Page 32 of After Life
“Are you familiar at all with the witch trials of Winnsboro County, South Carolina?”
What the fuck? “Only in the loosest of senses. That isn’t my particular area of expertise, but I recall they occurred over a century after the more infamous witch trials in New England, and they were about sick cattle.”
She nodded. “Four people were killed after being accused of witchcraft.”
“Well. That’s tragic and terrible. But I’m not sure I can be any further help regarding that particular topic.”
“Think of that as a warm-up.”
I found myself moving back into the room almost without realizing it—she leaned toward me and I stepped back before I could stop myself. Planting my feet and cane, I took up space until she edged back a fraction. “I’m not in the mood of a quiz, Ms. Cochrane. If you don’t mind?”
“Your specialty is death and burial customs and rituals, particularly in the American South.”
“That’s not even a question.” She was stalling me for some reason, and it was not a good one whatever it was. Panic started to seep in around the edges as realization dawned that she was trying to keep me from going after Oscar. “Why can’t I leave?”
She ignored my question. “I ask about the witch trials because I’m curious as to whether you’ve seen any burials of alleged witches in your research, and how they compare to the Tibbins’ burials here on the property.”
I blinked. “The Tibbinses were accused of witchcraft?”
“No, but they weren’t exactly witches. They’d have been accused, though, if anyone outside of Broken Palm ever knew.”
Thunder rattled the windows hard. Deep in the house, something crashed just like we’d heard two nights before.
Sandra didn’t bat an eye.
“What are you getting at?” I demanded. “Move or I’ll—”
“Call the police? For asking you questions? You’re not being a very good guest, Doctor Weems. Though I’ve heard how well your previous hotel stays have gone. That poor man in Colorado, and that show you recorded in New York.” She made a face like something smelled foul. “It all seems so... suspicious.”
“That’s not what happened,” I snapped. “I don’t know who you’re talking to, but a simple search online will show you that’s a gross misunderstanding of what happened.”
“Ms. Cochrane,” I said slowly, firmly, “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here but I’m concerned for your wellbeing.” Not entirely untrue—she was being misleading, asking nonsensical questions, being aggressive... “Now. Please move.”
She shook her head, grinning, and stepped back with her hands held out to her sides. “You’re not being held against your will, Doctor Weems. I just wanted to talk, professional to professional.” Her smile was sharp, angry as she backed away. “I can see I misunderstood your interest in this work. I’ll leave you to your afternoon.”
Before I could think to ask her about using the van or getting a ride into town to find Oscar, she was gone, the back door slamming in her wake.
Chapter 5 – Oscar
I’m sure I looked ridiculous, speed-walking into Rosie Sands, but I didn’t care. Anyone passing me on the road might think I was a ghost, I mused, dressed as I was and moving so fast. The thought gave me a bitter twist of amusement as I strode toward Delia’s Café, one of the few businesses open on the main street aside from the grocery and Pirate Pete’s. The others had boarded up in preparation for the hurricane, and I had no doubt many of the shopkeepers and residents had taken advantage of the last ferry run before the storm to go to the mainland for extra safety. Not all of the homes on Broken Palm were sturdy, centuries old beasts.
Delia glanced up as I stepped into the café, her scowl close matching my own. “I’m about to close.”
“Ah.” I stopped short. “I’ll just—”
Ray-Don blustered into the café, pushing me forward out of the doorway. “Hey there, Dee. Lemme get a burger and fries. Been boarding up shit up and down the road all day and I’m starvin’. What’re you having, Oscar?”
“Oh, she’s closing, I thought?”
Delia gritted her teeth when Ray-Don laughed. “She’s open till six! Who told you that?”
“Oh, must have misunderstood,” I murmured. “I’d like a cinnamon roll, please. And tea, if you have it.”
“Got coffee.”
“Alright, then. Coffee.”
Ray-Don chortled, elbowing past me to lean on the counter while Delia ducked back into the kitchen. He didn’t seem interested in talking to me, instead calling out to Delia the details of his morning, expounding on this shop or that house, who was ready and who was being, in his words, a damn fool.
