The Witch of Agnesi (13 page)

“The best laid plans of mice and math teachers.” She stared down a long empty driveway of pink peagravel extending to an equally empty graveled rear courtyard. Past the courtyard, framed in the green embrace of a stand of massive cottonwoods, stood a traditionally painted red and white barn. Not a hint of a vehicle was in evidence, not even a bicycle. No light came from the white-paneled two-story farm house.

Try as she might, Bonnie heard no sound coming from within. “Maybe the Sheridans are just sleeping?”

“It’s possible.” Armen found a way to say the short sentence and have it mean just the opposite. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Right.” This might even be better. No telling what they might find even with a quick look around.

“Would you give the front door a knock?”

By the time she’d exited and snatched up her crutches, Armen was already at the white screen door rapping away. There seemed no point in joining him if no one was home. She left him to his task and hobbled up the driveway toward the rear of the house.

The centerpiece of the courtyard was a white wishing well surrounded by an apron of yellow petunias. Small hillocks of pansies, snapdragons, and petunias defined the two borders of the yard not already defined by the house and barn. Someone had put in a lot of work planting and weeding these small berms. Bonnie was reminded of the fact that the Sheridans were a retired couple.

When I retire, I’ll have gardens like these.
She’d told herself this lie before when confronted by other enviable gardens. It was a lie that felt better every time she told it.

A triple switchback of wooden ramps led from the rear screen door to the ground. At the base of the ramp, grooves had been worn into the hard-packed earth and gravel where a pair of thin wheelchair tires had attacked the ramp over the years—a wheelchair belonging to Molly, Edmund Sheridan’s sister.

Bonnie headed for the barn. If Peyton had stayed with Edmund, that would be the perfect place to hide. With effort and prerequisite cursing, she slid open the heavy wooden door. Although the barn hosted six horse stalls—three to each side of a wide dirt aisle—the absence of the musky smell of horse told a tale of long disuse as a paddock. No tack hung on the walls.

The Sheridans probably got rid of their horses after
Molly’s accident.

Before she’d taken half a dozen steps, Armen joined her. “No one home, which is just as well for a pair of amateur burglars.”

“I have no intention of burgling. I just want to look around.”

“Uh huh. If I’d had known you were into breaking and entering, I’d have asked you out for coffee long ago.” He pointed with his chin to the far stall on the right. “Something’s in that one.”

He strode past her to stand tall on the first rail of the galvanized steel gate. “Hello. A sleeping bag.”

By the time Bonnie hobbled to the gate, Armen was rooting around in the stall. He rejoined her holding a white strip of cloth or paper. “I think it’s athletic tape.”

She took the strip and laid it in one palm. “Not athletic, medical. See the diagonal folds? This was once a butterfly suture. Peyton had one on his face.”

Armen chewed his beard and lower lip. “Not any more.”

“The boy probably came here Thursday night.” She pocketed the tape. “I’ve been such a blockhead. Everybody—Franklin, you, Keene—you all tried to tell me Peyton had a hand in Stephanie’s murder. I wouldn’t hear of it. Damn, I thought I knew that boy.”

Jesse Poole was right. I don’t know shit.

A standard sized door equipped with a brass dead bolt broke the symmetry of the barn’s rear wall. The bolt had been thrown open. “This is most likely the way Edmund let Peyton in. The pair could come and go at will. Anyone in the house would stay clueless.”

Bonnie swung wide the door. A weedy path of sand and gravel led away from the barn and into a stand of cottonwoods. From somewhere lost in the trees came the skittering sounds and clean smell of rushing water—a small creek probably. Insects and birds chirped. The last dying gasps of afternoon sunlight fell dappled through tree branches.

A slurry of shallow footprints gathered at the barn door and disappeared into the trees. Through the middle of the footprints a wide swath of smooth dirt ran in the same direction.

“Someone tried to erase their footprints,” Armen said.

Bonnie stooped to get a closer look, inching herself down on one crutch. “They sure did a poor job of it. Most of the footprints are still here.”

Armen took her by the arm and helped her up. “We may have stopped them in the act,” he whispered. “They could be watching us from those trees right now.”

