The Witch's Grave Part 8

On the spot, I squirmed. "We're not actually friends-I'd only met him myself yesterday, but after witnessing what happened, I'm..." My voice trailed away.

"Curious?"

"Sort of."

"I understand, but don't you think questioning people is better left to Sheriff Wilson?"

"Yes, but Stephen asked me to contact his a.s.sistant, and I'd like to be able to give her some answers."

That reply was kind of true.

Ron crossed his arms and stared at me. "I thought La.r.s.en was in a coma. When did he ask you for this favor?"

"Um, well, right after the shooting, before the ambulance transported him to the helicopter."

I felt him shut down as he cast a hurried glance at his watch. "I need to get back to the main house. We've an event scheduled-a fund-raiser-for this evening." He motioned toward the wide double doors. "Why don't you let me walk you back to your car?"

The conversation about Stephen was finished.

Taking my arm, he began to lead me out of the church. We'd taken three steps when we heard a crack from above. Startled, we both looked up in time to see tile hurtling down from a hole in the ceiling. Ron yanked my arm and shoved me toward the entrance of the church.

Behind me, the tile crashed to the floor and the air filled with dust as he hustled me out. Standing in the safety of the doorway, I looked over my shoulder to see broken chunks of old red tile lying right where I'd been standing.

Ten.

Tight-lipped, and not very talkative, Ron escorted me back to my car. The only statements he made were, "Are you hurt?" and, "I'm blocking that area off to visitors." The rest of the communication hinged on body language, and by the way he stiffly marched me down the path, I didn't think I'd be welcome back to the winery anytime soon. After all, who wants a woman around who only seems to bring trouble?

On the drive to Abby's, I tried to reach Karen Burns again. My fingers trembled and I felt my right eyelid twitching as I dialed her number.

Again-no answer. It was just as well. After the tile incident, I really wasn't up to questioning some stranger.

I pulled into the long driveway leading to Abby's house and stopped.

"If you're going to run a bluff, Jensen, you'd better get control," I muttered to myself.

I just sat there for a minute looking toward the house.

To my left sat Abby's vegetable plots. In spite of the recent hot weather, all the plants flourished. Stems, holding red ripe tomatoes, bent low to the ground, while pumpkin, muskmelon, and squash vines snaked across the ground a few feet away. And the watermelon vines-I caught myself smiling in my rearview mirror.

Abby's watermelons were known throughout the county as being the best...and the most desirable to snitch in the middle of a hot summer's night. Light green with dark green stripes, at maturity these melons weighed almost thirty pounds. A young thief not only had to be fast, but strong, to run with a couple of thirty pound melons tucked under his arms. Every year Abby always allowed a few melons to be taken, but when she'd had enough, little blue bags with sunflower seeds sown inside would appear hanging from the fence posts, a spell to ward off trespa.s.sers that she'd learned in the mountains. After that, no watermelons disappeared in the middle of the night.

Abby's large white farmhouse sat at the end of the lane. Her wide porch with its swing invoked childhood memories of nights catching lightning bugs and letting them go; drinking tall gla.s.ses of cold lemonade on a hot summer's day; putting on my bathing suit and darting in and out of a sprinkler while Abby and Grandpa sat on the swing watching and laughing.

I draw strength from this place, I thought, and felt that strength fill me.

I drove the rest of the way to the house and parked. As I walked up to the wide steps leading to the porch, I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of Abby's sprinkler and the call of a meadow lark. I'd turned to see if I could spot the bird when the front door flew open and Tink came tearing down the sidewalk with T.P., her puppy, scampering after her. She'd changed into navy cutoffs and a navy T-s.h.i.+rt after school, and wore her much-loved pink baseball cap. Her blond ponytail bounced as she ran.

Lady followed at a more sedate pace.

With violet eyes wide, Tink ran up to me and grabbed my arm. "It was sooo cool," she exclaimed. "Abby let me witch for water."

T.P., picking up Tink's excitement, ran circles around us, yipping and barking.

"T.P., hush," I said sternly.

Lady sat calmly on the sidewalk and gave me a look that said, Good luck with that one Good luck with that one.

"Oh yeah," she said with a glance toward the dogs, "Abby and I drove over and picked them up."

Tugging me up the sidewalk, Tink skipped along. "She showed me how to make a dowsing rod out of willow." She stopped to catch her breath. "And guess what, I found the old well out by the summer house. I didn't even know it was there."

"That's terrific, Tink." Laughing, I let her lead me through the doorway and down the hall into the kitchen.

The crystals on the windowsill caught the light of the dying sun and made rainbows across the oak floor as Abby stood in front of the old wood-burning stove mas.h.i.+ng potatoes. She stopped for a moment and stirred the gravy simmering on the burner next to the pot of potatoes. On the counter to her left sat a big platter of fried chicken. A loaf of fresh baked bread, with a crock of sweet b.u.t.ter, had already been placed on the scarred wooden table.

"Hey, something smells good." I crossed to her and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.

My stomach chose that time to give a low rumble.

With a chuckle, Abby smiled and brushed a silver tendril out of her eyes. "Would you like to stay for supper?"

The twinkle in her eye told me she already knew the answer.

"Sure, better than the frozen pizza at home, huh, Tink?" I called while moving to the cupboards to get three plates and three gla.s.ses.

Tink came up beside me and, pulling open a drawer, took out silverware.

I shot a look over my shoulder at Abby. "Dowsing?"

Giving Tink a fond glance, she picked up the platter of chicken and carried it to the table. "She can't get in trouble with that skill," she replied, placing the chicken next to the bread. "And it's a good lesson in sensing the rhythms of the earth."

"And I did good, didn't I, Abby?" Tink asked with pride.

