Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (3 page)

He had the personality of a rock and hated my family for some reason. Especially my mother. Mention the name Margaret Mary Jensen to Harley and a big vein in his forehead would immediately stand at attention. I'd never been able to find out the reason for his hatred. Abby's response was always: "Ask your mother." And when I did ask my mother, her answer was: "It's not my story to tell." Finally I gave up asking and stayed as far away from Harley as possible. Not hard to do since we didn't exactly move in the same circles.

"Poor Edna," I said, "how did she ever wind up with a grandson like Harley?"

Abby sighed. "Harley's had a rough life. He was so young when his father died. His stepfather was a drunk and lost most of the land Harley's mother had inherited, so there are reasons for Harley's bitterness…" She sighed again. "But those reasons don't excuse some of his behavior."

"What behavior?" My ears perking up.

"Ask your mother."

Dang. Foiled again.

Crossing to where Abby sat, I leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for dinner. It was wonderful." Straightening, I moved toward the door.

"Wait, Ophelia."

The concerned tone of her voice made me look at her. "Yes?"

She hesitated. "Umm—please find the time to work with the runes while you're gone."

I watched her, perplexed. "Okay. I said I would, but why is this suddenly so important?"

Looking down, she picked up a spoon and tapped it on the table.

"Abby, what's going on? It's something about Brian's murder, isn't it? It's why you were insistent I talk to the police again." I walked back to the table and took the spoon from her hand. "You've had a vision."

She stood and put both hands on my shoulders. "There will be two men, both dark. One good. One evil. One who kills for a reason."

The blood slowly drained from my face. Brian's killer. Did Abby mean I would meet Brian's killer?

Chapter Three

My dinner sat like a stone in my stomach while I tossed and rolled in bed. Either it was the rich food or the runes poking me from beneath my pillow that kept me awake. Giving up on sleep, I reached for the journal on my nightstand. I squinted at the faint handwriting. Jeez, this had to be almost a hundred years old. The first words were the ones I had read at Abby's, but this time I forced myself to read the rest.

Thurisaz
—
giant, troll, demon, torturer of women, said to be used to evoke those from the underworld. The hammer of Thor. A rune indicating challenges, tests. Symbol of thorns
—
used both to defend and destroy. Brambles were used as enclosures to defend villages. Criminals were executed by being thrown on pikes [brambles] shoved into the ground
...

Once again, I slammed the book shut. Nice mental image—someone writhing in misery while the thorns punctured their body. Not good reading material before bedtime. Fluffing my pillow and turning off the lamp, I rolled over and tried to sleep. But with sleep came the dream.

I walked the silent streets, my steps splashing through dark puddles. Fog swirled around my ankles with a cold that clung to my legs. I knew evil hid in the shadows, beyond the faint glow of the streetlights. I sensed it, felt it wash over me in palpitating waves. There, ahead of me, lurking around the corner of the next building. My steps slowed. Did I want to see what lay around the corner? Did I have the courage to face it? I hesitated, remembering Abby's words,
True courage is facing what we fear
. I quickened my pace, determined to confront the evil.

Rounding the corner, I saw him. Dressed all in black, he carried a bundle, wrapped in a tarp, over his shoulder. His stride was long and I ran to catch up. But he stayed ahead of me. He slowed when he approached a Dumpster with pieces of garbage sticking out from beneath its lid. Stepping into the dim light, he quickly lifted the lid and dumped the bundle he carried inside the Dumpster. He turned and walked away.

I approached the Dumpster. Did I look inside or run to catch him? A sense of inevitability drew me to it. I had to see the truth. I lifted the lid and pulled the tarp back from the bundle he had thrown so carelessly inside.

Brian lay twisted on top of the garbage, with his head at an unnatural angle. Starting at his feet, my eyes traveled up his broken body. Defense wounds sliced across his opened hands and his shirt was ripped from the slash of a knife. But the worst was the wound that ran from his left ear to his right. Blood from the cut had ran down his neck and soaked his shirt. On his forehead, carved with deadly precision, was a five-pointed star. His dead eyes were wide open and still held the terror of his last moments. His lips were a dusky blue, and in my dream they moved with silent words.

