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  Gray Magic

  A Stoner McTavish Mystery

  by

  Sarah Dreher

  Copyright © 1987, by Sarah Dreher

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by New Victoria Publishers, Hereford AZ, 85615

  Cover design by Ginger Brown

  Author photo by Susan Wilson

  Third Edition, ePub 2015

  Authors note

  The mysticism portrayed in this book was inspired by my readings of Hopi legends and myths. It is not intended to be an accurate description of Hopi beliefs, but to express my deep respect for a way of life from which we have much to learn. If I have given offense, it is out of ignorance, not intent. May we all, one day, cross the rainbow together.

  ISBN 0-934678-11-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dreher. Sarah.

  Gray magic / by Sarah Dreher. -- 2nd ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-934678-11-1 : $9.95

  1.McTavish. Stoner (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Women

  detectives--United States--Fiction. 3. Indians of North America-

  Fiction. 4. Lesbians--United States--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.R36G7 1993

  813'.54--dc20

  93-33332

  CIP

  for Kaye Alleman

  ONE

  Talavai, Dawn Spirit, spilled mercury across the sleeping desert. It eddied around mesas, lapped the humped crests of bread-loaf buttes, flowed like the tide down shallow, parched arroyos, and caressed the base of the Sacred Mountains. The air was cool, silent. One by one, the Star People withdrew into the morning twilight.

  The ruined pueblo lay in silhouette against purple velvet, a clutter of sandstone and adobe walls, fashioned of earth, returning to earth. Birds nested on naked spruce beams. Deer mice hid grain and pinyon seeds among ancient pottery shards. Door and window holes gazed unseeing into the plaza, and snakes made nests in the abandoned kiva.

  The old woman who now called herself Siyamtiwa rubbed the chill from her aching fingers and squinted toward the south. Long Mesa, below and in the distance, caught the first rays of sun that arrowed between the twin peaks of Tewa Mountain. Smoke from the breakfast fire at Spirit Wells Trading Post rose in a feathery column. A battered and rusted pick-up truck chugged along the dirt road that rambled through the Navajo Reservation, bringing the mail to the Hopi Cultural Center.

  An ordinary August morning.

  Except that the air stirred with tiny winds that eddied back upon themselves and whispered uneasily of Something out of Harmony. Of forces gathering, building strength as they had been building all this long summer.

  Forces that would come together very soon now...

  To fight once more the battle fought so many times.

  So many times.

  Siyamtiwa sighed, took a sip of water, and chewed on a shred of piki to chase away the copper taste of sleep.

  One comes from the south, she knew, and one from the east. The south-walker is ka-Hopi, this much the Spirits had told her. No peace, no beauty, no harmony in that one. And the other-the other a stranger, with much to learn. Too much, maybe, and not enough time.

  Two strangers, from beyond the walls.

  Siyamtiwa pursed her lips with disapproval. The Spirits chose some fine warriors for their battles these days. Or perhaps all the warriors were gone. Perhaps it was time to listen for the song of the Hump-Backed Flute Player, whistling up the Fifth Emergence.

  Or perhaps this tired old world had to grow worse before the Giant Mushrooms bloomed and it was over.

  Meanwhile, she would do what must be done.

  From the folds of her blanket, she drew out the whittling knife and the unfinished cottonwood doll, the image of the green-eyed pahana.

  * * *

  "I'm going to tell her," Gwen said.

  Stoner looked up from the pot of African violets she had been inspecting for white-fly infestation. "Tell who what?"

  "My grandmother. About us."

  She swallowed hard, put the pot down, and rummaged furiously in the under-sink cupboard. ''Where's your plant sprayer?"

  Gwen handed it to her. "You think it's a mistake."

  "I didn't say that." She filled the sprayer with warm water and added a few drops of detergent. "You have white-flies, by the way."

  "Any time you pretend not to hear me, it's because you don't approve."

  "I don't disapprove, exactly..." She attacked the plant like a redneck cop with a water cannon at an anti-nuke rally. "I just think it might not be the right time."

  ''Why?''

