Witch Way to Murder Read online

  SHIRLEY DAMSGAARD

  Witch Way to Murder

  AN OPHELIA AND ABBY MYSTERY

  In honor of John McConkey, 1945–2001

  A good man, a wonderful husband,

  and a great father. Thank you

  for having shared your life with me.

  Ellen Johnson

  My cousin by blood, but my sister by spirit.

  Without your encouragement, this book

  never would have been written.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Rising panic clenched my stomach. Clammy sweat made me itch…

  One

  I felt someone watching me as I put the returned…

  Two

  The next morning the hazy sunlight flowed through the open…

  Three

  After Abby left, I was glad it was Saturday and…

  Four

  Monday morning when I arrived at the library, who should…

  Five

  Rick Davis had been in town less than a week,…

  Six

  The cupboard was bare. I was out of dog food,…

  Seven

  It was turning out to be a rotten day. First,…

  Eight

  My plan didn’t work. First, I couldn’t find the right…

  Nine

  By the time I finally made it to work, my…

  Ten

  The car tires sprayed gravel when I whipped into Abby’s…

  Eleven

  I floated in darkness that washed around my body like…

  Twelve

  It sucked—all the attention. If it weren’t for Abby…

  Thirteen

  When Darci said I intimidated people, she shouldn’t have included…

  Fourteen

  When I reached the edge of the clearing behind Abby’s…

  Fifteen

  I had this tiny headache, right behind my left eye,…

  Sixteen

  Later that day Darci’s big plan played over and over…

  Seventeen

  This was it—Rick had removed these from the dead…

  Eighteen

  I walked slowly toward the library. I knew Darci would…

  Nineteen

  My fingers tingled as I drew the single sheet of…

  Twenty

  “What happened to you?” Darci said when I approached the…

  Twenty-one

  “What happened?” I said, running over to him. Pulling a…

  Twenty-two

  The dreams continued to trouble my sleep. They came unbidden…

  Twenty-three

  “Do you think Larry’s going to tell you anything?”

  Twenty-four

  “Well, I’ll be damned. She’s a witch, isn’t she?” he…

  Twenty-five

  The rain drummed on the roof while I lay in…

  Twenty-six

  I don’t know if it was my imagination or if…

  Twenty-seven

  The ground was cold and hard beneath my knees. My…

  Twenty-eight

  My head felt thick and fuzzy the next morning. Sleep,…

  Twenty-nine

  The cold pinched at my nose while I tromped through…

  Thirty

  When I opened my eyes, dizziness and nausea made my…

  Thirty-one

  We ran, heedless of where we were going, while the…

  Thirty-two

  “I think she’s awake.”

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Rising panic clenched my stomach. Clammy sweat made me itch underneath my arms. The high heels of my boots beat a staccato rhythm on the empty sidewalk as I rushed to the door. Why hadn’t I just gone with him?

  Once inside, I scanned the hazy bar. Dim light reflected on the men standing either alone or in groups against the bar. “Dudes row,” Brian had always called it. The perfect place for the men to scope out women as they entered the room, and whenever a new woman walked in their heads would turn, synchronized. At the tables around the edge of the dance floor, I saw couples, their shoulders touching and their heads tilted toward each other to hear over the loud music. Others milled around the room, looking for a place to sit down.

  I searched each face, looking for his, but all I saw were the faces of the Friday night regulars. I pushed my way past them to the bar.

  “Pat,” I said as I gripped the edge of the bar. “Has Brian been here yet?”

  From behind the counter, Pat leaned closer and cupped his hand around his ear to hear me over the loud music and conversation. “What, Ophelia?”

  “Brian—have you seen Brian? We were supposed to meet here, but I’m late.”

  “No, I haven’t, but I could’ve missed him. We’ve been pretty busy. Ask Misty; she’s been waiting tables all night. Maybe she’s seen him.”

  On the other side of the dance floor, a tall girl wearing a University of Iowa sweatshirt waited tables. Misty. I bullied my way through the crowd to reach her.

  “Misty,” I said, grabbing her arm.

  “Hey, watch it. I almost spilled this drink,” she said, frowning.

  “Sorry. I’m looking for Brian. Has he been here?”

  “Nope, haven’t seen him.” Her eyes studied my face. “What’s wrong? You look scared. Has something happened?”

  How could I explain? I felt the tears gather in my eyes as grief seized my heart and squeezed. I’d failed—it was too late. I had to get out of there before I broke down.

  I stumbled past the customers and into the street. Once in my car, I sat staring out the windshield. A fine mist gathered on the glass and collected in large drops that trickled slowly down in rivulets. The streetlight was like a spotlight on the dark puddles, turning them an oily black. Shadows crept out of the reach of the light.

