Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (14 page)

       They wandered away, Patsy explaining things to him, pausing to talk to customers and then continuing with her mini training seminar.  I should have felt a surge of relief.  I didn’t doubt for a moment that David Leahy would make an excellent employee.  It
was
a relief.  Of course I was glad.  For some reason, though, it just seemed
too
convenient.  I told myself I was being paranoid.  Earlier in the season when I didn’t
need
help I had plenty of people walk in off the street and ask about a job.  Times were hard.  But still, none of them had been males.

       It wasn’t until we’d closed for the day and I’d found papers for David to fill out and bring back the next morning that I wondered if it was possible he was from the sheriff’s office.  Maybe he’d been sent undercover to spy on us and see if we had anything to hide.  No, I assured myself.  Surely we weren’t important enough to waste any extra manpower on.  Like most tourist areas, Rust County works a huge area with minimal officers.  Our permanent population is small, and fairly scattered.  When the tourists hit town, however, the population skyrockets.  The law enforcement offices received a few extra, part-time reinforcements.  Fortunately tourists aren’t usually looking for trouble and are relatively easy to handle. On the other hand, all too often they come to the wilds of northern Minnesota with a vast array of ignorance, and they indulge in strenuous sports they, and their bodies, aren’t trained for. 

       No.  It made no sense that Sheriff Alberts would send in an undercover agent.  And if he
did
want to find anything out…well, one of his deputies was dating my niece.  Surely that counted for something.

       Speaking of Patsy, as soon as we had the shop back in order, she was rushing upstairs to prepare for an evening out with the young deputy.  

       “Do you want some supper?” I hollered after her.

       “No thanks, Aunt Rachael!  I’m not hungry!”

       “But you haven’t eaten anything since lunch!”

       “I’ll grab something later!”

       I’d done my duty and tried to feed her.  Teenagers are nothing if not extremists.  One minute she’s eating like a horse, and the next I can’t bribe her, even with chocolate.  She may as well have been my own daughter.

       Oh well.  She
wasn’t
my daughter, and she wasn’t my responsibility.  Not really.  And what trouble was she going to get into with a law officer?  Well, delete that thought. But still, she was certainly as safe with Joe Johnson as she’d be with some young adult tourist.  And I knew the requisite who, what, where (we didn’t discuss the why.)  That’s more than most parents can claim at any given time.  She, like Danny, was seventeen years old.  Not a child.  On the other hand, I didn’t consider her an adult either.  At that point I closed my mind. Like all the rest of them, she would do what she chose.  The fiction I had much, if any, control over what she did with her life was a fairy tale we parents all tell ourselves over and over and over again.

       “Do you like it?”  I was still dawdling over a beer, vaguely considering fixing supper for myself, when she presented herself for inspection.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t catching what I was supposed to like or dislike.  She saw my confusion.  “The Crystal!  I replaced the nose ring with a crystal.  I thought I’d see if I caught any vibes from it.”

       Sure enough, she had a flashy little crystal attached to the side of her nose.  I smiled and agreed it made a nice change, and I’d be interested to know if she felt any vibes from it.  Then I said what I’d really been thinking.  I hate it when I do that.  “Do they call that part of the nose a
lobe
?”

       She snorted.  No other word for it.  Then she broke down and laughed.  “I have no idea.  I never thought about it.  You have a strange mind, Aunt Rachael.  Who else would wonder about something like that?”

       “Probably quite a number of people,” I said, somewhat bitterly.  “They’d just have enough sense to keep their questions to themselves.  Maybe it wasn’t the ESP that caused me so much trouble when I was a kid.  Maybe it was just my big mouth.”

       “Well, I
like
it when people say what they’re thinking, and just come right out and
ask
what they want to know.  Mom beats around the bush until I just want to scream.  The only thing she ever comes right out and
says
is how she hates my hair.  And my nose ring.  And my clothes.  Otherwise, she just hints around about stuff.  How the heck am
I
supposed to know what she’s trying to say?”

       I tried not to laugh at the disgruntled look on Patsy’s face, but I couldn’t help it. 

       “It’s not funny, Aunt Rachael,” she said, despite the small smile forming in the today’s bright red lipstick of choice.

       “I know it’s not, honey, but it’s so typical!  Trust me, you’re not the first mother and daughter to have a hard time communicating.  Sometimes it’s as if we speak different languages.”

       “But
you
come right out and say what you’re thinking.”

       “Sure I do.  You’re my
niece,
not my
daughter. 
I survived a five year stretch with Molly where I don’t think we exchanged two words the other one understood.”

       We were interrupted by the arrival of Joe.  He was out of uniform, looking like a bouncer instead of a law officer.  We spoke about the nice weather, discussed the wind speed for sailing, and parted with equal relief on both sides.  He’d been much more comfortable to be around when he was just a cop.  A first date must be a trial for the male of the species, always considering he bothers to be presented to his date’s family.  I reminded them to wear their life-jackets, suggested Patsy take along a light sweater to put over her near-naked body as the evening cooled, and waved good-bye as they drove off, sans sweater.  I forgot about them almost as quickly as I’m sure they put me out of their minds.

       The excuses were over with.  I knew I’d skip dinner, retreating upstairs instead.  First, and most symbolically in this day and age, I turned off the ringer on the phone.  Then I locked everything, rechecking all doors and windows, and trudged upstairs to partake in my ritual bath.  I needed to cleanse my mind and spirit, as well as my body.  I needed to remove the fear that had become my constant companion.

