by Gina Damico
Blake, panting, stared at it. Then walked right in.
“Blake! Are you crazy?” Yet Poppy followed him—not so much because she wanted to, but the idea of being left alone in that spooky place was not a pleasant one. She hurried to scoot inside just as the door closed behind her.
They rode up in silence, Poppy trying to keep her breath under control, trying not to stare at the dark stains on the floor.
When the door opened, Poppy almost laughed out loud. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined that she’d end up in this position: standing next to Blake Bursaw, peering out at the tall-backed chairs in the office of the owners of the Grosholtz Candle Factory.
After pausing to make sure the office was empty, Poppy and Blake stepped out into the room as the door closed—or rather, as the false wall of the fireplace silently slipped back into place behind them, concealing the elevator within.
“Not even a real fire,” muttered Blake, waving his hand through the flame. “It’s like a hologram or something.”
The office looked the same as it had when Poppy had gotten a glimpse through the window during the tour—mahogany walls, lots of bookcases, a few doors that led to parts unknown, the roaring fire that she now knew was fake. As she ran a hand over the velvet chairs, she wondered—had Big Bob and Miss Bea sat in those same spots before the factory opened for the day? Who knows what could have happened, with no one around?
Blake was probably thinking the same thing. He was silent for another few seconds, then shook his head and looked at his unnecessarily large watch. “You know what? Screw this. I’m not gonna waste my time poking around in some—”
“Wait,” Poppy said. “Do you hear that?”
Blake listened. “Sounds like . . . people . . .”
“Duck!”
As the tour guide whisked open the curtain, Poppy and Blake dove under the window, pressing their backs against the wall and pulling in their feet.
“We need to get out of here,” said Poppy.
“You think?”
As the flashes of cameras went off directly over their heads, Poppy’s phone chirped. got bored waiting for your nervous breakdown to run its course, Jill had texted. call me later.
“If I get out of this alive,” Poppy muttered, “sure, I’ll give you a ring.”
As soon as the curtain closed, Blake scrambled to his feet. “Quick,” he said, hurrying toward a door that seemed as if it might lead out into the hallway. “If we time it right, we can blend in with the tour.”
Blake opened the door and—bingo. He grabbed Poppy by the wrist and dragged her into the hallway. “Bathroom,” he said, plowing to the front of the group and past the tour guide. “Emergency.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Poppy as they jogged down the hall. “I’ve been wanting to add ‘diarrhea’ to the list of ways you’ve humiliated me.”
They didn’t stop until they were at the main entrance, where Blake gladly let go of her wrist and Poppy just as gladly put a safe distance between them. They took a moment to assess the Sunday-afternoon hordes, a large portion of which were gathered around the now fully stocked BiScentennial display. Dual piles of lavender and green candles sat beneath the sign, which had been changed to read THEY’RE FINALLY HERE!
The whole spectacle earned a derisive snort from Blake.
“It’s part of this new special-edition thing,” Poppy said dryly. “They’re releasing two new candles per day in honor of the bicentennial. Word on the street is that they’re a real game changer.”
Rolling his eyes, Blake grabbed one of the lavender candles and inhaled.
Then inhaled again.
His chest rose and fell, his eyes widening.
“What’s wrong?” Poppy asked.
“Smells just like my grandmother,” he murmured.
Poppy took a sniff herself and almost gasped. She couldn’t say whether it smelled of Miss Bea—she’d met the woman on only a couple of occasions—but memories of her own grandmothers instantly washed over her. Warm meals, crocheted blankets, a hint of butterscotch—
Poppy looked at the label. “It’s called To Grandmother’s House We Go.”
Blake backed away from the display, wary. “What’d you say was so special about these things?”
“They’re made with this new substance called Potion. It can capture the essence of a person and turn it into a candle scent. Or something.” She hurried to sniff the green candles on the other side of the display. “This one is kinda . . . metallic. Familiar, but I can’t—”
Blake grabbed the jar out of her hand and huffed it. “Money,” he said with authority. “It smells like money.”
Poppy bit her lip. If Big Bob were a candle, he’d be . . . “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, you would know.”
When Blake read the label, the color went out of his face. “The Smell of Success.”
He started pacing, looking as though he wanted to tear the whole world apart. Barbara, Queen of the Color-Coded Maps, approached. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
Smoke was all but coming out of Blake’s ears. Poppy told Barbara they were fine, then pulled Blake into the clearance section. He shook her off, nearly knocking over a collection of essential oils. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “That they kidnapped my dad and grandma and—what, turned them into scents? Into candles?”
“I have no idea,” Poppy said as carefully as she could, regarding him as she would a wild animal. “We need more information. We need—”
Blake’s phone beeped. “Text from Dad,” he said, running his hand through his hair and taking a deep breath. “He wants me to meet him and Grandma at the press conference. I gotta go.” He pushed past her.
“Hey, wait! That’s it?”
He turned around, annoyed. “You want a hug?”
“I just—I feel like we’re kind of in this now. Together.”
“I’m not,” he said with a smirk. “Good luck with those arson charges.”
