Free The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard Page B

witnessing what happened, I’m…” My voice trailed away.
    “Curious?”
    “Sort of.”
    “I understand, but don’t you think questioning people is better left to Sheriff Wilson?”
    “Yes, but Stephen asked me to contact his assistant, and I’d like to be able to give her some answers.”
    That reply was kind of true.
    Ron crossed his arms and stared at me. “I thought Larsen was in a coma. When did he ask you for this favor?”
    “Um, well, right after the shooting, before the ambulance transported him to the helicopter.”
    I felt him shut down as he cast a hurried glance at his watch. “I need to get back to the main house. We’ve an event scheduled—a fund-raiser—for this evening.” He motioned toward the wide double doors. “Why don’t you let me walk you back to your car?”
    The conversation about Stephen was finished.
    Taking my arm, he began to lead me out of the church. We’d taken three steps when we heard a crack from above. Startled, we both looked up in time to see tile hurtling down from a hole in the ceiling. Ron yanked my arm and shoved me toward the entrance of the church.
    Behind me, the tile crashed to the floor and the air filled with dust as he hustled me out. Standing in the safety of the doorway, I looked over my shoulder to see broken chunks of old red tile lying right where I’d been standing.

Ten
    Tight-lipped, and not very talkative, Ron escorted me back to my car. The only statements he made were, “Are you hurt?” and, “I’m blocking that area off to visitors.” The rest of the communication hinged on body language, and by the way he stiffly marched me down the path, I didn’t think I’d be welcome back to the winery anytime soon. After all, who wants a woman around who only seems to bring trouble?
    On the drive to Abby’s, I tried to reach Karen Burns again. My fingers trembled and I felt my right eyelid twitching as I dialed her number.
    Again—no answer. It was just as well. After the tile incident, I really wasn’t up to questioning some stranger.
    I pulled into the long driveway leading to Abby’s house and stopped.
    “If you’re going to run a bluff, Jensen, you’d better get control,” I muttered to myself.
    I just sat there for a minute looking toward the house.
    To my left sat Abby’s vegetable plots. In spite of the recent hot weather, all the plants flourished. Stems, holding red ripe tomatoes, bent low to the ground, while pumpkin, muskmelon, and squash vines snaked across the ground a few feet away. And the watermelon vines—I caught myself smiling in my rearview mirror.
    Abby’s watermelons were known throughout the county as being the best…and the most desirable to snitch in the middle of a hot summer’s night. Light green with dark green stripes, at maturity these melons weighed almost thirty pounds. A young thief not only had to be fast, but strong, to run with a couple of thirty pound melons tucked under his arms. Every year Abby always allowed a few melons to be taken, but when she’d had enough, little blue bags with sunflower seeds sown inside would appear hanging from the fence posts, a spell to ward off trespassers that she’d learned in the mountains. After that, no watermelons disappeared in the middle of the night.
    Abby’s large white farmhouse sat at the end of the lane. Her wide porch with its swing invoked childhood memories of nights catching lightning bugs and letting them go; drinking tall glasses of cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day; putting on my bathing suit and darting in and out of a sprinkler while Abby and Grandpa sat on the swing watching and laughing.
    I draw strength from this place, I thought, and felt that strength fill me.
    I drove the rest of the way to the house and parked. As I walked up to the wide steps leading to the porch, I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of Abby’s sprinkler and the call of a meadow lark. I’d turned to see if I could spot the bird when the front door flew open and Tink came