Wicked Witch Murder (20 page)

L
ucy couldn't decide whether it was a coincidence or not, but soon after Diana's return, she seemed to notice a new attitude in town. People seemed more cheerful and greeted each other enthusiastically when they happened to meet on the sidewalk, at the hardware store, or at the IGA. Mrs. Mulcahy was telling everyone how the allergies that had been plaguing her all summer had suddenly disappeared, Sally Johanson noticed the rash that had been bothering her husband had magically cleared up, and Molly reported with great relief that little Patrick was now sleeping through the night.

Even the weather was cooperating, as September's warm mugginess gave way to the golden, crisp days of October. One sunny day followed another, and the cloudless blue sky was a luminous backdrop to the changing hues on the mountains, where the tired green foliage was now a blaze of dazzling gold, crimson, and orange.

Festive decorations seemed to appear daily, and the harvest figures that were multiplying like rabbits seemed livelier, almost as if they might rise from the hay bales and old chairs where they were posed and join the fun. Women thronged to Diana's shop, leaving with purple bags clutched tight in their hands and secretive Mona Lisa smiles on their faces. Plans for the party advanced, too, as Rebecca was persuaded to take a turn as a storyteller, and Diana set to work making little black satin protection bags containing herbs for each child.

The one thing that didn't seem to change, however, was a great disappointment to Lucy. Despite Diana's promise to intervene, Abby remained at home, isolated from her friends and completely under the thrall of her father. Ike had even put a stop to Lydia Volpe's tutoring sessions, claiming his daughter was too weak to study. Ike himself seemed to be shrinking, too, and hadn't even made an appearance at the Giant Pumpkin Contest on Columbus Day weekend. Diana was the surprise winner, beating Rebecca's massive 690-pound entry by a mere three pounds. The behemoth had grown largely unattended in her backyard, planted Indian fashion with fish for fertilizer. Now all the giant pumpkin entries were on display in the bandstand on the town common.

The day of Abby's truancy hearing finally rolled around, and when Lucy went to the courthouse, she was shocked at Abby's appearance. The girl was so thin and frail that she had to be pushed into the judge's chambers in a wheelchair, and it was all done so quickly that she wasn't able to question Ike Stoughton, who was accompanied by his dour sons. It was only moments later that an ambulance appeared, and Abby was wheeled out on a gurney and whisked away.

Lucy was considering following the ambulance, which she assumed was going to the state hospital, when Ike exited the courtroom and marched right up to her, trailed by his two boys. This time he had plenty to say.

“This is a travesty!” he exclaimed. “The judge has taken my daughter—MY DAUGHTER—and has committed her to a mental institution. What about the sanctity of the family, the right to privacy? A MAN'S HOME IS HIS CASTLE? Not anymore, that's for sure, when the state can just come in and take your child away—in violation of your deepest beliefs. WHAT ABOUT RELIGIOUS FREEDOM? What happened to that?”

Behind him, Lucy noticed Pete Winslow, the superintendent of schools, making a hurried exit, clearly only too happy that Ike's attention was elsewhere. But he didn't make the clean getaway he was hoping for; one of the boys noticed him and tapped his father on his arm. Whirling around, he caught sight of Winslow and charged across the lobby to angrily confront him.

“I bet you're real proud of what you've done,” he demanded, blocking the doorway. He was gesturing, jabbing at Winslow's chest with an extended forefinger, causing the superintendent to back up to avoid being poked. Winslow was looking every which way for help, but none of the court officers was to be seen, and the handful of people who had been waiting in the lobby were backing away.

“Now, now,” he said, trying to placate Ike. “This is for Abby's own good. She needs medical and psycho—”

“Are you saying my daughter is CRAZY? Is that what you think?”

“That isn't the word I would—”

“And I'm neglecting her? You think I don't love her? You think I don't beg her to eat? She's bewitched, I tell you. Bewitched! That witch has cast a spell over my whole family!” Ike's face was red, and he was spraying the superintendent with saliva. Behind him, the two boys seemed only to be waiting for permission from their father to attack Winslow and tear him limb from limb.

