The Witch’s Grave (9 page)

Once home, I let the dogs out and, reluctant to go back inside the empty house, watched them chase around the backyard. T.P. ran off his puppy exuberance, while Lady paraded at a more sedate pace. T.P. continually tried to engage her in a game of “catch me if you can,” but Lady was having none of it. She seemed to sense my melancholy and kept running to my side.

“You know something’s up, don’t you?” I asked, scratching her ears.

Laying backing her ears, she rubbed my leg with her nose.

“Everything will be fine,” I whispered, trying to convince myself.

Going back inside, I was struck at how quiet the house seemed. Amazing how much noise one teenager made.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I kept repeating while wandering the house, at a loss of what to do.

And it was okay…unlike when Tink was kidnapped. I knew she would be safe with Great-Aunt Mary. Both she and Aunt Dot were elderly, but as Abby had pointed out, close relatives lived in a little cluster on the mountain around them. They’d offer Tink protection, too. And, I thought I wasn’t the only one intimidated by Great-Aunt
Mary. Abby had spoken often about how most of her neighbors thought twice about crossing her.
Yeah, Tink would be fine.

“Well,” I said out loud, putting my hands on my hips and scanning the living room. “I’m not accomplishing anything just moping around.”

I went upstairs and pulled out the copies I’d made of Stephen’s date book. I tried Karen Burns again and left a voice mail. Flipping through the pages, I then found the entry listing the Vargases’ phone number. I picked up the phone and dialed. A man answered.

“Mr. Vargas?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, this is Ophelia Jensen from the library. Would it be possible to talk with you this afternoon?”

“Why?” He sounded suspicious.

“Ah, it would be better if I explained in person.”

“Has Evita done something?”

Hearing the tinge of panic in his voice, I knew I could use his concern to my advantage. But lie about a kid? Nope, I couldn’t do it. “No, we love having Evita at the library. It’s about another matter.”

“Okay.” I heard the relief in his voice. “I’m home—it’s too wet to work.”

“I’ll be right over,” I said in a rush, before he could change his mind.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the yard at the old Murphy place. A vegetable garden grew a short distance from the small white clapboard house. Peppers, tomatoes, and squash flourished in tidy rows, and the overall appearance of the home was neat and well cared for.

The Murphys had to be relieved to have responsible renters, I thought.

I walked to the small front porch and knocked. A moment later Mr. Vargas appeared at the screen door. Over his shoulder I spied Deloris Vargas standing in the
doorway to what I assumed was the kitchen. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her face was drawn with worry.

Mr. Vargas opened the door and motioned me inside. Looking at his wife, he said something in rapid Spanish, and after a glance at me, she disappeared into the other room.

I shook his hand as he nodded toward the faded couch. “Mr. Vargas, thank you for seeing me.” Crossing the room, I took a place on the couch, while he sat in an old recliner.

“Why did you want to see me?” he asked, studying me closely.

“Well…” I crossed my legs and folded my hands in my lap. “I’m a friend of Stephen Lar—”

His posture turned rigid. “I’ve already talked to the police,” he broke in.

“I’m sure they were here.” I nodded my head and tried to look nonthreatening. “Um, they have Stephen’s date book, and your number was listed…” I paused as I struggled in the face of his stony expression. “Ah, I was just wondering if you did speak with him before the shooting?”

“Yes.”

He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information. I was going to have to pull it out of him.

“Could you tell me what you talked about?”

“The winery.”

“Did he mention the book he’s writing?”

“No.”

I felt frustrated. “Do you remember his questions?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I searched for an excuse other than being snoopy. “I wanted to pass the information along to his assistant. Maybe she could continue his research while he’s in the hospital.”

Brilliant, Jensen, brilliant.
Even I almost believed the bs I was handing out.

“He asked me how long I’d been in this country, how long I’d worked at the winery, if I’ve been treated fairly.” He stopped abruptly.

