To Speak of Things Unseen (Hemstreet Witches Book 2) Page 3

“Not very nice of you.”

  “Neither was that little show earlier. Want me to blow away your little friends. Next time I won’t just disarm.”

  Ornis snorted. “I was trying to be friendly and tell you something, but you’ll know soon enough.”

  “Then get out of here.”

  “More than me is coming.” He gave one last smirk before leaving.

  “Could you do it?” Adolph asked as they walked back to the patio.

  “Not sure, but it’d be fun trying.” He laughed, as he thought about Adolph taking a good-sized bite out of that skinny butt. The image put him in a good mood for the first time in what felt like weeks. Maybe he would sleep finally.

  At first light, he got up, showered and dressed. He smelled the coffee as he and Adolph came down the stairs. Sofia Phelps was in the kitchen and turned to smile as he entered. “What you want for breakfast?” she asked as she poured him a cup of coffee.

  “The usual,” he said as he took the coffee and sat at the table.

  With smooth movements, she turned the flame up under a burner, set the pan on it, got out eggs and broke them into a large bowl, whipping them.

  “How long have you worked for me, Sofia?” he asked.

  “Ever since Mr. Robert died,” she said. Her face turned sad. “Your papa was such a special man.” For the many years she had worked for him, Rosa had been dedicated to the man she always called the mister.

  “He was.”

  “I was glad you took me on.”

  “You were in California then. How do you like working here in Tucson?”

  She turned to look at him. “Why you asking me that? You going to fire me?”

  He grinned. “Do I look insane? Nobody cooks like you do.”

  “Then why you asking?” Her accent only now and again showed up. He had upset her without meaning to.

  “I am not sure. I guess I’ve been doing some thinking about what I should do next.”

  “You maybe won’t keep this house?”

  Buck came in to hear the last of that. “You moving, boss?”

  “I’m restless, Buck, but no, I don’t think I’ll sell it, but maybe live more of the year on the Verde.”

  “And us?”

  “It’ll be whatever you want. I’d need someone to stay here. For now, I’m just talking through my hat. I don’t know what’s going on inside my head.”

  While Sofia added more eggs to the bowl and then began cooking them, he went to the cupboard, opened a can of Adolph’s food, and spooned it into his silver bowl. The big wolf gave him a look, indicating disapproval, but began eating. He never talked to Mitch when others were around, not even those as trusted as Sofia and Buck. They had seen many things in the years they’d been with him. They never questioned from where the unexplainable things had come. Whether they had ever heard Adolph talking, before they entered a room, they didn’t say. There was a lot they didn’t say.

  An hour later, Mitch called Oliver. “So what’s up with Ranger?” he asked knowing he’d not have awakened the cowboy.

  “It wasn’t about Ranger. He’s doing fine although he likely will always be some skittish. I’ve done what I can to steady him.”

  “Then?”

  “I got a call from Maria.”

  “Hemstreet?”

  “Yep. Her daughter would like to meet you.”

  He had known the Circle C was a Hemstreet ranch. Once Marcus had been killed, he had no interest in meeting his family. He had seen Maria once at a charitable event but avoided talking to her. He wondered if that would affect his relationship with Luke.

  “Nah,” Luke said. “It’s up to you. I said I’d ask. That’s all.”

  “You read minds?” Mitch asked.

  He heard the low laugh. “Just figured it’d be a possible concern. I train horses, and run the Hemstreet spread, but I’m not part of the family.”

  Mitch wondered exactly what that meant. Luke Oliver had always been a bit of a mystery to him. He knew he was a man of the earth, good with horses, and that had been his family heritage. He talked little and got along even with Adolph, when many feared the wolf.

  “Glad to hear that,” he said. “I was thinking of taking Ranger for a ride tomorrow morning before it gets too hot.”

  “Okay, I’ll have him in the stable as I probably won’t be here tomorrow.”

  Changing into a polo shirt, slacks, and his one pair of good shoes, Mitch drove into town and to his appointment with Jack Ayers, his accountant.

  “I was surprised you’re working on a Saturday,” he said after the obligatory pleasantries and lowering himself one of the leather chairs in front of Jack’s desk.

  “I don’t usually.” He handed Mitch the portfolio. “As you can see, your estate has been growing steadily.” He gave Mitch time to scan down the figures.

  “Then why the request we meet?” he asked, as he put the folder on his knee.

  “I had a visit from your stepbrother yesterday morning.”

  “Interesting. You know, I assume that Roger Butler is no actual relation to me.”

  “Yes, I do. It was a strange visit. There was resentment in his voice as he mentioned your father had been his stepfather.”

  “I usually only hear from him when he wants money. He didn’t expect to get that through you, did he?”

  “No. He was concerned about the size of your estate now. He looked annoyed when I told him that was confidential. Before he left, he asked about a will.”

  Mitch smiled coldly. “He should have visited my lawyer. He’d be more likely to know about wills.”

  “I had the impression he had, and Bill was no more inclined than me to satisfy his curiosity.”

