Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (29 page)

       We didn’t get back to the store until ten-thirty.  It was a surprise to find it open and running smoothly under David’s care.  He raised a questioning eyebrow at me when I peeked into the shop before running upstairs to quickly clean up and get properly dressed.  I was still in my bathrobe, and I smelled like a sick George.  I would have raised an eyebrow back at him if I’d known how.  He had a little explaining to do as to how he’d entered the house to open things up.

       His explanation was a let-down.  We’d apparently forgotten to lock up when we left.  He’d knocked and called out and finally entered.  He admitted to a quick search of the house (probably looking for corpses—
our
corpses,) and then he’d decided to open for business as usual.  He had called the police and reported our absence, leaving his message with the dispatcher, whom he’d called back when we showed up.  It was hard to maintain my suspicion in the face of his calm, rational report.  Patsy sulked a little, because she swore she’d locked up before we left, but his interest in our story revived her good nature.

       I wanted to visit George during my lunch break, but Dr. Carly politely asked me not to.  In her opinion he was still much too weak to care about my absence, but my presence might over-excite him.  If he’d been a human child, I’m sure the doctor would have wanted me there.  I wasn’t happy about it, but she was the expert.  Although she insisted it would still be touch-and-go for another twenty-four hours, I knew the dumb brute would be okay.  Already I was finding it hard to envision a world without George.

       Yes, I’m pathetic.

       Patsy, I was glad to note, shared my indignation at the rejection of our presence.  David, with a male lack of understanding, tried to be rational about it.  He retreated under our dual glares.  “If women felt that way,” I told him, with more indignation than sense.  “Children wouldn’t be born.”

       Even my niece seemed a little puzzled.  “What’d you mean by that?” she asked, when we were alone.

       I tried to recapture my original thought, which had something to do with mothers and motherhood, along with the agonies of worry starting clear back in pregnancy.  By the time the baby is actually born, there’s nine months of emotional, not to mention physical, stress.  Even while the baby’s in the womb we worry and protect.  By the time I got halfway through my explanation, I could see by her stunned look that she wasn’t following my train of thought.  “Never mind,” I grumbled.  “A mother would understand.”

       “Sorry!” she snapped.  Our nerves were a little frazzled by that time.

       David wisely avoided us, concentrating his attentions on the customers.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

From the Wiccan rede:

Elder the Lady’s tree

Burn it not or cursed you’ll be.

       Robert Court’s arrival, just before seven that evening, caught me completely off guard.  I had already changed into my nightclothes and a bathrobe when he knocked on the door.  I opened it and stared at him.  He stared back, obviously a little startled by my appearance.  It later occurred to me that he might have thought I was trying to seduce him.  I might be on the shady side of alluring, but I hope I’d have enough sense to wear something sexier than a flannel bathrobe with wool socks with the bottoms of long johns poking out from underneath if I were set on staging some sort of steamy seduction.

       He recovered himself sooner than I did.  Probably he was more used to dealing with sex-starved women than I was to dealing with unexpected company.  “Sorry!  Karyn said you wanted to see me this evening.  I must have mistaken what she said.”  He started to back away nervously.

       “No, she was right,” I opened the door further, almost forcing him to either enter the house or cut and run for it.  “I forgot.  Come on in, Robert.  I’ll explain.  Of course you don’t know what’s been going on today.  We’ve been so involved with the whole mess it seems like everyone else should know about it too.”

       That intrigued him enough to abandon any thoughts of fleeing to save his virtue.  By then, too, he must have realized I really
was
surprised to see him, not faking it to lure him into my dangerous web of seduction.  “What happened?” he asked.  “I can come tomorrow or something if it works out better for you.”

       “No, this is fine,” I poured him coffee and told him our story.  He showed all the proper concern.  No wonder women fell for him.

       “You should have gotten me to help.” He scolded me.  “No, wait, I wasn’t there that early.  What a shame, Rachael!  That dog might be uglier than sin, but he sure is a friendly fellow.  He comes and visits me during my morning break, you know.  Just walks up to the back door and sits up so he can see inside, but I have to admit the first time I saw his face at the door it nearly gave me heart failure.  I let him come in for a nibble of coffee cake.  He keeps me company until I let him out again, and off he goes.  A perfect companion.  I hope he’s going to be all right.  I think I’d miss our little morning coffee breaks.”

       “The vet isn’t sure he’ll make if yet,” I said.  I tried to sound casual, but only succeeded in sounding like a grieving mother.  “
And she won’t let us visit!
  I guess she’s keeping him kind of semi-comatose.” 

       “I’m sure it’s hard on you,” he agreed.  “But I suppose if you went there to see him, and then left, he’d probably feel abandoned.  He probably isn’t clear about what’s happening right now, and he doesn’t connect it with you.  Easier on him, but tough on you.  He’s a placid thing, though.  He’ll make it.  He’ll just ride it through and never think of blaming anyone for it later.  Dogs are nicer than humans, and that doesn’t say much for the condition of the human race.”

