“It gets its color from the treacle,” Muriel explained glibly, as though the topic were quite dull and she had seen far too many Christmas puddings in her day. “Never order it when in Canada,” she added.
Lorna thought that was a rather odd thing to say, but she didn’t question Muriel’s authority. “I’ll remember that,” she replied.
“Oh, Lorna, you will love it here at Christmastime. Muriel puts little presents in the train,” Betty said with delight.
Choo choo went the train, and Muriel looked up at it.
“Yes, and I place St. Nicholas in the locomotive,” she added.
“How charming,” Lorna replied sincerely.
Lorna decided that she was going to like Muriel Clitheroe, and happily agreed when Muriel suggested they exchange phone numbers—a must, Betty would later tell Lorna, if one wanted to be kept up to speed on all the latest Tweed gossip.
Chapter 5
Lorna was stuffed. The combination of pancakes and Christmas pudding had done her in, but she was still hell-bent on making that roast chicken for dinner.
“Do you have time to go to the Super on the way home?” Lorna asked.
“I was hoping that you might say that,” Betty replied.
It was a quick walk from Muriel’s Café to the supermarket. Lorna was comforted by the sound of shopping carts and automatic doors. It reminded her of Florida. Was she feeling a tad homesick, perhaps?
Maybe just a little, but her intuition was already telling her that life in Tweed was going to be just the change that she needed, and she was feeling grateful for having chosen to begin again.
Betty went straight for the large rolling carts.
“Good afternoon, Benjamin,” she said to the young, lanky shopping cart attendant. The pimpled teenager gave a large smile, and Lorna could see that his mouth was filled with metal.
“I think I only need a small basket, Betty,” Lorna said.
“I prefer the push cart,” Betty replied. Lorna would later see this was because it helped Betty to push people out of her way. Not in a vicious way, but whenever shoppers saw the blind lady pushing her squeaky cart, it was the parting of the Red Sea.
“Heel! Heel, you cur!” Lorna heard a voice cry, and she turned to find Maurice Crabtree again, yelling at a dog that was intent upon sniffing his trousers. “It can’t possibly be legal for you to be loitering here,” he added for good measure, and pushed his own cart into the supermarket.
“Mr. Crabtree must not be fond of dogs,” Lorna said with a laugh, following Betty inside.
“Oh, I have a tale to tell about that,” Betty said with amusement.
“And I’m all ears.”
The interior was pleasant enough. American pop songs were playing for ambience—was that Whitney Houston?—and it was cool and inviting. There was, however, a distinct citrus aroma which Lorna assumed was disinfectant.
“There was once a hound that wandered into Crabtree Antiques,” Betty said, hushing her voice.
“Why do I know where this story is going?” Lorna said fearfully.
“The unfortunate K9—a corgi—was later spotted dead in the street. Maurice ran it over.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“I cannot tell a lie,” Betty went on, pushing her cart down the biscuit aisle.
“How could he do such a thing?” Lorna replied.
“Maurice said it was an accident, but many of us believed otherwise. You can imagine how the town was atwitter. Muriel began to tell everyone that they should keep their dogs far away from Crabtree Antiques.”
“To think—a corgi. It was like an assault on the Queen herself,” Lorna mused.
“I thought the very same thing.”
As they walked down each aisle, Betty just started throwing things into her cart. She’d reach over, feel a box, and in it went. Lorna had to wonder if Betty had any idea what was going in there. Maybe she liked to take the mystery items home and open each one to discover what she got, like opening Christmas presents.
“The British food aisle was always my favorite back at my supermarket in Florida,” Lorna said. “And now the entire supermarket is the British food aisle!”
“Oh, yes. But there is an American food aisle, should you feel so inclined.”
“There is?” Lorna asked in wonder. Why should it be so surprising? Maybe jelly donuts weren’t a thing of the past, after all.
