The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard Page A

strolling back into the living room, carrying an empty tray. She took a place next to me on the couch but said nothing.
    “What did you drop?” he asked again.
    “A shell.”
    “You were walking around the yard, in the dead of night, carrying a shell?” He looked first at me, then at Abby. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know,” he muttered to himself while clicking his pen rapidly. “What happened next?”
    “When I bent to pick up the shell, I heard a pop and the shattering of glass. Then I heard a motorcycle.”
    “Did you see anything? Any movement?”
    “No, it was too dark.”
    “Where did the sound come from?”
    “The dog or the motorcycle?”
    “Motorcycle.”
    “I think it came from behind the trees at the back of the yard. Maybe toward the west side.”
    Bill flicked the switch on the small radio clipped to his jacket and it crackled to life. “Ben, have someone check the west side of the property for tire tracks.”
    A garbled voice answered him, but from where I sat, the only word I caught was “rain.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Bill answered into the radio. “They’ve probably been washed away, but maybe we’ll get lucky.” With a flip of his finger, he turned the radio off.
    “Bill, I don’t mean to interrupt, but would you please explain to me what’s going on?” Abby asked in a calm voice that belied the tension I felt emanating from her.
    “Your granddaughter is determined to mess up my investigation,” he said unkindly, “and in the process, get herself killed.”
    Squaring my shoulders, I opened my mouth to defend myself, but one look at his face and I snapped it shut.
    He proceeded to give Abby a rundown of his theory with me as the victim. While he did, Abby grew visibly paler and her hand stole out to clutch mine.
    I didn’t appreciate how his recitation was affecting her. “Do you think it’s necessary to give her a blow by blow, Bill?” My fingers squeezed Abby’s hand.
    “Yes, I do,” he replied, his head bobbing empathically. “Maybe she can talk some sense into you.” Picking up his cup, he sipped his tea as he skimmed over his notes. “Did anything out of the norm happen today?”
    Well, let’s see…Was almost getting conked on the noggin with falling tile out of the norm? Yup, I’m sure Bill would have considered it unusual. But I didn’t want to tell him about the visit to the winery. I lowered my head andplucked at the hem of my shorts while I argued with myself. Suck it in, Jensen, and get it over with.
    When I raised my head, the words flew out of my mouth. “I went to the winery after work, paid a visit to the old church, and about got beaned by some falling tile. I—”
    “You what!” Bill jerked the hand holding the tea, making it slosh over the rim and down the front of his shirt. He set the cup down, grabbed his handkerchief and dabbed at the wet spot.
    “Here, let me,” I said, standing.
    “Sit,” he barked, jabbing a thick finger at the spot I’d just vacated.
    I sank to the couch.
    “My God, Ophelia, you are trying to get yourself killed!” He scrubbed at his chest furiously, sending the notebook on his lap flying to the floor.
    “I am not,” I replied hotly. “It was an accident. Right before I went inside the church, I saw a squirrel. It probably ran across the roof and knocked the tile through the hole.”
    Bill scowled at me.
    “Look, I’m telling you I know I wasn’t the intended victim yesterday—”
    “What about tonight?” he asked, challenging me.
    “Okay, tonight somebody took a potshot at me, but whatever is happening right now—it’s not about me, it’s about Stephen.”
    “You’re sure?” he sneered.
    I ignored the sneer. “I know you don’t think I can help you, but I can,” I blurted out. “I took a look at the crime scene—”
    His eyes narrowed even more. “Did you cross that tape?”
    “No.” Clenching my hands in my lap, I stared at him defiantly. “I stood on the other side and tried