Lucy found she was shaking as she tried to write it all down. She was raising her camera to snap a picture when the bailiff finally appeared. She got a good shot of him stepping between the two men, only to receive a jab in the eye from Ike. Then all hell broke loose as he blew a whistle and the other court officials, uniformed bailiffs, and lawyers in suits, all came to his aid. The upshot was that Ike Stoughton was hauled into a courtroom and judged in contempt and confined to the county jail for forty-eight hours without bail. The boys got stiff warnings, even though neither one had thrown a punch.

Lucy followed them when they left the courtroom, pouring on the sympathy in hopes of getting more information and maybe a quote or two.

“I can't believe the judge is sending your father to jail,” she began.

“Me neither,” said Thomas, who had confusion written all over his face. “What do we do now?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Mather. “Dad's in jail and Abby's in the loony bin. And Mom's dead,” he added, looking terribly young and sad.

“It's only two days,” said Lucy, trying to offer some support. “How long is your sister going to be in the hospital?”

“Two weeks,” he replied, shaking his head. “She's not crazy; she's sick, like Mom was.”

“They'll do a complete physical, as well as a mental health evaluation.” said Lucy.

“And you know what they're going to find, after all their tests and stuff?” demanded Thomas angrily. “Absolutely nothing. Because Dad's right—Abby's been cursed by that witch Diana! She's cursed our whole family!”

“That's not true,” said Lucy, but the boys were already walking off, their heads together, as if trying to come up with a course of action.

Lucy reached for her cell phone and called Diana, telling her what had happened and warning her about Stoughton's sons. “They blame you—you need to be careful and watch your back.”

“They can't hurt me,” said Diana, her voice full of confidence that Lucy felt was entirely unwarranted, “but thanks for the warning.”

Lucy ended the call and followed the boys out to the parking lot, aware that the clock was ticking steadily toward deadline and she had a big story to write. She was starting her car when the boys peeled out of the lot in an oversized pickup truck with the Compass Construction logo on the door.

She wasn't really intending to follow them; it just happened that they were going the same way she was. They were in a hurry, and she was, too, because she had to get back to the office. But when they reached Shiloh and the pickup veered off the main route, Lucy made an impulsive decision to follow it, suspecting she knew where the boys were headed. And sure enough, they followed the familiar route to Compton's big project, out by Malebranche's old place. Except that the magician's house was no longer standing, and a framework of bright new two-by-fours had taken its place.

So the deal went through and Malebranche's heir, the magic museum, had sold the property to Compass Construction, just as Fred Stanton had predicted it would. Lucy wasn't surprised, but she felt sad as she made a three-point turn and retraced her route back to the highway and on to Tinker's Cove.

The old Regulator clock on the wall had just struck twelve when Lucy typed the final period and sent the story to Ted. She waited anxiously as he scrolled through it, making a few changes here and there and correcting typos. “Good work,” he said when he finished. “This is great reporting.” He turned and faced her, narrowing his eyes. “And you just happened to be at the courthouse this morning?”

“I had a tip,” she admitted. “But I didn't expect anything like this.”

“Again, good work, Lucy. Just goes to show you make your own luck.”

“Or unluck,” mused Lucy, shutting down her computer. “I hope the Stoughtons understand I was just doing my job.”

“If I were you, I'd go see Diana and get one of her repelling spells,” advised Phyllis. “I got one and it drove the mice right from my house. And believe me, I tried everything. Traps, bait, a cat, ultrasonic gizmos. None of it worked until I got the spell.”

“Somehow I think the Stoughton boys are going to be a lot harder to repel than mice,” said Lucy, reaching for her bag and heading for the door. “Especially once their father gets out of jail.”

Nevertheless, she decided to pay a visit to Diana, not for a repelling spell but to try and convince her that the Stoughtons really did pose a danger.

“They're going to blame you for everything, you know,” said Lucy. “They're convinced you've put a spell on their family. Ike even thinks you cursed his garden and his goats, you know.”

“That's just crazy,” replied Diana. “The judge only had to take one look at Abby to know that she had to be removed from that house. This committal is exactly what I was hoping would happen,” she said, relief in her voice.

“Are you sure you didn't have something to do with this? Did you write to the judge or something?”

