Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (26 page)

"In the greenhouse?"

"Yes." I resumed my pacing. "I thought maybe Harley or the goons from PP International were responsible, but now I'm not sure."

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you. The last thing I remember is working in the greenhouse and hearing a noise behind me. The rest is a blank."

"Nothing else, no feeling, no sense of who's responsible?" I asked while I paced.

"No."

"Dang." I felt like pounding my head on the wall. "I don't know where to go from here."

"Beasley's room at the motel," she said in a pragmatic voice. "See what you sense."

I came to a sudden stop. "What?" I tugged at my hair in frustration. "Bill or Comacho won't let me within a hundred yards of Beasley's room."

"Give them a reason to."

"What reason? I've tried telling the truth. It didn't work."

My sweet, gentle grandmother looked at me with a sly grin and uttered one word.

"Lie."

Chapter Thirty-Two

I felt safe leaving Abby alone. The deputy was still posted at her door and I knew Mother and Arthur would be back soon. My mother required little sleep; she'd want to get back to the hospital as soon as possible so she could start bossing the doctors and nurses around.

While I drove to the motel, my brain scrambled for an excuse to be in Beasley's room, but I drew a blank. I'd have to wing it. When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed Comacho's car parked next to Bill's patrol car.

Wonderful. I'd hoped to find Bill alone. I had a feeling that Bill would be more sympathetic—if Comacho and his ice-cold presence weren't there. Steeling myself for the inevitable, I got out of the car and walked into the motel.

As I wandered down the hall, it wasn't hard to find Beasley's room; it was the one with crime scene tape covering the door. And had Deputy Alan Bauer standing at attention, looking official. Maybe Alan didn't know I was a suspect and I could talk him into letting me in the room.

"Hi, Alan," I said, keeping my voice light.

"Ophelia, what are you doing here?" A frown puckered his brow.

So much for talking Alan into anything.

"Is Bill in there?"

"Yes." His eyes narrowed.

"May I go in and talk to him?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

The conversation wasn't going well. I wondered if Alan would let me in if I told him I was here to make a confession.

Frustrated, I shoved my hands in my back pockets. Rubbing the toe of my shoe across the carpet, I tried to think of a way around Alan. My attention shifted from the carpet to the door when it swung open. Alan lifted the tape and the crime scene team walked out carrying their equipment.

No one made an effort to shut the door, but Alan stood blocking the doorway. I stood on my tiptoes and peered around him, trying to get a glimpse inside.

I didn't see Bill or Comacho.
Are they in there? Can I make an end run around Alan? Nope. Alan is bigger than me
.

Abruptly Bill and Comacho appeared by the window in Beasley's room. I caught Bill's eye with what I hoped was a friendly wave. His brow puckered just like Alan's had. Comacho, his eyes following Bill's, glared.

Gee, no one seems glad to see me today.

"Bill," I called out, "can I come in?"

Wiping his bald head, Bill looked at Alan and nodded. "Let her in, Alan."

Alan stepped to the side and I moved past him.

"What are you doing here, Ophelia?" Bill asked.

I didn't answer right away. I was busy searching the room with my psychic radar, trying to pick up something—anything.

The walls were a putty beige with a piece of motel art hanging over the bed. The bed itself was bare. The team had stripped it of the bedspread and sheets. The surfaces of the fake wood dresser and nightstand were covered with a fine powder from the team lifting prints.

I sensed energy in the room, but I couldn't focus on it. The frigid waves coming off Comacho kept blocking the other energy in the room. I needed to concentrate, but I was running out of time.

"I asked you what you were doing here, Ophelia?" Bill's voice sounded sharp.

Time's up. Nothing
. I ground my teeth in irritation.
Dang Comacho and his Iceman attitude
.

"Ahh, Abby's awake."

Boy, did that sound lame
. I didn't dare look at Comacho, but I felt the room temperature drop a notch.

"I know. The deputy at the hospital called," Bill said.

"Oh," I chewed on my lip. "I never thought of that."

The temperature dropped again.

"Umm, are there any questions you want to ask me?" I asked while I tried scanning the room again.

The room was getting so cold that I almost shivered.

"One right now—where were you Thursday night?"

I pursed my lips, thinking. Ever since Abby had been hurt, the days blended together.
Thursday? Playing with the runes
? Better not tell him that.
No, the rune reading was last night. Friday night. Thursday night I fell asleep as soon as I arrived home
.

"Home asleep?" I didn't mean to make my answer sound like a question.

"Anyone talk to you, stop by?" Bill asked.

I shook my head.

"Well," Bill scratched his head. "I'll have more later, but I think it would be better if you came to the office for those."

My eyes flew to Comacho's face. He was staring at a spot on the wall above my head.

