Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (12 page)

       I wiped her off my most-likely-suspect list.  Actually, there was nobody
on
the list yet.  For that matter, I hadn’t even said I would practice what Lucinda was preaching.  My skills didn’t operate at such a high level.  I wanted to protest, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  For all her aggression, she was a mother who had lost her only child.   The sheriff would be working full-time on the case.  Surely he’d find the murderer in short order, and I’d be off the hook.  What would it matter if in the meantime I at least
pretended
to do what she asked.

       Everybody glanced rather furtively at me, and muttered vague agreement to the plan.  I sat there and hopefully looked pensive.  My pensive look, when I repeated it in front of the mirror later, made me look as though I was constipated.

       I publicly acknowledged I couldn’t guarantee any results, mentioning the fickle habits of ESP and other psychic powers.  They all nodded understandingly, except Elena.  She had to open her big mouth.  I doubted that was something she did often, and it made me wonder what had made her choose that moment.  “Rachael has little faith in her own abilities,” she told the others.  “But they’re right there waiting to be put to work.  She has tremendous powers.”

       “Why don’t you figure it out, Elena?”  Peter asked, cocking his head curiously.

       “I haven’t those particular powers,” she told him, taking him seriously.  “I can tell fortunes, and sometimes I can see auras.  But Rachael was called here for a purpose.  I
know
that.”

       “To avenge her aunt’s death,” Moondance announced agreeably.

       That about did it.  I’d had a long few days. Of course I wasn’t suffering like Lucinda, but it hadn’t been pleasant for me, either.  These people sat at my table, drinking my coffee, eating my food, and talking like a bunch of bad actors in an equally bad play.  I felt it had all gone far enough. 

       “My aunt was killed
accidentally
,” I sounded a little hysterical even to my own ears.  “I wasn’t called here for anything!  I loved her and she made me her heir.  That’s all there is to it.  I will do my best for you, Lucinda, but don’t go expecting miracles.  Something will come to me or it won’t.”  I ran out of steam.  Even as my own anger was running out of me, I felt a fresh surge from someone else sweep through me.  It was so intense and so definitely aimed at
me
that I sat back in my chair as though I’d been slapped.  The shock, the complete unexpectedness of it stunned me, and it had been retracted and hidden before I recovered enough to try and locate its source.

       “Aunt Rachael, what’s wrong?”  Patsy gasped, and hurried to my side.  “You look awful!  What happened?”

       “Nothing,” I stammered.  “I’m just tired.  Nothing happened.”  I couldn’t stand the thought of trying to explain to them what had just attacked me.  I didn’t want to think about it, much less try to explain it.  Of all the emotions that are unpleasant to have aimed at you, hatred is definitely the worst.

       “Leave her,” Elena told them.  “We all have to go home now.  It’s gone.”

       Much to my surprise, Lucinda herded them all to their feet and aimed them for the door.  “They’ll talk to you when you feel better, Rachael,” she told me – and warned them.  With murmured good-byes they were suddenly gone, leaving Patsy and I to salvage what was left of our evening.

       Patsy locked the door behind them and sat down with a thump.  “That was heavy!” She sounded awed.  “Are you really okay?  You’re white as a sheet!  What happened?  And what’s all this psychic crap?  You never mentioned anything like that.”

       It was the first time I’d heard Patsy use less than proper language in front of me.  Strange to say, but I rather
liked
it.  It put us on more equal footing, that of friends rather than relatives.  Since I was much more in need of a friend than a niece, I decided to run with it.

       “It’s me,” I explained, rather lamely.  “I’m a psychic.”

       “You mean like a mind reader, or something?” she sounded interested.  “Like Elena?  Isn’t she a psychic?”

       Was I like Elena?  I didn’t think so.  In some ways, probably, but I thought she was far more advanced in what she did than I was in my field.  “Elena is considered a fortune-teller, and that’s somewhat different than being psychic, although most of them are.” I conceded.  “But I don’t think of myself as a
real
psychic.  I mean... I’ve always had times when I could read peoples’ minds, much to everyone’s, including my own, dismay.  You can imagine how well that sort of thing went over while I was growing up.”

       Patsy, apparently, had a
very
good idea of how well it had gone over with our ultra-conservative family.  She shuddered and the asked, “Was Great-aunt Josie one, too?”

       “I think so.  She never really talked much about her own abilities.  She was always building
me
up.  I’m afraid I was too delighted with the attention to think much about her.  Now I feel like an ass, a
selfish
ass.”  I stopped and thought about it.  “No, that isn’t quite the way it was.  I was a humble, adoring student at the feet of a great teacher.  And she
was
great.  She encouraged me and guided me and made me change more than I’d dreamed possible.  I think she missed her calling.  She should have been a teacher. She was so
different.”

       “We could use a little of being different in the family, that’s for sure.  I’d love to give Great-aunt Fern a lecture on Witchcraft,” she snickered evilly.  

       Apparently we were sharing the same vision of Patsy sharing the Wiccan creed with our most Lutheran of Lutheran relatives, because suddenly we were laughing together, rather wildly.  It was the rare kind of laughter you experience when you need to hold on to something, even one another, for balance.  It isn’t often most of us really completely let go of our carefully cultivated self-control.  This was one of those moments.  It didn’t last terribly long, but as we sobered up and started putting together a quick supper, we’d occasionally catch each other’s eye and be laughing like drunken hyenas all over again.  I don’t know about her, but my stomach muscles ached and my eyes felt puffy from the tears of laughter.  I was suddenly exhausted.

