Death Is Magical

By R.W. Weiss

The death of a drugged thoroughbred and its jockey in England are tied to animal deaths in the little tourist town of Lodgepole, Montana. The deaths appear to be ritualistic, and Hugh Winslow’s and Sheriff Beatrice Kelley’s fears of human deaths to follow come true.
Several suspects fit the profile of the deranged killer who mutilates with surgical skill and marks the remains with occult symbols. But why would someone want to kill harmless, old Joan Thackery? And why did her neighbor toss her old surgical tools in the river? True, the new veterinarian in town is handsome and charming, but he does have that mysterious aura about him.

Perhaps the former town mystic, Asatru, given more credit than was her due for townsfolk’s misfortunes, should be consulted. Maybe she’s forgiven them all for running her out of town a few years back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Class Act Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2015

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Death Is Magical

A Hugh Winslow Mystery

by

R.W. Weiss

Published by

CLASS ACT BOOKS

121 Berry Hill Lane

Port Townsend, Washington 98368

www.classactbooks.com

Copyright  2015 by R.W. Weiss

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-938703-75-1

Credits

Cover Artist: Blaise Kilgallen

Editor: Anita York

Copy Editor: Mallory York

Printed in the United States of America

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To Susan for keeping the magic strong for 40 years.

Hugh Winslow Mysteries

From Class Act Books

Death is Overdue

Deeded For Death

Death Is Written

Chapter 1

Dr. Humphrey Downings leaned forward, his arms resting on the top rail of the fence. Quite, he said aloud as he pictured how the others must see him in his riding boots, jodhpurs, and tweed jacket. Indeed.

Everything was, of course, above average and well-tailored, but never to the point where it might evoke questions. He squinted against the sun toward the track, the din of the crowd behind him. Really just a formality. The deal was already done. He’d cleverly sent old Scotty on an errand to check the swollen, right fetlock of My Lady’s Luck. Only a matter of a few moments now.

So he leaned forward in contemplation and relaxation, a contrast to the anxious and excited spectators in the stands. Poor fools, thought he. Alone now in the paddock, the contenders and their equine sidekicks gone, the jockeys and their hangers-on either mounted or having rushed to place their bets, he watched with a knowing smile as Sister Anna’s Baby reared back in the starting gate.

Easy girl, he whispered. The jockey leaned forward and bit her ear. She settled, the bell rang, and the gates flew open.

The thunder of the hooves was instantly swallowed by the wave of noise from the stands. Sister Anna’s Baby rushed to the inside rail behind Quintessential. Run, you bloody bugger! fell out from the wave. My bloody arse! dropped another. The first furlong saw Sister Anna’s Baby pull to the outside, a mere six inches from the leader’s side.

A new and larger wave carried the noise from the crowd. The favorite was passed, and this new leader ran with wild abandon. Her lungs filled fast and pressed against her sides. Saliva flew from the bit. Her eyes burnt against the wind and sun and sand of the track. She couldn’t help herself.

The mounted man-boy in the blue and gold colors did his best just to stay mounted. This was not a horse, but a wild beast. He was riding a tornado. He’d lost all control. He’d also lost much of his bladder.

The second furlong saw Sister Anna’s Baby five lengths ahead of the favored Quintessential. The angry crowd was not reticent. What the hell was this 18-to-1 odds doing out front? Dr. Downings lifted the hanging binoculars to his eyes. Pull her in, you bloomin’ fool. She’ll burn herself out.

But the jockey just prayed for the end of the trauma. Sister Anna’s Baby stretched and kicked like there was no ground, no resistance. She fled in terror from herself, but she couldn’t escape. Downings kept looking at her through his binoculars. She was gone.

The crowd let loose a scream. He dropped his binoculars to see the horse skidding along the sand, its dead body offering no resistance. The jockey was thrown toward the middle of the track and mercifully knocked unconscious as the rapidly approaching horses were unable to avoid kicking in his skull and stomping on his internal organs with such force that they lay still in the dust of the sandy track as the last of the racers rounded the turn.

Before the ambulance could make it to the two bodies, the man was already in his car headed toward the unknown. Damn bloody luck, he snapped as he flicked on the air conditioner. Damn bloody luck.