My anger simmered below the surface. I'd told him more about myself, my gifts, than I'd ever shared with anyone in my life and he didn't even have the guts to look at me. I'd never felt so betrayed.
This is what I get for being honest? Arrested for murder. Damn you, Co-macho, look at me
!

When his eyes finally met mine, I thought I saw a spark of regret before the wall of ice came slamming down. Defeated, I turned, without speaking, and left the room.

My steps were heavy as I walked down the hall. All I could think about was how I'd blown it. I hadn't been able to shut Comacho out long enough to learn anything.

A door opening to my left startled me.

Charles Thornton.

"Ophelia, I was headed over to your house in hopes of finding you," he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the room before I responded.

I took a fast look over my shoulder. At least he left the door opened.

His room was exactly like Beasley's. Same putty beige walls, same cheap picture, but the dresser and nightstand were clean. The nightstand drew my attention again.

Charles's books lay there.

Trying to read upside down, I studied the books. All I read on one was the name of the author—Cotton Mather. The other book's title was in Latin. I craned my neck to read it better.
MalleusMaleficarum
.

Amazed, I looked over at Charles. "You read Latin?"

He quickly walked to the nightstand and, after opening the drawer, picked up the books and dropped them in.

"Yes," he replied, shutting the drawer with a
bang
.

"Hey, no need to be embarrassed, Charles. I'm impressed you read Latin."

"My nurse taught me. She liked the classics." He turned around and smiled. "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to—"

"Wait a second," I said, breaking in. "I appreciate the flowers and all, but I'm afraid I've misled you."

"I know all about you. How could you mislead me?" he asked, frowning.

"I have. I think." I paused. I might as well get right to the point. "I don't want a relationship, Charles. It's not you," I said, rushing on. "I'm not interested in that with anyone."

"You're rejecting me?" he asked in a shocked voice.

"Charles, how can I reject you when I don't even know you?" I asked, surprised at his reaction.

"You could get to know me," he said with a pout.

"No, Charles, I don't think so," I said quietly.

He stuck out his bottom lip. "You're like the others, after all. I thought, after I'd met you, that you had some goodness in you. I was wrong."

What an odd thing to say.

I eyed the distance between the door and me. I took a careful step in that direction.

"I'm sorry if you've been hurt by other people, but I can't be involved with anyone right now."

Charles's reaction made me uncomfortable. His blue eyes glinted while he watched me.

I edged myself backward toward the door, and as I did, I made a snap decision.

Time to get the hell out of here.

I pivoted on my heel and ran, not slowing till I reached my car.

Driving home, I couldn't get over Charles's strange behavior. We'd talked maybe three times, but he acted like we were involved. Was he that crazy?

I peeked at the clock on my dashboard. It was close to nine o'clock. I made a fast call to check on Abby and talked to my mother. Abby was fine, Mother was fine. Dad, who she'd called before returning to the hospital, was fine. Everybody was fine. Except me. Comacho was getting ready to arrest me.

A sense of unease pricked at me. I tried to trap its source, but it slid away. I drummed my fingers on the steering column. If I got arrested, the killer, the witch hunter, might win.

Yanking the steering wheel around, I made a fast U-turn in the middle of the street. Darci had said I needed to learn more about the history of witches, so I would. I headed to the library.

At the top of the steps, I fished my keys out of my backpack and unlocked the door. Hitting the light switches on my way, I headed to the reference section. I found the books I wanted right away. After pulling them off the shelf, I went down the stairs to my office.

I hesitated at the door to my office and looked around.

The pictures of Abby and my parents stared at me from my desk. My chair was pushed in just like I always left it at the end of the day. The clutter on the desk was in its normal spot.

Boy, do I miss this place. I have to find the killer so my life can go back to normal. Well, at least normal for a witch and a psychic.

Settling down at my desk, I opened the first book and started reading about the Salem Witch Trials.

An hour and half later, I'd finished.

I propped my feet on my desk and thought about what I'd read.

What had started out as a game of fortune-telling between a group of girls in the winter of 1692 soon became something more sinister.

The girls began to suffer from fits, convulsions. Finding no physical reason, the doctor diagnosed they were bewitched. Charges of witchcraft were brought against the girls by clergyman Samuel Parris. When questioned, at first the girls resisted naming names, but soon, they named a slave, Tituba, then Sarah Osborne and Sarah Good. More names were to come, and, by the time the last witch trial was held in January of 1693, over twenty people had been executed and their property seized. Many of the convictions were based on the testimony of one of the girls, twelve-year-old Anne Putnam. Terror reigned and anyone who spoke out against the trials was at risk of being accused themselves.

I flipped back through the pages and looked at the names of those executed, in most cases, by hanging. One man, Giles Corey, was pressed to death after he refused to answer the court's questions during his trial. He was bound and taken to a field where, each time he refused to answer, his tormentors piled more rocks on his body. It took him two days to die. He was eighty years old.