It wasn’t long before Lorna had everything that she needed: chicken, rosemary, salt and pepper, olive oil, and Marmite. Yes, Marmite. She had heard all about the yeasty spread but had never tried it. She even heard that Brits just smear it on toast and eat it plain. She would need to investigate.
“That’s a lot of food you have there,” Lorna said, impressed with Betty’s bounty.
“Most of it is for Sir Eats-A-Lot,” Betty replied with a moan.
“Naturally.”
Making their way to the checkout stand, a woman with impossibly blue eyeliner and rather long fingernails greeted them. She looked like just the kind of checkout lady that you’d find in America. Lorna had to wonder if it was one of the requirements for working at a supermarket—smacking on gum.
“Find everything you’re looking for?” the woman asked.
“We’ve got everything that we need, Flo,” Betty replied.
Flo…of course, her name was Flo. It all made perfect sense.
Seeing all that Betty had purchased, Lorna had to wonder how they were going to get it all back to her cottage, but apparently there was a system in place whereby Benjamin would pack it up in his beat-up Peugeot and have it delivered across town.
“Such a nice young man,” Betty said as he gathered up her bags.
“I can deliver yours as well,” Benjamin said congenially. It was hard to understand what he was saying through the prison bars in his mouth.
“I think I can handle it,” Lorna replied. She wanted to get started on the chicken as soon as she got home. And secretly, the Marmite was consuming her thoughts.
“Suit yourself,” Benjamin replied.
“You’ve seen it all now,” Betty said as they made their way back through town.
“Yes, our journey to the ‘big city’ has been a success,” Lorna said, carrying her shopping bag. “I can’t thank you enough for the tour.”
“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you.”
The afternoon turned out to be even more remarkable than the morning. The rainwater had all dried up from the night before, like it never even happened, and the sky was crisp and blue. Lorna and Betty walked up and over the stone bridge, but once they reached the top, Betty stopped dead in her tracks.
“Oh my,” she said to herself, looking quite unwell.
“It was the beans,” Lorna said instantly. She knew that look; it was the “I had beans for breakfast” face.
“No, no,” Betty assured her.
“The cabbage then?” Lorna probed.
“All of a sudden, I have a very bad feeling.”
They stood there, and Lorna looked down at the water that rushed under the bridge beneath them. It was moving at a steady clip, no doubt from all the rainwater. Suddenly, even Lorna could feel the anxious, ominous feeling that Betty had.
“Something terrible is going to happen,” Betty predicted. She looked up towards the sky, as though she were receiving some kind of message from the gods.
Maybe I’m going to burn my chicken, too? Lorna had to wonder.
A breeze hit them. Where did that come from? It was a strong wind, and its arrival was right on cue.
“Do you feel that?” Betty asked. Her deep blue eyes became light and gray.
“I think that maybe I do,” Lorna said, feeling the cool air on her face. “Do you think that Maurice ran over another dog?”
“No, I sense that it’s much more grave than that.”
“Let’s get you home. Maybe you need to lie down,” Lorna suggested.
“Yes, perhaps I could use a rest.”
“It isn’t that, I fear,” Betty said, continuing her descent down the other side of the bridge.
They walked the rest of the way back in silence. Lorna accompanied Betty to her door, and they said their goodbyes. Lorna poked her head inside Betty’s cottage, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Sir Eats-A-Lot, but saw no sign of him.
Making her way back to her own cottage, Lorna heaved a sigh.
What is it that Betty is picking up on? she wondered. Lorna had to admit that she felt it too. There was something funny in the air. Upon entering her cottage, Lord Nottingham was nowhere in sight, and the broom had moved from the front door to the fireplace.
“Looking to escape?” she asked the broom. Lorna picked it up and moved it back towards the door. “I don’t want any more funny business from you.”
Taking the carrier bag to the kitchen, Lorna began to unpack it. She’d let the chicken marinate for a few hours, and then into the oven, out of the oven, and straight into her belly. Lorna loved chicken, mostly because it was so versatile. She looked out the window to her garden and considered building a chicken coop. Fresh eggs in the morning! But no doubt, Lord Nottingham would be having none of that. Where was that funny fella, anyway?
