The Witch's Grave by Phillip Depoy Read Free Book Online Page A

even exaggerating when he told us about the woman he’d seen. I had my own opinions, of course, but I was as stubborn an adherent to the art of not saying as anyone in my town.
    The day was growing darker again; steel clouds locked out the sun. Thunder rumbled from the other side of the mountain, and a rush of rain swept across the fields. Roads were suddenly slick black rivers. I was glad traffic was sparse.
    If the weather had been nicer, I might have resolved to drive past the cemetery right then, have a look at the stones, scour for patches of cloth in the brambles. I thought I might find answers to one of our mysteries immediately. As it was, a cup of espresso, an early fire, and waking up Andrews held infinitely more appeal.
    I turned off the road onto my property and saw the squad car.
    Skid was sitting on the porch, still in his slicker, rocking, cup of
coffee in hand. Andrews was standing at the rail, blankly gazing at the sheets of rain hung like curtains against the sky.
    â€œAfternoon!” I called, climbing out of the truck and dashing for the relative comfort of the porch.
    Andrews rallied.
    â€œThanks for letting me sleep.” He rubbed his eyes. “I guess I needed it. Skidmore woke me up about a half an hour ago. How’s June?”
    â€œFine.” I watched Skid chew the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were conducting a murder investigation.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m here.” He set his mug aside. “Harding was killed early Thursday night, broke neck and blunt trauma to the head. Plus we got the fiber study back from Atlanta. They found little bits of fiber belonged to Able, matched it with DNA from a shirt in Able’s closet.”
    â€œThat was quick,” I said, impressed with his work.
    â€œI don’t mind you still looking for Truvy,” Skid said firmly, standing, “but I got to ask you to leave off anything concerns Able, and you bring me what you find right quick.”
    â€œI understand. How’s Linda taking this?”
    â€œWe don’t talk about it.” Skid’s face was lined, eyes rimmed red, clothes rumpled. His hands moved too quickly; his voice was hollow.
    â€œMust be rough looking for your wife’s brother,” Andrews realized, “on a murder charge.”
    Skid scratched his nose with one upward movement. “I’m serious about this, Dev.”
    â€œI know you are.” I laid my hand on his shoulder.
    â€œIs that it for our case, then?” Andrews didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.
    â€œIn fact,” I answered, heading into the kitchen for espresso, “I may have some good news about that.”
    They exchanged glances and followed me in. As had happened often since I’d moved back to the mountains, my house filled me with contentment as I stepped over the threshold. Solid oak beams framed the large room downstairs, galley kitchen to the right as you
came in the front door. My parents had set a cast-iron stove into the stone hearth to the left by a large picture window. Gray air was changed to green out that window by the surrounding pine and cedar trees. Behind them hung a more distant Monet of autumn. Quilts on the wall, like church windows, did their best to brighten the room. The staircase in the far corner led up to three bedrooms.
    â€œYou found something?” Andrews said, interrupting my domestic reverie. He was pouring himself coffee from the larger coffeemaker.
    The house was chilled and dreary; gray light dabbed the corners; the ceilings were musty. I wanted to start that fire, but I knew Skidmore couldn’t wait.
    â€œTruevine may be hiding out in the city cemetery,” I said over the grinding coffee beans.
    â€œChrist.” Andrews turned, sloshing coffee onto the counter. “What makes you think that?”
    â€œHek saw her, I think,” I answered.
    â€œWell, that would be Truvy,” Skid admitted, a faint crease at the