The Witch's Grave Part 7

"The teachers don't waste much time, do they?"

"No, they don't..." Here was my chance to do a little of my own damage control. Here was my chance to do a little of my own damage control. "About Tink and our early conversation-" "About Tink and our early conversation-"

Darci arched an eyebrow. "You mean the one where you stated, 'I'm right and I'm going to prove it'?"

"Ah, yeah, that one." I looked down and fiddled with a b.u.t.ton on my jacket. "My words were rash. I'd never do anything that might place Tink or Abby in jeopardy."

Darci placed a hand on my arm, and I raised my eyes. "I didn't mean to imply that you would," she said softly.

"I know...as I said, my words were rash, and I'm sure a result of Bill and Ethan's att.i.tude. At times it's frustrating." I glanced down, then back up at Darci with a bright smile. "Bill's good at his job. He'll get to the bottom of Stephen's shooting without any help from me."

"Hmmm." Darci tapped her chin with one finger. "While you were in your office, I thought about your dreams, the shooting, and did a little thinking."

"Yeah?" Knowing Darci's creative mind-this ought to be good. Knowing Darci's creative mind-this ought to be good.

"Yeah, I'm not a psychic, but maybe the dreams were only a sign that you'd meet him. Your dreams never indicated any danger, did they?"

I thought about my dream last night and told another lie. "No."

"Maybe the reason you didn't sense any trouble is because what happened has nothing to do with your connection to Stephen."

I nodded my head wisely. "You know, you're probably right," I replied, once again lying through my teeth. "I'm placing way too much emphasis on that connection." I held a finger in the air. "Which is another good reason for me to stay out of the investigation."

"You really think I might be right?" Darci's eyes sparkled.

"Yes," I answered, trying to sound convincing.

"Great." She turned toward the clock hanging on the far wall. "Would you mind if I left early?"

I shrugged. "Might as well. I can close up by myself."

She hustled behind the counter and grabbed her bag. "I've got a date with Jimmy McGuire tonight."

Shaking my head, I watched her hurry to the door and, with a quick wiggle of her fingers at me, disappear outside.

Crossing to the top of the stairs, I flipped the switch, shutting off the bas.e.m.e.nt lights. Darci was amazing-she went through men like Kleenex, but always managed to keep them as friends. She also had a very astute mind.

Did she buy into my lies?

Gosh, I hoped so.

Nine.

The sun had begun its downward slide toward the western horizon by the time I left the library, but it was still hot. After throwing my linen jacket in the backseat, I headed for the winery. The shadows seemed to lengthen across the blacktop as I sped down the road. And even though the air conditioner was cranked on high, the heat had my light blouse sticking to my back.

I turned right onto a gravel road that was no more than a path, and into the winery parking lot. A large building holding the reception room and gift shop sat in front of me. Yesterday large crowds had gathered on its wide deck and lawn, but today it was empty. After leaving the car, I was moving toward the steps leading to the entrance when out of the corner of my eye I spied an employee working on the vines. With one foot on the step, I stopped and watched.

The man wore a denim shirt, blue jeans, and a sweat-stained straw hat. Leaning close to the vine, he pruned away some of the leaves hiding the thick cl.u.s.ters of grapes. His clippers paused and he turned, his brown eyes meeting mine across the distance. They flashed with recognition, while suspicion settled on a face wrinkled by too many hours in the hot sun.

Antonio Vargas.

It seemed the perfect time to question him about Stephen. But what would I say? I stepped down, hesitating.

His eyes shifted once more to the vines and he turned his back to me. The moment was lost.

I proceeded up the stairs, and in the gift shop crossed the floor to the young woman behind the counter. The shelves behind her held row upon row of bottled wine gleaming in the late afternoon sun. And wicker gift baskets holding wine and fluted gla.s.ses nestled in shredded paper were artfully arranged around the cash register.

"Hi, may I help you?" she asked brightly.

"Yes, I'm looking for Ron Mark."

"I think he was headed to the old church," she said with a smile.

"Church? I didn't know there was a church on the property."