“That’s it?”

Stiff lines formed around his mouth. “Yes.”

I’m not the only one passing around the bs—he was lying.

“But—”

The front door slammed open and Evita danced into the room. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a small O when she saw me sitting on her couch.

“Miss Jensen,” she said, hurrying over to me, “did you come to visit me?”

Stealing a look at her father, I saw his body relax and his expression become tender as he watched his daughter.

I turned my attention back to Evita and chuckled. “I really came to talk to your father—”

Her exuberance slipped a little.

“But I’m glad that you’re here,” I said with a grin. “How do you like
Because of Winn-Dixie
?”

She bounced back on the couch as her little fingers plucked at my jacket. “I love it!” she exclaimed. “I asked Papa if
I
could get a dog that smiles.”

“Ah, a smiling dog,” I said with a laugh. “Everyone should have one of those.”

Her head bowed. “Papa said no.” Her voice was suddenly sad. “He said we might move once my aunt comes from—”

“Evita!”

She jumped and focused her eyes on the worn pattern of the old couch. “Sorry, Papa,” she said, not meeting his stern frown.

Mr. Vargas abruptly stood. “That’s all I can tell you, Miss Jensen.”

He sounded determined, and I knew the conversation was finished.

Rising myself, I looked down at Evita. “I’ve got to run now, sweetie.”

When she raised her eyes to mine, a sheen of tears dulled their brightness.

Fighting the urge to stroke her brown curls, I gave her a wink. “I’ll see if I can’t find more books with smiling dogs, okay?”

With a small grin, she bobbed her head, then scrambled off the couch and headed toward the kitchen.

I turned toward her father and extended my hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Vargas.”

He shook my hand but didn’t reply.

Accepting defeat, I walked out the door and down the porch steps. As I reached the bottom step, I heard the screen door swing shut, followed swiftly by the sound of the Vargas’s front door closing.

The next sound? The click of the dead bolt being shot home.

Unwilling to face my empty house, and troubled by the scene at the Vargas home, I took a detour by Darci’s, and as I drove I dialed Karen Burns again.

Still no answer—I left another message.

Darci answered the door shoeless, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. A pen stuck out from behind one ear and she looked a little frazzled.

“Hey, come on in,” she said with a hug. “Is Tink on her way to North Carolina?”

“Yeah,” I replied dejectedly, and followed her into the living room.

Textbooks lay in a pile on the couch, and papers scattered the floor. Her laptop hummed from the coffee table.

“I’m disturbing you,” I said, taking it all in.

“Ahh, that’s okay.” She waved her hand toward the mess. “I’m finished. I’ve been studying all afternoon for my Humanities test tomorrow. If I haven’t learned it by
now, it’s too late,” she said with a giggle. “Want a beer?”

Just then, a beer sounded pretty good. “Sure.”

I stacked the textbooks on the coffee table and sat on the couch. Darci returned a moment later carrying two bottles and handed me one. I thanked her and took a long drink of the cold, amber liquid.

Settling at the other end of the couch, she tucked her legs underneath her. “Have you heard from Bill today?”

“Nope,” I replied with a shake of my head. “He’s been suspiciously quiet. The only activity has been the patrol car cruising by now and again.”

“You haven’t called him?”

“No,” I said, leaning back. “I decided it’s best to let
that
sleeping dog lie.” I sipped my beer and mulled over a tactful way to bring up the Vargas family. Darci had lived in Summerset all of her life, and thanks to her friend Georgia, she knew the dirt on everyone. “What do you know about the Vargas family?”

Smooth, Jensen, very tactful—not.

“Not much,” she said, tilting her head and gazing at me. “Why?”

“How long have they lived here?” I asked, ignoring her question.

“Hmm.” She regarded me thoughtfully. “About ten years. I might be wrong, but I think they came to Summerset shortly after the winery opened. From Texas.”

“Good memory.”