  "Because it's the hottest night of the summer, your air conditioner's broken, and Aunt Hermione and I have just beaten the two of you in three straight; rubbers of bridge."

  Gwen shrugged. "That doesn't bother me."

  ''Well, it bothers her. Boy, does it bother her." She placed the violets on the windowsill and glared out over the haze-choked Boston skyline.

  Gwen ran her finger around the top of her glass of bourbon and ginger ale. "I have to do it, Stoner. Living here, with her not knowing… I feel like such a sneak."

  She couldn't look at Gwen. She knew what she would look like, her eyes dark and soft and frightened. She knew, if she saw that, all sense and reason would fly out the window. She turned her back and took aim at the philodendron and sprayed the plant, the window-sill, the screen, and the back porch of the downstairs apartment. "If I had your grandmother's way with plants," she said, "I wouldn't waste it on philodendron."

  "I can wait until you leave..."

  She felt trapped. She lifted the Swedish ivy and drenched the undersides of its leaves. "No, you're not going through that alone."

  "Maybe she'll take it all right."

  Stoner laughed without humor. "I know Eleanor Burton. It'll be awful." She picked off a yellowed leaf. "Aunt Hermione read the Tarot about it. The outcome card was the Hanged Man."

  "That's good, isn't it? Change of consciousness...?"

  "Reversed. Arrogance, ego dominance, wasted effort..."

  "Your aunt doesn't believe in reversals," Gwen said.

  "I do."

  "You don't believe in the Tarot."

  "If I did, I would believe in reversals." She settled the ivy back onto its saucer.

  "If you were me," Gwen persisted, "you'd want to tell her, wouldn't you?"

  "She says she's moving to Florida," Stoner suggested hopefully. "You could wait, and then write her a letter or something."

  "She's not moving to Florida," Gwen said. "She talks about it every year, but she'll never do it."

  "Maybe she meant it this time.”

  Gwen sighed. "She didn't mean it. She hates the South. She couldn't bear Georgia. After my parents' funeral, she got me out of Jefferson so fast, you'd have thought the Seven Plagues of Egypt were arriving on the two-forty-nine train."

  "Yeah." Stoner reached for her Manhattan. "The trouble is, in her eyes, lesbians are one of the Seven Plagues of Egypt."

  "She doesn't hate you."

  "She tolerates me. She has to. I saved your life."

  Gwen frowned down into her glass. "I thought you always said hiding eats your soul."

  "This is different."

  ''Why is it different?"

  Because it's you, Gwen. Because I love you, and you're going to be hurt, and I can't bear... "I have a funny feeling, that's all."

  "Stoner..."

  She jerked the water on and scrubbed her hands frantically. "Do you have any idea how nasty this can get?"

  "Well, what am I supposed to do?" Gwen demanded
. "Lie? Pretend to flirt with every man who looks my way? Skulk around as if we're doing something dirty? I love you, Stoner. I want the whole world to know it."

  She looked around for a dish towel, couldn't find one, and wiped her hands on her jeans. "I've seen more than one coming-out. It isn't always awful, but it's seldom fun." She scowled at the African violet. "I think you have spider mites."

  Gwen put her drink down with a bang, marched to the refrigerator, and yanked on the ice trays.

  "You should defrost that thing," Stoner said.

  "I can't. My blow-dryer's broken."

  "For God's sake. You have white-fly and spider mites, all your appliances are falling apart, and you think this is the appropriate time to come out to your grandmother?"

  "Okay," Gwen said angrily, "forget it. I'll do it when you're not here. But I'm going to do it, Stoner, whether you like it or not."

  Stoner held out her hands. "Please Gwen, let's not argue."

  "I'm not arguing. You are."

  She raked her hand through her hair. "Look, I'm sorry. I know you're right, but—"

  "You're afraid," Gwen said in soft amazement.

  "You bet I am."

  "I don't believe it. You're afraid."

  "I'm afraid."

  Gwen shook her head. "Stoner, you killed my husband. You single-handedly took on a nest of extortionists in a haunted mental hospital. And you're afraid of my grandmother?"