“Hey!” Poppy grabbed him by the shirt and thrust her face into his. Again, no clue where this courage was coming from, but she sure was enjoying it. “Trust me, Bursaw, I don’t want to be in this any more than you do. But we both know there’s something going on here. So if I come across any new information, or if you learn anything from your dad or grandma, wouldn’t it be beneficial to both of us to, I don’t know, keep each other in the loop?”
Blake looked a little nauseated at the idea of teamwork, but he gave her a gruff nod. “Yeah, okay. Find me tomorrow at school, and we’ll talk.”
“We should exchange phone numbers too.”
He stared at her. “You want my phone number?”
“In case we find out anything new. Not to, like, plan a sexy rendezvous. I still think you’re a triple dick.”
“A what?”
“Just give me your phone.”
Once they’d swapped numbers, Blake turned around without another word and ran out the exit.
The candle store was noisy, humming and pulsing with the press of the weekend crowd. Poppy swept her eyes across the throngs, allowing them to carry her back to the diorama display. She looked up through the stained-glass window dome at the storage tanks looming above, then at the poor waxen farmers in the pastoral scene. They gazed straight ahead, unamused, powerless to stop people from taking selfies with them.
“Excuse me,” she said, flagging down a passing Waxpert. “Did they rearrange the figures? I was just here yesterday, and I think they were in different spots.”
The Waxpert followed Poppy’s gaze. “Oh, yeah! Guess you’re right!” She shrugged and gave Poppy a dopey grin. “Probably the Chandlers’ doing—sometimes they like to redecorate after hours.”
Poppy raised an eyebrow as the Waxpert ran off. “Interesting.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Over the years, Poppy had been forced to wade through plenty o
f unusual things when she entered her house: yoga mats, boxes of granola, hand-woven blankets that came with the insistence that “if they’re good enough for Peruvian alpacas, they’re good enough for the Palladino family.” But this was the first time she’d stepped around shards of broken glass jars.
They were in boxes, at least. Spotting the telltale Grosholtz Candle Factory logo on a couple of the fragments, Poppy followed the trail into the kitchen.
Standing around the table: her family.
Seated at the head of the table: Dud.
On the table: the townspeople of Paraffin.
In a miniature echo of the diorama she’d just come from, a community of figurines now littered Poppy’s kitchen. Rendered in the vibrant colors of Grosholtz wax were a dozen six-inch figures, each sculpted and posed in a way that was undeniably, definitively those people. There was Greg, the Friendly’s waiter, merrily hoisting a tray of chicken finger platters. There was Mrs. Goodwin, gardening shears in hand. There was a judgmental Dr. Steve. And of course, the Palladino clan themselves, in their natural habitat: Mom, Dad, and Owen, smiling and eating out of Whole Foods containers.
“Poppy!” her mother exclaimed as Poppy picked up the Jill figurine and studied its dead-on smirk. “You failed to mention what a talented sculptor Dud is! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Her father gestured wildly at Dud, whose tongue stuck out in concentration as he scraped the blade of her X-Acto knife across Colt Lamberty’s hair. “It started with one, but then he kept going and going, asking for more!”
Poppy’s mother ruffled Dud’s hair. “Like a little Oliver Twist.”
Poppy would have loved to point out that nothing about Dud was little, and that Oliver Twist’s situation was a smidge different from theirs, but she lost focus the more she looked at the figures. How had he been able to glean that much detail about people he’d met or seen for mere seconds? Other than her family and Jill, they were complete strangers to him—yet he’d sculpted them as though he’d known them for years, known what they had for breakfast that morning and how crispy they liked their bacon.
Her gaze swept over the tops of their little heads until it met Dud’s, who gave her a shy smile. “I made them for you.”
While Poppy’s parents busted out with a syrupy “Awww,” Poppy leaked a thin, silent stream of air in place of whatever she’d hoped her brain would come up with. Had this wax thing formulated a genuine human emotion? Was he—oh, God—developing something of a crush on her? And was this all seriously happening in front of her parents and her little brother?
“Let me grab you another candle,” said Poppy’s father. “I think there’s an extra Ocean Breeze in the closet.”
“And I’ll go get the camera,” her mother said as they hustled out of the kitchen. “Ooh! We can send the photos to Dud’s parents!”
“Ooh!” Owen piped up. “I know who else you should make, Dud! Mr. Crawford.”
Poppy rounded on her brother. “What?”
“Poppy looooves Mr. Crawford. She wants him to be her husband.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“You said it to Jill on the phone! You also said that his lips were like two juicy strawberry Starbursts!”
“Owen, I swear to God—”
“I’m gonna get his yearbook picture!” He ran out of the kitchen.
After pausing to collect herself, Poppy took a seat at the table. “I can’t believe you made all these,” she said to Dud. “Where did you learn to sculpt like that?”
“I dunno. It’s easy.”
“Maybe for you, but this doesn’t come naturally to most people. Not that you’re most people. Or could even be considered ‘people.’”
“I’m people! I can walk from here to there, I can walk most anywhere!”
“Right. Of course.” She rubbed her eyes. “Um, listen, Dud, I’m flattered that you did this for me, but—”
“This stuff smells good,” Dud said, cramming a wad of wax up his nose as he took a big whiff.
