Be Careful What You Witch For (A Family Fortune Mystery) (10 page)

16

Violet was quiet on the ride home. It worried me. She was only quiet if she was sick or plotting something.

“You should go see Neila right now.” She turned in her seat to give me the benefit of her full stare.

“Now? I’m right in the middle of trying to help Dylan and Diana. I don’t have time to wander memory lane with one of grandma’s old friends.”

“I’m getting a feeling you don’t have time not to. Drop me at home, and I’ll cover for you. You know how to get to her house?”

I nodded. I hadn’t agreed to her plan, but she plowed on ahead as if I had.

“I’ll tell them you had to run an errand for Diana.”

“Vi, I
do
have to run some errands for Diana. I don’t have time for Neila.” I also didn’t want to go to her spooky house all by myself. I thought if I had to go I would drag Alex or Seth with me.

Vi shook her head. “You have to go alone. She won’t talk to you if you bring anyone else.” It never ceased to annoy me when Vi seemed to read my mind. She always knew when I was planning to ignore her instructions. I suspected she was picking up on some sort of cues I was sending out but I’d never identified exactly what it was that tipped her off. Of course,
she
would claim it was all part of her talent.

I breathed out slowly. Maybe it would be easier to make a quick trip up there, say hello, and be done with it than to continue to dodge Vi and her “feelings.”

“Okay, I’ll drop you off.”

A few minutes later, Violet stood on the gravel driveway outside my Jeep. “If I don’t hear from you in two hours, I’m coming up there searching for you.”

I started to laugh but stopped when I saw the serious look in her eyes. I nodded instead and put the Jeep in gear.

Neila lived on the outskirts of town at the top of a hill. Her house sat alone on this particular rise and the road dead-ended at her driveway. I remembered from my teen years that the driveway rose steeply after the road and then flattened out about one hundred yards into a dense, treed lot. My Jeep bounced over the bumpy dirt driveway and then lurched around the last corner. This time of year the house was visible through the trees. Their naked branches stretched like bony fingers over the roof and the absence of leaves on most of the trees allowed a weak filtered light into the yard. The house itself was small, and completely covered in vines and other vegetation that I didn’t have the knowledge to identify. The few areas of visible wall showed that the house had once been yellow. The back of my neck prickled and I realized this was the house I had seen in the bonfire on Halloween.

It had a couple of evergreen sentinels on both sides and the oaks and maples also had vines wrapping up their trunks. Her yard consisted of more vines and ground-cover plants; no real grass would grow in what was essentially a forest. I parked and got out of the Jeep, letting the door close quietly. My approach must have alerted all the birds and squirrels because it was silent in the small yard. The house had a missing shutter on one window and a second shutter was hanging by one nail, lending a haphazard look to the front. I stepped onto the porch and felt a chill as I moved out of the last shaft of weak sunlight.

The silence and air of neglect had me wondering yet again at the wisdom of showing up here unannounced. I had only my aunt’s assurance that the old lady was even still alive.

I raised my hand to knock when a voice said, “Come on in, it’s open.” I jumped and nearly fell backward off the porch. I looked around for the source of the voice but couldn’t see where it had come from.

The knob turned easily, and I pushed the door inward on creaky hinges. The front hall was dark, and I squinted into the gloom.

“Ms. Whittle?” My own voice bounced back to me. I caught a glimpse of something white to my left and spun to meet it. It was just the sheer curtain lazily shifting in the breeze from the door.

“Clytemnestra?” The voice came from behind me and was so like my grandmother’s that tears stung my eyes before I’d turned to see who had spoken.

For a moment I thought Aunt Vi had set up an elaborate prank. A clump of fabric stood in front of me. It was draped in all shades of gray and brown shawls where its shoulders should be, a gray rough fabric as a skirt, and a dingy apron that had once been white. At five foot seven, I was used to being taller than many women, especially in my family. But I was a giant compared to this creature. She barely came up to my chest, and I thought Vi had hired a third grader to trick me into bolting out the door and down the hill like so many kids had done over the years. Then it moved and I saw the hunched little woman smile. Expecting the smile of a jack-o’-lantern, I was surprised to see a full complement of teeth, and when she stepped into the light, her cool gray eyes glimmered.