  "Your grandmother," said Stoner, "is in a class by herself."

  "She's always very polite to you.”

  "Sure. Polite. Do you know how that kind of polite makes me feel? Like Denzel Washington giving the after-dinner speech at a Ku Klux Klan convention."

  Gwen laughed. "All right, I see your point." She managed to separate one ice tray from the freezer wall and carried it to the sink. "So what would you do in my place?"

  Stoner gave it serious thought. "Tell her. But pack first."

  Gwen turned, rested her arms on Stoner's shoulders, and looked solemnly into her eyes. "I love you, Stoner McTavish."

  Her stomach turned to butterflies and her knees turned to jelly. This woman loves me, she thought, and felt the Earth wobble on its axis. She shook her head in helpless resignation. "Okay, if you can't make it through the hottest night of the year without turning your grandmother into a raving maniac ... well, let's get on with it."

  "Make a novena." As she pulled away, Gwen slipped an ice cube down the back of Stoner's shirt.

  * * *

  Aunt Hermione and Eleanor Burton sat side-by-side on the overstuffed, chintz-covered sofa, a large Florentine leather photograph album spread across their knees.

  Wonderful, Stoner thought wryly. The perfect time to pig out on nostalgia.

  Mrs. Burton glanced up. "Stoner, have you seen this perfectly adorable picture of Gwyneth and her brother?" She squinted near-sightedly at the page. "It was at Kentucky Lake. The TVA project?"

  "She's seen it, Grandmother. We…"

  ''Wasn't this the trip to Kentucky Lake?" Mrs. Burton prattled on. "The time Donnie fell out of the boat and you jumped in after him?" She leaned over to Aunt Hermione. "He wanted to touch the rocks at the bottom, don't you know, and it was way over his head."

  Aunt Hermione, who detested family photograph albums, smiled and stifled a yawn.

  Stoner wondered if the ice cube, which had caught at her waist, would evaporate before it ran down her leg and disgraced her. She doubted it.

  "Little Gwyneth went flying out of the boat after him," Mrs. Burton burbled. "She didn't even stop to think that he knew how to swim and she didn't. Isn't that precious?"

  Stoner couldn't recall that particular picture. Curious, she went behind the couch and looked over Aunt Hermione's shoulder.

  It was a typical, out-of-focus pre-Instamatic family photo. Gwen all legs and arms and forced, painful smile. Her brother making a face and acting goofy.

  "They had such a good time on that trip,” Mrs. Burton cooed.

  Stoner winced. She had heard all about that vacation, and the terror of being in a moving car, far from home, with a father whose response to frustration was to slap a few faces, and a brother whose response to tension was to provoke. Just your average, fun-filled, all-American nuclear family vacation.

  "Grandmother," Gwen said, "you shouldn't try to look at that without your glasses."

  "Oh, dear." Mrs. Burton gave a little jump, her eyes darting about the room as if someone had just told her a Bengal tiger had slipped through the kitchen door. "I know I had them while we were playing cards. See if you can find them, would you, Gwyneth dear?"

  Stoner retrieved the glasses from the card table and handed them to Mrs. Burton.

  "My goodness," Mrs. Burton said. "They were right there all the time! What a silly thing. I'm so forgetful."

  "A simple 'thank-you' would suffice, Eleanor," said Aunt Hermione.

  Mrs. Burton slipped her glasses over her ears and peered back at the album. ''Why, that isn't Kentucky Lake at all. It looks like ... why, it looks like that trip you took to North Carolina, the summer before your parents died. Or was it two summers?"

  "It doesn't matter," Gwen said. "They were all the same."

  Stoner looked at Mrs. Burton and realized she didn't like her very much any more. The thought surprised her. Last year, when she had met her, she had liked her - or at least felt some sympathy for her. But being around her now made her feel like a cat in a room charged with electricity. Vague anxieties buzzed like gnats. The slightest unexpected noise sent her into little yelps of apprehension. Her ears picked up sounds no one else could hear. If a match smoldered in the ash tray, she was convinced all of Cambridge - or at least their apartment house - was about to become a raging inferno. If she felt a draft, someone was climbing in the bedroom window intent on evil. She couldn't take public transportation, you never knew what might happen while the T was underground. In cars, she clutched the door handle and slammed her foot against the floor every time the driver touched the brake. She refused to leave the house after sundown or during rainstorms. If Gwen stayed out after eleven, light burned in her grandmother's bedroom until she got in. If she stayed at Stoner's over-night, she had to call in before she went to bed. And the way Mrs. Burton carried on, it was often easier to go home.