“No, not at all.” She shook her head, then shrugged. “I did try to visit her, but her father wouldn't let me in the house. Of course, I have been working with incantations and prayers for Abby.”

“Did you cast a spell on Ike? I have to say, he wasn't much like himself.”

“On the contrary, it sounds like he was very much himself,” said Diana. “Strong emotions can shatter that thin veneer of civility men like him hide behind.”

Lucy nodded. She'd noticed the same thing many times, when an abuser was challenged. It was the reason cops hated to respond to domestic violence calls—the abuser often turned on them.

“How long will she be in the hospital?” asked Diana.

“The boys said two weeks.”

“Oh, good, then she'll be out in time for Samhain.”

“Maybe you'd better leave her out of the witch stuff for a while,” cautioned Lucy.

Diana raised an eyebrow in shock. “No way,” she declared. “That girl needs the craft. The craft will save her.”

Lucy was standing at the counter, where a big basket held the protective pouches that Diana was making for the party. She picked one up and fingered it. “What's inside?”

“Some herbs, bay, mulberry and thistle, an acorn—that represents the strength of the sacred oak—a little bit of obsidian. Each child can add a lock of hair or a photo of someone special.”

It was odd, but Lucy found she didn't want to return the pouch to the basket. It just felt good in her hand. “Do you mind if I keep this one?” she asked.

“Oh, no, I've got plenty and the girls love making them. Some people wear them on a string round their neck, but I just tuck mine in my bra,” said Diana with a saucy smile.

Suddenly Lucy felt silly, and she shoved the pouch into the pocket of her jeans. “Well, thanks,” she said. “And remember to be careful.”

“You too,” said Diana. “Always wear your pouch and it will protect you.”

Lucy had hoped the visit to Diana would set her mind at ease, but it only made her worry more. The self-proclaimed witch had returned from her stay in Arizona with increased confidence in her powers, and Lucy wondered what had brought about the change. Diana had mentioned a wise shaman who had taught her some tricks, but Lucy wasn't convinced the shaman's magic was up to the task. Two days in the county lockup weren't likely to improve Ike Stoughton's attitude, and she feared he would come out more determined than ever to get rid of Diana.

When she got home, she tried to settle down with a magazine, taking advantage of the rare opportunity of having some time to herself, but she found herself unable to concentrate on the glossy photos of beautifully decorated homes, the happy smiling people, the well-groomed pets, the impossibly complicated recipes. Hopping to her feet, she grabbed the leash and before she even whistled, Libby was prancing at the door, ready for a walk.

“It's too nice a day to be stuck inside,” she said, and Libby agreed, enthusiastically wagging her tail.

The woods were beautiful, almost surreal, as sunlight filtered through the lemon-yellow leaves of the maples. Fallen leaves carpeted the old logging trail that meandered behind their house, a kaleidoscope of vibrant red and yellow that rustled underfoot. Bunches of mushrooms sprouted here and there; Lucy always wished she could tell which ones were safe to eat. Clusters of Indian pipes dotted the ground, too, and enormous tree fungi grew on fallen trees. Lucy remembered how the kids used to collect them and draw pictures on them; if you scraped the flesh with a sharp point, your design would turn brown as the fungus dried. The dried fungi lasted forever, and Lucy bet she could find some of those childish artworks tucked away in the cabinets in the family room if she bothered to look.

She was thinking of the fungi and all the other little projects she'd devised to entertain the kids on rainy summer days: little dolls made from pinecones, leaf collages embellished with macaroni and glitter, Popsicle-stick boxes trimmed with acorns, and always the endless bowls of popcorn and pans of fudge served up to fuel her little artists' flagging inspiration. Those had been crazy years, but she had enjoyed them, and she was thinking about how much fun it would be to introduce Patrick to some of these crafty projects when he was older when her attention was caught by Libby's sharp bark.

Looking up from the path, she shuddered with the realization that she'd come once again to the clearing where Malebranche had died. Here, she noticed, the fiery colors of autumn were subdued, the few leaves that remained on the bare trees were drab brown, and the drooping black boughs of the fir trees seemed drawn from a Victorian mourning sampler. The only thing missing was a dull gray slate gravestone, with a skull's head and a mournful text:
As you are now so once was I
or
Prepare to meet thy maker.