Startled and sickened, I jumped back from the Dumpster and the lid shut with a
clang
that echoed in the alley. I whirled to see the dark figure retreating into the night. No. I would not allow him to escape, not this time. This time I would see the monster's face. I ran after him.

My heart pounded in my chest. Was it from running or from what I had seen? I didn't know. All I knew was that I had to catch the monster before he killed again. I chased him down the street and into an open field.

Turn around so I can see your face
, I thought, but he kept up his pace. Air wheezed from my burning lungs as I ran faster. He came to a hedge and barreled through it. I followed, but before I could clear it, brambles reached out and snagged my clothes. Prickly branches wrapped around my legs and held me fast.

"Damn you. Turn around," I cried while the figure disappeared in the darkness.

My eyes popped open at the sound of my own voice. I scanned the room in panic while I struggled to sit up. Familiar shadows surrounded me: my dresser on the far wall and my reading chair by the window.

Okay, I'm in my own bed with all the covers kicked off and my body's drenched in sweat, not running through a park in Iowa City, chasing a murderer
. I let out a shaky breath.

Placing my hand over my heart, I felt it pounding. Near my bed, I saw two eyes staring at me from out of the darkness. My dog, Lady. A mixed breed—half German shepherd, half wolf—her head easily reached the top of the mattress. She whimpered and pressed her cold nose against my bare arm.

"It's okay, girl," I said, patting her head.

I felt the bed suddenly dip at my feet and I watched a large black shape slink toward me, almond eyes glowing orange in the night. The shape crept up the mattress until it reached my lap, and with a pounce, settled on my legs. A loud purr rumbled in the silence of the room as my cat, Queenie, began to give herself a thorough cleaning.

I tried to wipe the image of Brian lying in the Dumpster from my mind, but the scene danced in the shadows of my bedroom. The blood, the terror in Brian's sightless eyes, his blue lips. My hand stroking Queenie's soft black fur trembled.

That dream, that vision of horror, was the one that haunted me five years ago. It started the night of Brian's murder, the night I wasn't able to save him with my magick, my powers. The guilt caused a breakdown and changed my life. It had been a long time since I'd dreamed of Brian's murder. Why tonight?

I reached over and flicked on the lamp and the soft light chased the remaining shadows away. Looking at the nightstand, I saw the journal. Did reading about brambles, demons, torture, trigger the dream? Was it only random firings of the subconscious brought on by the words I'd read? Or was it more? Was it a manifestation of my so-called gift?

Frustrated, I threw myself back against my pillow, I disturbing Queenie. With an indignant look at me, she jumped off the bed and marched over to where Lady had settled. Plopping down, she resumed her bath.

I rubbed my temples while thoughts of Brian's murder bounced through my brain. What good is my gift if it doesn't answer my questions? Wait a second. The dream was different tonight. I'd never dreamed of chasing the killer before. And something else was different tonight. What was it? I forced myself to close my eyes and think, relive what I'd seen.

Oh my God. I jerked away from my pillow. Brian's mouth had moved and I remembered, remembered what his soundless words were.

"Help me."

Chapter Four

My lack of sleep the night before had made for a long day at the library and the last thing I wanted to do was attend a community meeting about hogs. But I had promised Abby.

The parking lot of the FirstMethodistChurch was full by the time I arrived. Every car in town was there—the sedate sedans driven by the senior element, SUVs purchased to hold growing families, and four-wheel drive trucks looking like something from a monster truck competition, with tires so large and so far from the ground that it would take a stepladder to climb into the cab.

I watched from my car as people walked to the door, stopping along the way to talk to neighbors in hushed tones. Everyone's face wore a serious look: no laughter, no jokes. These people were fighting for their homes, especially people like Abby who would be living near the hog confinement buildings and sewage lagoon. Health issues stemming from the close proximity to the lagoon, the stench, and dropping property values were all concerns. Everyone had a reason to look serious—and worried.