~ * ~

A cool breeze rolled down from the Beartooth Mountains bordering the B-bar-J ranch near Lodgepole, Montana. Two figures in jean jackets stood holding hands, the figures dwarfed by the expanse of rolling hills of new grass. Forty acres down past the second hill a couple hundred head of Angus cows mostly stood about and munched the new growth while their calves suckled and romped amongst them.

My God, said Bert, look at ’im run!

Two tons of lightning. Kate laughed. Roscoe, with Bert’s granddaughter mounted, tore around the cluster of aspens and shook the earth as she headed toward two of her favorite humans.

Hang on, Kirsten! called Kate.

The teen-ager let rip a yahoo, gave a loving slap of her cowboy hat along the horse’s flanks and leaned longer and lower into Roscoe's flying mane, blending his hair in color and movement to that of the horse’s. They thundered past, managed to slow enough to turn back, and were soon at rest in front of Grandpa and Kate.

I tell ya, Grandpa, said the teen-ager, he’s gotten even faster than yesterday. Whaddya get?

Bert looked at his stop watch then up at the smiling Kirsten. Two seconds faster.

I don’t think it’s the horse as much as it is you, said Kate. You’re higher in the saddle now. And leaning closer to his neck.

That squatting stuff feels a bit awkward. Not to mention it gets damn sore on the thighs.

Damn sore? frowned Bert.

Sorry, Grandpa.

Anyway, you’ll have to get used to it fast. Race has been changed to this Sunday.

So soon? We got enough time? You know, for getting him used to stretching so far and breathing so hard? I was a little scared for him, Grandpa. Look how hard he’s breathing. She turned in the saddle to stroke and pat the sweating horse, then held out her hand to display its wetness.

Don’t you worry about Roscoe, honey. He’s hardly three years and used to having his own way. You’ve seen him run from the stallions. Look at that twinkle in his eye. He’s been holding’ back a bit, that’s all. He loves the chase. Now you walk him back, sweetie, and get him curried. Give him a bucket of the mash. And just a little water in the beginning until he cools a bit.

Kirsten hopped off and swung the reins over Roscoe’s ears. You’re the best, she said, looking into the horse’s brown eyes then kissing him on his velvety nose. Even if you don’t win, you’re the best. Why, look how handsome you are. I’ve never seen a horse so pretty. Hope you don’t mind me callin’ you handsome. I mean, a big boy like you... She continued her one sided discussion as she led the horse back down the swell of green prairie.

You’re a lucky man, Bert Jerkovich, said Kate as she put her arm around her fiancé.

Got that right, he responded with a kiss. Ready for breakfast?

They mounted the two oldest and tamest painted mares that Bert owned and let the horses have their lead back toward the house. The fragrance of the earth and grass floated up as the sun warmed the early June morning. A few clouds broke the continuous band of open sky as it stretched past the mountains of southwestern Montana.

This was the time when the snow melt from the mountain ranges dallied no longer, and the water rushed from the higher levels toward the Yellowstone River. This abundance was a blessing to the ranchers who needed their creeks and small rivers to fill and overflow. The cattle now had easy access to water and the young hay growing in the fields had no need for irrigation. The retired teacher from Minneapolis and the widowed rancher of 3500 acres of Angus, hay, horses, and too many cats and dogs, rode along next to each other in animated conversation.

Yes, it was a beautiful day. No, he didn’t forget to call Olie and order more wire fencing. Isn’t Madge and Olie’s anniversary coming up? What was it like flying with Olie in the war? Is he as old as you?

What do you mean as old as I am? he teased back.

As the horses stopped to graze, she looked over at him; a bit hunched over, a bit bow-legged, a bit gnarled by the weather. But every beautiful feature of his youth still shone through his eyes, if a bit yellowed with age, and the ravages of wind and sun and wrinkles had lost in their attempts to disfigure this face of heroic lines.

You’re 74, my dear, she reminded him. Not exactly a spring chicken. Though I grant you that you work like you’re 24.

I’m retired, remember.