"It's behind the grove of trees to your left as you turn off the main road into the winery."

"Oh."

"It's not far," she said, pointing toward the door. "You can probably find him there. Across the parking lot there's a path behind the trees leading off to the left."

"Okay," I replied, returning her smile.

Once outside, I saw that Mr. Vargas was gone-the vineyard was empty. Taking the path the young woman had indicated led me into the woods across the gravel drive from the vineyard.

Wait a minute, I thought stopping. Wasn't this the same direction Stephen and I had walked yesterday? Would this path lead me to the spot where he'd been shot, only from behind the trees instead of in front of them, where we'd been standing?

Walking down the path, I soon had my answer. Waving up ahead, tied off to the trees, bright yellow crime scene tape marked off the area. I felt my curiosity pull me toward the spot.

Boy, I'd love to duck under that tape and see what I might find.

I quickly banished that idea.

Hey, I'm a psychic, remember? I didn't have to be standing right on the spot to try and sense something.

Cautiously, I approached the tape and took a deep breath. Shutting my eyes, I envisioned the earth's energy coursing beneath me. I felt its power ease through the ground into the soles of my feet. It edged its way past my ankles into the calves of my legs, up my body, into my torso, until finally I felt the energy pool in the center of my forehead-my third eye. Slowly, I lowered the shield guarding my mind. Images of yesterday flickered there, as if I were watching Stephen and me starring in our own private movie.

I winced as the vision of Stephen's kiss stirred me.

No, don't focus on that. Focus on the trees behind him.

The image shifted as if the camera in my head panned the woods. Crows took flight, and for an instant the sun hit the cold glint of metal glimmering just out of reach of the shadows. My body jumped at the crack of gunfire and the picture disappeared.

Opening my eyes, my arms tingled as if hit by a mild shock as the power seeped downward and back into the earth, leaving me. I shook out my hands and inhaled a cleansing breath.

So now I had an idea where the shooter stood. But no face, no sense of his emotions, had filtered through. And I had no motive.

Still shaken by the experience, and off balance, I took a step forward, and the back of my neck quivered. I stopped and whirled around with a feeling someone stood behind me.

Nothing. Only a swarm of gnats drifting in and out of the shade. Must be a little residual energy still playing with my senses, I thought. I took an unsteady gasp and batted at my hair before continuing down the path. Rounding the corner, I saw a tall old-fashioned steeple rising above the trees. A little farther down the trail, I came out of the grove of trees into a tiny clearing and stood in front of the old church.

Gaping holes marred the faded red-tiled roof and new boards covered the plain square windows. The building had a sad, shuttered look. Its clapboards were aged gray, and in places appeared charred. A stillness wrapped around the church like mourning clothes.

Something bad happened here.

It flashed in my head, and without warning, flames flickered in my mind. And with them came a sense of anger, hate, intolerance. I felt my face grow warm as if I stood too close to a bonfire. Stepping back, the smell of smoke seemed to surround me. I heard the cries of women and the wail of children.

I scrunched my eyes, and rubbing my forehead, tried to wipe away the scene. The acrid odor faded while the sounds died away. Opening my eyes, all was as it had been.

Whatever had happened in this quiet glen happened long ago, but the pain of the event still lingered, like a memory too terrible to forget. A heaviness settled in the pit of my stomach, and my throat tightened with sympathy for those who had suffered.

No, I couldn't let the past deter me from why I was here.

Stretching my arms wide, I tried to find my center, my core, and allow peace to fill me. And as I did, I raised the shield around my senses that I'd so foolishly forgotten to reinforce after my attempt to "see" Stephen's a.s.sailant. The heavy feeling eased and my throat loosened.

Calmer, I approached the new steps leading to the wide double doors as a squirrel chattered at me from a branch hanging low over the roof. One door was opened a crack, and I cautiously pressed it wider.

"h.e.l.lo? Anyone here?" My voice echoed in the empty sanctuary.

