The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard Page B

to get a reading on what happened.”
    He wadded up his handkerchief and shoved it in his pocket. “And?”
    “Not much,” I admitted reluctantly. “The shooter stood in the shadow of a tree, so I couldn’t see his face.” My voice brightened. “But I could probably show you which tree.”
    “No, thanks,” he said, picking up the notebook. “We know where he was standing…we found the shell casing.”
    “Bill,” Abby said, the soft rhythm of the mountains thick on her tongue. “I know you don’t fully believe there is such a thing as a sixth sense, or what Ophelia is telling you, but I do.” She patted my tight fists. “If my granddaughter’s instincts tell her you’re on the wrong track, you’d best believe her.” Abby’s eyes traveled to the wet spot on Bill’s shirt. Raising them to his face, she smiled sweetly. “Care for more tea?”
     
    After all the cops had finally left, I locked the door and turned to find Abby standing right behind me. “Let’s talk,” she said in a firm voice.
    I snuck a longing look over her shoulder for a possible escape route. “Gee, Abby, I’m kind of tired.”
    Her eyebrow arched and she crossed her arms. “You weren’t tired when you were creeping around the backyard in the middle of the night.”
    “But,” I motioned to my front door, “there’s been a lot of excitement, and—” Her lips tightened and I gave up. “Okay, but I’m not drinking any tea,” I said vehemently. Trudging behind, I followed her into the kitchen and yanked out a chair, then sat down and waited for her to pour her tea and join me.
    She got right to the point. “Whether or not you were a target at the winery yesterday and today, you’re a target now and—”
    My thoughts leapt ahead of her words. “Tink,” I said with a soft whisper.
    She leaned forward and stared into her cup. “We need to protect her.”
    “I agree. And with school in session, it’s going to be hard.” I tugged on my bottom lip. “I don’t think she’d care for one of us attending her classes with her.”
    Abby softly chuckled. “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t…” She paused and traced a delicate flower painted on the side of her cup. “I have an idea.”
    “Not police protection.” My voice rang with certainty. “She won’t like that either.”
    Abby looked up and her eyes drilled into mine. “Send her to the mountains.”
    “What?” I jumped out of my chair. “To Great-Aunt Mary’s? Are you nuts?”
    “Aunt Dot lives there, too,” she answered defensively, and sat back in her chair. “She and Tink formed a tight bond during her visit. They’d love to have her.”
    I paced over to the counter and whirled. “What about school? We don’t know how long this investigation is going to take.”
    “Aunt Mary was a country schoolteacher for forty years,” she scoffed, scooting around in her chair to face me. “She’s more than capable of home-schooling Tink while she’s there.”
    Leaning back, I gripped the edge of the counter. “Abby, the woman’s almost a hundred years old,” I said, shocked at the idea of Great-Aunt Mary keeping up with a fourteen-year-old.
    “True, but Aunt Mary is as spry now as she was fifty years ago. She can handle Tink.”
    “What if she can’t?” I argued.
    “I have cousins in the area. I’m sure they’ll help Aunt Dot and Aunt Mary keep Tink occupied.” She gave me a smug look. “It will be good for Tink. She can learn a great deal from Aunt Mary.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I grumbled.
    “Ah, you mean her gift—there’s that, too.” She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Aunt Mary shares Tink’s abilities—we don’t. She’ll be a good guide for Tink.”
    With a scowl, I loosened my grip and turned toward the window. I didn’t know if I wanted the mean, prickly, old, Great-Aunt Mary as a guide for my sweet young daughter. How did I know what she might teach Tink? What if Tink came home ready to pulverize rabbit poop,