  Tears slid down my face, but I didn’t feel them. Visions of Brian as I had last seen him at my apartment danced before my eyes—happy, smiling, excited. Had only a few hours passed? It’s not fair life can shift so quickly. If I shut my eyes, would I see him dead? Would I see the blood, feel his pain, his terror? My fault, all my fault, bounced about in my brain. I should’ve been able to stop his murder. But I couldn’t.

  And on that dreary November night four years ago, the first stone in the wall around my heart clicked into place.

  One

  I felt someone watching me as I put the returned books away. My hackles stood up and my skin tingled. I sighed and shook my head. My instincts told me it was Mr. Carroll, one of our oldest patrons, all in a twist and waiting to pounce on me about our latest book selections. He treated the library as his personal domain and me as his personal slave. He was not one of my favorites.

  Sighing again and plastering a smile on my face, I turned, only it wasn’t Mr. Carroll’s bleary bloodshot eyes staring at me. My smile faded as I stared into the warmest pair of brown eyes I’d ever seen. I felt a shock of awareness deep in my gut, even though I’d never seen this man before.

  He sure wasn’t from Summerset. It was almost as if he’d taken a class, “Small Town 101: What the Natives Wear,” in order to try and fit in. His blue jeans were properly faded, his leather bomber jacket had a lived-in look, and his work boots were fashionably scuffed. But he’d failed the class. His clothes may have said “small town,” but everything else in his demeanor shouted “city.” He had a sheen, a polish about him, that someone from Small Town, USA, lacks.

  I realized I was gaping and quickly looked away. When I glanced back, he was smiling. Evidently, befuddling women, even a thirty-something librarian, was nothing new to him.


  “Hi, my name is Richard Davis,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was rich and husky, with a faint accent like someone from Minnesota or Wisconsin, maybe.

  One of the quirks I’d developed over the past four years was an aversion to touching people, especially strangers, so rather than accept his hand, I bent to pick up an imaginary paper clip on the floor. When I stood, his hand was no longer extended.

  “The girl at the desk said I needed to talk to Ophelia Jensen. Are you Ophelia?” he asked. When I nodded, his eyes widened in surprise.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He laughed. “I’m sorry. You don’t look like a librarian.”

  “Really? And what exactly is a librarian supposed to look like?”

  “You know, older, hair in a bun, reading glasses on a chain, pencil stuck behind the ear.” He smiled, eyeing my clothes. “I’ve never met a librarian wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt that says ‘Tact is for people not witty enough to use sarcasm.’ Or one with a name like Ophelia.”

  I looked down at my clothes. He was right. Not my normal librarian look. Mentally, I pulled my tattered dignity around me and stood straighter. “I work alone in my office on Fridays.” That wasn’t any of his business. Why was I explaining? “But it seems the Dewey decimal system is beyond my assistant’s scope of understanding, so someone has to put these books away.”

  His smile never slipped. “That explains the clothes, but what about your name?”

  “Do you always ask this many questions, Mr. Davis?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a curious kind of a guy. So, how did you get the name?”

  “Persistent, too, aren’t you?” I said, arching an eyebrow. “Okay, the truth is my mother is a retired English professor, and she always had a thing for Shakespeare. Hamlet happened to be her favorite. I have always felt very lucky I wasn’t a boy.”

  “A retired professor? From what university?”

  “University of Iowa.”

  “In Iowa City, right? Is that where you grew up?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I shifted and crossed my arms.

  “How did you wind up in a small town like Summerset?” he asked.

  Boy, did this guy ask a lot of questions.

  “They needed a librarian and I needed a job.” My eyes slid over to the clock hanging on the wall above the bookshelves, and then back to Mr. Davis. “Now, what can I do to help you?”

  He noticed my clock-watching and smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you from your work, aren’t I? I need a library card and your assistant told me to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re not from around here. We don’t give cards to people who don’t live in Summerset or the surrounding area.”

  “I had hoped you would make an exception in my case. I’m a chemical salesman, I’ll be here for a couple of weeks, and I’ll be bored stiff without some books to read. I promise I’ll bring them back.” He changed the smile to a lopsided grin. Charm rolled off him in waves.

  I may have spent most of my life in a small town, but I’m not stupid. I can spot a load of crap when I see one. He was lying. Where was the hat, the jacket, the pens, all with his company’s name plastered on them? Without calling him a liar, I couldn’t get out of this situation. I mumbled something about how arrangements could be made.

  “Oh,” he said, still in the charm mode. “I like to look at old newspapers. You know, read what’s happening in the community. It helps me get a feel for my customers. You wouldn’t have archives, would you?”

  “We have our local paper, the Summerset Courier, on file. The archives are in the basement. We also have access to the Des Moines Register on our computer.”

  “Wow, you have a computer.”

  “Yes, we do.” I felt offended. I get so tired of “city” people treating us like a bunch of hicks from May-berry. “We’re very progressive. We also have running water and indoor plumbing.”

  Out came the lopsided grin again. “I sounded condescending, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

  I found myself smiling back. Whatever this Mr. Davis had, he should bottle it and forget about the traveling salesman routine.