  “In case he returns, you can tell him I do have one. The estate is set up to go to my help, several charities here in Tucson, one my father always supported, and in a trust for the education of White Mountain Apache youths. None of it will gain Roger anything should I have a surprisingly sudden accident.”

  Jack smiled. “I was thinking you might want to let him know that. Something about him made me think he needs to know he gains nothing if you die.”

  Mitch let out a breath. “I’ll give that some thought. Frankly, I have as little to do with Roger or his mother as I have to.”

  “Not hard to understand. Families can be bitches.” He shook his head and grinned as he rose with Mitch and shook his hand. “What about the winery?”

  “You mean who does it go to?”

  Jack chuckled. “No, I meant when do I get the case of Syrah 2012 Reserve? I read it won some impressive awards, and I am on Jacques’ list with first options to buy.”

  “The accounting business must be doing well.” Mitch laughed thinking the last he remembered 2012 was going to be an expensive wine.

  “Well enough. I do enjoy treating myself with special wines, and that is one I know will be limited.”

  “I’ll let you know when I do. You know how vintners are about such things. Very picky, and the one, who dares tell him his business, will find him gone.”

  Jack laughed again. “I’ll be careful. Just don’t let him forget me.”

  “I’ll remind him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Walking into the broiling sun, Mitch thought about why Roger might’ve come to Tucson and what the hell was he doing asking questions about his business dealings? He pulled the Silverado into traffic as he thought about the hate Roger’s mother, Regina, had for him. She had accused him of cheating her and her son out of any inheritance—never mind the fact she’d gotten a healthy divorce settlement, despite the fact that she’d been unfaithful to his father. Their marriage had been over before Robert learned he had a son.

  Having a movie star for a father, especially one as major a celebrity as Robert Flynn, was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he was proud of what his father had accomplished, but having not known him until he was eighteen, he had never seemed much like a father. He knew he had inherited his physical stature, tawny h
air, strong jaw. Despite being half Apache, he showed little of it, unless it’d be that he had olive skin and almost never sunburned.

  Thanks to his mother, Roger had led a soft life leaving him with few resources. He had no idea of the training Mitch had gone through as a child, what it was like to do a vision quest, what toughness meant to a desert man. Roger had been nurtured and coddled with no real skills, at least so far as Mitch had seen. Always he’d looked for shortcuts.

  At one time, feeling somewhat sorry for him, he had given him money for supposed businesses. The last time he had come for a check, Mitch had told him no. Whether Roger had enough backbone even to plot a murder, Mitch had no idea. It wasn’t his problem either.

  To the south, he saw the thunderheads building up. Maybe finally they’d get the storms for which the desert was crying out. The world needed a change. His world particularly.

  Chapter Three

  After a thankfully, quiet week-end, Elke looked forward to getting to the shop right up until she saw a small group, walking back and forth and holding signs. This did not look good.

  Witches burn in hell was hand-written and carried by a young girl.

  An older woman wagged a finger at Elke. “You Hemstreets need to repent and get the demon out of you,” she shouted with three other women nodding their agreement.

  ‘Harry Potter was a demon,” cried a young boy.

  Elke took long enough to read two other signs.

  A man or a woman who is a medium or a necromancer shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones; their blood shall be upon them.

  You shall not permit a sorceress to live, Exodus 22:18.

  Nothing too original although the stones drawn below the words were an interesting addition. Since Elke didn’t see any actual stones, she held onto her smile, walked past, turned the key, and walked into the shop—locking it behind her.

  Torre had arrived ahead of her. “I came in the back,” she said as she handed Elke a cup of iced coffee. “What do you suppose this is about?”

  “That’s what I was wondering. We’ve had peace for years. Why now?”

  “You think it relates to those murders with the women in the crucifixion poses? I mean they never really did charge a murderer. It’s only been a couple of months.”

  “Could be, if someone is out there saying a witch did it.”

  “Well, it was a sorcerer or a wantabe anyway.” Torre smiled. They had taken care of the murderer by removing his power, but not in a way that could be explained to anyone. They sat in the office contemplating how long the demonstration would last, and whether it would be the end of their fledgling business.

  “Have you heard about someone encouraging this in Tucson?” Elke asked. She told Torre about the young woman who had supposedly sought a spell. “Whether she was actually a reporter or what she claimed, she said she’d heard about us on the street. The question is who would be saying such a thing?” Who gained power by starting such rumors?

  “It’s not like any of my friends would be likely to hear,” Torre said. “I could ask around.”

  “Do you know anyone who would know?”

  She saw Torre considering. “One possibility. He’s a street preacher, who works with the homeless, does not have a church that I know of. He might hear such talk. He’d definitely not be behind it though.”

  “I wonder if Black Cat is getting it too.” She rang the bookstore. Devi answered.

  “Are you being picketed?” she asked.

  Devi laughed. “Not paying high enough wages?”

  “Very funny. No, it’s the moral police.” She told her then about the young woman’s request.

  “That’s odd.” Devi hesitated. “Yesterday we did have someone come into the bookstore looking around, and when I asked if I could help, he said he was looking for books on creating spells or making potions. I said no, but suggested a few titles on the history of paganism and asked if that would help. He looked at me strangely and left.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Bland sort of guy, nothing special about him other than…”

  “Yes?”