After exiting my car, I walked quickly to the building. As I did, I felt people watching me. No doubt, they were surprised to see me at the meeting, I thought. Until a few months ago, I'd kept to myself after moving to Summerset. It had only been recently that I'd begun to let people, other than Abby, into my life. Ned, Darci, and a few others made up the small circle of friends that I trusted. The stares I felt on my back made my skin tingle. I walked faster.

Once inside the church's meeting hall, I stopped. Currents of emotion flowed in the confined space. Fear, anxiety, anger—all eddied around me like swirling fog, the tendrils infiltrating my mind. I shut my eyes and concentrated on imagining myself in a bubble, a shield against what I sensed. A wall to hold the feelings of others at bay. When my wall was firmly in place, I opened my eyes and scanned the room.

A long table had been placed at the front of the room and chairs were assembled in rows. Several of the rows were already full, but a lot of people stood milling around. I spotted our local state representative, George Saunders, going from group to group, shaking hands and doing a bit of backslapping. His face didn't mirror the worried expression of his constituents. Instead, he wore the practiced look of a seasoned politician. Concerned and attentive. But I noticed how, occasionally, his eyes would slide around the room, marking the next group to schmooze. After a final handshake and a firm pat on the shoulder, he'd move on.

Harley and his boys stood to my left, leaning against the wall. Some had their hands shoved in their pockets. Others stood with their arms crossed tightly over their chests. And all of them appeared ready for a fight.

Dudley Kyle and his group stood on the opposite side of the room from Harley. Dudley was dressed in navy Dockers and a navy and white pinstriped shirt. His tasseled loafers screamed "expensive."

My gaze moved from Dudley to Harley over by the wall. He watched Dudley too. His eyebrows were knitted tightly together above eyes full of hostility, eyes that never left the spot where Dudley stood. The corners of his mouth dropped down in a scowl.

Dudley knew Harley watched him. Quick looks in Harley's direction were accompanied by a lot of nodding and low voices from the group knotted around Dudley. I recognized one of them as a member of the CountyBoard of Supervisors. Talk about sleeping with the enemy.

But the tension was what I noticed the most. It stretched like a cord between the two men, taut and ready to break. Abby was right. The meeting could get sticky.

From my position by the door, I saw Abby at the front of the room with a cluster of people around her—Stumpy all spiffed up in a shirt and tie, Edna Walters with her walker in tow, and several more of the senior group. Abby's eyes met mine and she gave me a
thumbs up
. I smiled in return.

Without warning, another emotion crossed my radar, trying to penetrate my wall. It didn't come from Harley or Dudley Kyle. And it wasn't vague or insubstantial. It was hard and driving and it battered against my protection, looking for a chink. My hand instinctively went to the talisman I wore around my neck. I closed my eyes, while in my mind, I fought to keep my wall intact.

"Hey, Miss Ophelia."

The battering stopped. I turned to see Gus Pike standing next to me.

"Gus. How are you?" I asked smiling and held out my hand.

I was surprised to see him at the meeting. Gus Pike had to be almost eighty and lived in a shanty out in the boonies, south of town. He was even more reclusive than I'd been and his main companion was his goat, Charlie. I'd met Gus while on a walk with Lady, after she'd tried to make friends with his chickens, much to their distress. He'd been so kind and understanding about Lady's misbehavior that we became friends.

Gus shyly took my hand in his. His bad eye, the one locked in a permanent squint, twitched rapidly while he gave my hand a hearty shake. "Fine, Miss Ophelia. Ever since you gave me this here necklace," he said, reaching around his neck and pulling out an amulet of malachite suspended on a copper wire. "It's working wonders against the arthritis."

"Good," I said, giving his hand another quick shake and releasing it. "I'm glad. How's Charlie?"

"Oh, tolerable. He had a bellyache last night. I figured he must'a ate something spoiled. But you know how goats are." He gave me a toothless grin. "They'll eat anything."

"What are you doing here tonight, Gus?"

His grin faded while he shook his head. "Bad's coming, Miss Ophelia. Don't know if it's this here feller with the hogs or what. But I can feel it in my bones. Thought I'd better come here tonight and see if it was him or not."

Abby had always said she thought Gus had some psychic ability. Maybe she was right. Before I could answer Gus, a sharp rap from the front of the room drew our attention.

