Witches' Bane (6 page)

“Harbuck’s a pain in the butt,” I said, reaching for one of Bob’s nachos, gooey with Velveeta and ablaze with jalapenos. “A grand total of five people came into the shop today, counting Bubba. And he didn’t spend any money, just my time.”

I glanced at McQuaid and felt my insides go soft. He was very sexy in Levi’s, a white shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled, and polished boots—de rigueur evening wear in Pecan Springs. We’ve been seeing one another for two-plus years, and you’d think the attraction would have worn off by now. But even in a crowd, there’s a powerful energy that makes the space between us crackle. He reached for my hand and I felt charged, as if I were wired to his body circuits and somebody had bumped up the current a notch or two. I may have trouble making an emotional commitment, but I certainly don’t have any problems with my physical response. It’s instinct. A terrific turn-on.

He squeezed my hand and let it go. McQuaid isn’t big on public displays of affection. “You’re looking good tonight, China. New dress?”

“Not exactly,” I said, “but new to me.” I wasn’t surprised that he asked, because he’s used to seeing me in jeans and a tee shirt. But I’d stumbled across this I950s sundress in Clarissa’s Vintage Boutique—blue-and-white checked gingham, with a low-cut square neck and a gathered skirt, with ruffles, yet—and I’d had to have it. “I wore it because I needed a lift, after what happened today. Or what didn’t happen,” I said morosely, thinking about the empty bank deposit bag. The Reverend might not be able to work any real miracles, but he could turn black ink to red without trying very hard.

“Hang in there,” McQuaid said comfortingly. “Harbuck’s a publicity hound. I’m sure he’ll find bigger fish to fry than a local witch.”

“What’s this about frying a local witch?” Ruby asked. Andrew pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.

“In a manner of speaking,” McQuaid said with a grin. He held out his hand to Andrew. “Mike McQuaid.”

“Andrew Drake.” They shook hands and Andrew took the chair next to mine, casually splendid in pleated slacks, a cream-colored Dior polo shirt, suede loafers, and that absolutely perfect nose that made McQuaid’s look like it had gone fifteen rounds with the world’s heavyweight champ. He gave me a smile that aimed to charm.

“Congratulations on your opening,” I said. “Is this your first photography studio?”

“Not really,” Andrew said, signaling Bob to bring a pitcher of beer.

I waited for him to go on. But he didn’t, and Ruby spoke up. “I’m sure Andrew’s going be a success,” she said. “He’s already got one big assignment. Arnold Seidensticker has asked him to shoot his daughter’s wedding.”

“Shooting a Seidensticker isn’t a bad way to get started,” I said, and McQuaid snickered. Arnold Seidensticker is not my favorite person. For a while, he tried to get the Austin-San Antonio Regional Airport located near Pecan Springs. That idea went extinct when the U.S. Wildlife Service told him he couldn’t destroy the habitat of the golden-cheeked warbler. Now he’s backing the high-speed monorail project, which aims to shoot bullet trains every fifteen minutes through one of the most fragile ecosystems in Texas. At the same time, he’s supporting a scheme that will moor a flotilla of horse-drawn buggies at the courthouse square, to ferry tourists to the town’s attractions. There’s no contradiction. Both ideas have one thing in common: money.

“You don’t sound like a Texan, Andrew,” I said. “Where are you from?”

“You know the old phrase—places too numerous to mention. I’ve never really settled down.” He smiled at Ruby. “Until now.”

Ruby flushed. She had traded the oriental pajamas for a simple white shift. With her coppery hair, creamy complexion, and the sprinkle of gingery freckles across her nose, she looked gorgeous—and very much in love. Obviously flustered, she grabbed a menu. “What are you having?” she asked McQuaid.

“Chicken-fried, what else?”

People who live north of the Texas-Oklahoma border think chicken-fried is fried chicken. It isn’t. It’s smashed cube steak dipped in batter, deep-fried, and smothered with well-peppered cream gravy. Served with chunky fries, thick slabs of toasted and buttered white bread, and a cold beer, it’s the national meal of Texas. It’s also fat city, so I only eat it twice a month. A doctor I know swears she can tell chicken-fried people just by checking their cholesterol.