Poppy stared at him.
Dud stared back at her.
Then he shot the wax bullet out of his nose and across the table, knocking over little wax Mrs. Goodwin.
The moment, clearly, had passed.
“Okay, Dud,” her mother crowed as everyone returned to the kitchen. “Gather up those little masterpieces and give us a big smile. Owen, Poppy, you get in there too. Not that close, Poppy.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Smile!”
The photo captured Owen grinning, Dud waving, and Poppy looking at her phone, which had beeped. “Poppy, put the phone away,” said her mother. “Now I have to take another one—”
“Sorry.” Poppy pulled up the Channel Six YouNews app and fled the kitchen for her room before they could object. “The press conference just started.”
And then ended, only thirty seconds later.
“Thank you all for coming out,” Big Bob said into the bouquet of microphones. Miss Bea stood behind him, the flower in her hat looking limp. “The Grosholtz Candle Factory is Paraffin’s greatest treasure, and its citizens are understandably concerned about the cause of the fire that ravaged its walls last night. Today we have some answers: in light of new information given to us by Anita and Preston Chandler, we are officially closing the investigation. It seems that demolition work had been scheduled for the older sections of the factory that were no longer in use, and some hectic rescheduling, combined with poor communication, resulted in an electrical mishap that led to the fire. Precautions have been taken to ensure that this will not happen again, and the Chandlers wish to thank their beloved community for its concern and support. Thank you.”
Poppy stared at the screen. Then dialed Jill.
“Not buying it!” Poppy shouted when Jill picked up. “The older section of the factory was most definitely in use—that’s where Madame Grosholtz was!”
Jill sounded exquisitely bored. “Why would they lie about that?”
“Because they’re trying to cover something up! Trust me — something is up with the Chandlers and the Bursaws. I think they’re in cahoots!”
“Cahoots, Poppy? They’re in cahoots?”
“Yes. Even Blake is suspicious. Blake Bursaw. Isn’t that a hint that something weird is going on?”
“It’s a hint that the authorities know better than you,” said Jill. “To be honest, the weirdest thing about this situation is that in the midst of it, you struck up a friendship with your mortalest enemy.”
“God, Jill, it’s not a friendship—”
“It’s bizarre. And bad. And will come back to bite you in the ass, mark my words. I can’t believe that after all that dickwad has put you through, you’re taking his side.”
“I’m not!”
“Do you even need my help anymore? Why bother calling me?”
Poppy pulled the phone away from her face and let out a frustrated sigh. She hated when Jill got like this. It was all part of those stage manager tendencies of hers—a place for everything and everything in its place—that didn’t always work out so well in reality. And definitely not in this bizarre wrinkle of unreality into which Poppy had fallen.
“Hello?” Jill was saying. “Where’d you go?”
“Listen, I’ll—see you tomorrow. Maybe this’ll make more sense then.”
“Okay. Later.”
“Later.”
Poppy ended the call and stared at the phone, feeling gross. Arguing with Jill was never any fun. It happened often enough, given that they were both strong-headed control freaks who always thought they were right. It was what had drawn them together. But this time it seemed a little bit worse. Like something fundamental was breaking down between them.
A quiet knock came at the door. “Poppy?” Dud stuck his head in. “Are you okay? What did the press conference say?”
She looked up at him. “I think I’m off the hook.”
“What
hook?” Dud asked, coming into the room.
“For the fire. They don’t think it was arson anymore. Unless . . . unless that’s what they want me to think. Maybe they’re spreading false information in the hopes that I’ll let my guard down.”
“Hmm.” Dud nodded, as if he had the first clue what she was talking about. “What does the candle say?”
“The candle?” She smacked her head. “Oh my God, the candle! I forgot all about it!” She lunged for the heavy white stone, but urgent footsteps were thumping down the hall. “What’s going on in here?” her father asked, barging in.
Poppy hid the candle behind her back with an impatient grunt. “What do you want?”
Both of her parents crowded into the doorway, visibly relieved at the lack of bedroom shenanigans. “You two ready for the big Dr. Steve marathon?” her father asked. “Starts in an hour!”
“We no longer own a television,” Poppy said.
“It’s streaming online!” he said, elated.
“It starts at five? Isn’t that a little early?”
“Not if you want to cram in eight hours! Word on the street is that he’s got some real damning evidence against elbow macaroni—”
“Fine. Can you leave, please?”
Her parents exchanged glances.
“Dud,” said her mother, “why don’t you go find Owen? It’s time for his afternoon snack.”
“Okay!”
As Dud raced out of the room, Poppy’s father sidled in. “What’s that behind your back?”
“Nothing.” She held it up, blasé, as if it were nothing. “Just a candle.”
He squinted at the tiny lettering, which Poppy was thankful he could not read without his glasses. “Ah,” he said after a moment, smiling. “I get it.”
“Get what?”
He turned to his wife. “I heard about this. Supposedly you can put a secret message into one of those make-your-own-candles from the factory. I bet it’s a love letter.”
Poppy’s mother cooed while Poppy wondered if it was possible to break all ties with her family and start a new life in the creepy candle dungeon. “It’s not a love letter, you guys.”