She lifted a shoulder. “They were the first Latino family to move here.”

“Were there any problems?”

“Maybe when they first came.” Darci narrowed her eyes. “I remember overhearing Mom and Dad talking about an incident at Stumpy’s…some redneck shooting off his mouth.”

“Were they harassed?”

“Not that I heard.” She paused and drank a long swallow
of beer. “You know how it is—any change and there’s a lot of talk at first, then it all dies down and people move on to the next thing.”

“Were Mr. and Mrs. Vargas born in the U.S.?”

“How would I know?” She giggled. “Why all the questions?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I struggled to come up with an excuse, without telling Darci about Stephen’s date book. “Ah, the shooting happened at the winery, Mr. Vargas works at the winery.”

Her eyes shot wide with surprise. “You think he’s a suspect?”

“No,” I replied, doing some fast backpedaling, “but there might be a link. You said the Vargases were originally from Texas—”

“I said I
think
they moved here from Texas,” she interjected.

“Yeah, well, Stephen said that from here he was headed to Texas.”

Darci studied me with skepticism written on her face. “That’s pretty weak.”

I gave my hand a toss. “I’m just trying to make sense of what happened.”

“I see.” Darci threw an arm over the back of the couch and arched an eyebrow. “I thought you were staying out of it.”

“I am,” I explained, nodding vigorously, “I am. But I can’t help wondering…” I let my voice trail away.

“Speaking of Stephen—how’s he doing?”

“No change.”

“Have you ever read one of his books?” she asked, making a sudden shift in the conversation.

“No. Have you?”

“Yeah, I’m reading one right now. You know what I noticed?” she asked thoughtfully.

“What?”

“He does meticulous research.” She held up one finger.

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure what point she was trying to make, but knowing Darci, there was one. It would just take some time for her to make it.

Holding up a second finger, she said, “He quotes numerous sources.”

“That’s good,” I replied, at a loss what to say.

Her third finger shot up. “He takes on some tough subjects. The book I’m reading now deals with the mob.” She scooted forward, dropping her hand. “Think about it—the subjects he’s covered—I bet he has more enemies than you do.”

I started to raise my bottle to my lips, then lowered it. “Thanks a lot.”

“You know what I mean. He’s been writing a long time. He’s had more opportunity to tick people off. You just started a couple of years ago,” she said brightly.

Rolling my eyes, I finally connected her dots. “And one of these enemies followed him to Iowa and shot him?”

She nodded her head emphatically. “Right.”

“So now I have a hit man after me?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s comforting,” I muttered. “Why?”

She cocked her head. “Why what?”

“Why would the hit man be after me?”

“Hmm, well…” Her pretty face puckered in a frown. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

After leaving Darci’s, I still didn’t feel like going home, so I decided to visit Stephen. Or at least try to visit him.

With one eye out for anyone who looked like a reporter, I hurried across the parking lot and into the lobby of the Regional Medical Center. I knew where Stephen was, and my plan was to just brazen it out—to walk into the Cardiac Surgery Intensive Care Unit and into his cubicle. The worst that could happen would be they kicked me out. It wouldn’t be the first time my presence wasn’t welcomed.

I marched through the lobby and followed the route Bill and I had taken on Monday, only this time I prepared my defenses before entering through the swinging doors. I didn’t need to be caught off guard as I had been before. With my head down and eyes averted, I walked past the nurses’ station toward Stephen’s cubicle. I stopped short at the door.

A tall blond woman stood next to Stephen’s bed, her eyes glued on his face. Her shoulders hunched forward as one hand gently stroked Stephen’s arm. She looked rumpled and her whole body tired.

Oh my gosh, it was Stephen’s mother. I didn’t feel any guilt at worming my way around the hospital rules, but I did at intruding on this poor woman.

I pivoted on my heel and took a step before she spotted me.

“Wait,” she said, leaving Stephen’s side and coming toward me. “Are you here to see Stephen?”

