Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (25 page)

       “I know,” I sighed, holding the door open for my escape.  I could see David sitting in his beat-up old truck, patiently waiting for me.

    “Keep an eye on my posterior.”   

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From the Wiccan Rede:

When the wind blows from the East

Expect the new to set the feast.

       I wasn’t the least bit unhappy to be dropped off.  David, of course, being of the old school about such matters, didn’t just drop me off.  He gallantly escorted me to the door and waited until I was safely inside before leaving.  The dog, having been allowed inside by Patsy, was torn between which of us to greet first.  He slobbered on each of us equally before I managed to trade places with him, placing him outside with David, and me inside the kitchen.  I watched them go down the driveway, the dog with leaps and bounds, the man more sedately.  Maybe David would take him home…

       Patsy appeared (surprisingly) in a nightshirt, clearly bathed and anointed for an early evening.  “Aunt Rachael, I have a name for the dog,” she proudly announced.  “I dreamed it last night.  And I looked it up on the computer tonight.  I wanted to see what it meant before I told you about it.”

       “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” I told her, watching the soon-to-be-named dog bound back up the driveway, having decided he wasn’t going to get a ride in David’s truck.

       “It’s kind of boring,” she complained.  “Not a name I would
normally
have chosen for him, but when I looked it up, it fit him..”

       I opened the door, letting in the dog whose boring name was about to be announced.  What could possibly be a fitting name for such an animal?  Dumbo?

       “It’s just
George,
” she sighed.  “But listen to the description.”  She’d apparently memorized it.  “George.  It’s Greek.  I didn’t know that, did you?  Seems like it should be English.  Anyway, it means good-natured, vivacious, and healthy.  His chief fault is tactlessness, and he likes home and family.”

       I looked at George.  George looked at me.  Yes, he was full of good nature, vivacity and health.  I conceded the tactlessness part of the definition.  He obviously loved home and family, if that’s what we were to him.  Still...
George?
  I wondered how many men named George would be insulted by sharing their name with such a large, drooling, homely animal.  Then I wondered how insulted I would probably become, in time, meeting a human George who disgraced my dog’s name.

       “After such a perfect description, how can I argue against it?” I asked her.  “George it is.  We’ll hope he lives up to his name in everything but the tactlessness part, though that’s probably going to end up being his outstanding personality trait.  I’m still going to try to find a good home for him, you know.  He needs lots of exercise.”

       “I walked him tonight,” she assured me.  “Joe had to work the night shift, so I had plenty of time.  I must have jogged two miles!  Am I ever out of shape.  He ran all over the place, so he probably ran a good ten miles today.”

       “And when you’re gone?” I asked, meanly perhaps, but it had to be faced.

       “It’d be good for you to get more exercise, Aunt Rachael,” she spoke earnestly.  “It’s good for someone your age to walk a lot.”

       “Keep making cracks like that, and I’m going to change
your
name to Mud.”

       “No.  I didn’t mean it that way!” she wailed.  “It’s the truth. 
Everybody,
young and old, should have a routine of some form of exercise.”

       I decided I’d gotten my pound of flesh, so I changed the subject.  “How’d you happen to dream of a name like
George
?  And why’d you connect it with the dog?”

       “It was one of those weird dreams, not a scary one, but as though you’d wandered through the looking glass.  Only you don’t feel that way at the time.  It all seems perfectly natural.  I was walking him through the jungle, along a path I somehow knew was leading to my school.  He started to barge ahead and I thought he’d get lost with all those kids around, so I called him back.  And I called him George.  He came and stood right in front of me, wagging his tail and grinning like an idiot.  So I knew it was his name.  That’s about all there was to it.  I woke up and wrote down the dream the best I could. I’ve started a dream-book, like you suggested.  Then I went back to sleep.  I remember thinking how nice it was to finally know his name.  It seemed so much more polite than calling him ‘The Dog’.  And I’ve always liked George of the Jungle.”

       “I guess I can’t argue with that,” I agreed.  “I suppose calling a canine Dog is the equivalent of a man referring to a woman as Babe.”  I didn’t add that at this stage of my life, I’d probably be
flattered
to be referred to as Babe.  I suppose it doesn’t speak highly of my status as a feminist, but what can I say?  I find the older I get, the less insulted I am by being called
anything
that makes me sound younger than I am.  In my youth I thought that the term chick was degrading.  I now see it as being preferable to being referred to as a hen. 

       Patsy, who had obviously not reached that less-than-flattering stage of life, said goodnight and wandered off to bed.  She didn’t ask how my evening had gone.  I think she thought she was being subtle, not mentioning my going off with a man, but I was grateful.  I didn’t feel up to lying, and I certainly had no intention of telling her the truth.  Like most of people, she was fascinated by the idea of having someone tell her what her future holds.  Since she was also young and single, well ... She’d be knocking on Elena’s door in no time if I let her know I’d been there to have my own fortune told.

