Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (11 page)

       Modern world or not, some things are slow to change.  You don’t tattle when you’re young, and as the adult I was supposedly too stupid to notice Shelly’s behavior. 

       “Did you socialize with her at all?” the sheriff asked.  “After work?”

       “I went to a party with her last Saturday night.  It was kind of fun, I guess.  Everybody was nice.  I suppose they were curious about me.  But you know something?” she cocked her head at him, perfectly serious.  “There were people there who’d graduated probably five years ago, and they were still going to ... parties.  That’s kind of weird.  You’d think they’d have outgrown them by now.”

       I kept my face straight, difficult as it was.  My niece had obviously attended a
beer
-party with Shelly.  I had the sneaking suspicion her mother would frown upon that particular activity, although I know a few secrets about my sister’s past and she wasn’t always the saint she tries to appear to be in front of her kids. 

       Fortunately the sheriff ignored the obvious.  He questioned her some more, but the questions had lost their biting edge.  He then went over the security arrangements thoroughly, seemingly interested in the fact that a simple switch would automatically turn off the alarm system.  He reminded me it was outdated, and I assured him I’d made arrangements.  It was, I was thankful to realize, in our favor that when I’d taken over the house and shop I hadn’t had new keys made.  And in all honesty, I couldn’t tell him who might have keys to the place.  In my world, many people somehow end up with keys to your home.  Family, friends, neighbors.  There seems to be a point in life where a little trust is needed.  I had, however, no idea who might, or might not, possess a key to Aunt Josie’s house.

       “I guess I’m still not thinking in terms of this being a business as well as a house,” I admitted.  “And I haven’t given the problem of loose keys any thought until now.  I
have no idea who might or might not have a key.  I just didn’t think.  I lock up every night, but I never thought about someone with a key coming in.  I know my aunt had a lot of renovation done a year or so ago.  She installed new counters in the kitchen, had the cash register desk made, did some work on the lighting.  She wanted the shop to look natural, but still have the most modern usage of display and lighting.”

       “That could mean there are a lot of keys floating around out there.  People around here are still careless about that sort of thing.  They can’t seem to get it through their heads we aren’t the small community we used to be.  Even in the winter we get a lot of tourists ice-fishing and out on snow-mobiles.  Our permanent population is only a fraction of the people around...”   He seemed to recall why he was there, and cleared his throat before returning to the subject of murder. 

       He asked the usual questions, I guess.  Had we noticed anyone lurking about?  Had any of the customers seemed unnaturally interested in Shelly?  Could we think of anyone she’d angered?

       No, no, and no.  I wished I could have honestly said yes to any of the questions.  I wanted to be of some help
. 
But I had no answers.  Finally, he called it a day, and told us he’d contact us if he had any more questions.

       We nodded and murmured agreement. I thought the truth was he couldn’t think of what to ask next, and I hadn’t a clue what he’d do next.  Neither Patsy nor I was guilty.  Who was?  And how did a person begin to find out?  Motive?  That seemed the smartest way.  There had to be
some
sort of reason someone would have wanted Shelly dead.

       I pondered about it all day, trying to keep a friendly smile plastered on my face and pretending I wasn’t aware when people tried to probe gently, and not so gently, about the murder.  The local reporters who showed up hadn’t heard of the witchcraft angle yet, and I was hoping they never would.  If they got hold of that particular angle, my mother would find out and ...  Well, the thought simply didn’t bear considering.  She was bound to find out I’m a witch sooner or later, but I preferred
later. 

   I was even contacted by one of the Minneapolis newspapers.  Trying to avoid them forever, especially when I had the shop open, was out of the question.  I answered them all politely and with extreme simplicity, refusing to say more than the little I’d carefully written on a sheet of paper and placed by the phone as a reminder for Patsy as well as myself.  She handled it by telling them she just worked there; they’d have to speak to the owner.  Then, if it was convenient, I was handed the phone.  But generally the death was a routine case of murder, unique mainly because of where it had taken place.  The last murder in Balsam Grove had been when a logger had taken umbrage at the poor cooking skills of a drunken cook in a logging camp. The case had been dismissed as self-defense.  Loggers needed decent and adequate food to do their jobs right, to keep them alert enough to (hopefully) retain all of their limbs.  They hadn’t even bothered to bring it to trial.

       The day passed.  They usually do if you live long enough.  We closed the shop at five, barely resisting the urge to physically shove the last customers out the door. 

       “That wasn’t so bad,” Patsy said, stretching and yawning.  “Most of them are too busy being tourists to know what’s going on, or they were being polite.  Seemed like a good business day, though.  I sold a lot of stuff.”

       I agreed it had been a very good day.  Retailing, I was learning, is like anything else.  Humans are easily led, or perhaps we’re more affected subliminally than we realize.  If the morning starts out with good sales, it seems to continue for the rest of the day.  If it’s small sales to begin with, it’s small sales all day.  The weather has some effect.  Rainy days are pretty good simply because of the numbers of shoppers, but usually the actual sales per person are low.  They’re browsing.  It’s a wet, dark day with nothing to do at the lake, so they go to town.  Bright, sunny days, when you’d think everyone would be at the lake enjoying the great weather, will sometimes bring in buyers who can’t seem to give you their money fast enough.  At times you can make out a pattern of sorts, but if a person could truly find out what makes a customer tick, he or she could rule the world. 

