Free Tales of the Witch by Angela Zeman Page A

homicide detective and the constable. The detective just gazed at Skip and shook his head. He sent a water sample in to the lab for immediate testing, taped up the remaining bottles, then left the constable in charge. After all, no one had died. Yet. This time.
    Ernie, who was getting around on crutches now, sat down heavily on the hood of Skip’s pickup truck. The men gathered around. A white faced Skip stared at the bewildered men.
    “How’d you know?” Ernie finally asked, voicing one of the main questions on everybody’s mind. The other questions were ‘who’, ‘how’, and ‘why,’ but not many of them really thought Skip, who they all liked, would know the answers to these.
    Skip’s pale lips moved before any words emerged. When they did come out, they sounded parched and shaken. “I visited the site this morning early, way before the rest of you were due. Took a drink. It felt odd in my stomach. Traveling with Phantom so much, you learn to recognize bad water…stuff like that. Made myself throw it up. Figured you guys didn’t need to get sick, too—came as fast as I…” he was unable to finish. He swallowed hard. It’d taken him the entire drive from his house to the property to dream up that explanation.
    He looked around him. The men seemed convinced. Before they moved back towards their unfinished work, a few punched him sympathetically in the bicep, which brought a choked feeling to Skip’s throat that had nothing to do with dust.
    Just then, the constable ambled over towards Skip and Ernie, a troubled look on his face. “Got it over the car radio. The lab nailed it soon enough to save the guys, thank God…sodium triouroaetate.”
    “Uh, what?” asked Skip.
    “Pest control. Rat killer. Used to call it ‘Tri-Zan.’ All the waterfront industries used it to control the rat population back in the early ’50’s, until it got banned,” said the constable. “Pathologist said they hadn’t seen the stuff in decades. But with the location, and the symptoms, an old guy in the lab thought of it right away. Lucky he did.”
    Ernie explained to Skip, “This used to be a big shipbuilding region. Where there’s water and ships, there’s rats. I remember now that the stuff damn near killed off the whole town, years ago. Real disaster. Takes just a tiny bit…”
    The constable nodded. “You probably saved the lives of every one of those guys who drank any. Odorless, and practically tasteless.”
    Involuntarily, the three of them looked up at the sun nearly directly above them. It would be noon in less than an hour, and the air palpitated with heat. Everyone would have taken some water at one time or another.
    “My God. My God.” Skip sat down hard on the hood next to Ernie, his eyes huge with horror. After a few moments, he stood up again. “Send ’em all home, Ernie.”
    Ernie struggled to his feet, fumbled for his crutches. “What?”
    “You heard it, send ’em home. Now. Stop the work.”
    “You can’t do that, we got a killer schedule as it is. We can’t lose—”
    Just then, a caravan of cars pulled in behind Skip’s truck, led by the battered Chevrolet driven by the homicide detective. Doors slammed and a crowd of people bustled towards them, joined, Skip was startled to see, by the witch, who walked briskly in from the fringe of trees that separated her property from Phantom’s. He waited uneasily. Had they all figured it out? Was his cover blown? The crew, seeing the new arrivals, stopped work again and drifted curiously towards Ernie and Skip.
    Ernie had his crutches under control now and he stood at Skip’s side. The men gathered behind Ernie. To Skip’s surprise, at the witch’s arrival, Ernie tipped his hat to her like a guy in an old movie. “Ma’am,” he heard Ernie murmur to her. She nodded back, rewarding Ernie with a wry smile, but said nothing.
    Mr. Arsdale, the banker, who was at the front of the crowd with the detective, started barking at Skip like a nervous