Free The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard Page A

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 Larsen 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 assimilated 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?”
    On the spot, I squirmed. “We’re not actually friends—I’d only met him myself yesterday, but after