I crossed the threshold and peered in. Fading sunlight shone down from the holes in the roof, dimly lighting the church. Long benches covered with ghostly white tarps sat along the wall, out of the light. A pile of discarded water bottles and food wrappers sat on top of a moth-eaten blanket to my left. Another white tarp draped over what I presumed was the altar marked the back of the church. On either side, swags of thick, dusty cobwebs hung from the corners. From behind the altar I heard the sound of rustling in the dried leaves littering the floor.

Mice, or at least I hoped it was mice and not something bigger. Like a rat. I shivered.

I took a step forward, and at the same time a loud crunch reverberated through the room. Startled, I pulled back and looked down. What seemed like hundreds of acorns lay scattered amid the leaves. I nudged away the debris with the toe of my loafer. Starting forward again, a sudden hand on my shoulder brought me up short.

With a shriek, I spun around to see the owner of the winery, Ron Mark, standing behind me.

"My G.o.d, you scared me," I exclaimed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he replied. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I swallowed nervously as I inched a step backward.

"Shannon said you wanted to talk with me."

"Ah, yes," I said with another step back.

"Aren't you the woman who was with Stephen La.r.s.en yesterday?"

I nodded, with a nervous glance around the church. "Who built this place?"

"A group of immigrants from Hungary in the late 1860s," he answered, turning his head while his eyes roamed the old building. "They were a devout religious sect that never allowed themselves to be a.s.similated into the community. And..." His eyes met mine. "...the first ones to cultivate grapes in this part of the state."

"What happened here?"

"The outbreak of World War One. Tensions ran high and everyone who had ties to the Central Powers were suspected sympathizers." He shook his head sadly. "Not only were these people of Hungarian descent, their neighbors believed they had Gypsy ties." Walking past me, he headed toward the shrouded altar and turned. "One night, in the summer of 1917, this church mysteriously caught fire."

"Arson?"

Shoving his hands in his back pockets, he nodded. "Yeah, and about the same time, some of the families had their crops destroyed, their wells poisoned, and their livestock stolen."

"All because of their ethnic background?"

Again he nodded. "When we bought this place, we found a diary in an old house we tore down. The woman who kept the diary wrote that everyone had vowed to rebuild."

"Did they?"

"No, they never got the chance. The Spanish flu pandemic started in 1918, and whomever it didn't kill, either moved away or was finally absorbed into the community."

"What people don't understand, they destroy," I murmured to myself.

"What?"

"Nothing," I replied while making a 360 turn. "What are you going to do with this old building?"

"Restore it. We've already started." He pointed to the pile of trash. "The crew Krause recommended isn't good about cleaning up, but they're fast."

"You know Chuck Krause?" I asked, surprised to hear that name twice in the same day.

"A little...His aide used to work for me," he answered with a puzzled look. "And before Chuck entered politics, he was in the building trade, and still has a lot of connections. Why? Do you know Chuck, too?"

I focused on the acorns at my feet. "No. I just heard someone else mention his name today."

"I imagine people all over the state will be talking about him before this campaign is over. He has big plans."

"So I heard." My eyes traveled over the old plaster walls. "When will you be finished?"

"Another four months," he said with a big smile. "We're planning on using it for Christmas celebrations, like choral events, weddings. That type of thing. It's going to be very folksy and old-fashioned."

I could envision the old church draped with boughs of evergreen and holly. It would be lovely once again. And maybe the building being used for something positive would banish the old memory of what once happened there.

"I'm sure it will be beautiful," I said, grinning back at him.

His smile suddenly faded. "I have a question for you-why are you here?"

I jumped right in. "Do you know Stephen?"

Surprise widened his eyes. "No, as I told Sheriff Wilson yesterday-I'd never met the man before in my life."

"Did he mention why he was here?"

"No. We talked briefly about the wine industry in Iowa. He was very interested in the production angle-how many workers it took to run an operation like this, what kind of skilled labor I used, that type of thing. When he mentioned he was writing a book, I presumed it would be one of those 'coffee table' type books." In the dim light, I saw his eyes narrow. "If you're his friend, don't you know all of this?"