I felt a blush creep up my face at getting caught. “Yes,” I mumbled.

Her eyes narrowed as they studied me. “You’re not with the press, are you?”

“No, ma’am. I’m Ophelia Jensen. I—”

Her hand darted out and grabbed my arm. “You witnessed the shooting.”

“Yes, I did. I’m so sorry.” I glanced over her shoulder toward the bed. “Is there any change?”

“No.” Her eyes flitted back to the still figure lying in bed. “He’s not making any improvement, but his condition isn’t deteriorating either.” Her focus returned to me. “I’m thankful for that.” She tilted her head. “Would you mind answering some questions for me?”

She took me by surprise. “Ah, no,” I stuttered.

Giving me a wisp of a smile, she nodded. “Thank you. There’s a garden café outside, at the end of the hall. I’ll just be a minute,” she said, motioning toward the nurses’ station. “I need to let the nurse know where I’m going.”

She walked quickly to the station and, in a low voice, explained that she’d be at the café if they needed to reach her.

Together, we left the intensive care unit and walked down the hall and out the double doors to the café. Mrs. Larsen offered to buy me a coffee, but I declined. While she ordered hers, my eyes wandered the small area.

Above me, leafy branches formed a shady canopy. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves. At one plastic table, hospital staff dressed in scrubs sat on plastic chairs. Near them, an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a young man and woman, tottered over and took a seat at another table. I watched as the young woman leaned forward and gently
rubbed the old man’s arm. Feeling as if I were intruding on a private moment, I averted my eyes.

When Mrs. Larsen took a seat opposite me, she got right to the point. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Hasn’t Sheriff Wilson talked to you?” I asked, surprised by her directness.

“The sheriff seems to be a very nice man, but he wasn’t a fount of information.”

“Well, ma’am—”

“Please, call me Louise,” she said.

“Louise…there isn’t much to tell. I’d just met your son, and it seemed we had a lot in common, so…” I paused and shifted in my chair. I didn’t want to try explain the connection I’d felt. “Um, we went for a walk. We were standing near the woods when it happened. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere.” I hesitated, knowing this had to be painful for her to hear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything.”

“Did Stephen say anything about his work?” Her lips formed a tight smile. “No, of course he didn’t. He’s terribly close-mouthed,” she commented, answering her own question.

“Do you think the motive is tied to one of his books?”

“I can’t think of any other reason. As far as I know, Stephen doesn’t have any jealous ex-girlfriends, he doesn’t have any overzealous fans, and I’d be shocked if he were involved in anything illegal.” Her face took on a faraway look. “He’s always had such a strong sense of justice.”

“But he does have enemies?” I quizzed.

“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, and lifted the cup to her lips with a trembling hand. “He’s done exposés on the mob, crooked CEOs, shady politicians—any one of them might want revenge.”

Hmm, maybe Darci was on to something. Maybe the motive wasn’t related to his current book, but one he’d already written.

“Were you able to give Bill any specific names?” I asked. “Did Stephen ever receive any death threats?”

“If he did, he wouldn’t have told me, and he’s never mentioned anyone who’s wanted to harm him. The person who’d be able to answer those questions is his assistant, Karen Burns.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No.” She shook her head. “And that surprises me. She and Stephen work closely together. I’m a little shocked she isn’t here.” She blew on her coffee and took a sip before continuing. “Stephen’s always been a fighter, always cared about the underdog. Even as a child. He’s never backed down.” Her breath hitched in her throat. “And now it’s led to this.”

“Louise,” I said, patting her frail hand. “It’s very admirable that he’s used his talent to help people by exposing the truth.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “His father and I had always hoped he’d go into the law. We saw him working in civil rights, but no, he wanted to write.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “And now look at the price he’s paid.”

“Bill’s very good at his job,” I interjected. “He’ll find who did this.”