I remember, but I don’t think you do. Sometimes I worry that you’re working too hard.

Hell, Kate, I just get a little bored now and then. The boys run the place now. You know that.

Promise me you’ll watch yourself.

Only if you’re buyin’ breakfast, he said over his shoulder as he prodded old Clemmie into an unaccustomed trot.

~ * ~

The Lodgepole Cafe boasted the only neon sign in town if you didn’t count the ubiquitous beer signs in the seven bars that provided liquid strength for the locals and tourists alike. Most of the tubes worked. If seen at night, one could imagine an orange Indian dancing around a blue tipi; imagine, because part of the leg and head would sometimes flash off during the dance.

The ‘e’ in Lodgepole and the ‘f’ in Cafe had burnt out six years ago, but Joel was on the verge of ordering new parts. Inside, the ceiling had been lowered with acoustical tiles and random fluorescent lights. Most of these tubes worked, too. The two toned brown asphalt tiles that made-up the floor were long past the point of waxing. What was left of the tiles in the main walk areas were but shadows of their former glory.

Joel was just about to order more tiles—right after the fluorescent tubes. Bi-yearly coats of varnish brought solid maple tables to a high shine, allowing for better contrast of the initials and hearts engraved by forty years of adolescent ardor. Two almost clean picture windows, one on either side of the door, looked out onto the seasonally hectic sidewalks of Main Street.

Hugh and Susan Winslow now sat at the table nearest the kitchen and looked up at the distinguished looking young man who’d just been introduced as Dr. James Willoughbee. Their two dogs looked up from under the table.

...out of nowhere. An answer to my prayers. If I prayed, that is, said veterinarian Doctor Day, who for the past 45 years had been referred to only by his first name, Arnie. I was sitting over there by the window having the club sandwich and telling Joel how I wished I could find someone to take over so’s I could spend my retirement years in sinful glory. He was at the table that Jake’s at right now, Arnie gestured with his head. Is that Jake’s new girl?

I overheard them, so I rather rudely interrupted him and introduced myself, said the young man with the cultured voice, cultured tan, and premature gray streaked hair.

So when that monster horse of yours, or these overgrown wolves you try to pass off as dogs, need some mending, you’ll just have to be satisfied with this young fellow here, said old Arnie, with a warm pat on the young fellow’s back.

Nice to see you, again, James. With such high praise as that, said Hugh, how could we think of going elsewhere? This is my wife, Susan.

Queenie put her huge Malamute head on Hugh’s lap and whined in agreement. Wolfie, her twin sister, preferred to lick Susan’s bacon flavored fingers. When Hugh retired from the Chicago police force a few years back, and Susan from selling real estate, they’d come out to Montana on a little sightseeing trip, found Lodgepole, and never left. They saved the twin dogs from confinement in the local animal shelter.

Well, said Arnie, we better get going. We got a breach over at the Nelson’s place. This time I get to watch while James, here, gets to play.

A pleasure meeting you, Willoughbee told Susan.

Same here.

As the two veterinarians headed toward the exit of the Lodgepole Cafe, Susan stared after them.

Quite a good looking man. Can you get the coffee, hon?

Hugh reached over to the carafe and poured. Great that Arnie can finally retire. Wonder if he sold the place outright or leased it to James.

Don’t know. A bit of Tacoma’s homemade preserves trickled down Susan’s chin.

That’s becoming, said a voice from her side. Sheriff Beatrice pulled out a chair and plopped down her petite 5’3 frame. She pointed to her own chin, and Susan got the message. Raspberry?"

Strawberry.

You wearing make-up? asked Hugh as he poured a cup of coffee for Beatrice.

What? A girl can’t make herself look presentable without being grilled by every one? Her green eyes had an unaccustomed application of mascara.

I guess that answers my question. Why so testy? Where’s Henry?

Starting a diet and out at the Stein place.

Henry’s on a diet? asked Susan.

No. I am. You gonna eat that piece of bacon? Susan passed it over to her.

That’s why you’re irritable, said Susan.

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. What’s for breakfast today?

Thought you just said you were on a diet? asked Hugh.