“Ms. Whittle, we haven’t met. I’m—”

“I know who you are, Clytemnestra Fortune. I’m surprised you don’t remember me. You used to play in the yard when you were no higher than my hip. You loved my sugar cookies.” She came a bit closer, tilting her head to look into my eyes. “Blue and brown. I told your grandmother you would be a great seer with eyes like that. You should have come sooner.”

I skipped over the fascination with my oddly colored eyes, and the creepy pronouncements, and focused on the part where I had been here before.

“I’ve . . . been here?”

“Well, you came with the rest of the teenagers when you were about fourteen, but didn’t linger. None of them do. But yes, you used to come here with Agnes. She was my friend. I still miss her every day.” A gust of wind blew the door all the way open and it slammed into the wall. I jumped, but Neila just went to the door and clicked it shut.

She tilted her head toward the back of the house and walked down the hallway. She didn’t look back. I caught myself wishing I had Baxter with me. Armed robbers I could handle, but creepy old ladies and their haunted houses were not my thing.
She’s just a little old lady,
I chided myself.
What I need is a grip, not a dog
.

Her kitchen looked like a cross between a mad scientist’s laboratory and a historic village kitchen circa 1820. I had never seen a fireplace so big outside of a field trip to Greenfield Village in Detroit. She’d hung cast-iron pots and pans from hooks in the ceiling. In the middle of the fireplace sat a metal frame and hanging from it was a large cauldron. There was a low fire burning beneath and steam rose out of the large round pot. I braced for the stench that I was sure would emanate, but then smelled—beef stew. Neila gathered her fabric around herself to lean over the cauldron and the aroma almost made my knees buckle. I realized I hadn’t eaten since a banana at breakfast.

She turned and pointed to a chair. “Hungry?”

I nodded.

“I made a big batch. It seems I have more visitors than one might expect for a haunted house.” Her mouth moved into a grin and she was suddenly more like my grandmother and less like a witch.

“Is your house haunted?” I glanced around the kitchen to avoid looking in her eyes.

“No, I don’t think so, but every town needs a legend.” She moved about the fireplace, grabbing bowls from a low table, and began spooning up the savory mixture. She crossed the room, and as I followed her movements, I saw the modern stove and oven tucked into a corner near the refrigerator. She bent and pulled fresh rolls from its depths. I felt my whole body relax.

She sat across from me with her own bowl and the room was quiet except for spoons scraping on crockery.

Disregarding all of my mother’s training in manners, I mopped up the last of the stew with the bread. Neila chuckled.

“Want some more?”

I felt like Oliver Twist, but nodded.

Finally, I was so full I wasn’t sure I would be able to walk out the door.

“Thank you, Ms. Whittle. That’s the best stew I’ve had since . . .”

“Your grandmother passed?” She smiled kindly. “It’s her recipe. I always make it this time of year. It’s one of my favorite things about heading into winter—knowing I can have your grandmother’s stew.”

“Why don’t I remember you?” I said.

“Well, you were very little and an awful lot has happened between now and then.”

“Still, I’ve tried to remember everything about my grandmother.”

Neila nodded. “She was a great woman. Should we get started?”

I was startled by her question and must have looked it. She smiled and patted my hand.

“My aunt Vi told me to come and talk to you. Honestly, I don’t even know why.”

“Violet loves her mysteries, doesn’t she?”

I thought about that and realized she was right.

“I suppose, but I don’t know what her intentions were in regard to visiting you. Have you heard about what happened out in Greer’s Woods a few nights ago?”

Neila’s eyes glistened, and I thought she was about to cry. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I heard about Rafe Godwin. But I don’t know anything about that.”

I tried to think of the least offensive way to ask my next question. Psychics don’t like to have their talents challenged.

“Ms. Whittle, did you ever talk to my grandmother about my . . . visions?”

“Oh yes.” She nodded. “She was very impressed with your talent. She said you had a true gift, and I wasn’t surprised. She was worried about you, though. That’s why I thought you would come. She told me to help you with the visions but to wait until you came on your own.”

This was classic Greer/Fortune family behavior. I tamped down the anger that rose in my chest at my grandmother’s methods. I should have expected it since they were the same as my mother’s methods. My dismay must have been clear because Neila stood and started clearing the dishes in a businesslike manner.

