Read Online The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard - Free Book Online Page B

of the stairs, I flipped the switch, shutting off the basement 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 clusters 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 glasses 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.