       As we ate our spaghetti, Patsy said happily.  “Man, that felt good.  I mean laughing like that. I hope nobody saw us through a window.  Can you imagine the reaction?  We’re supposed to be grieving, and we’re
laughing. 
I can’t believe it, but what I really feel like is a hot bath and a good book in bed.  It’s hardly eight o’clock.  Not even dark out.”

       “I’ll give you some of my special bath salts for relaxation,” I promised her.  “And by the time you finish a hot bath and read for a while, it’ll be more than time to go to sleep.  Just don’t use all the hot water.  This woman has decided to follow her own prescription once you’re done.”  The truth was I kept the water plenty hot enough to provide half a dozen baths from the generous hot water heater.  I’d spent too many years in cheap apartments where one of the first things to be skimped on was really hot water.

       Between the laughter and the discussion about herbs and aromatic therapy that followed, Patsy forgot her original questions.   Just how psychic was I?  I hadn’t forgotten what she’d asked, though, nor had I forgotten the surge of anger I’d felt sweep through my mind.  It had come and gone so quickly I hadn’t been able to tell if it was coming from someone in the room with me, or somewhere else.  I’ve found through the years that when someone is thinking specifically about
me,
they can be doing it from
anywhere
and I get the feeling just as strongly.  Unfortunately, I can rarely identify the source of the thought, especially when the emotion is exceptionally potent.  Being the rather unremarkable person I am, it’s a rare occasion that anyone thinks about me in such an extreme manner.  My children have done it, though, and when Molly was hundreds of miles away from me and giving birth to her first child earlier than expected, I thought my head would burst from the I-want-my-mommy vibes.

       We did exactly what I prescribed, but not until the evening climaxed in a call from my parents.  Ma was hysterical.  For once I didn’t blame her.

       “What happened?  Are you both okay?  You’d both better come home...”

       “Mother,” I had to shout to interrupt.  “We’re fine, just fine.  We slept through the entire thing.  Apparently it was a robbery gone wrong.”  Even to my ears that sounded weak.  A robbery with nothing stolen?  An employee in the house in the middle of the night? 

       For the first time it really struck me how vulnerable we had been.  I glanced at Patsy, who was listening avidly, her beautiful eyes narrowed as she flashed me some sort of warning look.  I was too stunned by my thoughts to understand it.

       “Sandra will be absolutely hysterical when she hears about this!  This is the worst possible time for her to be running off to conventions, particularly such a silly one.”  Ma’s grievance was strong enough to momentarily overcome our problem.  “Romance writer, indeed!  Have you read some of the trash that passes for romance nowadays?”

       “She’s always liked to read them,” I weakly tried to protect my sister.  “Why shouldn’t she try and write one?  I think it’s marvelous she’s developing her own life now that Patsy’s almost grown.”  The watching eyes narrowed even more.  I was beginning to get the message.  Unfortunately I couldn’t agree.

       “Well, see what comes of it,” Ma said.  “She’s off on this silly trip while her daughter is exposed to a murder.  And what does that husband of hers say?  I’ve never felt he had any proper family feeling.  He never listens to my advice, for one thing.  I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.”

       “Er…  Exactly what did Harry say about it?”  My brother-in-law had a habit of not hearing my mother (or my sister for that matter) any time he chose not to.  The wall he erected might not be visible, but it was impenetrable.  The men in our family tend to do that.  I’d always envied them.  To my side, I could see a smile replacing the straight lips of my niece.  No, not a smile.  A smirk.  Ma’s voice has the quality of a great actor’s.  A mere telephone was no match for it.  When she was excited, her voice went straight through her listener’s head and out into the room at large.

       “Let me talk to her,” Patsy ordered me.  It was my turn to narrow my eyes.  I wanted no part of her scheme.  On the other hand, I know when my opponents outmatch me.  I handed her the phone.

       It took almost ten minutes for her to persuade her grandmother that she was perfectly safe, that her grandparents should remain in Minneapolis, and that there was nothing (she was much more subtle about making this clear) my poor mother could do about the situation. 

       When they disconnected, my niece turned to me with a smile.  “Well, that’s taken care of.  Thank God mom was at that writing convention.  Dad’s much more sensible.”

       “Your dad’s a typical male,” I retorted.  “Your grandma was right, you know.”

       She just continued to smile.  I recalled why I was glad my kids were pretty much grown. Children can be annoying little beasts, always thinking they know everything.  But I couldn’t really think there was any actual danger for her, so I let my worries slide.

   As I prepared a sachet for her tub, and lit scented candles around the tub, I thought things over.  I had a feeling I might be a little too psychic for my own good, and the horrible hatred I’d felt directed at me might rebound onto my niece somehow.  I was regressing back to being unhappy about my abilities, and that was not good. 

       In any case, I decided not to let things upset me that night.  Like Scarlett, I’d worry about things tomorrow. I was emotionally drained.  I took my hot bath, read my hoarded mystery, and slept soundly.  And if you’re wondering about the way I seem to hoard books for special occasions, you’ve never been poor and have exhausted your library system.  Books, even from a used book store under the exchange system, had often been an indulgence for me.  I still found myself reluctant to dive into a favorite author’s newest book, unable to reassure myself there’ll be more good books within my reach tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. That was where I indulged my new wealth.

   At five o’clock the next morning I awoke feeling groggy and disoriented.  I was receiving some sort of message, a plea for help.  Lucinda, I though hazily.  Must be Lucinda calling for someone to find who killed her daughter.  And then I knew that it
wasn’t
Lucinda, but someone else.