Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) by Elizabeth Shawn Page A

the bedlam.  “What are you doing, Ms Penzra?”
           “I ... ah ... I guess I thought whoever broke in had cut the wires.  I thought the alarm was broken now, and if I turned it on ... Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting any sound ...” I was babbling.  I was tired.  And I was a little scared.  It wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning.
           They went back to their jobs, muttering and mumbling, much as I probably would have if I’d been in their shoes and some crazy lady had scared me half to death by turning on the alarm system.  Their boss, other than assuring me that they’d check on all the details, said nothing to cause me further chagrin.  I went back to the table, stared at my coffee cup, and tried to convince myself this was all just a bad dream.
           Patsy, younger and more resilient, was soon on her feet and peering down the hall to watch the action.  “I’m going to offer them coffee,” she finally announced, trying to make her decision sound like good manners instead of brash curiosity.  A moment later I heard the subdued, properly funereal murmur of voices.  She came back in.  “They wouldn’t mind if we put on a pot and let those who have the chance grab a cup.”
           “Fine,” I waved a hand at the counter.  “Put on a fresh pot.  In fact, dig out the big pot in the cabinet under the toaster.  I think we’ll be needing it.”
           We remained in the kitchen even after we were informed we were free to go upstairs.  Staying seemed the right thing to do, somehow.  Going about our business seemed like an insult to Shelly.  Besides, what business was left to do?  The shop, which might have left us busy with something we could convince ourselves was necessary, was closed.  The phone was being answered by the police department (at their request) and going upstairs seemed too much like escape to my guilt-ridden soul.  And why did I feel guilty?  Because I’d hired Shelly at her and her mother’s request?  Because I’d failed to foresee her murder?  Because I was alive?  I felt guilty because it’s what I’m good at feeling.
           I decided it was time to bake.  I have a blasé personality.  A lot of my life centers around food and drink for comfort, just one more thing I am working on trying to balance out.  This morning, however, was not a good time to worry about improving my psychic personality.  I would bake funereal feasts, a barrage of calorie-laden comfort foods.  I pulled hamburger from the freezer, started dough for rolls, and pulled out my sugar, fat, and chocolate supplies.  I also checked the all-important ice cream.  Patsy watched me in amazement for a while, and then she started scribbling with pen and paper.  She, with her straight-forward mind, was compiling a list of who, what, and why murder could have happened in our house.  I, being much more devious than my well-intentioned niece, unconsciously planned to stupefy myself and those around me, making everyone too satiated to do further harm. 
           We all have our secret methods of dealing with life.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER SIX
     
    From the Wiccan Rede:
    Deosil go by the waxing moon
    Chanting out the witch’s Rune.
     
       It was almost noon before sheriff Alberts came back into the kitchen.  Most of the comings and goings had been through the shop door at the front of the building.  Patsy had watched the busyness off and on, reporting to me about small crowds gathering outside, ebbing and flowing according to the amount of action they could see.  The removal of Shelly’s body was the biggest draw.  I wondered if I’d be one of the gawking people if I were a carefree tourist, rather than the owner of the house.  I didn’t think so.  I prefer my morbid thrills second-hand, mainly gossip about people I don’t know.  Realism is what we live with every day.  I want escapism.
           The sheriff helped