Bonnie felt exposed standing in the doorway. She stepped back, shut the door, and threw the bolt. Gloom reintroduced itself into the rear of the barn. “We probably ought not to disturb the footprints. Keene and Franklin will want to see them.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Armen shivered, though the heat in the barn seemed more than adequate.

Bonnie pivoted on her crutches.

Molly Sheridan, Edmund’s sister, sat in her wheel-chair, blocking the entrance to the barn. She had a shotgun leveled in their direction, and from the way she held it she knew what she was doing. “Come out of there, both of you. Put your hands where I can see them.”

“So ends the criminal career of the Pinkwater and Callahan gang,” Armen whispered. He raised his hands and walked slowly toward Molly.

Bonnie raised hers as well then found she couldn’t walk.
Well, this just sucks. I’m going to be shot because
I’m a cripple.
“Molly, it’s Missus Pinkwater, Edmund’s math teacher. I’m on crutches. I need to put my hands down to walk.”

The girl lowered the rifle maybe ten degrees. “Missus P? What are you doing in our barn?”

Armen, having already reached the girl, looked back at Bonnie as if to say, “You have to admit, it’s a reasonable question. I can’t wait to hear your answer.”

Bonnie hobbled to Molly, still considering viable responses.
I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a barn.
I can come back if this is a bad time.

Of course, there was always the truth.
I was looking
for Edmund because he and a classmate, who by
the way has been missing for two days, may have murdered
a young girl. You haven’t by any chance seen
them?

Molly laid the shotgun across her lap. “It’s Edmund, isn’t it? He’s in trouble.”

Bonnie studied Molly’s guileless face wondering just how much she could trust the girl. Supposedly, Edmund and this invalid sister were close. How would this same sister react to the news that her beloved brother might be a murderer? “I’d feel more comfortable if you let my friend hold your shotgun before I answered your question.”

Molly peered up at Armen. Her soft almond eyes regarded him and she nodded. She extended the shot gun, barrel first. At the last moment, she appeared as if she’d changed her mind and refused Armen’s attempt to take the weapon. From the look of her well-muscled arms, she could easily have given him a fight.

Then she relented and let Armen have the rifle. “He’s in that bad of trouble?”

You have no idea, sweetie.
“Are your parents here?”

Molly shook her head, her straight, black hair tossing first right then left. “They left for the Springs early this morning. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping at night, so I took a pill and went back to bed.”

That explains no answer at the door.
“How about Edmund?”

Molly shrugged. The expression carried the weight of miserable resignation. “He’s gone, but who knows where? He doesn’t tell me anything, not any more.” Her face contorted.

Bonnie prepared herself for the young woman’s tears, but Molly recovered, fighting her way back to control. Her face grew tight. “He’s gone all the time. Sometimes sneaks out in the middle of the night. I’m worried sick about him.”

“Can we go inside and talk?”
I don’t think I’m
about to make you feel any better.

How do I tell this girl I intend to phone the police
and rat out her brother?
“Did you know Peyton Newlin had run away, that he’d been hiding in your barn?” The question sounded smoother in her mind, but what the hell, she was winging it.

Molly’s face went to stone. She glanced first at Armen, who by his own hard expression gave nothing away. When she came back to Bonnie, she blew out a long breath. “I knew Edmund was out there, but not Peyton. Like always, I was having trouble sleeping Thursday night. I was staring out the back window when I saw the barn door slide open. Edmund carefully slid it shut then snuck into the house.”

Bonnie rubbed her sweating palms on her jeans. “Did he see you?”

She shook her head. “My bedroom door was closed. My lights were out. I heard him pass my door in the hall heading for his own room.”

“In the days since, you never confronted him?”

Molly opened her mouth then closed it. “There’s more to this than Peyton sleeping in our barn, isn’t there?” Her lips flattened into a tight line.

Armen folded his arms across his chest, as if to remove himself from the possibility of answering this difficult question.

Thanks a lot, Callahan.
“Yeah, honey. There’s quite a bit more. We think Edmund may be involved in a murder.”

Bonnie had been prepared for denial, anger, or even a physical response. But the young woman surprised her.

With a jarring shove, Molly pushed her wheelchair away from the table. “That bitch. It’s all her fault. I know it. Edmund is no murderer.”

