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“Knock, knock, young lady. May I come in?”
I slammed the book shut and turned to face the man standing in my doorway. With a relieved sigh, I realized it was only Allen White, the subject of Ian’s dispute from yesterday. Unkempt white hair sprung from his scalp and down along his wrinkly chin. Dark brown eyes peered at me from behind thick metal-framed glasses perched on his sharp nose. He grasped the wall for support and scuttled on in, his knobby knees bending awkwardly.
“Oh yeah,” I told him, jumping up to grab my electric tea kettle. It resided deep inside one of the art cabinets, a big no-no in Butch’s handbook of nineteenth-century approved items. “Grammy Jo gave me your medicine this morning. Just let me get it ready.”
He nodded eagerly and went about studying my art while I got the water boiling. In my jean pocket, a tiny vial of potion swished back and forth. I pulled it out and examined the light green liquid.
Grammy Jo was officially retired, as far as witch business went. But she did a little medicinal work on the side for a few of the elderly in Uriville. Allen White was a frequent customer, complaining of arthritis in his hands and knees. Not conducive to gardening. While Grammy Jo wasn’t the biggest fan of old man Allen with his stingy pocketbook and stuck-up nose, she liked his money and the prize roses from his garden that he occasionally gave her. It was a fair exchange of goods, she’d say, stuffing her nose into the fragrant blossoms.
“You’re a smart girl, Hazel Brunick,” Allen crooned, examining my sketch of a little blonde girl holding a red balloon. “I always say this. I tell my housekeeper, Laura, this all the time. That Hazel Brunick is a real smart girl.”
I grimaced, waiting for the punch line. “Oh, gee, thanks Mr. White.”
“Yes, ma’am. Smart young lass. So tell me, when are you going to drop this whole art degree nonsense and find yourself a real job? A smart young lady like yourself needs to extend herself, not settle for some artsy fartsy nonsense.”
Ouch, there it was. I gritted my teeth and smiled, ignoring his sage advice. “Almost ready, Mr. White.”
Dropping the potion into a boiling cup of green tea, I stirred it counterclockwise three times. Tea for the antioxidants, Grammy Jo would say, and boiling water to activate the potion. Best drunk immediately. She’d already had me dole out her witchy remedies to several of her clients in town. I was becoming a pro at this.
Allen guzzled his tea as Butch Hall stalked by my shop, glancing impatiently in the door. Uh, oh. Someone was already on the rampage this morning. It didn’t matter how many ways I refused, he was still on me to wear my period clothing during all business hours. It made the experience authentic for the tourists, he’d argue.
Authentic, my shapely rear end.
At the very least, Allen White was good for a shield. Butch would never start an argument with a prospective client in earshot.
“Aw, just the ticket,” Allen said, sliding the empty teacup on the table. “The very pick-me-up I needed today. Thank you, young lady. That Angie Pine and her pathetic little flower shop don’t stand a chance now that I’ve got my fighting fists back in order.”
I rolled my eyes. Allen was always fighting someone in town. From his neighbor to Angie Pine, he had beef with everyone. It was hard to feel sorry for the man when his personality was about as cuddly as a cornered diamondback rattlesnake.
At that very moment, my first customer of the day walked in - a little boy bouncing on the balls of his feet with his dad in tow. I gladly took the distraction and waved Mr. White out, releasing the tension in my shoulders. Magic had already begun to pool in my palms. The paint was calling to me. Allen skipped away, promising to return in a week.
A half hour later, I presented the painting to the little boy. He clapped his hands in delight as he took in the overlarge head and messy likeness of his profile. His father was just about to hand me a twenty dollar bill when Butch flew past my door, knobby knees flying.
My manager might have been only nineteen years old, six years younger than me, but Butch Hall was no runner. His hobbies aligned more along the lines of Dungeons and Dragons, computer games, and wandering around at Best Buy. Something was up. I leaned out the doorframe, watching his coltish sprint toward the south.
Suddenly, three more people began hustling in a similar direction. It might not have been a stampede, but it certainly caught my attention.
“What’s going on?” I asked the blacksmith, Curt Kelly, as he jogged past my store.
He paused only long enough to take a deep breath. “Some old kook’s kicked it. Just up and died in the middle of town. Everyone’s going to check it out.”
My teeth clamped down on the inside of my cheek and the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. Old kook? Immediately I thought of my grandmother. Could he be referring to Grammy Jo? Surely, she wasn’t the old person he’d been talking about. The woman would never admit to how old she was, but it didn’t matter, she took such great care of herself. Regardless, something in my stomach clenched hard with anxiety.
“Alright, shop’s close
d.” I ushered the boy and his dad out of the shop without payment, shoving the painting into their hands. “Kat, you stay here.”
He didn’t even open his eyes as I shut him in. Lazy urchin.
Trotting past the pyre and the candy shop, I exited the park and followed the small crowd of people making their way up Roosevelt Street. This was where the oldest homes in Uriville sat; their intricate woodwork and masonry proudly maintained above perfect green lawns and immaculate hedgerows. Tall metal lampposts lined the street and parted the curious crowd of onlookers. Angie Pine walked in front of me, clad in faded denim overalls, her huge behind swaying with every step.
“What happened? Who is it?” I demanded, clenching a hand to my cramping stomach. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been a death, girl,” she snapped without even looking at me. I could almost hear the eye-roll. “Right here in Uriville. They say the body’s still rotting in the sun. We’d better hurry if we want to get a good look.”
The excitement in her voice made me want to vomit. Still, I trudged right along, smashed in the middle of the sway. The idea of turning around was too terrifying. I needed to know who had passed away. I couldn’t leave without that bit of information.
Not five seconds later, I found myself abruptly standing at the edge of a black wrought iron fence, looking down into an elegant garden filled with magnificent crimson roses and bordered by a perfectly trimmed knee-high hedge. In the middle of the garden lay someone sprawled out as if ready to make a snow angel in the crushed rose petals strewn across the grassy paths. The pallor of the skin left no questions – this was a dead body. My hands gripped the fence as I realized who we had come to see.