“Aah!” Lorna screamed, looking up to her bedroom which could easily be seen from the kitchen. There Lord Nottingham stood, or at least she thought it was Lord Nottingham, because he was a cat of a different color.
“What have you done?” Lorna asked in shock. The white cat had turned black. Yes, it was still Nottingham—she could tell from his gaze—but he seemed to have transformed his coat. Lorna raced up the stairs and crouched before the cat, feeling his fur. This is definitely not a good sign, she thought to herself.
“Lord Nottingham, I love you whether you’re black or white, but just please tell me what happened,” Lorna said.
As soon as she reached down to pet him, his black coat came off and turned to dust in her hand.
“What is this, soot?” she asked. Sure enough, Lord Nottingham had managed to get in the fireplace and cover himself like a chimney sweep.
All at once it struck her: the cat had tried to fly away on the broom. It was the only sound explanation. Or, the broom tried to get away, Nottingham stopped it, and there was a scuffle…if only cats could explain things.
“Let’s get you washed off, then,” Lorna said, picking up Lord Nottingham and taking him to the kitchen sink.
Now, cats love a bath just as much as humans love a swift kick in the head. Lord Nottingham protested with all his might, but Lorna persevered. Once clean, the poor thing sat dejected and shivering in the sink.
There was no more pathetic sight than a wet cat filled with contempt. It reminded Lorna of herself when she learned that moving to Britain meant that she had to give up her pension.
“I have just the thing,” Lorna said, bringing her hair dryer to the kitchen. You can imagine how well that went, for after one gust of hot wind, Lord Nottingham let out a shrieking cry which made his feelings quite clear.
“Okay, okay,” Lorna replied, thinking of another solution. “I’ll make a fire.”
Lorna found some chopped wood already stacked in the garden shed and had a delicious fire crackling in no time. It seemed like a silly thing to do in spring, but considering that Tweed-upon-Slumber was subject to flash storms and ominous gusts of cold wind, it wasn’t like anyone could point fingers.
In the end, it was a delicious choice. Lord Nottingham sat in front of the fire, curled in a ball and content as a, well, kitten. The chicken was marinating and Lorna sat in front of the fire to look at her magazines and eat Marmite on toast. In essence, she was given lemons and she made lemonade.
Okay, so the toast sat untouched for some time. She was perusing Cottage Chic, and every once in a while she’d pull her eyes away from the magazine and look down at the toast, making a little stinky face. Finally, bravery filled her and she picked up a piece and smelled it.
“Pungent,” she said aloud, placing the toast back on the plate.
Lorna returned to her magazine, which was basically eighty glossy pages of pure fantasy. She sighed. Of course, the magazine displayed mostly American cottages, as that’s where she smuggled it in from, but still, she couldn’t help but be envious. Cottages with that Americana feel were vastly different from those in Britain, but they all shared the same basic principle: coziness.
Lorna looked back down at the Marmite toast. She was going to seize the moment. Picking it back up in her hand, Lorna brought the little brown disc to her mouth and took a bite, chewing slowly.
“Hm,” she said, cocking her head in pleasant surprise. “Kind of like soy sauce.” Marmite would be a slow revelation for Lorna. At first it would be a nice snack, and soon enough she’d be putting it on everything.
Returning to her magazine, Lorna peered around at her cottage and began to daydream. What would be her design scheme? Beachside cottage? Mountain cottage? Mystic Caribbean reggae cottage? (Where did that idea come from?)
She was pulled from her reverie when the wind really began to pick up outside, and she was reminded of Betty’s premonition. Lorna walked to the window and hugged herself. Thank heavens she had made a fire. Her watermill was swaying ever so slightly from the gusts.
The phone rang, and Lorna was almost too afraid to answer it.
“Would you get that, Lord Nottingham?” she asked. The cat remained curled up in a ball. “You’re going to have to start earning your keep around here,” she said to him as she walked towards the phone.
