The Witch’s Grave (15 page)

The apartment complex sat on the west side of Des Moines, right off Interstate 80. I knew exactly where it was located due to their numerous TV ads, which showed young professionals living there.

The tan buildings were all the same: two levels with decks off the back of each apartment in long rows, forming a square around a huge parking lot. Locating Gina’s apartment, I parked the car and walked up to the door.

I rang the bell and waited.

The door opened with the security chain still in place. I saw half of a young woman’s face peeping at me through the gap in the door.

“Are you Gina Torreli?”

“Are you with the police?” she asked, her voice heavy.

Her sudden question surprised me. “No.”

The door started to close. I pressed my hand against it. “No, wait. I’m a friend of Stephen Larsen.”

“Who?”

If she didn’t know Stephen’s name, it didn’t bode well for her having any other information for me.

“Stephen Larsen—the author who was shot last Sunday?”

“Leave me alone.” The door began to close again.

“Wait—I want to talk to you about Ben.”

The eye peering at me through the crack flared. “Ben?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I know this is a difficult time—”

“You have no idea,” she snorted.

“I have ID.” I rummaged around in my purse and grabbed the first one I laid my fingers on. “Here.” I handed it through the crack in the door.

Her eye narrowed as she read it. “This is a library card.”

“Whoops.” I felt my face grow warm. “I am the librarian in Summerset, but I have a driver’s license, too,” I babbled, taking the library card back and handing her my license.

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

“Ben.” I glanced over my shoulder. “May I come in?”

“I guess—how dangerous can a librarian be?” She shut the door, and I heard her removing the security chain. Seconds later the door opened, revealing a small apartment.

The living room and dining area were all one room. A bar, with tall stools lined up on one side, separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. A plaid couch faced a big screen TV. On both sides of the TV there were huge stereo speakers.

I felt something at my ankle, and looking down, saw a large, yellow cat rubbing against my bare leg. I leaned over and scratched his ears. “Nice cat…what’s his name?” I asked as the cat rolled over on his back for a tummy rub.

“Brody.”

Straightening, I took my first good look at Gina. She looked like hell. She wore a man’s sleeveless undershirt, apparently without a bra, and running shorts. A white tag stuck out on one leg. She had them on inside out. Her brown hair hung around her face in limp locks, and hollow eyes so dark they were almost black stared at me from a blotchy, red face.

“You wanted to talk to me about Ben?” she asked, turning her back to me and wandering over to the kitchen.

“Yes,” I replied, following her. “I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this, but I’m trying to track Stephen’s activities the week before the shooting.” Pulling out a bar stool, I sat as Gina meandered around the kitchen. “The number for Krause’s campaign headquarters was listed in Stephen’s date book, so I called it—”

“Would you like a Mountain Dew?” Gina opened the refrigerator door and stared inside, not moving.

“No, thank you,” I said with a slight shake of my head. “A young woman told me all inquiries were handled by Ben. Do you know if he ever met or talked to Stephen?”

“I don’t know.” She bent at the waist and reached into the refrigerator. Withdrawing a can of Mountain Dew and a can of Diet Coke, she popped the tabs. She placed the Mountain Dew on the counter and set the Coke in front of me.

“Ah, thanks,” I mumbled, glancing down at the can.

Gina crossed to the cupboard. “Ben’s been distant for the last couple of weeks, and we fought about it.” She swung the door of one cabinet wide and grabbed a small amber bottle. “I thought he was cheating on me.” Pressing her palm down on the white cap, she unscrewed it. “What time is it?” she asked with a tilt of her head and a vague expression.

“Umm…” My eyes flew to the clock above the stove. “One.”

“Okay.”

I watched her mouth move as she counted silently on her fingers up to four. Removing the cap, she shook a tiny pill into the center of her palm, and with one smooth move tossed it in her mouth. She washed it down with a long swig of Mountain Dew. She tottered over to the bar and placing her elbows on the bar, leaned toward me.

I studied her carefully. The reason her eyes appeared black? Her pupils were dilated to the max.
Gina’s doped to the gills.
“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice sounded a little slurred. “It was hard
going through Ben’s apartment this morning, so a friend gave me some of her tranquilizers.”

“You shouldn’t take medication that’s not prescribed for you,” I commented sternly.

“I know.” She tried focusing on my face. “But I couldn’t stop crying.”

In her current condition, I worried she might overdose. “Is anyone coming to stay with you?”