I am. Right after breakfast. And the thought of it just annoys me. I apologize for being such a grouch. Tacoma up to anything special?

Don’t know yet, for sure. Joel said something about blintzes when he brought the bacon and melon, said Susan. She gave a piece of cantaloupe to Wolfie, who politely declined it by letting it slip from her mouth onto the floor where Queenie appreciatively swallowed it whole.

You think we’ll ever be able to order what we want? Susan thought out loud. Pass the sugar and cream, will ya?

If memory serves rightly, I believe I did once back in eighty-three, said Beatrice. A blizzard had dropped suddenly from nowhere, and Tacoma was trapped by an avalanche on her way to work...

She lives a block away, said Hugh.

...and had to shovel out with a spatula. Joel was already here. He said I could eat whatever I wanted.

I heard that, said Tacoma from behind Beatrice’s chair.

Geez, Tacoma, give a lady a warning, huh? said Beatrice.

And to answer your question...maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you guys order on your own. But only when I think you’re all mature enough to handle it. Only ones who get what they want are the dogs. Besides, I give it to you for nothing.

But we pay for it in tips for Clare and Willow, Hugh countered.

Tacoma chose to ignore the salient point. You wearing makeup? she asked Beatrice.

What is this? The Inquisition? You guys act like you’ve never seen me in make-up before. Too much eye shadow?

No, Miss Grouch, not too much eye shadow, said Tacoma. In fact, I was gonna tell ya how nice you look. But now I won’t. I suppose you want more bacon.

Yes, please, said Beatrice. You really think I look okay?

Oh, here comes Joel with the goodies, Tacoma said, spying her husband turning the corner out of the kitchen. He had the same shortness and plumpness that his wife had. In fact, they wore the same size clothes. She returned to the kitchen herself to help carry out the trays.

Today, my fine friends, said Joel while plopping down the plates on the table, we have the ever popular cheese blintzes, made by the hands of the lovely Willow Beak, waitress and soon-to-be chef. And here we have a sassy little omelet, not for the faint of heart or burn of heart. Take small bites. French toast with cinnamon for most of you, and some with peanut butter for Beatrice and the pooches. Sausage, toast, drinks will be here shortly. Is that make-up Beatrice? Your server today will be Tacoma. If you need anything else, I am Joel, and you are not.

Fantastic stuff, said Susan. New apron? You only have half of it covered with spills.

It’s early yet, he told her. Where’s Kate and Bert?

As if on cue, the front door opened and in they came. It took them a while to work their way back to the table, having to stop every few tables to respond to friendly greetings.

Well, how’d it go? asked Hugh as the newcomers pulled up chairs and poured themselves coffee.

Great, said Bert. That horse is a natural.

Aren’t all horses natural horses? asked Susan.

Not necessarily, dear, said her aunt Kate. I’ve learned that each has a personality much of its own. Some prefer to lay back and smell the roses, while others just want to run or pull or whatever. Roscoe’s a runner. He loves to feel those muscles stretch and feel the wind whistle around him.

And Kirsten? asked Joel.

Learning fast, said Bert. I told you how hesitant I was at first, her bein’ the youngest and all, but she wanted it so bad.

Besides, Kate added, you can’t beat enthusiasm for a prod to learning.

No matter how the race turns out, we’ll be proud of her, said Bert. Is that cinnamon I smell? He sipped the hot coffee. And an almost fresh pot of coffee. Somebody’s birthday?

The food and coffee got passed around, not much having eluded the dogs’ mouths, and discussion became labored by chewing.

Oh, didn’ tell ‘ou ‘bout da an’mals, Beatrice muttered before she swallowed.

The animals? asked Kate.

Yeah. Got another one. Had to call in the new vet.

Isn’t he too handsome to be a vet? said Susan.

Handsome? You know, I never noticed, said Beatrice. What’s his name again?

James...what was it, hon? asked Hugh.

James Willow-something. I’m terrible with names, replied Susan.

Willoughbee, said Beatrice. You wanna shove that syrup this way.

Thought you didn’t remember his name, said Bert.

Just came to me.

How come you look almost cute today? asked Bert.