“Don’t be mad at your grandmother. These things take time, and a person can’t be helped until they’re ready.”

“If you can help me to stop having the visions, then I was ready about fifteen years ago.”

Neila hesitated. “I can’t stop the visions. I can only teach you how to interpret them and how to use them.”

Now
I understood. Vi didn’t tell me
why
I needed to see Neila Whittle. This was just one more attempt on the part of my family to get me to pursue the psychic way of life.

I stood quickly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Whittle. I don’t need that kind of help. Thanks for the stew and the conversation.”

I hated to offend this poor little old lady, but I had to get out of there. As I walked down the hallway, a deep sense of grief passed through me. It didn’t feel like my own, it felt primal and vast. I had to concentrate to breathe, and I grabbed the wall to steady myself. I didn’t hear her come up behind me, but when she placed her hand on my back the relief was astonishing.

“You’re fine now. Go.” She pushed me gently toward the front door. “But think about what I said. You won’t be able to stop the dreams, the feelings, the visions, but you can learn to use them. You can learn to control
them,
so they don’t control you.”

Regaining my sense of manners, I shook her hand. “It was nice to meet you—again.”

I ran to my Jeep, jumped in, and locked the door as if I could somehow lock out the feeling that I would never escape from the expectations of my mother.

17

Pushing all thoughts of Neila Whittle and my family out of my mind, I focused on the problem at hand, which was how to get Dylan out of jail and find closure for Diana.

I texted Seth and told him to meet me out in the street in front of my mom’s house. I wasn’t ready to talk to Vi or my mother yet. I didn’t know whether Mom was in on this latest attempt to make me “accept my destiny,” but I felt like avoiding both of them for now. Turning the corner, I saw Seth and the dogs loitering at the curb.

“What’s with the stealth?” Seth said after he loaded the dogs and buckled his seat belt.

“Let’s go get Alex and see what we can find out about Rafe,” I said.

Seth shrugged and said, “You’re driving.” One thing I loved about Seth was that he was always up for whatever came along.

Alex was more difficult. It took a bit more explaining, coercing, and downright whining to get him to leave the restaurant and get in my Jeep. It was well after the lunch rush so he didn’t have that excuse but liked to have a plan in place before gallivanting off on an adventure. Since I didn’t have a plan, it made convincing him problematic.

“Let’s just figure it out when we get to Rafe’s house. We have to do something,” I said when I finally had him moving toward the Jeep.

He stopped on the sidewalk and peered into the vehicle’s windows.

“I’m not sitting in the back with the animals,” Alex said.

Seth sighed and got out of the Jeep. “Be my guest,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the front seat.

“Which Hardy Boy are you?” Alex asked.

“Hardy who?” Seth pushed the dogs out of the way and folded himself into the backseat. “Is that a new group?”

Alex sighed and shook his head. “Why don’t you Google it?”

“Not that interested, dude.”

I turned on the radio to stop the bickering, and headed north.

Rafe had lived in a small bungalow on the outskirts of Grand Rapids. One of those neighborhoods unsure of whether it was moving up or down in the world. Adorable cottages with flowers in the window boxes and fresh paint on the porches sat next to houses with boarded-up windows, peeling paint, and broken rakes and lawn mowers in the yard. I parked one block over just in case a vigilant neighborhood watch was in place.

Rafe’s small house was painted a cheery yellow with white trim. He had crammed an herb garden and a flower garden onto his small lot. On this leaden, cloudy day, the brown plants and scattered leaves looked forlorn. The house had already settled into benign neglect. Flyers for pizza delivery and cleaning services cluttered his welcome mat. Leaves skittered over the porch and down the steps. The windows were dark and reflected the gray of the sky.

Diana had told me there was a key above the windowsill to the right of the door. I found it easily and slid it into the lock. I hesitated a moment before turning it, feeling guilty about intruding into this man’s life. Then I remembered Dylan and twisted the small piece of metal with a satisfying
click
.

Alex glanced nervously up and down the street. “Are you sure this is legal?”

Oblivious to our conversation, Seth’s head bobbed to his iPod soundtrack.

“No, I’m
not
sure,” I said. “There’s no police tape or note on the door saying to stay out. We have a key. I think we would be able to talk our way out of any trouble.”