While Bob took our orders, I studied Andrew curiously. He’d avoided my questions. Was he hiding something? Or was my concern for Ruby making me too suspicious of a man with a natural reserve about his personal affairs?

Another pitcher of beer arrived, and more nachos. We talked about Billy Lee and the pickets, the sad ending of Leroy the goat, Bubbas odd discovery of wolfsbane, and the cult panic that seemed to be sweeping the town like a prairie fire. Dinner came, and we moved on to larger topics— the economy, the number of women who’d won a seat in the legislature in the last election. But apart from learning that Andrew was left-handed (he bumped my right arm when he picked up his fork), that he had a hint of New Orleans in his speech, and that he held politically correct opinions on just about everything, I wasn’t able to satisfy my curiosity about him. By the end of the meal, all I knew for certain was that Andrew Drake was a smooth and charming man with my best friend’s heart tucked into the pocket of his expensive designer shirt. And that I had developed an unqualified dislike of him.

After dinner, McQuaid headed to the campus for his meeting and Andrew drove off in his red Fiat. Ruby and I stood on the sidewalk in front of Lillie’s. It was nearly eight, and getting dark.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, babe,” I said. “Want me to give you a lift home?”

“Sure,” Ruby said. We walked to my car and Ruby folded her lanky frame into the passenger seat. My Datsun is seven years and 117,000 miles old, but it’s still reliable and cheap to maintain, especially since McQuaid taught me how to change the oil and rotate the tires.

Ruby turned to me as I pulled away from the curb. “So what do you think about Andrew?”

“He’s got a beautiful nose. Where’s he from?”

There was a silence. “Up north somewhere. Tulsa, I think.”

“By way of New Orleans?”

“What?”

“The way he says his r’s.” I turned the corner onto Pecos. “Has he been married before? Does he have any kids?”

“I don’t think so.” Ruby turned to me. “What’s the matter, China? Don’t you like him?”

“Did I say I didn’t like him? I asked if he was married.”

“It’s the way you’re asking questions. I’m not a hostile witness.”

I sighed. “Don’t be defensive, Ruby. Andrew Drake is a charming, elegant man who looks good enough to eat. I’m just wondering how much you know about him, that’s all.”

“Enough.” Ruby leaned forward. “China, what’s that fire?”

I glanced in the direction she was pointing. “A bonfire, I guess. Somebody violating the open burning ordinance.” I looked again. “Isn’t that Judith Cohen’s house?”

“It is.” Ruby’s voice cracked. “And it’s not a bonfire, either. Stop, China! It’s a
cross.”

I jammed on the brakes and slid the Datsun into the curb, narrowly missing Judith’s mailbox. Ruby and I piled out and ran across the yard to the flaming cross, which was billowing thick, sooty smoke. Judith was standing on the front porch, paralyzed, disbelieving. I grabbed the garden hose, reached for the spigot, and turned on the water.

The four-foot burlap-wrapped cross burned as if it were soaked with diesel fuel, and it had a head start. The flames had ignited the dry grass and a nearby bush. It took several minutes with the hose full blast before all the sparks were out. Neighbors came running from both sides and across the street, but there wasn’t anything for them to do, so they retreated to their yards where they stared in an embarrassed silence until the fire was out. By that time, Ruby’s sandals were a mess and I’d managed to hook my heel in the hem of my skirt. That’ll teach me to wear a dress.

Judith stood watching impassively, her face shadowed. “Thanks,” she said when the last spark was extinguished.

I coiled the hose. “Who do you suppose did it?”

“Kids,” Ruby said. “Looking for kicks.” She glanced at Judith. “It could have been anybody’s yard.”

“But it was mine.” Judith’s voice was as dead as her face, and her mouth barely moved. “My name’s on the mailbox. Cohen.”

“But people around here don’t give that a thought,” Ruby said. “They might have opinions, but I don’t think they’d—”

Judith cut her off. “They’re boycotting your shop, aren’t they?” She went inside.

Fighting the fire had kept me too busy to think about what it all meant. Now that the excitement was over, I was shaken with anger and fear, far out of proportion to the burning of a couple of four-foot sticks of wood. But when sticks of wood are nailed into a cross, they become symbolic, and symbols hook into feelings. Burning a cross is a terrorist act, pure and simple, born out of suspicion or hatred or a sense of racial supremacy. It implicates us all, no matter whose yard it happens in.