  “That’s okay. I tend to be too sensitive about the library. We’ve worked very hard to make improvements.” I pointed back to the counter. “If you go to the main desk, my assistant will give you a library card and show you the archives.”

  “Great. It was nice meeting you, Ophelia Jensen.” He paused, his gaze intent. “Thanks for your help.”

  This time he didn’t extend his hand. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. While he walked away, I wondered what it was he’d almost said. But then again, I stay out of other people’s business and I really didn’t want to know. I’ve enough problems without getting involved in some stranger’s. Dismissing him from my mind, I returned to the absorbing job of straightening the bookshelves.

  “Wow, is that guy cute or what?” Darci said when she returned from showing our bogus salesman the archives. “Did you notice how brown his eyes are?”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I said, thumbing through the card file.

  “He wanted to know all about Summerset.” Darci propped her arms on the counter and gazed off into space with a goofy look on her face.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The usual—Summerset was founded after the Civil War. The main industry then was the limestone quarries located outside of town. That a lot of the buildings are built from stone quarried there.”

  “Wow,” I said absently. “I bet he found that information fascinating.”

  Darci tossed her head. “Well, he did. He was very interested. I also told him about the Korn Karnival held every fall.”

  “Oh, Darci, you didn’t tell him about that hokey thing, did you?”

  “Sure I did. And it’s not hokey. It’s one of the best festivals around. I love the parade, the flea market, the dunking booth. And, umm, the funnel cakes.” She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “How can you not enjoy those, Ophelia?” she asked, opening her eyes and staring at me.

  “They’re fattening? The grease goes right to my hips? And I have to walk an extra two miles to get rid of it?” I answered, and slid the card file under the counter.

  But Darci didn’t want to talk about calories. She flattened her hands on the counter, and her small frame seemed to vibrate with excitement. “And, you want to hear the best part? He said it sounded like so much fun, maybe next year he’ll come to the Korn Karnival.”

  I’m accustomed to Darci’s enthusiasm. I inherited her when I took my job almost four years ago. When I’d walked into the library that first day, I thought she looked more like a cocktail waitress than an assistant librarian. In her late twenties, with big hair, big mascara-rimmed eyes, and a build like a Playboy model. She was typing on the computer keyboard, her long red nails clicking across the keys. A sound as annoying as chalk on a blackboard. I took one look at her and almost ran.

  But over the years, I’d learned to appreciate her style. She’s outgoing, bubbly, and our patrons love her. Her approach to life is very laid-back, and she doesn’t even get excited about overdue books. I’m the opposite. I’m reserved. Never once in my life have I been called “bubbly.” And overdue books make me crazy. My grandmother, Abby, says it’s a control thing.

  So we’ve created a balance. Darci handles the irate customers, and I handle the details in managing the library. And it works.

  She continued to prattle on about Davis, but I only listened to half of her words. I knew why it had taken her so long to show Mr. Davis the archives. Darci is a born flirt. Flirting is as natural to her as breathing, and I’m sure she made the most of the opportunity. But I didn’t want the details. The retelling of the thrilling exchange about the Korn Karnival was enough. The phone lines would be burning tonight, I thought. Two hundred years ago Darci would’ve had a successful career as the town crier.

  But Darci got my full attention when she said, “So, I told him
if he really wanted to know about Summerset, he should talk to your grandmother.”

  Oh no, bad idea. I did not want him anywhere near my grandmother. Our mysterious Mr. Davis asked too many questions, and that would not bode well for my grandmother.

  Darci caught my glare.

  “I don’t know why you’re so paranoid talking about Abby. That herbal remedy she told me to take for my cold worked great. You may think with all this herbal stuff she’s a little off center, but I think she’s radical.”

  Darci had no idea how off center and radical my grandmother was. Thank God. If Darci knew, everyone else would know, too. We couldn’t have that; Abby had been careful over the years to protect her secrets.

  “Listen, he can find out the same gossip tonight if he has a beer at Stumpy’s Bar and Billiards. Or better yet, tell him to hang out at Joe’s in the morning, during coffee time. Those old guys know way more than Abby.” My voice sounded desperate. “Anyway, she isn’t feeling too well right now. I don’t want a stranger bothering her.”

  “She’s sick? What’s wrong?” Darci asked.

  Wonderful, now I had to tell another lie. I’m not very good at that, never have been. Not even as a child.

  “You know, just under the weather.” I stumbled over my words.

  “Well, I hope she feels better soon.” Darci picked up another card file and began to thumb through the cards.

  For once I was glad she wasn’t known for being quick on the uptake. Unfortunately, it would be different if Mr. Davis asked to meet my grandmother. He wouldn’t accept my phony excuses as readily. I was positive he wasn’t a salesman. He had some other reason, some other agenda, but what? Until I knew the answer to that question, I needed to keep him away from Abby.