       I’m still harboring fears I’d developed when I was a child.  I must be secretly fond of them since I hang on to them so tightly.  It’s probably a case of the “better the devil you know” syndrome.  One of the ways I’m trying to combat them is by keeping a diary.  I’m careful to jot down every small fear I encounter.  I’ve been doing it just over a year, and it’s fascinating to look back and read over some of the things that really worried me.  They came, they went.  The question is, did I ever let the fear go away with them?  It takes a conscientious gesture to release mental fear after the source is gone.  Fear cells, like fat cells, are easy to hoard.  And who needs them?  I’m perfectly capable of creating new ones should the need arise.  I don’t even
use
my hoarded fat cells when necessary.  I just add new ones.   I’m as well-stocked with fear-cells as I am with fat-cells, and believe me, that’s well-stocked.

       So now I was facing the simple fact that I was afraid.  I was playing Pandora.  I wanted to see what was in the box, but somehow I had to do it without letting everything out indiscriminately.  Good luck, Rachael.

      
A gift,
I reminded myself,
this is a gift, not a curse. 
I had to work at it, but the fear of what my psychic abilities would show me was slowly receding.  I needed more faith, and the ability not only to interpret what went through my mind, but also to trust in it.

   Back in Nevada I’d been sincerely congratulated on my inheritance by friends and neighbors.  Along with the sincerity there had been resentment, jealousy, and bitterness in some.  It was like I’d won the lottery.  I was learning I had to accept those loose emotions, putting them into separate compartments.  I might
want
a new cashmere sweater like the one Mrs. So-and-So had, but I didn’t want to
take
it from her.  The difference might
seem subtle, but it’s all the difference in the world.  Wanting someone else’s things and wanting things like theirs for yourself are two entirely different matters. 

       After the bath I have a series of small rituals I needn’t go into here.  Or more honestly, they aren’t anybody else’s business.  I guess they come from my mental Book of Shadows, my personal journal of my spiritual life.  They relax me and help me clear my mind.  As I’ve said, it isn’t easy to clear the clutter from my mind, but I’ve learned to send it into an ocean I’ve created.  All my thoughts, my lessons, my ideas are regularly put into the ocean.  When I want them, I call them back out.  But unless they’re swept out with the ebbing tide I create, they flounder around in my mind continually, too often getting in my mental way. 

       I guess I should be thankful I have enough thoughts
to
get in my way.

       My bedroom boasts a miniature grotto, complete with mist floating around it.  It’s artificial, naturally, but I love it.  It has a waterfall within the cavern.  I place several candles around it.  They sparkle on the falling water and display the small Ivies I have growing in pots.  I close the blinds and pull shut the heavy draperies.  Then I sit in front of my tiny secret place and proceed to empty my mind.

       When this works, it can be the most wonderful experience. It isn’t anything I can accurately describe.  I am released from responsibility.  I think that’s it.  Or I should say, I release myself.  Every time I feel that freedom I swear I’ll never go back to my old ways again.  Of course I do.  My only hope is that with each trip out, I never go quite as far back.

       I spent over two hours meditating.  The only things I planted in my mind were the need to remain open to outside impressions, and to assimilate them wisely.  Ideally I would trust my inner knowledge, but I’d long since found I was far too apt to force my outer feelings onto my instincts.  My outer feelings, in case you haven’t noticed, are heavily laced with insecurity, guilt, paranoia, etc.   It’s all the usual baggage of humanity. 

       Oddly enough, modern technology is a great aid to meditation.  I can turn off my phone to keep it from annoying me and still have it pick up and save any messages that occur during my hibernation.  I can secure my house from all but the cleverest burglars.  I can close off sunlight and immerse myself inside my mind.

       However, there isn’t a switch in the world that can turn off the sound of Moondance bellowing my name.

       “Rachael!  Rachael!”  I heard the sound and when I recognized it, frantically tried to tune it out.  Too late.  “Are you in there?!  Are you all right?!  Should I call the police?!” 

       She was sounded frantically worried, and that made me feel guilty.  Given what had happened so recently in this very house she had every right to worry.  She also had the right to an answer to her worried hollering.  I slid back my drapes, pulled up the blinds, and opened the window.  “I’m here,” I called.  “I’ll be right down.  Just getting out of the bath.”

       I lie a lot.  I think most people do.  It seemed simpler to hand Moondance a reason for what would seem to her to be my unreasonable behavior than to explain the truth.  My meditation time is my private time.  I could have told her that, calmly and succinctly.   She would have felt, unreasonably (but humanly) pushed away.  Much easier to lie.  It made us both happy.

       “Sorry,” I said, once I got downstairs and opened the back door for her.  “I locked up tight.  I guess I’m a little nervous.”
       “I tried the phone,” she told me.  She was enjoying the drama we were living through.  “When I got the answering service and you didn’t call back, I got worried.  I knew you were waiting for my report, so I came over.”

       “Your report...” I belatedly remembered.  “I didn’t think you’d have it done already.  You must have really worked.” I could say that with complete honesty.  She handed me at least 20 pages of printed paper.  I hope my stammered thank-you sounded sincere, despite being anything but.

       She beamed with pride.  “I went straight home and worked on it all day,” she assured me.  “I barely took time out to eat.  It isn’t finished, but it’s a start.”

       Sacrificing meals was something I could sincerely appreciate.  I insisted she join me in soup and sandwiches.  I needed some substance for grounding myself.  I always eat something after a meditation session.  It might not be anything I need.  Okay, so it’s almost
never
anything I
need,
it’s strictly comfort food.  Comfort food always settles me.  Thinking about it, I added a platter of cookies to the food I was putting on the table.