You men, sighed Kate as she kicked him under the table. I don’t know why we women tolerate your half of the species.

’Cause we make you look good by comparison? Bert asked.

You sure got him tamed quickly, said Hugh.

I’m too old to fight anymore. Bert smiled. So what’s the story on the animals?

You remember the incident with Marge’s kid’s hamster last Sunday? Beatrice began.

How it was speared through the belly and through the back, said Susan. Gave me nightmares for two days. Her little boy found it in his back yard stuck in the ground.

Right. Whoever did it had to go inside the house at night and take the hamster out of its cage in the kitchen, said Beatrice.

But like most of us, Marge never locks her doors, said Hugh. So how hard would that be?

Right, said Beatrice. So anyway, there’s no way we could find out who did the deed. But what was freaky... she had to pause to swallow some French toast with peanut butter, ...was the pentagram, you know, the five pointed star burned into the little guy’s side.

Her son had a pentagram burned into his side? asked Bert

No, the hamster’s side, said Beatrice. How long’s he been like this? she teased Kate.

We brought the critter—the hamster, not the boy—over to Arnie’s, said Hugh. James said the symbol was some kind of mystic thing used by coven members.

You mean witches? asked Kate.

Yeah, said Beatrice. I know what you’re thinking. Ridiculous. That’s what we thought. We figured it was some stupid prank by a kid who didn’t like Marge’s boy. Probably the kind of kid who pulls wings off flies. But I don’t think that’s the case, now.

Something new? asked Hugh.

Yeah. Got a call about 5:30 this morning at home. I keep meaning to get that machine in the office hooked up to Henry’s place. Let him lose sleep. He’s younger than I am. I need my beauty sleep.

So this morning, dear..., Kate urged.

So this morning I get a call from Rosina. Seems her cat’s been missing since early Sunday night. It’s a house cat, she says, and rarely goes outside. She looked all day yesterday. She paused to spear a sausage and angle it into her mouth. A few quick chews and she continued.

"It’s five-something in the morning, and she wakes me from a dream I’d be embarrassed to tell you about, to tell me her cat’s missing for almost two days. Not a good thing to do. Just as I was about to explain to her that the comfort of my bed was not the place to inform me of a less than Earth shaking event, she screamed. She’d taken her portable phone and a flashlight out in the yard to look for her kitty while talking to me. Found the poor thing on her wood pile. Its belly had been cut open. Blood was dripping over the cat and down the logs.

Now here comes the weird stuff. A dead toad was in the cat’s mouth, and in the toad’s mouth was a sprig of lavender. I drove over there and made her some tea and put the cat in a plastic garbage bag. Got it back at the office. I called Arnie’s place, but the guys weren’t in. Told Agnes."

They just left before you got here, said Hugh.

Oh, I missed them.

They said something about a breach over at the Nelson’s, said Susan.

We’ll get over there later on I guess.

So you’ve had two cases of this animal killing stuff, said Bert.

And, oh, there’s another weird symbol scratched into the kitty’s head between the ears. Looks like the killer used a pen knife to cut through the hair and skin to make the blood run out to form the shape.

What kind of shape was it? asked Kate.

A spiral kind of thing, she said.

You don’t think these things are for real, said Susan.

If by ‘things’ you mean animal sacrifices, I certainly do.

We’ve only been here a few years, said Hugh, but I don’t ever remember anyone mentioning witches or warlocks, or whatever.

No such thing as warlocks, said Bert.

I thought warlocks were male witches, said Hugh.

Nope. Both male and female are called witches. Warlock is an insult. Kinda like defamation of character. I think I read once that it meant the witch was a traitor.

How did you know that, dear? asked Kate.

We used to have a witch around here.

Willow Beak had just arrived at their table to refill the coffee carafe. She reached over Hugh’s shoulder to get it, her ample right breast hitting him in the back of the head. Asatru, said Willow.

That’s okay, said Hugh.

Bless you, dear, said Kate.

That wasn’t a sneeze. That was her name, said Willow. Be right back.

That’s right, said Bert. I remember now. Asatru, she called herself. Said it was Celtic. Or Druid. Or is that the same thing?