Stephanie?

Bonnie inhaled slowly to get her voice and emotions under control. “Exactly what bitch might we talking about?”

Molly cocked her head and tendered a look dripping with disdain. “His girlfriend, of course.” Molly had her hands raised since pushing off the table, now she lowered them into her lap—two fists pressed one against the other like butting rams.

The air felt close and hot about Bonnie’s face. She turned to Armen, and he mouthed the name Bonnie had been thinking just a moment ago.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she mouthed back. “Molly?”

Edmund’s big sister raised her eyes from her fists to Bonnie’s face. Her compact little Korean face looked lopsided with rage and sorrow.

“What?” She sniffled wetly.

“Do you know this girlfriend’s name?”

Like a child, Molly unselfconsciously wiped her sleeve across her nose. “She never signed her name on her emails, but I think I know who she is.”

Oh, my God
. “She wrote emails to Edmund?”
And you read them. Clever girl.

Molly nodded. “About a dozen. You should see the crap she says to him.”

“I’d like to, very much.”

CHAPTER 11

E
DMUND SHERIDAN’S BEDROOM LOOKED like a local branch of the Library of Congress. Bookshelves lined every wall including around the window and the spaces beside and above his twin bed. Black binders filled every shelf. A niche had been grudgingly carved out of the ubiquitous shelves for a small computer desk. A poster hung in the space above the computer. Casper the Friendly Ghost had his marshmallow arm around a young witch clad in a red cape and conical hat.

Molly Sheridan sat in front of a flat-screen monitor firing up a Gateway computer.

A gigantic throw rug covered the floor from wall to wall. It featured an obese boy wearing Harry Potter glasses and brandishing a lollipop like a weapon. The caption next to the boy’s head read, “You want I should bop you with this here lollipop?”

“Herbie Popnecker,” Armen whispered as if he had just entered the sacristy of the Sistine Chapel.

“Who?” Bonnie asked, although the name sounded vaguely familiar. She’d been preoccupied with a full-sized fiberglass statue of Wonder Woman. As always, the female superhero looked as if her pointed bosoms just might explode out of her costume.

“Herbie Popnecker,” Armen repeated. “A fat little boy who fought crime and saved the world using a collection of supernatural lollipops.”

Molly punched “enter” to finish logging on and pivoted in her wheelchair. “Do you remember Herbie’s favorite flavor of lollipop?”

A wide grin that spoke of not quite forgotten childhood memories split Armen’s face. “Hard To Get Cinnamon.”

He turned his smile and enthusiasm on Bonnie.

“Herbie once went back in time and saved the American Revolution using Hard To Get Cinnamon.”

Bonnie stared at this fifty-year old Science teacher, amazed he could still speak of comic books with such reverence. Once again, her belief that men never stopped being little boys was validated. “That’s nice, Armen.”

If he caught the hint of sarcasm in her voice, Armen didn’t acknowledge it. “I once owned every issue of Herbie Popnecker. Read them all a dozen times.”

Molly pointed to a binder on a shelf one removed from the top. “Edmund owns the entire Herbie run, including his first appearance in Forbidden Worlds.”

Armen reached for the binder then stopped. “May I?”

Molly nodded. “I’m sure Edmund wouldn’t mind as long as you’re careful. None of the issues are in anything above Very Good condition.”

Armen slid the binder free and opened it for Bonnie and himself. Encased in a plastic sleeve lay a comic book featuring the same rotund boy, this time towing George Washington and his troops across the Delaware.

“Comic books are rated according to their condition, the best being Mint condition. Then follows Near Mint, Very Fine, Fine, then Very Good all the way down to Poor.” He peered above the volume at Molly. “Even in Very Good condition a complete collection of Herbie Popneckers must be worth a considerable sum.”

Molly spread wide her hands. “I’m not an expert like Edmund. I’d have to look up the price in Overstreet.” She took the binder gingerly from Armen’s hand.

In spite of herself, Bonnie felt her interest being tickled. “Overstreet?”

Molly smiled indulgently. “The bible of comic book collectors—current prices, news worthy sales, notices from collectors looking for specifics, ads from commercial collectors.”

