feeding me that line. Tell me, Davis, just who the hell are you?”

  “It’s not Davis, it’s Delaney. I’m Rick Delaney, a reporter with the Minneapolis Sun.”

  Damn, a journalist.

  Abby caught my eye and nodded slightly. Unspoken words passed between us. Rick was telling the truth this time. Next question: Why would a journalist from Minneapolis be in Summerset, Iowa?

  Before I could ask, Abby picked up the rest of the supplies, set them on the counter, and turned to leave.

  “I’m going to bed now. You don’t need me to hash this all out—Ophelia can tell me about it tomorrow. Are you going back to Georgia’s, Rick, or would you like to stay here? Ophelia can show you to a spare bedroom.”

  I groaned.

  “Thanks, Abby, but I’d better go back. I want to clean up the room before Georgia sees it.” Rick looked around the kitchen at Abby’s hanging herbs, candles, and crystals. “I didn’t know anyone in Summerset would be into all this New Age stuff.”

  From the doorway, she laughed. “It’s not New Age, Rick. It’s old age—very old age. Good night.”

  I pulled out a chair and sat at the table across from Rick.

  “What’s a journalist from Minnesota doing in Summerset?”

  “Following a lead on a drug ring,” Rick said, sipping his tea.

  “Oh, come on. Summerset doesn’t have any drug ring. We’re a small town. We’ve got our users, but that stuff is coming in from one of the big cities.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s right here. Next, you’re going to tell me small towns don’t have dead bodies lying in the woods?”

  Looking down at my cup of tea, I thought about it. He had a point; we weren’t supposed to have those either.

  “Look, I want to ask you something before you start grilling me. How did you know about the matchbook?”

  Thinking fast, I shrugged. “I could tell it was something important—you had it in a Ziploc—so I took it. You’re really not a very convincing chemical salesman, Rick. And I thought the matches might help me figure out who you were and why you were here.”

  “You know I found them on the dead man, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious when you open the Ziploc. How could you stand to touch them?”

  “Why do you think I put them in a bag?”

  “Let’s get back to why you’re here. What makes you think we have a drug ring?”

  “Not just a drug ring, a major drug ring. That’s why I tried warning you today at the library. If you go blundering around and they get the idea you know something—”

  “Okay,” I said, stopping him. “I get it. A major drug ring. Why here?”

  “Two months ago a guy was busted in Minneapolis running meth. His trunk was full of it. I knew something big was going down when the police put a lid on the whole case. I couldn’t even get my source in the department to tell me anything. And forget about an interview. So I went to the street to check with my snitch, Weasel—”

  I laughed. “You have a snitch named Weasel? Isn’t that—I don’t know—kind of Sam Spade?”

  “Look, I can’t help it if the guy reads too many detective novels, okay? Now, do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Anyway, Weasel said—”

  The snort came out before I could stop it. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, I’m not too crazy about the name ‘Bubba,’ but you don’t hear me snorting every time somebody says it. Are you going to listen or not?”

  “Yes, and no more snorts, I promise,” I said, crossing my heart.

  “My snitch said there was a lot more to it than the police were telling. And even on the street, people got real quiet when he started asking questions. All he could find out is there’s big money behind it, and it’s coming out of Iowa. So I checked the Internet for all recent stories about chemical thefts. Summerset was the name that popped up.”

  “But that doesn’t mean the drug ring’s here. They could be stealing the anhydrous here and making the drugs somewhere else, couldn’t they?”

  “Yes, of course, that’s what I’m trying to find out. But then I get here and there’s another theft and we find a dead body.”

  “It could be a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so. Do you know how much money meth brings on the street? For less than twenty-five dollars’ worth of chemicals, a dealer can make twenty grams of meth. He turns around and sells the twenty grams on the street for about four hundred dollars. A large lab can produce a pound a day—so we’re talking over nine thousand dollars a day. That’s a lot of money—more than enough to kill for.”

  “What about the matches? Do you really think that ties the dead guy to Summerset? He could have picked them up anywhere.”

  “That’s true, but don’t you think it’s odd that the same weekend of the murder, Ned’s pictures of the Korn Karnival were destroyed? Except for the mess, the pictures were the only thing torched.”

  “You think the dead man was tied to the drug ring, had been here in Summerset—probably meeting with his killer—and that Ned might have managed to photograph the two of them together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do Bill and Alan know who you are and what you’re doing here?”

  “Well, they know who I am now. I had to tell them after we found the dead body. But I lied about why I was here.”

  “Did they tell you anything?”

  “No. Bill told me to keep my nose out of it and let them handle it. It’s the reason I didn’t want Georgia to call Alan tonight. If Bill found out about the break-
in, he’d think I was stirring up trouble, and would probably make a strong suggestion that I go back to Minneapolis.” Rick paused and swirled his tea in his cup. “I’m not ready to leave yet.”

  “What if whoever searched your room comes back?” I clenched my cup tighter. I didn’t like thinking about what might happen to Rick if they did.

  From the look on his face, the idea of facing his burglars again didn’t bother him. He ignored my question, sipped his tea, then set his cup on the table.

  “I was hoping I could get chummy with Ned and find out what he knows, but that won’t happen now.”

  “Why not?”

  Rick smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ned doesn’t like me. I think he sees me as competition.”

  I blushed. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Ned and I are friends.” I had an awful thought then that maybe he meant Darci, not me. I turned a deeper red. “Ahh, you did mean because of me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Ophelia, I meant because of you.”

  Rick crossed his arms and placed them on the table. I leaned back, away from him.

  “You’re not very comfortable with that, are you?”

  I scooted my chair away from the table. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you and what you’re doing here.”

  “You really are very good at evasion.” He changed the subject when he saw my glare. “Okay, okay, I won’t say anything more about your personal life. But you’ve known Ned since you moved here, right?”

  “Right. Why?”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I guess. You don’t think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t know; he didn’t like me asking questions about the Korn Karnival. He seemed to be hedging.” Rick rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know who to trust—except you, that is. For all I know, even Bill and Alan could be involved. This kind of money can corrupt people.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “I’ve been trying to get on the inside with some users in town, find out who supplies them, but they’re not the most trusting souls, either.”

  “What are you going to do?”