Her mouth turned to a bitter smile. “I hope so, but what about the next time? I don’t see Stephen ever changing. He’s so devoted to his work that he’s led a solitary life. No wife, no family of his own—all those things a mother wants for their child, he lacks.”

Two years ago I wouldn’t have understood how she felt, but now I did. Someday I wanted those things for Tink, too. Home, family, success, all the good things life has to offer. I searched for words of comfort but could think of nothing to say.

Her eyes suddenly widened and she quickly wiped her cheeks. “Oh no, don’t look, but here comes that awful man,” she gasped.

So I did exactly what she told me not to do. I spun around in my chair, searching for the man. “Who?” I asked, my gaze roaming the tables.

“That politician…Chuck Krause,” she hissed.

My eyes flew back to Mrs. Larsen. “Chuck Krause is—”

A shadow fell across the table. “Good evening, Louise.”

Mrs. Larsen lifted her head. “Mr. Krause,” she answered in a tight voice.

I didn’t want to get involved in this conversation, so I tried to pretend that I was invisible. It didn’t work. I felt Krause’s eyes on me and looked up.

“I’d like to introduce Ophelia Jensen,” Mrs. Larsen said graciously. “She’s a friend of Stephen’s.”

“Ah, Ophelia.” Krause’s face fell into an expression of feigned sympathy. “You were with him at the time of the accident.”

Attempted murder—an accident?
Okay, Jensen, cut him some slack. Maybe he’s trying to spare Mrs. Larsen’s feelings.

Evidently, Mrs. Larsen didn’t feel the need to have her feelings spared. “Mr. Krause, someone tried to kill my son,” she replied with a tinge of sarcasm. “I’d hardly call that an accident.”

Krause slipped into the chair next to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She shrank from his touch, but he seemed oblivious. “Louise, I want you to know I’m taking a personal interest in your son’s case. Stopping this kind of violence is a promise I’ve made to the voters if elected.” His voice rose as he glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if he had an audience. “I will bring pressure to bear until the guilty are brought to justice.”

Unwilling to watch Krause’s performance, I lowered my eyes.
Man, enough hot air was coming out of him to evaporate water.

“I appreciate your efforts, but my main priority is Stephen’s recovery,” she said shortly.

“Perfectly understandable. Your days must be very long, though, Louise. Nothing more tiring than sitting around a hospital day in and day out.” He patted her shoulder again. “You need to take care of yourself, too. I’m having a fund-raiser next week, and I’d love for you to be one of my honored guests. It would be good for you to get away from the hospital for an evening.”

My head popped up.
Her son’s fighting for his life, and this bozo wants her to come to a fund-raiser?

“Mr. Krause, the only thing
good
for me right now would be for my son to recover,” she answered in a voice dripping with ice.

Krause’s eyes widened imperceptibly as her put-down penetrated his thick skin. “Naturally,” he said, rising and pressing a hand on her shoulder. “I just stopped by to see if there’s anything I can do. If there is, please let me know.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Krause,” she said without looking up.

Mrs. Larsen waited until Krause was out of earshot. “Humph,” she whispered, leaning across the table. “The only reason
he
stopped by was to check on free air time.”

I gave her a puzzled look. “Huh?”

“The reporters have been such pests,” she answered in disgust.

“I know they’ve been hanging around—one waylaid me leaving the hospital Monday. Have they been bothering you?”

“A little,” she conceded. “Security has tried to keep them away from me, but Mr. Krause…” Sitting back in her chair, she gave her head a disgusted shake. “…he’s sought them out…and not only that, he wanted me to join him.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, I’m not. And this fund-raiser…I may be old, but I’m not stupid.” She sniffed indignantly. “He can’t fool me.
He wanted to parade out the grieving mother to make some kind of political point.”

“So,” I said with an evil grin, “he’s not only smarmy as hell, he’s a political ambulance chaser.”

A true smile lit her face. “Very well put, Ophelia.”