For the first time Bonnie became fully aware that all the binders wore labels. Some of the titles she recognized from the recent spate of comic book movies—
Daredevil
,
Spiderman, Hulk
. Some were unknown to her—
Punisher, Doctor Strange, Justice
League of America
. Four thick binders were titled
Mad
Magazine
. “My God, we’re talking hundreds, maybe thousands of comic books. Edmund must have a small fortune tied up in these.”

Or at least his parents have.

Molly tilted her head and scanned the binders. Her lips moved as she checked off titles. “Not as much as you think. Maybe ten, fifteen thousand dollars tops. But then again, none of these are in better than Very Good condition.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars?” Bonnie forced down a giggle she knew would be interpreted as disrespectful. “Edmund must have quite an allowance.”

Molly shot her a shows what you know frown.

“Edmund doesn’t get an allowance. He’s a serious collector. Last year, buying and selling, he made a profit of twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

“But I thought you said all of these were only worth between ten and fifteen thousand.”

“This isn’t the good stuff.” Molly smiled mischievously, her almond eyes twinkling. “Edmund keeps his prized pieces in a dehumidifying vault in the basement.”

“Mint condition?” Armen looked as if he might salivate.

A spark of something indefinable passed between Molly and Armen. “Of course. He’s got a mint original
Secret Origins
from DC comics. And a mint collection of the first fifty issues of
Omni Magazine
.”

Armen laced his fingers behind his head and exhaled. “I’d love to see them, especially the
Secret
Orig
i
ns.”

“No can do.” Molly pursed her lips, looking apologetic. “Edmund has the only key. He loves that collection more than he loves me.”

She lowered her eyes. “Especially now.”

Oh, sweetie, don’t let Edmund’s problems become
yours.

“What else does he have?” Armen’s hands shook with the asking.

Molly took a long breath and released it. “He just picked up
Mad Magazine
number twenty-four in Very Fine condition. I think he paid four thousand for it.”

“Four thousand dollars?” Bonnie immediately regretted her outburst.
No Pinkwater, four thousand lira.

Molly was looking at Bonnie as if she might be mentally challenged. “Edmund could sell it right now for fifty-one hundred. He also has
Daredevil
number one in Very Fine condition—bought for five hundred, worth eight.”

“
Daredevil
number one,” Armen said as if he intoned the sacred name Jehovah. “He wouldn’t really sell it, would he?”

“He once told me that if the price was right he’d sell it all.” Molly waved a hand to indicate Edmund’s entire collection.

Sensible young man
, Bonnie thought, then remembered Edmund might be a murderer.
A sensible young
murderer.

“But Edmund’s a liar,” Molly said, a little too vehemently. “He’s got a small run in the vault he’d never sell. Have you ever heard of Harvey comics?”

Bonnie knew the girl couldn’t be talking to her. She’d lost face since the embarrassing “four-thousand dollars” outburst. But even Armen was shaking his head.

“In the last few months, Harvey has become Edmund’s obsession and spesheeality.” Molly elonated the syllables of the word to show she didn’t think much of this section of Edmund’s collection. “Their most famous title is
Casper the Friendly Ghost
, but Harvey also printed
Hot Stuff
—”

“The little devil in the diaper who roasted apples on his pitchfork!” Armen exclaimed. “I loved him.”

Molly grimaced. “The very same. Also
Little Audrey,
Wendy
,
The Good Little Witch
,
Little Lotta,
Little Dot
, and
Baby Huey
.” She ticked off the titles on her fingers.

Armen nodded the I know those nod with each title.

Bonnie eyed the computer screen thinking she’d had enough comic book talk to last her a lifetime. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way to steer the conversation back to Edmund’s e mails without being rude. After all, Molly was doing them a favor. “You sure know a lot about Harvey comics.”

Molly shrugged an it’s no big deal shrug. “Edmund’s most recent acquisitions are from Harvey. He won’t shut up about it—calls it his
coup
. He picked up the first five issues of
Casper the Friendly Ghost
, Mint condition for six hundred. Issue number one alone, the one that introduces both Casper and Wendy, the Good Little Witch, is worth almost that much.”

Molly must have noticed Bonnie’s eyes glazing over.

