5 Beewitched (20 page)

In the passenger seat of Grams’s Cadillac Fleetwood,
tiny Dinky planted herself firmly on my lap after giving me a friendly neck washing. I’d been her foster mom for a brief time, and she hadn’t forgotten.

There just wasn’t enough bend in my hands yet to manage, so I had to ask Grams to put my cell phone on speaker and then call Patti’s cell, whose number (believe it or not) was in my friend list. It went directly to voice mail.

“We have two options to consider,” I began recording. “The first, and my personal favorite, is for me to file assault and kidnapping charges against you and have you thrown in the clinker. After which I will testify in a court of law before a jury of my peers to the emotional and physical trauma you put me through. Notice I said
my
peers, not
your
peers, because you are one of a kind. And that isn’t a compliment, Patti.”

Grams gave me a disapproving tsk, but that didn’t even slow me down.

I kept going, “And trust me when I tell you that lots of people in this town have voiced angry complaints over your total disregard for the law and personal rights. I’ll get statements from every single one of them. Plus, I’ll get a restraining order. You won’t be allowed in my yard or in my store.”

That’s when a beep told me I’d run out of message time, and I had to figure out how to call Patti back myself, since Grams had her hands full just staying on the road. I tried not to look out the window. By now, feeling was coming back into my hands, and it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. But at least I was able to bend my fingers enough to hit the right keys.

I presented option two on Patti’s voice mail.

“
Or
your other choice is for you to put your nosy little body in gear and work off your debt to me, beginning with a full breakdown of Claudene Mason’s personal life, every single detail going back at least two years. That’s only for starters. I have more service orders where that came from.”

I knew Patti would go with option two, because she’s a big snoop and this was right up her alley. Besides, she’d think all was forgiven and that we were back in the old days when I actually went along with her ridiculous escapades. Buds again. Ha!

Once Patti gave me whatever information she could dig up on Rosina (and I have to admit that the woman is really good at uncovering juicy details), I planned on going for the restraining order anyway. So I lied, so shoot me. All’s fair when it comes to skirmishes with Patti. And as far as I was concerned, her recent actions had turned our relationship into a full-blown war.

Grams’s Cadillac Fleetwood coasted up Main Street at about five miles an hour. Grams never seems to notice when she has an impatient parade behind her. This time she had a doozy; it was rush hour, so all those poor souls were trying to get home from work, dying to change into more comfortable clothes and pour themselves a much-anticipated beverage. And wasn’t it just their bad luck to encounter a grandma in a Caddie and, even worse, a solid yellow no-passing line?

The jerk directly behind us blasted his horn, which rattled Grams, causing her to slam on the brakes. Dinky, used to her sudden stops, managed to stay put on my lap. I did fine, too, unlike the horn blower, whose car brakes squealed. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw him veer in a frantic defensive maneuver, coming to a stop sideways.

Then I saw him get out. Not good.

“Take off right now,” I shouted to Grams. If I had to choose between Grams’s driving and this guy’s road rage, I’d pick the known over the unknown.

Grams put the pedal to the metal and we fishtailed out of there, leaving behind a wild man shaking his fist.

“Turn right here,” I advised her, “onto this side road. Then park and turn off your lights.”

“Everybody’s in such a big hurry these days,” she said, turning where I’d advised. “Maybe I should have listened to Mabel. She tucks a tire iron under her front seat just in case she has to defend herself. There are a lot of lost souls running loose.”

I thought that was a really bad idea and told her so. If you stacked Grams and Mabel up like two dominos, they’d be almost as tall as your average person. Whacking an irate driver over the head just wasn’t doable for either of them. “I’ll get you a can of pepper spray if you think you need protection,” I told her.

“I’ve already forgiven that rude boy behind us,” Grams said, reverting to form. “I’m sure he had his reasons. He could have had an emergency at home and felt desperate. Or had to go to the bathroom. You never know.”

We crept out and hit the road again, and the farm came into view up ahead. I said, “You can drop me at the road and I’ll walk up. You don’t want to get trapped up there by other cars.”

What I meant was that I wanted to save Grams from herself. If she had to maneuver around police cars, something was bound to go seriously wrong. She’d had more than one run-in (run-into) with Johnny Jay, and one of these days he was going to attempt to revoke her license. “Pull over right here.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, heading straight up the drive. Her car crawled along slower than I could have walked that distance. We pulled up next to Hunter’s cop vehicle without incident. But from past experience, it’s foolish to let your guard down around my grandmother.

Grams saw me struggling with the door latch, so she came around and opened the passenger door for me. She scooped Dinky from my lap.

“We should have pasted some honey on your hands,” she said, the word
paste
reminding me of glue and how ticked off I was at Patti. “And if we encased them in cotton socks, they’d be good as new in no time.”

I imagined myself running around the crime scene with socks over my honeyed hands. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

“I’ll be as good as new soon anyway,” I reassured her, feeling impatient to get to the action. “Thanks for the ride.”

“There sure is a lot of activity going on here,” Grams observed, glancing around at the parked cars. I recognized a few as the Critical Incident Team’s vehicles, Hunter’s team. Nobody was around, though we could hear voices coming from the direction of the corn maze. The sky over there was lit up with searchlights.

“They’re still looking for clues to Claudene’s murder,” I told her. “Some possible new evidence.”

I love my grandmother. She never pries. Anybody else would have started grilling me for information, threatening, pleading . . . Okay, maybe only Patti would have done those things. The rest wouldn’t have bothered because they just weren’t that interested. But by Grams’s quick glance at my face, I could tell she knew something was up.