"If everyone would please take their seats now, we'll get started," Abby said from the front table.

I looked at Gus. "Shall we find a seat, Gus?"

"Naw. I think I'll go stand by the door. Then I can leave right quick when this shindig's over." Gus took my hand again and gave it a small pat. "You've been a good friend, Miss Ophelia. You take care now. Bye." With that he released my hand and shuffled off.

"You're a damn liar."

Heads swiveled to watch Harley, still leaning against the wall and still glaring at Dudley Kyle.

The meeting had been going on for hours. Kyle, Saunders, and the county supervisor had wiggled around every argument and every question that Abby's group brought up without addressing the issues. Tempers were beginning to rise.

Turning back after Harley's remark, I observed the men sitting with Kyle at the front table. Saunders, the state representative, wore a tight smile, while the county supervisor passed a hand over his forehead as if he were wiping away perspiration. The other two men seated at the table shuffled the notes that lay on the table in front of them. The only one who met Harley's look straight on was Kyle.

"Why do you think I'm lying, Harley?" Dudley asked with a smug smile.

" 'Cause you are."

Great answer, Harley
, I thought, shaking my head.

I glanced over at Abby. She gave me a slight shrug of her shoulders. She knew as well as I did that Dudley Kyle would make verbal mincemeat of Harley any minute now.

Dudley knew it too. His smile became wider. "Harley, it's a matter of public record that my house is located near one of our facilities. I couldn't lie about it."

"Yeah, well what about the flies?" Harley asked.

"What flies?"

"The flies that swarm around a hog lot in the summer. They're so bad, I heard people living near one of your lots can't go outside."

"Nonsense. My wife and I spend a lot of time outdoors in the summer."

"But Mr. Kyle, isn't it true you spend most of the summer in Minnesota and the rest traveling in Europe?" asked a voice from the back of the room. "Away from the hog lots?"

Kyle's smile slipped a little when he looked at the speaker standing near Gus.

Whoever the man was, he was a stranger to me. About my age, with dark blond hair, and blue eyes pinned directly on Dudley Kyle. The man held a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. A reporter, maybe? Whoever he was, he wouldn't be as easy a mark for Kyle as Harley.

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Kyle," the stranger said.

Dudley's smile slipped a little more. "Well…" He paused and leaned back in his chair. Picking up a pencil, Dudley rolled it back and forth in his palms. "Ahh, yes. We travel in the summer."

"And isn't it true that the remainder of the year, you're at your home in Colorado?" the stranger persisted.

"Ummm—"

"Look," the supervisor interrupted, rescuing his buddy. "This meeting isn't about whether Dudley has flies or how much time he spends in Iowa. It's about the impact this facility will have on our community."

Abby shot to her feet. "You're right. We do need to know the impact." Turning her head, she looked straight at Kyle. "Can you tell us, Mr. Kyle, how you plan to get rid of the twenty million gallons of raw sewage your hogs will produce in a year."

"We'll inject the manure into the cropland, enriching the soil," Kyle said.

"What cropland?" Abby asked, arching an eyebrow.

The smug look returned to Kyle's face. "You've seen the maps, Mrs. McDonald. You know what fields we'll use."

Abby squared her shoulders and gave Kyle a piercing look. "Yes, I have, Mr. Kyle, but have you? If you have, you know that those fields are considered at high risk for erosion. Any chemical, natural or synthetic, will wash down into the stream every time it rains, polluting not only the stream but the river it drains into."

"Yeah," hollered one of Harley's boys. "Instead of shit rolling downhill, the shit flows downstream."

A chorus of "Yeah" and "That's right" erupted throughout the room.

"Now, now," said the supervisor, waving his hands at the crowd. "Everybody settle down. Mrs. McDonald here has a valid concern. One I'm sure the Department of Natural Resources will take into consideration before they approve PP International's permit to build."

"It's more than a valid concern," Abby said, turning her eyes from Kyle to the county supervisor. "We intend to prove PP International's facility will pollute the water beyond the DNR's guidelines if they use the fields specified. And without those fields, PP International doesn't have enough cropland set aside to handle the manure from their facility. The DNR will have to reject their permit."