“Maybe in Crystal Haven where you have Mac twisted around your finger, but not here in Grand Rapids,” Alex said.

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t have Mac twisted around anything.”

Seth snorted. Maybe he was less oblivious than I thought.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Alex said, and stepped inside.

It felt like a violation to walk into the house without the owner there. All of his belongings watched us, waiting to see what we were up to. Literally. Artwork of various pagan gods and goddesses followed us with their eyes. A quick perusal of the living room revealed Rafe’s altar draped in a deep rust cloth embroidered with a pentagram. Pumpkins, gourds, and candles sat on top. I recognized the arrangement from Diana’s house. She always decorated with seasonal items as well. She explained it was a way to bring nature into the house.

“What are we looking for, anyway?” Alex asked. His eyes darted warily from item to item.

I shrugged. “I’m hoping we’ll know it when we see it.”

Seth took his earbuds out. “I don’t know what to look for.” He peered around the entryway. “Ooh, kerosene lamps!” He stepped toward the mantel, where the lamps stood beneath a pentagram wreath made of twigs.

I put out a hand to stop him. “You take the kitchen and the bathroom,” I said. “Just look for anything that feels out of place or that might indicate Rafe had a problem with anyone.”

I pointed Alex upstairs to the bedrooms. I took the office and living room. Other than the altar and the kerosene lamps, the living room contained a threadbare couch and chairs draped with throw blankets. A battered table held a beautiful Tiffany lamp with a Celtic knot pattern that looked to my untrained eye like an antique. Next to it sat a small square leather clock that had to be one of Dylan’s. What Rafe had saved on furniture, he spent on electronics. A large flat-screen TV took up the wall opposite the altar.

Rafe’s office looked like a band of monkeys lived there. Piles of magazines claimed the space around the perimeter of the room, obscuring the baseboards. His large desk hulked in the corner under the weight of notebooks, dried herbs, candles, and a sleek laptop. My shoulders slumped at the sight. This was the room most likely to yield results but it would take days to sort through everything. I mentally rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

An hour later, I sat back and stretched my arms over my head. I’d been hunched over Rafe’s desk, sorting through piles of paperwork and stacks of sticky notes with reminders to pick up dry cleaning or to increase the proportion of rosemary in an herbal poultice and everything in between. Rafe had stuffed one of Morgan’s revenge kits between a book on Wiccan rituals and a Grand Rapids guidebook.

Seth wandered in and said he’d found nothing “unusual” in the kitchen or bathroom. “I did find this on the top shelf of the pantry. I thought it was a recipe book but maybe not.” He produced an old, worn, leather notebook.

I flipped through it and recognized that it must be Rafe’s grimoire, based on my recent education in those specialty notebooks.

“Thanks, Seth. This might be useful.”

Alex wandered in, yawning, and reported he had found nothing except fancy soaps and incense. He held out a bar of soap with a handmade label that said E
MBER
M
YST
. I recognized it from the festival but couldn’t remember who had sold it.

“He had a bunch of these in the upstairs bathroom,” Alex said.

I took the soap and inspected it. It smelled of mint and lavender. I shrugged and set it on the desk.

“I’m not having any luck, either,” I said. “I can’t find any information that might lead to knowing who would want to hurt him.”

“Were you expecting a threatening letter or blackmail note?” Alex asked.

“No.”
Yes
. “I just thought there would be something here to point us in the right direction. One strange thing was this.” I pushed a lever under the desktop and a panel slid open in the top desk drawer.

“Wicked,” Seth breathed. He stepped forward to try it for himself.

“I found his will here in the secret drawer. He left everything to Diana and Dylan.”

“Really?” Alex took the stack of papers from me. “This won’t help Dylan’s case. Didn’t Rafe have any family?”

I shook my head. “Apparently not, at least no one he’d leave his house to. I also found a family-tree diagram with the will.”

I had just turned back to pull that file out of the drawer when we heard a car door slam outside. I froze. Seth ducked down along the wall and slowly raised his eyes above the windowsill for a peek.

“Oh, crap,” Seth said. “You aren’t going to believe this, Clyde.”

I was sure I would believe, just maybe not like it. I waited, and when I didn’t reply he continued.

“Mac is here with some other cops I don’t recognize.”

I felt my eyes grow big and my stomach dropped down around my knees. Alex’s panicked look mirrored my feelings.