       I put the dog out again and locked up.  All I had in mind was a hot bath, using my favorite salts and scents.  My needs are both simple and intense.  I love bath time.  I can’t imagine I was ever one of those children who screamed at the idea of being bathed.  For that matter, my own kids had enjoyed their ablutions.  I guess my attitude towards the bathing-ritual had rubbed off on them. It was either genetic, or the fact I had always let them fill the tub with toys and bubbles.  It was a messy process, but always a happy time for them.  And for me.  I sometimes remember how adorable they were when they were fresh from the tub, damp and sweet-smelling, almost ready for my favorite time of the day,
their
bedtime.

       The ritual of taking a hot bath is almost as comforting in reality as I think of it in my mind when I’m under stress.  I could feel the tension ooze out of me.  The reading hadn’t been all that bad, actually kind of interesting.  I did wonder, though, exactly how good Elena was at mind-reading, despite her protests to the contrary.  I know a good fortuneteller can read body language with a fine-tuned ability, which almost amounts to ESP.  Still, how had she known I would be able to handle the palm reading, but I dreaded the thought of having her read the Tarot for me?  I’m afraid of the Tarot, and always have been.  I think it’s the cards themselves.  I’m not even overly fond of face cards in a regular deck of cards.  I’ve looked at Tarot cards and been overwhelmed with an assault on my senses, almost as though every person who’d ever handled them had imprinted his soul on their surface.  Even a new, unopened deck upsets me somewhat.

       She had somehow sensed that.  Moondance had told me that the Tarot was Elena’s usual method of doing a reading, the method she preferred, yet she’d let me off the hook.

       That led me to wonder, yet again, about mysterious David.  Truth be told, I wasn’t completely buying his story about why he hadn’t mentioned knowing Elena.  I had a feeling there was a lot more to David Leahy than he let on.

       I climbed out of the tub and dried myself, using little patting motions.  The older I get, the more attention I pay to all those beauty secrets in the woman’s magazines.  I certainly didn’t need to stretch my skin any further.  I also slathered plenty of vitamin E-laced lotion all over while I was still damp.  “Retain that dewy moisture.”  I really like being older mentally, but this aging-body business stinks.

       Like Patsy, I made it an early night.  I’d planned to read for a while, and maybe I should have.  Instead I fell asleep quickly, slept hard for several hours, and then woke up after midnight. 
Really
woke up.  I’d had a good rest and my body and mind were now ready to be up and doing something constructive.

       I tried faking it for a while, trying to trick myself back into a sleep mode, but it was no use.  I finally gave up, and climbed out of bed, muttering all the way.  I fumbled around for my bathrobe.  Minnesota nights are usually chilly even in the middle of summer.  I headed downstairs to the kitchen.  When in doubt, eat.

       Nothing looked particularly appealing.  A trip to the store was clearly indicated.  Not that I intended to let a lack of appeal stop me from finding
something
.  Hot chocolate would do for starters.  That was always comforting.  And maybe some toast with lots of butter and jelly.  Peanut butter?  No, I was finding that age also made my tummy a little rebellious at times.  I was better off keeping the peanut butter binge for daytime hours when I was more active.

       Whatever else my evening and night had done for me, I felt calm and cleansed for the first time since I’d discovered Shelly’s body in the library.  I’d thought I had my act together pretty good, but now, feeling like I did, I realized that I’d been in a state of imbalance the entire time.

       I went to the back door.  Having heard me moving around the kitchen, George was seated right outside. He gazed at the door hopefully, and I found myself slipping outside to join him instead of letting him in.  I made sure I could get back inside without tripping the alarm before stepping into the cool, fresh night air.  The moon was waxing, almost at fullness.  I walked towards the lake, enjoying it’s reflection on the water.  I felt relaxed and freer than I had in a very long time.

       Now, I want the world to know I’ve always held heroines who wander alone in the dark of night in the greatest contempt.  My only excuse for being outside is I
knew
I was safe.  Besides, I had George with me.  It was, no doubt, a foolish way to spend a half hour, but it was exactly what I needed at the moment.

       When I said thank you to the moon, George, hearing my voice, accepted my friendly homage as directed towards himself, wagging his plumed tail and poking at my hand for more attention.

We ate toast and jelly together.  I reserved the hot chocolate for myself.  There are, after all, limits.  He kept begging long after the toast was consumed, still watching my hand move the cup from the table to my lips and back again.  He was bright enough to recognize I was still putting
something
in my mouth.  Mouth, food.  Poor thing.  I felt sorry for him, watching me, but he still wasn’t getting any of my hot chocolate.  Besides, I told myself virtuously, chocolate is bad for dogs. 

    Sure.  And stuffing myself in the middle of the night was good for
me?

       Sleep came easily after my little impromptu party. Experts say it’s a good idea, when you can’t sleep, to get up and do something for a while.  I don’t think they had
eating
in mind, but it works for me.

                                     ....

       The next morning I felt full of life and utterly rejuvenated.  The dullness that had been plaguing me had vanished.  The only bad thing I felt was the person who wished me ill was still out there, apparently just as well rested as I was, radiating hatred and anger in my direction.  I opened up to it for the first time.  It isn’t an easy thing to do.  Sharing a stranger’s mind even at the best of times is upsetting.  Everything is distorted.  Even the things you see out of another person’s eyes, something simple like a familiar table, looks slightly different.  It’s disorientating, to say the least.