"Yes, my dear, you did." She returned to the stove and took up the mashed potatoes and gravy while I laid out the plates and gla.s.ses.

"That's great, Tink," I said, putting a hand on her shoulder as she set the silverware on the table. "I was never any good at it."

"You lacked patience, Ophelia," Abby said. Crossing to the table with the bowls, she stole a sideways glance at Tink. "Take off your hat, dear."

"I didn't," Tink said to me, referring to my lack of patience. "I walked really, really slow until I felt the willow branch tremble in my hands. It was awesome..." She paused and turned her fists down as if pulled by an invisible force. "I was dead on the spot," she finished with a little swagger.

Abby caught the swagger and arched an eyebrow. "Tink," she gently chided, "what did I tell you about the power?"

Tink's c.o.c.kiness fell away. "It isn't mine-I'm only the instrument."

I hid my smirk. Jeez, how many times had I heard that statement growing up? It was one of Abby's favorites. Jeez, how many times had I heard that statement growing up? It was one of Abby's favorites.

I pulled out a chair for Abby, then Tink and I took our seats at the table, too. "How did you like the journals?" I asked, placing my napkin on my lap.

Tink's fork stopped in midair. "Oh, wow! I read some really weird stuff. One said to mix pulverized rabbit droppings"-she let out a giggle-"with bran and feed it to your chickens. It makes them lay lots and lots of eggs."

"Works, too," Abby said with a wink.

"Yuck." Tink shoved a forkful of food in her mouth. "If I had to do that, I'd rather not have so many eggs," she mumbled with her mouth full.

"Swallow, dear, before speaking," Abby said gently, and filled Tink's gla.s.s from the pitcher of ice water already on the table. "When I was a girl, the egg money bought food that we couldn't grow. More eggs-more food."

"Hmm." Tink c.o.c.ked her head thoughtfully. "So I should be thankful we don't have to do that, right?"

Abby patted her hand and smiled. "Yes, you should."

For a few moments the only sound was the clink of our silverware on the stoneware plates as we dug into Abby's excellent meal.

"What happened today?" Abby asked, breaking the lull.

I almost dropped my fork at her sudden question. Did she sense something, or was it normal curiosity? Had Darci talked to her?

I laid my fork down and folded my hands in my lap in case they twitched. "Stephen's in critical condition and the doctors are worried about pneumonia. I ran into Bill, but he's as closed-mouth as ever about the investigation."

My concise report wasn't everything that happened, but omission wasn't lying, was it?

Abby sipped her water. "Do you intend to carry through with your plan?"

Tink perked up in her chair. "What plan?"

I felt my mouth tense. "I had this crazy idea that I'd approach this as a psychic."

"Cool-can I help?"

"No," Abby and I replied simultaneously.

Tink's face fell. "Shoot. Why not?"

"Tink, dear, you're a medium, and although you're coming along nicely in your training, the skill needed is clairvoyance."

"I can talk to the spirits," she argued, settling back in her chair. "They might give me clues, and I bet Mr. La.r.s.en has family that's pa.s.sed over. I could try and reach one of them."

Abby shook her head. "I know you want to help, but that's not a good idea. Ophelia needs to handle it-she needs to prove to herself that she can do it."

Wise woman, my grandmother, which made me feel c.r.a.ppy for what I said next.

"I've changed my mind, Abby." I kept my head down.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her push her plate back. "You seemed so determined this morning."

"I've had second thoughts," I replied, looking straight at her, hoping my face didn't give me away. "How often have you witnessed an event without there being some great cosmic plan to involve you?"

Abby studied me carefully. "Many times. As I told you last night, there are situations beyond our control. We've all had to accept that. We do what we can-when we can."

"Abby," I said with a bright smile, "that's excellent advice." Under the table, for the second time that day, I crossed my fingers as I told another lie.

Eleven.

Tink was unusually quiet on the way home. It didn't bode well for me-it meant she was thinking something up.

"You don't have much to say," I commented, stealing a glance her way and turning the radio down. "What's up?"

She tugged her baseball cap lower on her forehead and slumped in the seat. "Nothing."

"Okay," I replied cheerfully, and reached for the radio dial, intending to turn the volume louder.

"All right, all right, I'll tell you," she said in a rush, as if I'd been using a rubber hose on her. "I don't see why everyone else can use their gift and I can't."

"'Cause you're a kid," I said, smiling, "and you're still learning how to control your abilities."

"Ha-Aunt Dot," she replied, referring to my great-aunt who'd recently paid us a very memorable visit, "said Great-Aunt Mary started contacting the spirits when she was only ten. I'm almost fourteen now." She held up a hand and spread her fingers wide. "I'm three years older than she was."

"That may be, Tink, but I don't know if I'd start quoting Aunt Dot if I were you." I gave her another glance. "Remember, she claims she also talks to fairies."

Tink crossed her arms. "How do you know she doesn't?"

That was the problem when it came to Aunt Dot-I didn't. When Dot first showed up for her visit, I'd scoffed at her ramblings about her fairies. But after everything that happened, I wasn't so sure anymore.

"Tink," I said, switching tactics, "Aunt Mary and Aunt Dot live in the Appalachian mountains. Things are different there."

She squirmed in her seat, turning toward the window. "Humph."

I searched for some of the stock answers Abby had given me when I was a kid and being a psychic was something exciting. "You need to respect your ability," I lectured. "Being a medium isn't some parlor game, or a toy that's been given to you for your amus.e.m.e.nt."

"Like I don't know that?" she shot back with a tinge of sarcasm.

Thinking of the ghost she'd conjured-one we'd a heck of a time banis.h.i.+ng-I nodded. "I guess maybe you do."

"I wouldn't try anything without supervision," she pressed, sensing a change in my att.i.tude.

"Abby and I aren't mediums. Part of your training has been guesswork."