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

“They’re talking by the cars right now, but I think they’re coming in,” Seth whispered.

Alex grabbed my arm, gestured at Seth to follow, and dragged me through the kitchen toward the back door.

We tiptoed quickly to the back of the house and were about to open the door and bolt through the backyard when a man wearing a blue uniform came into view. We all ducked and turned around. We made it back into the front hall just as the doorknob started to turn. Seth squeezed my arm and pointed up the narrow staircase leading to the bedrooms. I shook my head no—I didn’t want to be trapped in the house with Mac doing a room-by-room search.

Alex sided with Seth and we were all at the top of the staircase when we heard Mac’s voice enter the house down below.

I had noticed that the bungalow had a third-floor window and figured there must be attic space somewhere. I would just have to hope that the cops didn’t need to do a very thorough search. They were probably here on the same mission as we were—to see what had been going on recently in Rafe’s life. No one put their important stuff in the attic, right?

Alex found the small door in the ceiling and we popped it open quietly and lowered the ladder without it squeaking. I sent a quick thank-you to Rafe for keeping his hinges oiled.

After we were in the attic, which was dim and gloomy on this late autumn afternoon, Alex pulled the ladder up inside and replaced the door. We sat hunched by the opening, listening to footsteps in the rooms below. I mentally smacked my forehead when I realized I had left the grimoire sitting downstairs on the desk. I’d managed to put the other documents back in the secret drawer . . . maybe I’d get a chance to come back later.

Rather than waste time getting a leg cramp and worrying, I clicked on my handy penlight and crept around the area. Alex followed. The usual assortment of junk languished in the corners. Two trunks looked promising, but contained only old musty clothing from a previous owner, unless Rafe was also a cross-dressing ’60s hippie. A dressmaker’s form stood alone in a far corner—was that a required fixture for an attic? A further perusal of old bicycle tires, baseball mitts, and hockey pads turned up nothing useful. I wasn’t even sure any of it had belonged to Rafe.

Seth, who had been stationed by the trapdoor, waved his arms like a drunken air-traffic signaler. Alex and I tiptoed back to where he stood.

“They’re talking about coming up here.” He said it so quietly we both had to lean toward him.

“What should we do?” Alex mouthed.

Seth pointed to the small window at the far side of the attic. I could barely make out tree branches through the grime. The window faced the backyard but it was three stories up. I have only a couple of fears. Guns, bad guys, small spaces, even snakes didn’t bother me. Spiders I could tolerate at a good distance. Heights did me in.

I shook my head and backed away. My foot found the one creaky floorboard in the whole attic.

“Did you hear that?” a male voice floated up from the floor below.

“It’s just the wind.” That one was Mac. They moved off to the other end of the house.

“How are we going to get Dylan out of jail if we’re all sharing his cell?” Alex said.

“You won’t have to climb, Clyde. We’ll just wait there on the roof until they go. It’s better than being killed by Mac.” Seth pulled on my sleeve.

At least Seth and Alex could hide out there. I’d decide when the time came whether I needed to join them or not.

We tiptoed again across the attic and no squeaky floorboards gave us away. I was sure that the window would be stuck and save me from needing to climb through it. But, no, it swung open easily as if it was used all the time. Now I was cursing Rafe and his general home-maintenance tendencies.

Seth was the first out, fearless as only a teenager can be. He poked his head back in. “It’s fine, there’s plenty of room. The roof is kind of steep, but it’s not slippery.”

Alex waited for me. He knew I’d never follow them out. He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head toward the window, and pointed. I felt my shoulders slump. Then we both spun in the direction of the trapdoor as it dropped open and weak light from the floor below leaked upward.

Alex began moving his hand in a circular, “hurry up” gesture. I took a deep breath and put my foot on the ledge. I barely had time to steady myself before I felt a huge push from behind. Good thing Seth was there to grab me or Alex would have pushed me right off the roof. We quickly found our footing and I looked straight ahead into the tree branches. Alex scrambled out right after me and pulled the window closed. He stood on the other side of the window, legs spread for a better grip on the steep roof, hands grasping the siding.

We plastered ourselves against the wall of the house and waited. I heard Mac and the other guy moving around the attic. They weren’t tiptoeing. They were certainly taking their time, however.