The neighbor on the right, a burly middle-aged man in baggy shorts, was sweeping his walk with a great show of attention to detail. I went over.

“Did you see who did this?” I asked.

The man swept some invisible dirt into a crack. “Nope.”

“How about a car?”

He stepped on a wooly caterpillar and ground it into the cement. “Nope, no car, no nuthin’.”

I heard the same story from the people on the other side and across the street. Monkey see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I understood, but I felt sick inside.

“Why won’t they help?” Ruby asked, as we drove off.

“Because they’re afraid somebody’ll burn a cross in their yard.”

“Then maybe we ought to do something. Maybe we should call the police. Burning a cross ... I mean, it’s worse than burning the flag. There’s got to be a law.”

I gave a short laugh. “There was, but the Supreme Court threw it out. Flag-burning is a form of political expression. It’s protected under the First Amendment. Ditto on cross-burning.”

Ruby stared at me. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. If Bubba caught the guys who burned that cross, he could charge them with violating the open burning ordinance or making a threat. Or they could be charged with a violation of Judith’s civil rights. But a community can’t pass a law forbidding people to burn crosses or paint swastikas.” It was a ruling the defense lawyer in me understood and applauded, while the human part of me wanted to be sick. An utter paradox.

“God.” Ruby shook her head. “And to think what a peaceful town this has always been.” She hesitated. “That’s the way it’s
seemed,
anyway.”

We drove the two blocks to Ruby’s in silence. When we got there, she invited me in for coffee.

‘Thanks,” I said. I looked down at my dirty hands and muddy feet. I couldn’t see my soul, but it felt dirty too. “I guess I’m not in the mood to talk. I think I’ll go home and take a bath.”

“Sure.” Ruby got out and closed the door. “Tomorrow will be better, China.”

“Yeah,” I said, although I wasn’t too sure.

I let myself in through the kitchen door. Khat noisily accused me—inconsiderate and callous fiend that I am—of going out to enjoy my dinner without fixing his. I was guilty under the Texas Penal Code of cruelty to animals (failing unreasonably to provide necessary food for a cat in my custody). A Class-A misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of not more than two thousand dollars or confinement in jail for a term not exceeding one year or both. He planted one paw firmly on my foot while I attended to this oversight, to make sure that I didn’t do it again.

When he was eating, I checked the answering machine. There was one message. I played the tape, hoping for something that would redeem the day. A call from the Reverend, maybe, saying that God had told him to pack up his pickets and go home. Or from Publishers Clearinghouse, telling me that I’d won enough not to care whether the pickets stayed or went.

It turned out to be my mother.

“Sorry I missed you, dear,” Leatha chirped to the machine. “We haven’t talked for weeks and weeks, and I’m dying to hear what’s going on in your life. Please call me when you get in.”

“No thanks,” I muttered, and jabbed the erase button. If Leatha and I hadn’t talked for weeks and weeks, there was a reason. I hate pretending that things are okay between us when they’re not. The truth is that I hadn’t forgiven my mother for being an alcoholic. Talking to her wasn’t high on my list of things I wanted to do, tonight or any other night.

But especially tonight.

CHAPTER
5

Friday started off like Thursday. I swept the step and put out the plant racks, but I didn’t need to bother. Billy Lee’s bunch was parading again, chanting and singing, in well-disciplined lines that left plenty of room for pedestrians. One of the signs read “White Witches, Black Witches, Brown Witches—God Will Strike Down Every One.” Another said “Thou Shalt Not Suffer A Witch To Live. Exodus 22:I8.” Looking at them and thinking about the burning cross made me queasy, so I busied myself with small tasks and tried not to think. But I felt worse and worse by the minute.

Between nine and ten, nobody made it through the line. A few minutes before ten I happened to be standing near the window when I saw Fannie Couch, one of my best customers, talking to the Reverend.