“My mom—” Her voice faded. “She’s supposed to be here at two.”

“That’s good.” A paper lying on the counter caught my attention. It was some kind of list.

Gina noticed. “That’s why I thought you were with the police.”

“The paper?”

“Yeah, it’s a list of everything missing from Ben’s apartment.”

I gripped the edge of the bar. “His apartment was burglarized?”

“Last night. Dumb reporter,” she muttered, “putting Ben’s address in the news article.”

Perplexed, I stared down at the paper. This girl wasn’t making much sense.

“Don’t you get it?”

“Ah, no.”

“Thieves check news articles, obituaries, for people who recently died, and get their addresses. If the house is empty…they rob it.” She blinked her bleary eyes. “I heard the cop say they had two other burglaries last night…same deal…people had passed away in the last couple of days.”

“What did they take?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t know the people who died.”

“No, I mean Ben—what did they take from his apartment?”

“Oh,” she said with a wave of her hand, “mostly electronics.” Her head drooped. “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired.”

“Gina,” I said, getting up and going around the bar, “why don’t you lie down until your mother gets here. I’ll stay if you want.”

“Gee, that’s nice,” she mumbled as I helped her to her feet and led her to the couch.

She lay down, and I tucked the afghan on the arm of the couch around her.

“I’m sorry.” She watched me with wide eyes. “But I’m not myself. One more week and this wouldn’t have happened.”

I crossed over to an armchair left of the couch and sat. “What wouldn’t have happened?”

“Ben—next week, he wouldn’t have been with Krause,” she said, curling a hand under her chin.

“What do you mean, Gina?”

“Ben didn’t like Krause anymore,” she said, her voice faint.

“Ben was going to quit the campaign?” I asked, sitting forward in the chair.

“Yeah,” she replied, her eyelids drifting shut, “quitting. He was going back to his old job at the winery.”

I waited at Gina’s apartment until her mother arrived. She seemed surprised to see a stranger with her daughter, but her main focus was on Gina’s condition. I was able to gloss over any details and was out the door within fifteen minutes.

When I arrived home, Darci had left and locked up as I’d asked. Walking back to the office, I found a note in her swirly handwriting, taped to the screen,
I give up—call me
, followed by lots of exclamation points.

Smiling, I threw the note away and, accompanied by Lady and T.P., went to change from the capris into shorts and a T-shirt.

As I dressed, T.P. would
not
leave me alone. He tugged on the shoestrings of my tennis shoes, jumped on the bed, and balanced on his back feet while his front paws rested on my leg.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” I asked, giving him a scratch behind the ears. “Okay, come on, let’s go.”

He and Lady went scampering from the room, and by the time I made it down the stairs, they were both waiting expectantly by the front door. Grabbing their leashes, I hooked them up and off we went for a walk.

Mid-afternoon on a summer’s day—the air hummed with the sound of lawn mowers, and the smell of fresh mown grass drifted on the slight breeze. The rain last week had given the flowers much needed moisture, and they now bloomed in riots of color. Spicy tea roses, candy cane gladiolas, bright orange California poppies, and golden marigolds had the bees flitting from flower to flower in a frenzy.

Lady and T.P. pranced along next to me with heads held high, sniffing the air. As we passed by, squirrels in the top branches of the maple trees chattered down at the dogs. A couple of cars going by tooted their horns, their drivers giving me a quick wave. Approaching the city park, I heard the sound of children laughing.

The violence, the dreams, all seemed out of place as I walked along with the dogs.

At the city park, I chose a picnic table under a big elm to sit and watch the children play on the swings and teeter-totters. Across the park, one table had yellow, red, and orange helium balloons fastened at the end. They bounced gaily in the air above the bright tablecloth, announcing happy birthday.

Lady and T.P. picked a spot at my feet where they could check out all the kids. I noticed their bodies tense with anticipation whenever a child ran by. They wanted to join the fun, but I didn’t dare let them off their leashes.

T.P. suddenly scrambled to his feet and his tail whipped from side to side. Following his eyes, I saw a child break away from a group of children by the slides and come running toward us, her brown curls bobbing.

Evita.

“Miss Jensen,” she said, falling to her knees in front of Lady and T.P. “Are they yours?”

T.P. immediately scrambled onto Evita’s lap and began licking her face with his long pink tongue.

Grabbing his collar, I tugged him off her. “Sorry, he needs a little work on his manners.”