  “Just something in his eyes. It made me glad I refuse to carry books by wantabe witches. Bad juju.”

  “Do you have Vislogus?”

  “No choice on that. I mean it’s a bestseller, but in fiction, of course.” She gave a little laugh. “So what’s going on with the pickets?”

  “Out front are about ten people, including two children with signs and a vendetta regarding the Hemstreet witches.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Did you happen to get the name of the man who asked for the books?”

  “No but he gave off a bad vibe. Not like a sorcerer though.”

  “If he comes back, see if you can find out who he is.”

  “Will do.”

  When she hung up, she looked at Torre with a smile. “It’s not like I totally disagree with those people.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I also disapprove of necromancers,” she said in a pious tone. “Those who use demons or even human spirits for evil purposes.”

  “It is what those people out front think we do.”

  “It’s ignorance. They need to learn what good spiritual power is.”

  “Oh right, like nobody has tried.”

  “Have you read Vislogus?”

  “I heard you mention it just now. Sounds like a chest rub.” She chuckled.

  “Very funny. Vis means power and logus is logic. It’s an adventure fantasy book, rather like Harry Potter, I suppose.”

  “That bunch out there don’t think much of Potter.”

  “It’s ignorance. Like that word necromancer. Most of the ones who see the word don’t know what it is. It’s about using the other side for evil. We don’t do that. We don’t deal with shamans who do that either. Yet the word sorcery scares people. It’s the ignorance.”

  “Well, it’s in the Bible.”

  “Along with stoning disobedient children and not eating shellfish or pork.”

  “Now that I think about it, I do remember a review on that book. Sort of a fairy tale for adults.”

  “If you don’t know it is reality.”

  “Aren’t they making a movie about it?”

  “It should be a movie or maybe…” She again thought of the small theater group, whose productions she was helping to support. “Maybe we need a play right here in Tucson that helps people understand spiritual power can be bad or good, that we need the good guys to fight for us because bad spirits exist.”

  Torre laughed. “They have that part down except in their version, we are the bad ones.”

  “Only because of that ignorance.”

  “Believe what you want. I think there’s way too much history where witches are regarded as evil to change minds.”

  “What about that television show from a long time back—Bewitched,” Elke argued.

  “And something like that can turn around people like those outside, who’d love to tie us to a pole and burn us alive? I don’t think so.”

  “Vislogus has been a very popular book.” When the phone rang, she picked it up. “So what time can I meet him?” she asked without waiting for her mother to say more than hello.

  “He said no. He does not want to meet you. Sorry. I tried.”

  Elke gave a low growl. “He hasn’t even heard my proposal.”

  “And does not want to.”

  “Who asked him? You didn’t tell me your source.”

  “It won’t do you any good. He said no. He’s been stabling his horse out at our ranch, and Luke has been training him.”

  “Then doesn’t he owe us a favor?” She was determined. If she got a chance to talk to the writer, she knew she could convince him. A small theater production and maybe then he’d find a way to get a meaningful film done that didn’t lose the whole message of his book.

  “I won’t use that, dear,” her mother said with that tone, which said s
he’d not be changing her mind.

  “Do you have his address? I could write him.” Of course, she had no idea of simply writing him but…

  “I am not naïve. Sorry but I won’t help you with this.”

  Elke let out a frustrated breath as she clicked her phone closed. “She won’t help me.”

  “I heard. Why do you want his address?”

  “You know why.”

  “Vislogus is a Verde Valley winery.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “If you paid more attention to the best wines, you’d know it too. Its vintner is Jacques Durand. He’s world famous.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Torre laughed. “It would be highly unlikely that the same names are coincidence. There are listings of who owns which businesses and often addresses.”

  “You are brilliant.”

  “I know.”

  Torre opened her computer and began typing. Elke came to look over her shoulder. “This is a business address, not a home unless his name is Jack Ayers,” Torre said as she came to an address.

  “No, it’s Mitchell Ford.”

  “I know Jack actually, now that I think about it. I don’t think he’d tell us his client’s address. He might tell him you would like to talk to him about a proposal though.”

  “I think we already went that route. I need to talk to Mr. Ford in person.”

  Torre laughed. “Using your feminine wiles.”

  “Of course not, but I can be more persuasive when it’s face to face.”

  “I could try with Jack but…”

  “I could find him by using extrasensory, but that might get me in trouble. Mom always said never for a selfish purpose. Is this a selfish purpose?”

  “I could see it being thought of as to benefit us. Have you done a search for him online?”

  “Of course. For some reason no photos. The closest someone got to him was a tabloid article. The photo was at quite a distance and fuzzy, not a recognizable face. It said he was reclusive. His anonymous friend, in what served as an interview, feared he was depressive and suicidal.”

  “That’s not good. But then you said a tabloid.”

  “Two things make me wonder. Friends wouldn’t do an article for a tabloid, which means the story is suspect. Then why no real photographs of the guy? He’s a famous author. Why wouldn’t there be at least a professional photo on the back cover of his book?”