Mrs. Risk crossed long legs, draping her gauzy black skirt in graceful folds across them. She poured herself and Rachel glasses of glittering gold wine, cradled hers in both hands, and leaned back in the rope hammock to listen. Rachel pulled an old aluminum lawn chair closer to Skip and sat.
“And because the other letters had been — been accurate, I drove like a maniac out to the site and, as you know, was just in time to stop the... the...” He seemed unable to go on.
“The carnage, so to speak,” she finished for him.
Rachel made a small unidentifiable noise.
He nodded, his eyes sick with memory.
“Please relax, Mr. Daniels. You’ve averted a tragedy. Also, your anonymous letter writer demanded that you stop all work, and you have, so you’ve no reason to expect further atrocities. Isn’t that correct?”
Skip nodded again.
“The letters — tell me about them. Were they typed? Were they mailed from Wyndham? That sort of detail might tell us a great deal.”
Skip shrugged. “I never noticed. They were sent to me at a post office box I hired. Just about everybody in Wyndham has the address. But here’s the one about the water.” He pulled a much folded envelope out of his back jeans pocket. “You can have it, if you want. They were all just like that one, I think. I threw the others in the trash.”
She took it from him and examined the grubby wadded paper. “So much for television detective shows teaching fingerprint and forensic technologies,” she said, sighing as she unfolded it.
“The first one came the day after I agreed to buy the property. Said if I didn’t want ‘death and disaster,’ I had to leave that parcel of land alone. Buy someplace else. I didn’t pay attention, you know? Figured it was some nut getting his kicks. I got a second one, same message, and pitched it, too. Then right after the next one, that warned he was gonna hurt somebody, the carpenter was shot. I thought of this guy first thing, but the cops said it was likely an accident. I got kinda jumpy then, but the cops were so convincing...
“Then another one came. And Ernie got it in the leg. He coulda lost the whole leg, did you know that?”
Rachel blurted heatedly, “His leg? He could have been killed! What if he, or someone else, had been trapped when nobody else was around to rescue him? He might’ve bled to death.”
Skip blinked hard, and finding himself unable to reply, took a drink of his beer. He was startled to notice that the witch was barefooted. Her feet were smooth, slim, and tanned a golden brown.
The breeze from the water caressed and cooled his skin. Reluctantly he disturbed the peace of the grove. “And, ma’am...”
Mrs. Risk looked up.
“I’ve got something else to tell you. My name isn’t Mark Daniels.”
Her eyebrows lifted, but her eyes looked unsurprised. “No?”
With a sigh dredged from the bottom of his workshoes, Skip told her the whole story, from Alexia to the present.
“Well,” was all she said, at the end. She smiled faintly. Skip had been expecting something a little stronger. Like a demand for a jail sentence.
“You’re quite an interesting young man.”
Skip was shocked. That didn’t seem an appropriate thing for a lady like her to say on hearing how he was doing something illegal.
“Tell me, ah — Skip. Have you ever asked your young woman whether she expects to be supported in a life of luxury?”
“Not exactly.”
“How ‘exactly’?”
Skip flushed. “Not at all.”
“Then it must be that you are merely aware of the low character of this young woman.” She gazed at him inquiringly.
Skip’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “No way! She’s the kindest, sweetest, most unselfish, hardworking, loving—”
“On the contrary. She must be an incredibly selfish, self-serving, materialistic female to demand such monetary standards from a possible future spouse.”
Skip roared, “But she didn’t demand them. She’s happy the way things are now. It’s me that—” He stopped, looked dizzy. “Oh.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s all me, isn’t it?”
“So you’ve developed this driving need for wealth all by yourself?”
“I guess so.” Skip’s lips moved, but nothing more came out.
Mrs. Risk watched him, emotions flashing across her obsidian eyes that could only be guessed by the softness of the smile on her lips. Her eyes narrowed. “And, in your mind, has your goal justified the ensuing problems?”
Skip stirred himself, then paled. “If by that you mean the carpenter getting killed, of course not. Or Ernie’s leg, or the guys getting poisoned, either. No way,” he finished with firmness. His features melted into a picture of misery. “I’ve been really stupid. And look at all the trouble I’ve caused.”
He sank back onto his elbows in the grass and pushed away his unfinished beer. “What’ll I do now?” But before Mrs. Risk could reply, he answered himself. “Turn myself in, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t deserve Alexia now. Less than I ever did.”
“I don’t believe so. If anything, you probably deserve her more now than you did before. No, I think we need to consider this problem from a different point of view than merely punishing you for idiocy. You appear to have a thriving conscience, so you’ve probably suffered enough anyway.”
Skip looked astonished at this. She leaned farther back in her hammock, swayed, sipped at her wine, and considered the leaves fluttering far above her head. “Yes, another point of view,” she repeated.
They sat in silence for a while, during which time Skip glanced at Rachel with a wary eye. At some point in the discussion she’d slumped in her chair and swung one leg over its arm. In this pastoral setting, she looked to Skip alarmingly glorious, like a temporarily benign exotic plant that carried poison in its fingernails.
“Are you her daughter?” he ventured. She laughed uproariously at this, but only shook her head.
He abandoned his curiosity and returned his attention to the witch. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, what point of view are you talking about? Maybe I could help you think if I knew.”
Mrs. Risk considered him. “Murder’s been committed, Skip. And other murders have been attempted. An obviously desperate unknown person is stopping at nothing to keep you — or people in general — away from that piece of property. Someone who has no conscience, Skip. Every — single — one of you could have died.
“I don’t usually involve myself in police matters, but in view of the seriousness of these events, and the suspicion that would inevitably be cast upon you...” She looked down at him. Her angular face could have been chiseled from ancient but living stone. The merciless intent he saw there caused a shiver to race down Skip’s backbone.
“We must find that someone, don’t you think?” she finished.
“Damn right,” Skip said. “But how?”
“You’re willing to help?”
“I ought to, don’t you think? I owe it all to those guys who nearly died because of me. And the one who did.”
“Get that thought out of your mind this instant, Skip,” Mrs. Risk said sharply. “You didn’t kill that man, or try to kill the others. At this point, the worst you’ve accomplished was to give them jobs they badly needed, although,” her mouth twisted wryly, “in a highly creative way. Anyone interested in that property could have triggered these same events. No, someone evil is at work here. Someone with no conscience. Someone whom I intend to block from achieving his depraved goal. First of all, will you do what I say?”