“That’s okay,” she replied with a little giggle, and rubbed his face. “He’s nice. So is this one,” Evita said as Lady sidled up to her.

“He’s a puppy and a little rambunctious. And to answer your question…Lady’s my dog, but T.P. is my daughter’s.”

She paused, petting both dogs and cocked her head, looking up at me. “Do they smile?”

I laughed. “Kind of, I guess.” I patted Lady’s head. “They’re very good at letting me know if they’re happy or not.”

“Brandon’s having a birthday party,” she said, pointing toward the balloons, “and he invited
me
.”

“That’s terrific, sweetie. Have you been to the library lately?” I asked as Evita stood and scooted next to me on the bench.

She dipped her head. “No, Papa won’t let me.”

I felt a flicker of annoyance. Just because I’d upset Mr. Vargas wasn’t a reason to deny Evita the joy of reading.

“That’s too bad,” I murmured, and bit my tongue to keep from saying more. Not your place to interfere, I thought.

She leaned close to me and held her hand up to her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything about my aunt,” she whispered.

“Oh, Evita, I’m sorry if my visit landed you in trouble.”

“It’s okay,” she replied with a toss of her brown curls. “Mama says Papa will get over it once my aunt’s here.”

“Will she be here soon?”

“I don’t know—she’s in Phoenix right now, I think.” Evita’s mouth formed a little pout. “They never tell me any
thing, but I overheard them talking about why it’s taking her so long to come from Mexico.”

“Your aunt lived in Mexico?”

“Yes, she’s Papa’s little sister. He had to leave her when he came to this country. All these years he’s been working to pay for her to join him—” She hesitated. “But I’m not supposed to know that either.”

“Evita, you shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

She gave a little wiggle. “I wouldn’t have to if they’d tell me what’s going on—like that man on the motorcycle. I don’t know why Papa got so mad at him.”

I turned to face her. “Evita, what man on the motorcycle?”

She wrinkled her nose, thinking. “I forget when, but a man came to the house after I went to bed. I heard him arguing with Papa out in the front yard, so I peeked out the window. And—” She stopped when a little girl called out.

“Hey, Evita, come on,” she yelled, waving her arm. “Let’s teeter-totter.”

Evita hopped to her feet. “That’s my best friend, Jenny,” she said with a big smile. “’Bye, Miss Jensen. I’ll be back at the library soon for a piece of candy.”

“I’ll make sure the jar’s full, sweetie,” I called after her.

As I watched Evita run across the park, I felt sick at my stomach. Man on a motorcycle? Antonio Vargas had talked to Stephen and probably known Ben Jessup when he worked at the winery. Now a mysterious man on a motorcycle was showing up at his house late at night. Was Vargas somehow involved in Stephen’s shooting and Ben Jessup’s murder?

I walked back to the house with heavy steps, and somehow the world didn’t seem so peaceful anymore. Should I tell Bill about my conversation with Evita? That she’d seen a man on a motorcycle arguing with her father? Motorcycles were common this time of year—it didn’t necessarily mean Antonio Vargas was mixed up in anything illegal. But if he were? That poor child’s world would come crashing down around her.

I couldn’t do it—go running to Bill with only the ramblings of a ten-year-old. I needed more information. Abby could help me. She’d recommended using the datolite, but I had a better idea. I’d ask her to do a “reading” on me instead. The thought made me a little uncomfortable—my grandmother tiptoeing around in my mind, ferreting out information. When we’d done readings before, it always left me feeling a little rattled.

But Abby was good, and I had more faith in her achieving results with a reading than me trying to use the datolite.

She was in the greenhouse when I arrived. Getting out of the car, I turned the dogs loose to let them run while I searched for Abby.

She’d arranged baskets of bright fall mums near the ancient cash register. Shelves, holding potting soil, gardening
gloves, and grass seed, lined one wall. From the back of the greenhouse I heard the noise of running water.
Ahh, she’s watering the plants.

Heading toward the sound, I took a deep breath—the smell of damp earth, fertilizer, and flowers hit me—the smells of my childhood when I helped Abby, as Tink did now. I paused and took another deep breath, savoring the memory of those days.

Life was sure easier back then, I thought with a sigh.

I found Abby in the back. Noticing me, she shut off the hose and studied me.

“You look like you just lost your best friend,” she commented, curling the hose around her arm. “Is everything okay with Tink?”