       We weren’t going to be allowed to rest that evening.  We’d hardly reached the stage of going over the shop, looking for misplaced items, restocking low supplies, and generally straightening things up when there was a knock at the back door.  I had taken to locking it during the day while we were in the shop, something I hadn’t bothered with before the murder.  It was foolish to leave the house wide open when we were so absorbed in front an army could come and go without our knowing it.

       Patsy opened the door to admit a hoard of people.  Or, to put it more precisely, a
coven
of people.  Part of one, at any rate.  Apparently Lucinda had decided it was time to put me to work.

       “Come in, everybody in,” she directed, entering ahead of the rest,  stopping next to the door to prevent any inclination Patsy might have had to slam it in their faces.  Perhaps it never occurred to my niece to try.  It would have occurred to
me
if I’d been given the chance.  The last thing I wanted at the moment was a long, emotional session led by Lucinda the grieving mother.

       “We just closed the shop, Lucinda,” I tried to protest.  “We need a while to clean up and eat.”

       “You can eat while we talk,” she assured me.  I thought about telling her that I needed time to assume my psychic persona, but had a feeling she wouldn’t fall for it, and besides, it would be simpler to get this over with.

       Everyone managed to find seats for themselves, either at the table or at the center island with its supply of stools.  I was allotted the “Mother” chair, at the end of the table, nearest the refrigerator and stove (should I need to jump up and serve the guests.)  Lucinda got the “Father” chair at the other end.  I really needed to develop a more aggressive personality.  The father-chair, I thought pettily, should have been
mine,
and while I didn’t mind her
borrowing
it this time, I had a feeling reclaiming it was going to be an uphill battle.

       “I thought we’d start with alibis,” Lucinda said, calling the meeting to order.  A few of her subjects squirmed uncomfortably, apparently being without adequate proof of their whereabouts in the wee hours of the night in question.

       “Aunt Rachael and I haven’t any,” Patsy offered, when the silence began to stretch.  “We were both in bed.  And I guess if we’d known Shelly was going to be in the house in the middle of the night, we might have had the opportunity.  What we
didn’t
have was any motive.”

       Patsy’s statement seemed to open the rest of the group up a bit.

       “What could the motive have been?” Robert asked.  “The sheriff isn’t saying anything, at least not to me. 
We
know it wasn’t witchcraft.”

       “Of course it wasn’t!” Karyn supported him, as usual.  “That business about thirteen stab wounds doesn’t mean anything.”

       I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it didn’t seem like a real good idea to let them think nobody was going to be looking in the direction of the local coven.  “Ah, Lucinda, I’m pretty sure Sheriff Alberts is going to be asking you for a list of the members of the coven.  He mentioned me being a witch this morning.”

       “I knew it,” she whispered, and then gave her head a determined shake.  “Well, then a list he shall have.  I may as well let him get past looking in the wrong direction.”

       I refrained from mentioning that looking towards the coven for a suspect might not
be
looking in the wrong direction.  Every religion in the world has a murderer within it
somewhere,
even if only in the heart
. 
It could quite possibly be a member of the coven who had murdered Shelley.   That didn’t mean it had anything to do with Wicca as a whole.  If a Methodist murdered someone, it more than likely would have nothing to do with the Methodist church.

       We went around the table listing our alibi, or rather the lack of them.  Unfortunately, we all had one thing in common, no better alibi than having been in bed asleep during the night in question.  Well, none of us except for Moondance, although I don’t think her story was going to hold up particularly well in Sheriff Albert’s eyes.

       She’d flung her long, black hair in a great sweep, whipping Percy across the eye in passing.  He swiped at his teary eye as she explained, in great detail, her lack of alibi.  “I was deep in a trance, moving freely from one plane of the subconscious to another.  With my beliefs, I could not have killed that child, or anyone else.  You all know me.  I stand before your judgment.”

       I managed to refrain from rolling my eyes as she bowed her head humbly.

       “So none of us has a witness to our whereabouts,” Lucinda said, thoughtfully, without bothering to answer Moondance’s dramatic statement.  “Even I’m under suspicion.  I can live with that.  What I can’t live with is the idea of Shelley’s murderer going free.  I can’t stand not knowing!  I intend...”

       Whatever she intended was left hanging.  Someone was knocking at the kitchen door.  Patsy hopped up and answered it.  The man who stood there was a stranger to me.

       “Excuse me for interrupting.” He peeked around Patsy to address me, then turned to Lucinda.  “Do you mind, Lucinda?  I feel I have an interest in this, too.  Shelly was my niece, as well as Ronnie’s cousin.”

       “Come in, Peter,” she said, for me.  “Rachael, this is my brother-in-law, Peter.  He sometimes attends meetings.” He and I exchanged social nods.  Patsy poured him coffee, and politely gave up her chair.

       “We’re discussing alibis, Dad,” Ronnie told him.  “Or lack thereof.”

       “I’ll have to admit to the lack thereof,” he smiled at us, a friendly, if somewhat tired smile.  “I got home from work at six o’clock and I was alone from then on.  I’m guessing the murder didn’t happen before six.  Surely Ms. Penzra and her niece would have heard something if it had.”

       “I was just telling them that I intend to hire Rachael to work on this for me,” Lucinda told him, clearly displeased with his interruption.  He ducked his face to his coffee and tried to escape notice.  “This is a witch hunt. The cards have told me what to do.  I hope you’ll all cooperate with her, answer any questions she might ask.”

       “Wow, this is just like in a book,” Cheryl said, having thought over what was going on.