Fannie Couch is seventy-eight years old, with the look of a sweet Southern belle—rosy cheeks and dimples, lavender eyes, and hair like spun silver. She dresses the part, too, in floral-print dresses and the floppy-brimmed, flower-trimmed straw hats that are her trademark. But she has the slim wiriness of somebody who’s worked hard for the last six or seven decades and the no-holds-barred candor that characterizes so many Texas women. She and her husband Claude sold their Hill Country ranch and moved to town six years ago. A year later, bored with the garden club and Friends of the Library, she talked the station manager at KPST-FM into giving her a call-in talk show. It’s called “Fannie’s Back Fence.” She’s on the air from eleven to two every day, with time out for the news and weather every hour. Her peppery, down-home style invites callers to reminisce and ramble, which they do, but not too long. Fannie manages her callers like a county sale barn auctioneer managing a crowd of bidders.

As I came down the walk toward them, she seemed to be managing the Reverend.

“The Lord abhors witchcraft,” he trumpeted. His pink cheeks and bald head shone like the polished granite in the court house foyer.

She looked at him. “How do you know?”

Billy Lee was taken aback. “Why, it says so in the Scriptures. Exodus 22:I8. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’“

Fannie slipped into the fakey Texas accent she uses on the radio. “Well, don’t you go tellin’ my better half. Just the other day, Claude and me, we had this fight, and he said to me, ‘Why, Fannie, you old witch, you’re gettin’ meaner ever’ day.’“

“Dear lady,” the Reverend said soothingly, “that’s not exactly the kind of witch the good Lord—”

Fannie’s twinkle took some of the sting out of her words.. “Bless your sweet heart, Billy Lee, you’re tellin’ me that you’re so holy that you can read the Lord’s mind?”

The Reverend pulled himself together. “You’ll be doin’ His will if you didn’t go in those shops, Miz Couch. Miz Bayles here may not be a witch herself, but she rents property to a fortune-teller, and that’s ever’ bit as bad.” He lifted himself to his tiptoes, his voice rising on an ominous quaver. “Eschew the lair of fortune-tellers and the den of evildoers, and you will be saved from the wrath to come.”

Fannie lost her twinkle. “Billy Lee, I got to say this, and you got to listen. You are doin’ this town a real disservice, carryin’ on about the wrath to come. People are scared. They’re jumpy as bullfrogs about witches, but they’re just as twitchy about witchhunters. My advice to you is to go home before you start a prairie fire.” The voice of God, in the accents of Molly Ivins. Ignoring the Reverend’s protests, she took my arm and we went into the shop, where she bought two bars of herbal soap and some cinnamon sticks.

As I counted out her change, she pursed her mouth. “That man may look like a vanilla ice-cream cone, China, but he’s dangerous. Folks around here are pretty laid back most of the time, but this stuff about Leota and the Ellis boy has got them all stirred up. Some woman called in the other day and said she’d seen a bunch of people dancing around a bonfire at the cemetery. Somebody sprayed pentagrams on car windows over on Crockett Street. And there was Bob Godwin’s goat and Mrs. Bragg’s chickens.”

I shut the cash register drawer. “I don’t know who built the bonfire or killed the chickens, but trick-or-treaters sprayed the pentagrams. I know, because I saw them.”

“A lot of this is just talk. You know this town. People got to have something to talk about.’’ She frowned. “But they’ve got plenty to talk about, what with the Wurstfest over in New Braunfels.” The area was settled by Germans in the I840s, and the Wurstfest is a traditional German celebration, complete with folk costumes and German music, played by such local notables as Oma and the Oompahs, the Shriner Hobo Band, and the Haygood Family Fiddlers. If you’re so inclined, you can also drink yourself under the table with a few pitchers of great German lager.

“It’s up to you, Fannie,” I said. “You’ve got to get people off the subject of witches and onto Wurstfest.”

Fannie gave me a sharp look. “And you and Ruby got to keep your noses clean, or you could be in trouble. You hear?”

“Tell me about it,” I said ruefully. “You’re the first customer all morning.”

And the last. Mrs. Murray, who runs the Senior Citizens’ Thrift Shop, tried to come in to pick up some hibiscus tea she’d ordered. But she’s easily intimidated, and by the time I got out to the sidewalk, the Reverend had already scared her out of her wits.