“Yes, she’s fine…I talked to her this afternoon.” My lips tightened. “She’s taking to the mountains just swell. In fact, she’s starting to sound as if she’d been raised there.”

A small grin played at the corner of her mouth. “I knew Tink would adapt well.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I stated, then told her about my day—meeting Gina and my talk with Evita.

“I don’t know what to do next,” I said, following her up and down the rows of plants as she pinched off dead leaves.

“I told you—use the datolite. Use your insight to get a description of the man in St. Louis.”

Leaning against one of the tables, I crossed one leg over the other. “I’ve been thinking about that. It would be better if you just did a reading on me.”

Her eyes darted my way. “You hate that.”

“I know, but I’m desperate.”

She picked off a dead blossom. “No.”

“What? No?” I exclaimed, pushing away from the table. “You won’t help me?”

“I’ll lend you a piece of datolite,” she replied calmly.

“That’s it?” I snapped a dead flower off the nearest mum and began shredding the petals.

Abby continued down the row of tables. “Yes.”

I threw the petals on the table and hurried after her. “Wait a minute,” I said, grabbing her sleeve. “My back’s against the wall and I can’t figure a way out. All I have are a bunch of loose ends.”

“Use your gift.”

“I’m not as good as you are,” I pleaded.

“Yes, you are,” she answered in a firm voice as she gently pulled away from me. “You just don’t believe it.”

She meant it—she wasn’t going to help me. My shoulders slumped, and my shock was replaced by a sense of defeat.

Abby eyed me over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t look so forlorn.” Picking up a potted mum, she turned toward me.

The plant was heavy with bronze flowers, and even standing a few feet away, I could smell its tangy fragrance.

“See this plant? Remember what it looked like last spring?” she asked.

“Yeah…two little leaves on a skinny stalk. So?” I groused.

“Right. I watered it, gave it fertilizer, protected it from extreme temperatures, and look at it now.”

“All right, I agree it’s gorgeous. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I’ve given this plant a good start,” she said, fingering the soft petals, “and its roots are strong. If I planted this in the earth, it would not only survive, but thrive.”

I scuffed the concrete floor with the toe of my tennis shoe. “Are you trying to tell me I have my own root system now?”

Abby gave a little chuckle. “Yes.” She came to me, her face glowing as she laid a hand on my arm. “You are one of the chosen, my dear. What you need is buried inside of you. All you have to do is reach down and take it.”

Later that night, armed with my piece of datolite, I prepared my space. Taking a purple candle, I dipped the tip of my
finger in patchouli oil and traced the runes, Laguz and Pertho, on the side of the candle. Laguz, to add energy to my psychic powers; Pertho, the rune of mystery, of things hidden, with the hope that it would help me to find what I couldn’t see.

Holding the datolite lightly in my left hand, I tried to relax, but tension gripped me like a vice. Anxiety bit into me.
I can’t do this.

Yes, you can,
said a voice in my head.

I stretched my neck, rolled my shoulders, and concentrated on taking steady breaths. In, out—in, out. I lit the candle and picked up a pen and notebook, ready to write down my impressions.

I imagined I was back in St. Louis, at Stephen’s condo. I remembered feeling the need to hurry, the sudden sense of panic as we were leaving. The elevator opened, and at the last second I glanced at the man stepping into the hallway from the other elevator.

Height—medium, less than six feet, with a slight build. His ethnic background appeared to be Latin. Thick black hair, short in front, longer in back, brushing the neck of his shirt. He wore jeans, motorcycle boots with heavy heels, and a dark T-shirt. A chain was attached to his belt, with whatever was on the end shoved in his pocket.

Scribbling down the description, I noticed I’d failed to see his eyes. I needed to see the eyes.

My memory flashed forward to the park—the sound of splashing water, the peacefulness I’d felt sitting there. I imagined what I’d seen, heard, and felt as I left the park—the dead air, the tall buildings, the shadows, and finally the footsteps behind me.

In my head I saw myself whipping around.

Black eyes stared at me. Greedy eyes…greedy with a hunger not satisfied. A thin scar ran from the corner of one eye down the side of his cheek. His tongue darted out and licked thin lips. A gold medallion around his neck flashed.

Shutting my eyes, I burned the man’s image into my brain. Slowly, I opened them. Yes, my impressions lingered, and I’d recognize him again.

No name, nothing else had filtered through, but now my pursuer had a face.