       I sniffled and agreed, perfectly willing to believe that everybody felt as terrible about a dog being hurt as I did.  Not a wise belief, but surely only a monster would harm a dog—or, my smarter half reminded me, someone who had a lot to lose by letting the dog live. I sighed, he sighed, and then we got down to business.  Apparently Karyn had given him a thorough report of our conversation, though I’d take a good guess that she hadn’t bothered mentioning her own opinion (at least not in such strong terms) of the dead girl.  I didn’t say anything to contradict what I expected had been her version of the story.  And of course I was finding it virtually impossible to think of him as a killer.  His concern for George put him above suspicion.  Didn’t it?  Of course not.  He could be a good actor.  Or it’s possible even some murderers could like dogs.  The difference between them and the rest of us would be they’d kill the animals under minimal provocation.  A lot of people like dogs, but think very little of having them “put down”, or giving them up for adoption when they become a nuisance.

       “I just need everyone’s opinion of her,” I explained, pulling my thoughts together.  “I’ve promised Lucinda I’d try and find out what happened.  I suppose this is just a starting point, but I’d really appreciate your help.  You’re a man, and the only male opinion I’ve gotten is from her cousin, Ronnie.”

       “Ronnie probably knows her better than the rest of us, but I can see what you mean about trying to get different perspectives.  I don't know how much help I’ll be.  To tell you the truth, I didn’t care for the girl.  If you believe in auras, and believe it or not I often see them on some of my antiques, then Shelly’s would have been black, or maybe brown.  I don't know how they look with humans.  My antiques usually have a soft, golden glow about them.  She was unhappy, I could tell that, but even while I felt sorry for her, I tried to avoid her like the plague.  I’m sure she’d appeal to some men, but I’ve never cared for dangerous women.  That’s what she struck me as being.  She wasn’t much more than a child, but she never struck me as being young.”

       “She wasn’t well-liked, was she?” I asked, somewhat sadly.

       “No,” he agreed.  “I don’t think she would have known what to do with real affection.  That mother of hers strikes me as the type to devour her young, emotionally if not physically.  I’m self-centered enough myself to recognize it in someone else, and Shelly was extremely self-centered.  We were born to clash.  Two selfish people don’t make a pretty picture.  I don’t feel particularly good about myself when I think of how I went out of my way to avoid her, but I honestly don’t see how greater nobility on my part would have made any difference, except to my own ego now she’s dead.  Like most of us, if I’d known this was going to happen I would have made more of an effort to like her.  What I would look into, if I were you, is the thought of blackmail.”

       “Why do you say that?” I prodded.  Everyone seemed to connect Shelley with blackmail.  There had to be a reason for that.  Just her personality?

       “It’s just a feeling,” he told me.  He couldn’t throw any more light on her friends or potential enemies.  If he was telling the truth, and I had no reason to doubt him, he hadn’t known much about her.  A good part of his charm, I realized, was his ability to laugh at himself and his foibles.  One thing I did believe without question. He was just as self-serving as he said he was, completely wrapped up in his own wants and needs. I liked him.  There’s no rule that says charm has to necessarily be false.  Unfortunately, whenever someone is
too
charming, we tend to equate them with either politicians or televangelists. 

       He did add one comment that gave me pause.  “You know, Rachael, you’ve sure had some crummy luck since moving to Balsam Grove.”

       There wasn’t much I could say about that.  How much worse could someone’s luck get than finding a dead body, getting attacked, and having the family pet poisoned?

       “You know, if it gets to be too much for you, I’d be happy to take this place off your hands.  I really could use a bigger place, and this would work out quite well.”

       “Oh, I don’t intend to sell, Robert.  I really love this place.  Surely whoever is responsible for all this will be caught soon,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

       His response was equally casual.  He shrugged.  “Well, if you ever do decide to sell, just let me know.  I’d be willing to pay a fair price.”

       Those were his parting comments, and as he walked down the driveway, I tried to concentrate on the contents of his mind. I didn’t succeed psychically, but it was plain he truly did want to own my house and I could tell he’d be willing to pay more than it was worth. Simple covetousness.  Nothing terribly unusual in that was there, but he had acted out of character when he brought up buying me out at so soon.  It would seem he wanted my house enough to make the offer at a poor time.  It was a clumsy move on his part, and I didn’t think he had many of those.

       All the talk about pure self-centeredness…  Would someone really try such an Agatha Christie plot?  Would he be that circuitous?   I’d have to think about it.

         ....

       I prowled the house a lot that night, unable to settle, not even terribly interested in eating. My restlessness doesn’t mean I
didn’t
eat.  I just wasn’t intensely interested in what is normally my favorite pastime.  I could feel the mind of the killer out there concentrating on me.  I suppose it was the combination of what had happened to George and learning so many pathetic things about the dead girl that made me so sensitive to its presence.  There was also the feeling I was overlooking something important, not really letting my intellect work to its fullest ability.  So I ate and prowled, prowled and ate.  My tummy was upset and by three o’clock I was exhausted enough to take a tablespoon of ‘the pink stuff’ and crawl into bed and fall asleep.  I had a rare night of bad dreams, wild scenarios I couldn’t recall in the morning.  My mind had refused to let me wake up enough to record them right away as I have been practicing doing the past few years.  My mind, I sometimes think, knows me better than I know myself.  It operates on the theory that what can’t be cured must be endured.

       Despite the hours of sleep, I was exhausted when I awoke.  I’d overslept, something I
rarely
do, and when I entered the kitchen Patsy took one look at me and sent me back to bed.  “You look like shit,” she said, inelegantly, but probably with great accuracy.  “Go back to bed.  David and I are perfectly capable of handling the store today.  It’s supposed to be your half day, anyway.  Are you sick?  If you are, don’t worry about it.  I can take care of you.  I never catch anything.”