“We probably ought to look at those e mails.”

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.
“We could do that.”

Molly clicked the icon for AOL. Following a series of dips and dives through America On Line’s roller coaster ride, Molly arrived at the mail center. She first checked new mail and found it empty. “Nothing since yesterday.”

She clicked the old mail tab—equally vacant.

“Don’t worry. AOL automatically archives its mail. Two days ago, Edmund’s archive had at least a dozen letters from his honey bunny.”

Molly’s face had grown pinched, her hands small hammers pounding the keys with ferocious precision.
She’s pissed at Edmund, and especially hates this girl friend,
whoever she is. Hell hath no fury
. . .

Bonnie took Armen’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.

“Here they are.” Molly punched a triumphant fist into the air. “Brother mine, I told you to clean out your archives.”

Bonnie squinted at the list of e mails. Her own address appeared in the list from when she’d written the Knowledge Bowl team concerning a canceled practice. At least a dozen were titled YWLW. Molly double clicked on the last of these, dated April 30th, Thursday, ten-ten PM—the night of Knowledge Bowl.

A single paragraph filled the screen.

Dear Samurai,

Keep the faith. It won’t be long before we

can be together. Mother doesn’t suspect

a thing, and neither does that busybody

Pinkwater. I promise you, the risk will be

worth the reward, if you know what I mean.

I can’t wait to feel your body next to mine.

Be strong.

Your Wicked Little Witch.

Molly turned from the screen to stare up at Bonnie. Cold triumph shone on her face. “That’s how the bitch signs all her e mails—Your Wicked Little Witch. Get it—YWLW. The Samurai is different, though. She usu ally calls Edmund Casper.”

Bonnie nodded, feeling as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She tried to gather her wits, not willing to say aloud what each of them was thinking. “Did you check this address against Edmund’s address book?”

The elated look on Molly’s face faded to a glimmer. “I couldn’t find it in there.”

“But you did find Ali’s address, and it wasn’t the same?”

“That’s right. They’re not the same. But it’s got to be her.”

“Fair enough.” Bonnie drew a deep breath so her impatience wouldn’t show. “I think I know a way through this problem. Go back to the archives.”

The girl gave Bonnie a hard stare then did as she was told.

When the list reappeared, Bonnie noticed what she should have seen before. Several of the addresses, while all containing YWLW, differed in suffixes. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it difficult to trace these. This Wicked Little Witch has at least four different addresses. Molly, would you print out the list?”

“This is a waste of time. Who else could it be besides the Griffith girl?”

Bonnie’s hand wrapped around an imaginary lollipop.
You want I should bop you with this here
hard to get cinnamon? Just do it.

She forced a smile onto her face. “Honey, we can give the e mail addresses to the police, and let them try to ferret out the writer. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” She clicked on Print. The printer sprang to life.

“Thank you.” A pain was building between Bonnie’s eyes. Right then, her dearest wish was, with list in hand, to see this house grow small in Alice’s rear-view mirror.

Molly gathered up both pages of the list and handed them to Bonnie. She wanted to say something encouraging to the girl, but came up empty. No matter that right now Molly was angry with her brother. It wouldn’t be long before anger mutated into guilt and guilt into sadness. Edmund had made some bad choices, but this crippled girl would reap at least some of the consequences.

Shit
. Bonnie turned to Armen. “Mister Mouse. How ‘bout we get out of here?”

“You got it, lady.”

Molly ushered them to the back door and out onto the ramp landing. She sat in the doorway, her hands on her lap. “I did the right thing . . .didn’t I?”

This was no time for equivocation. “You did.”

Bonnie held up the printed lists. “The police will find these extremely helpful.”

Molly looked dubious. “But the lists won’t help Edmund.”

How can I lie to this young woman?
“No, sweetie. I don’t think they’ll help Edmund.”

Without another word, Molly rolled her wheelchair back and closed the door, leaving Bonnie and Armen standing together in the fading twilight.

“Your chariot awaits, my lady.”

Armen extended an arm, and Bonnie noticed the time on his wristwatch. “Oh, my God.”

He looked back at her nonplussed. “What?”

“Missus Newlin. I promised I’d call her hours ago.”