“Don’t pay any attention to this man, Mrs. Murray.” I patted her arm. “He doesn’t have any right to interfere.”

“But what’s all this about witches?” Mrs. Murray asked. Her voice trembled. “Does it have anything to do with poor Mrs. Bragg’s chickens? Mrs. Bragg is my neighbor on the other side of the alley, you know. That rooster was better than an alarm clock. Went off every morning at five-thirty sharp.”

“It’s too bad about the rooster,” I said, moving her toward the shop. “If you’ll come in, I’ll get you that tea.”

Having lost one soul already this morning, the Reverend redoubled his efforts. He raised both arms heavenward. “Lord, defend this dear sister from the UNGODLY ONE!”

That did it. “I b’lieve I’ll just go on back to the shop,” Mrs. Murray said nervously, pulling her arm away. “I left Hazel by herself and she doesn’t like to make change.”

“God bless you, ma’am.” Billy Lee pressed his Bible to his heart. “The Lord smiles on those.who do His biddin’ with a glad heart.”

Mrs. Murray scurried off, and I turned furiously to Harbuck. “You pull that cute stunt one more time,” I said, “and you’ll find yourself on the business end of an injunction. You’re intimidating my customers and damaging my business, and I’m sick of it!”

The Reverend shook his head sadly. “I understand how you feel, Miz Bayles. ‘Course, it’s the Lord’s business we all need to be doin’, not our own.” His voice became a caress. “And it’s easy, so blessedly easy. All you have to do is kneel down right here on this sidewalk and ask forgiveness.” He closed his eyes and raised his soft, pudgy hand. Behind him, there was another soulful “amen.”

For a split second, I wanted to tell Billy Lee exactly what I thought. But it wouldn’t change his mind or convince him to send the pickets home. I gave it up and went back inside, where I sat on a stool behind the cash register, feeling defeated.

Ruby came through the back door. “Are you all right, China?” she asked anxiously.

“No,” I said glumly. “I’ve had one customer this morning. One.” I looked up and gawked. She was wearing a black tunic with a capelike red scarf, black tights, spike-heeled black boots that elevated her to at least six foot three, and Mary Richards’ silver goddess pendant. Her orangy-red hair was frizzed all over her head, her eyes were made up to look like Cleopatra, and her long nails were lacquered in blood-red enamel. I almost came unglued.

“Jesus, Ruby, why did you wear that getup today, of all days? All you need is a cloven hoof.”

“The worm has turned. We’re launching a counterattack.” She held up a camera. “Maybe when those sanctimonious turkeys out there see me taking pictures and recording their chants, they’ll think twice. Anyway, photos could come in handy if we wind up in court.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. “Be careful,” I said. “It’s against the law to threaten pickets.”

“What’s the penalty? Maybe it’s worth it.”

“Thirty days and two grand max.”

“I’ll be meek,” Ruby said.

“Ha,” I said, looking her up and down.

For the next five minutes, Ruby stalked the line with her camera. She had come back in and was getting ready to open her shop when Bubba Harris pulled up. He lifted himself out of the police car, gave a hitch to his tan polyester pants, and surveyed the scene.

“Maybe he’s come to send them off.” Ruby sounded hopeful.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

A minute later, Bubba was standing in the door. “Mor-nin’, Miz Bayles,” he said. “Looks like you still got a problem.” He took out a fresh cigar, peeled it, and stuck it in his mouth.

“Can’t you do something about those pickets?” Ruby asked. “They’re ruining our business.”

“They start disturbin’ the peace, you let me know.” Bubba looked around. “The mayor get here yet?”

“The mayor’s coming?” I asked. “What is this, a top-level strategy session?”

Bubba ignored me. “I got a question for you.” He gave Ruby a hard look. “You know anything about sacrifice? Human sacrifice?”

Ruby gave the hard look back. “The only human sacrifice I know about is the seventeen years I was married to Ward Wilcox.”

Bubba frowned. “This ain’t no laughin’ matter.”

“Neither was that seventeen years,” Ruby said.

The cigar went up and down. “Got an anonymous call this mornin’. Some woman said there’s gonna be some sorta human sacrifice ‘round here in the next few days. Said people oughtta be prepared.”