  It could be her age, of course, as she claimed. But Aunt Hermione, who was two years her senior, said it wasn't age, it was frame of mind.

  Gwen said it was only dependency, and once she went back to teaching and Mrs. Burton had to fend for herself, she'd straighten out.

  Maybe.

  It had crossed Stoner's mind at times - once when they were taking a weekend trip to Hampton Beach to wallow in tackiness and had to cancel their plans because Mrs. Burton came down with an undiagnosable summer malady - and once when she had turned suddenly as she and Gwen were leaving the apartment for dinner, and had caught a glimpse of what sure looked to her like jealousy on Mrs. Burton's face...

  It had crossed her mind that Mrs. Burton wasn't all that ignorant of, or all that pleased by, what was really going on beneath that "just good friends" facade they had put up.

  It had also crossed her mind that there was a little unfriendly competition going on here, and that Mrs. Burton had figured out that there could be strength in weakness. And she might very well be right.

  Whatever the truth of it, it looked to Stoner as if they were headed for a serious spell of rough weather.

  "Grandmother," Gwen said tentatively.

  Mrs. Burton marked the page with her finger and closed the album. "Yes, dear?"

  "There's something we… I have to tell you."

  "It is white-fly, isn't it?" Eleanor Burton said with a sigh. "I told the florist that violet didn't look right, but you know how they are, no one can tell them anything. Just like the hardware store. If they don't have what you need, they claim it doesn't exist or you don't know what you're talking about. Really, it's an outrage."

  Gwen cleared her throat. "That isn'
t important. I have to..."

  "Of course it's important," Mrs. Burton interrupted. ''When you get to be my age, you'll realize what it means to be treated with a modicum of respect."

  "That's the point," Gwen said. "I... we do respect you, and that's why we want you to know-"

  "Can't it wait, dear?" Mrs. Burton fanned herself rapidly with her handkerchief. "It's a terribly hot night, and you look so serious.”

  "It is serious," Gwen said. She glanced at Stoner helplessly.

  Stoner crossed the room and took Gwen's hand. Gwen squeezed her fingers. In the window opposite, their reflections looked like figures on top of a wedding cake.

  Gwen took a deep breath and started over. "I don't know how you'll take this, but it's made me very happy."

  "That's all I want, dear," her grandmother said. "Your happiness." Her eyes slid to their locked fingers.

  "Stoner and I..." Gwen tightened her grip on Stoner's fingers. ''We... uh... we... ''

  ''What she's trying to say," Aunt Hermione broke in, rummaging through her huge, multicolored tote bag and drawing out a ball of yarn and a crochet hook, "is that your granddaughter and my niece are lovers."

  Mrs. Burton looked at Gwen.

  Gwen looked at the floor.

  Mrs. Burton looked at Stoner.

  Stoner looked back at her.

  Mrs. Burton looked again at their locked hands. She took off her glasses, folded back the hem of her dress, and polished the lenses on her slip.

  "I see," she said. ''Would anyone care for one last rubber of bridge?"

  "Grandmother," Gwen began.

  ''Why don't you make us some iced tea, Gwyneth? I do believe we might all perish from the heat."

  "Mrs. Burton..." Stoner said.

  Mrs. Burton laughed. "But, of course, this is nothing compared to summers in Georgia."

  Aunt Hermione put her crocheting down. "I know Gwen has missed more than one night's sleep over this, Eleanor. At least have the decency to acknowledge you heard it."

  Eleanor Burton turned to her. "Perhaps you can explain to me, Hermione," she said in a perfectly conversational voice, "why my granddaughter is trying to kill me."