Don’t know. How long did she live here? And where? asked Hugh.

I forgot all about her, said Beatrice, stabbing two more pieces of French toast. I was away at college then.

Lived in the canyon for about eight or ten years, I think, said Bert. How do you manage to stay so small when you eat more than any three of us? he asked Beatrice.

’atabalism, she replied with full mouth.

Was she strange and weird? asked Susan. Wolfie put her head on Susan’s lap to lick the crumbs.

Depends, Bert continued. She didn’t make it to town too often. Usually had one of the lads from the IGA shop for food for her and drive the stuff out to her place. Boys didn’t mind. Got a big tip and a blessing from her. Or maybe a love spell that they could use on their would-be girlfriends.

Why’d she leave? asked Kate.

Pressure. Seems one winter a rash of premature calving came. Too many of the cows were dropping their babies a month or more early. And a lot were lost to breaches. Some came in December and January only to freeze to death before the ranchers could get to ’em. I lost near fifty myself.

You’re saying that this Asatru woman was to blame? asked Susan.

I’m not, but a lot of the others blamed her.

My God, said Kate, how medieval. You aren’t honestly telling us, Bert Jerkovich, that some of the people that I’ve grown very fond of over the past few years actually were stupid enough to think that a self-proclaimed witch had supernatural powers over, of all things, the birth of cows?

Superstition has deep roots, Kate, he said. Families around here go back five and six generations, back when science didn’t have all the answers and a lot of answers were found in oral tradition and a primitive instinct to believe in whatever your elders told you. We have chemicals and machines nowadays that control our environment to a large extent. Back then, nature was revered and feared. And no one could control it. No one, of course, except people possessed. People who could intervene between humans and nature.

Witches, said Beatrice.

Right. Toss me one of those melon balls, will ya?

So did the farmers light torches one night and chase her from the village? asked Hugh.

Not as exciting as that, I’m afraid. A few weeks had passed that winter and the boys at the IGA were missin’ their big tips and promises of love spells from Asatru. She hadn’t called in for so long that Beatrice’s dad, he was Sheriff back then, drove out to her place. She’d left no trace. Except for a mysterious scratching on the dirt floor.

Her house had a dirt floor?

Yep. More like a cabin with a dirt floor. She’d ripped up the floor boards and joists. Two rooms. Anyway, she’d left a few pieces of furniture made from branches and this rather elaborate sign etched into the ground in the main room.

What did it represent? asked Kate.

No one knew. She was the only one around who would have known what it was, but of course, she’d left. Jack, Beatrice’s dad, went back to town and let the word get around that Asatru had left. There was some talk about burning down the cabin, but since it belonged to Larry Culverton, and was in fact on his 12,000 acres, nothing happened. Larry didn’t want the old homestead cabin burned. It was a piece of his family history.

I’m glad someone had some common sense, said Kate.

Willow was back with coffee cake. She got rid of my mom’s migraines, she said.

Asatru? asked Susan.

Yep. Mom had ’em for years. Nothin’ helped. Went to the doctor and he gave her stuff, but it didn’t work. Even tried the Shaman. One day she ran into Asatru at the junk store. They got to talking, and Asatru said that she’d cast a spell to get rid of Mom’s migraines, and that when it worked, would Mom send her twenty bucks. All right, Rob, I’ll be right there! she shouted across the room. Cripes, he’s such a pain. Thinks he’s the only one in the joint. Tightwad, too. She reluctantly headed toward his table.

See, said Bert.

See what, dear? asked Kate.

How some people thought she was for real. Superstition. That was how Asatru made a living—casting spells, potions, promises of healing. She did Tarot readings and prophesies. Folks didn’t mind so long as things went along all right and no one was hurt. Even if the spells and stuff never worked, no one minded giving her the few bucks. There’s always the hope that maybe common sense is wrong and that witchcraft can work. But once those calves were comin’ out still-born months too soon, fear got to a lot of us and things happened like I told you.

You say no one knows where she went? Hugh asked.

"A few years back, Olie and Madge said they saw her on the streets in Cody. Said she’d grown more bizarre. Wore a long flowing cape