I frowned. Human sacrifice?

“And you figured I’d know something about it?” Ruby towered over Bubba like the Wicked Witch of the West. “Did you expect me to whistle up my coven and tell them to be good girls, no human sacrifices this week?”

Bubba took his cigar out of his mouth. “Now, Missus Wilcox—”

“Ms.
Wilcox.”

“Miz
Wilcox. I don’t know anythin’ about whistlin’ up any coven. All I know is, I got this tip, and it’s my bid’ness to check it out.” His eyes narrowed at both of us. “An’ y’all better not go tellin’ this to the newspaper, hear? I got enough trouble. The whole damn town’s got the willies.”

Ruby flung her scarlet cape over her black shoulder. “Well, if I hear about anybody planning to offer up one of the neighbors, you’ll be the first to know. But I can’t promise about the newspaper. How could my coven pass up publicity like that?”

Bubba plugged his cigar back in, looking sorely tried. “I wish you’d climb down off your high horse. Missus—
Miz
Wilcox.”

“And I wish you’d think twice before you come in here asking me about a human sacrifice.” Ruby wagged a blood-tipped finger in Bubba’s face. “You ought to be protecting honest merchants from the kind of ridiculous nonsense that’s going on outside right now, instead of coming in here, insulting me, harassing—”

The door opened. I turned to see who had dared to enter the lair of fortune-tellers and the den of evildoers. It was Pauline Perkins, dressed in her mayor’s uniform, a gray suit with a pink jewel-necked blouse and pink pearls, a gray bag slung over her shoulder, sensible gray shoes.

“Good morning, Chief Harris,” she said coolly.

“Mornin’, Mayor,” Bubba muttered. Bubba and the mayor don’t get along. She treats him as an adjunct of the mayor’s office. He’d like to tell her to kiss off, but doesn’t dare.

“Ruby,” Pauline said, “the Chief and I are here on official business.”

“Are you planning to arrange for a sacrifice?” Ruby was still hot.

“A sacrifice?” Pauline looked puzzled. “No, I’m here to negotiate a settlement between you and Reverend Harbuck.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “I knew it,” she said, “the minute the Chief started to talk about sacrifice. I can understand why Harbuck’s into witch-bashing, Pauline, but why
you!”

“I am not into witch-bashing,” Pauline said with dignity. “There’s nothing wrong with you teaching that class, Ruby. It’s your timing that’s off. While the City Square site visit team is here, it is vital—absolutely
vital
—that we put our best foot forward. This week has been ... well, we can’t exactly call it our best foot.” She looked disgusted. “Dead goats, dead chickens, burning crosses, pickets in the streets—”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that you feel strongly about the subject,” Ruby said smoothly. “You can be the one to tell Harbuck to call off his dogs.”

Pauline licked her lipstick. “What I hoped,” she said, “was that you would cancel the class. Then I could approach Reverend Harbuck and ask him to—”

Ruby folded her arms. “Absolutely not.”

“Good for you, Ruby,” I said.

Pauline’s tone became cajoling. “But think what it would
mean.
A favorable report from the site visit team almost guarantees that we’ll get the grant. And I’ve just found out how absolutely critical the money is. City Hall has termites!” At the looks on our faces, she added, “They’re all around the baseboards in the city council chambers, and there’s not a penny in the budget for spraying. The building’s a historic structure, so the grant would—”

“Free speech,” Ruby said, pulling herself up to her full height and then some, “is more important than spraying City Hall.”

“But it’s just a class,” the mayor pleaded. “You can always reschedule.”

“It’s not the class, it’s the
principle.”
Ruby pulled her gingery eyebrows together. “I am really disappointed in you, Pauline. I know you’re counting on this City Square business to win the election for you. But I never thought you’d go to the extent of suppressing legitimate self-expression, just to get a few votes.”

“But I—”

“I personally believe that Billy Lee Harbuck is more dangerous than termites. But he’s got the same constitutional right to picket my store—as long as he doesn’t harass my customers—as I have to teach my class. And you can’t make either of us give up that right just to fool the site team into believing that everybody in Pecan Springs is one cozy, happy family.” She lifted her chin. ‘“Tain’t so, Magee.”