“Hello?” Lorna said.
“Are you sitting down?” Muriel Clitheroe asked.
“No, I’m standing,” Lorna replied, “Why?”
“I have terrible news.”
Chapter 6
Lorna seated herself and felt a chill spread throughout her body. Did something happen to Betty?
“Well, say something,” she said after a prolonged silence.
“John Larkin is dead,” Muriel said, her voice full of dark intrigue.
“John Larkin, like, the postman John Larkin?” Lorna said, making sure that she heard right.
“That is the only John Larkin,” Muriel replied.
And the only postman, Lorna thought to herself. Thank goodness all her boxes had already arrived.
“What happened?” Lorna asked, a bit in shock.
“He was stabbed to death. Happened this very afternoon.”
So Betty’s dark premonition had been accurate after all. Lorna could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“What time?” Lorna asked.
“Just around noon.”
It seemed crazy, but Lorna was almost sure that that gust of wind that hit them on the bridge happened at noon, as well. Things were starting to get mighty strange, to say the least.
“Do you have any more details?” Lorna asked, instinctively wanting to piece it all together.
“You should come to Tweed Park,” Muriel said with urgency. “Chief Bumblethorn is due to address the villagers any minute.”
“I’ll be right there,” Lorna said, feeling that it was her duty to attend, now that she was very much part of the community. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said to Lord Nottingham.
She walked towards the door and grabbed her hat.
“That applies to you as well,” she said to the broom.
She was out the door and headed along the river in no time, over the bridge, and up High Street. Her urgency was so strong that she didn’t even stop to get Betty. No doubt, the woman would find her way, as Betty knew where Tweed Park was better than Lorna did.
The village didn’t have many residents, but they all seemed to be heading towards Tweed Park as fast as they could. Had Muriel called the entire town? It was not impossible to believe.
Lorna passed each shop; she already knew each one so well. When she went by Crabtree Antiques, she couldn’t find Maurice inside. As she
walked by the Golden Bough, there were no happy revelers out front, and even Muriel’s Café was empty. Lorna could see half-eaten sandwiches on the counter. She had to admit that, had she been taking tea there when she heard the news, she would have brought her sandwich with her.
Because of the vastness of it, Tweed Park had not been a part of her tour that afternoon, but thank heavens Betty had pointed her in the right direction. As she crested the hill and walked out beyond the supermarket, the park finally came into view. Betty was not kidding when she mentioned how big it was. It was like Central Park in New York, only without the bums.
Despite the yellow tape that now blocked off the entrance, Lorna had to admit that it was stunning. Weeping willows cried their happy tears over the lake, and the bike paths and trails were lined with blossoming trees and flowers. Park benches could be seen on the horizon, inviting lazy picnickers. Normally, you’d find villagers lounging on blankets and swimming in the lake, but not on that windy spring afternoon.
A crowd had formed out front, and they looked mighty unsettled. Everyone was there: Evie Ellis, Maurice Crabtree, Benjamin from the supermarket, and even Flo. Betty was nowhere to be seen.
Chief Bumblethorn stepped in front of the crowd and raised his hands, signaling that everyone should be quiet.
“All right, then,” he said, and the crowd became hushed, awaiting his words. In typical Bumblethorn fashion, as soon as he began to speak, a branch fell from the tree immediately behind him.
“Speak!” someone in the crowd cried.
“As you all know, I’m never one to use words sparingly, so everyone quiet down and hold your questions until I’m quite finished.” Seeing that everyone had settled, Bumblethorn began.
“John Larkin was brutally murdered this very afternoon, right here in Tweed Park. I know that you must all be shocked, considering that no crime of this magnitude has ever taken place in our quiet village, and many of you were close to John.
“That being said, words cannot describe how vicious this murder was. If you knew the true extent of it, you might never wish to step into our beautiful park for the rest of your lives. To begin, I can’t express the sheer amount of blood that the postman had in him…”
A New Witch In Town Page 5