“You be careful, sweetie,” Grams warned, getting on her tiptoes to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.

Then I helped her back her car up and turn around to head home.

Accident free for a change.

Sometimes miracles really do happen.

Twenty-one

I walked along in the dark, dodging vehicles parked
haphazardly up the driveway and on the lawn. Johnny Jay’s squad car was off to the side. I just had to go over and try the doors. Locked. Not that I had any idea what I would have done if one of the doors had been open. Find some donkey manure maybe and leave it on his driver’s seat? I kicked a tire instead.

The farm animals weren’t braying and honking like they usually did during the day; they were bedded down for the night, tucked snugly in their stalls, safe from harm. Not that we had many big predators in this part of Wisconsin. No bears, moose, or wolves. Just the occasional coyote, which didn’t cause much trouble unless he was traveling in a pack, and critters like foxes or raccoons. That was about it. Oh, and skunks, which I’ve had some close encounters with when they raided my beehives for honey.

Tonight, though, all was quiet except for the sound of human voices drifting on the light breeze.

I found Greg, Al, and Joan Goodaller bunched together near the corn maze, blinking in the blindingly bright spotlights. After we greeted each other, Hunter came out of the maze with two other cops and joined us. I could tell he was in professional mode, because he barely even acknowledged my presence.

“Did you find anything?” Greg asked Hunter. The two men stood eye to eye, both as handsome as men get.

Hunter didn’t respond to Greg’s question, another clue that he was taking his job ultra-seriously. Cops don’t share information with just anybody, especially if that person might be on a list referred to in cop talk as “persons of interest.” Unfortunately, that was pretty much everybody.

“Al,” Hunter said, zeroing in on the farm’s owner and the dead woman’s brother, “we’ll take a look inside your house next.”

Al’s back got ramrod stiff with indignation. His jaw jutted out as he said, “You’re kidding me, right?”

Nothing about Hunter implied joking around. “It’s standard procedure when a murder occurs on someone’s property,” he told Al. “Routine.”

I’ve heard cops use the old “standard” and “routine” speech so often, I have to wonder if that’s the story they’ve been trained to feed to every private citizen who challenges them in any way.

“You need a search warrant for that,” Al said, sticking to his legal rights.

Hunter presented the warrant. “Sorry, Al, but we have to take a look. We won’t be long.”

Without another word, Al stomped off toward his house with the cops trailing behind him.

I’d absolutely hate to have Hunter’s job. When something bad happens, he’s forced to interrogate people he’s known his entire life. Hopefully, Al would understand that Hunter was only doing his job.

I much preferred my new position as sidekick.

“So,” I said to Greg and Joan, making small talk while I massaged my hands, feeling them start to loosen up. “They must not have found anything interesting in the corn maze.”

“I don’t know what they expected to find, since they already went through there with a fine-tooth comb,” Greg replied. “But this time is different. They’re searching everything.” He gave me a studied look. “Do you know what they’re after?”

I couldn’t blurt the truth, which was that they were searching for a pentacle necklace. Was there such a thing as a professional lie? Or only professional liars? I tried to follow Hunter’s lead in how to dodge these kinds of bullets without stooping to untruths, but instead Johnny Jay popped into my mind. I knew exactly how he’d handle questions.

“I’m asking the questions here, Fischer,” he would have said. “Not you.” So predictable.

But bullying wasn’t my style.

“I don’t have any idea,” I lied. Oh well. It was time for redirection. “Where’s the police chief? I saw his squad car down the drive.”

“He’s over with the campers,” Joan told me. “It’s obvious that the detective on the case and the police chief are having some territorial issues with each other.”

Tell me about it, I could have said, but I didn’t want to get into it.

“Detective Wallace ordered the chief to leave,” Greg said. “Only not in those exact words. More forceful.”

“But,” Joan added, “we saw the police chief sneak down the drive on foot and head toward the apple orchard.”

I needed to get over there and throw a wrench in Johnny Jay’s plan, whatever it was. But first things first.

“Greg, I’m sorry about your aunt. I know you were only trying to get the family back together. Then this had to happen.”

Greg looked tired—I guess from working so hard to get the corn maze open, from the murder of his aunt, from the stress and tension of the investigation. “Thanks, Story,” he said.

Joan reached over, took one of his hands, and gave it an affectionate squeeze of reassurance. “You did everything right. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Can you tell me anything about your aunt that might shed some light on her death?” I asked.

“I can’t imagine any of the witches doing this,” Greg said, to my amazement. If not one of them, then who? “I got to know them pretty well. Sure, they had some conflicts here and there, but none of them are capable of murder.”

I thought about the rule of three. Iris and Grams had both mentioned that three girls just can’t get along together. The original three were Lucinda, Dy, and Rosina. Did that rule apply to grown women as well?

“Who else was out here that night?” Joan asked.

“Besides us and the guest campers . . . ?” Greg paused in thought.

“That’s the point,” I mentioned. “It had to be one of the witches.”

Greg looked shaken. “I guess you’re right, but I really hope you aren’t. I’d never forgive myself for bringing them here if one of them killed Aunt Claudene.”

“There, there,” Joan said. “You aren’t to blame.”

I had more questions. “What about your aunt? Any unusual situation in her past that might have been the cause of her death? Anyone out to get her?”

Before Greg could respond, Joan interrupted, addressing me, “I’m sure if Greg knew anything important he would have shared it with the detective.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, really meaning it. “Sometimes my timing is terrible.”

“You’re forgiven, dearie,” Joan said, then glanced in the direction of the apple orchard. “I wonder what’s going on over there?”