The Sweets of Doom

by Wendy Meadows

  I leave the pouch lying on the bed and scrutinize the rest of the room. Where else might the killer have put one of these surreptitious charms? She would have put them close enough to touch Jose without him noticing. His clothes, of course.

  I migrate to the dresser and open the drawers. I rummage in his sock drawer and even his underwear drawer. That in itself should give me the creeps, but I guess I’m already thinking of myself as a private investigator.

  I don’t find anything in his sock or underwear drawer, so I turn my attention to his pants. Still nothing. I slide open his shirt drawer. It contains a lot of white cotton undershirts. That makes sense. Jose worked in an office. He must have worn these under his business shirts. That’s why they were so soft. Some even have slight fraying around the neck and sleeves.

  I run my hand along the back of the drawer. Sure enough, there it is—another one of those pouches. This one contains the same combination of plants. So I was right. The killer tried to charm Jose into caring about her, but it didn’t work. That guy had his priorities in order and his head screwed on straight. No one could steal his heart against his will.

  I carry both pouches downstairs. I find two Ziploc bags in the kitchen and seal the pouches inside. See? I am learning a few things from David after all.

  11

  I pass the next day in a state of mental quiet. I find myself gazing through the store windows as much as ever, but my mind remains still and subdued after my discoveries last night.

  I keep the two Ziplocked pouches of herbs under the counter to turn over to the police, but I don’t see David all day. No doubt he’s got his hands full processing all the women from the coven.

  My mind wanders far away from the candy store I love so much. Is it possible my heart isn’t really in this store anymore? After several successful months, the venture no longer occupies my every waking thought. I don’t sweat and fuss over it the way I did in the early days. I can run it with my eyes closed.

  I can’t say the same thing about a murder case, though. I have to puzzle and tease and nag it like a dog over its bone. I mean, how does someone get into magic in the first place? If I wanted to cast a love spell on a man to make him fall for me, how would I do it?

  Sure, I could look up anything online. There must be thousands of armchair witches all over the world who learned everything they knew from the internet. What else? Where would I go to learn about sigils and plants and human teeth and things like that?

  While I consider my options, my eyes scan the town. I trace over Mr. Stewart’s dog grooming parlor, the vacant lot next door to it, the used bookstore, the…

  The bookstore! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that before? After the killer scoured the internet for every scrap of information she could find, she would turn to books. Anybody who wanted to learn anything about anything always followed that process.

  I’m assuming, of course, that the killer came from Peterborough. She would have ransacked every bookstore in town, and then what? She came to West End in the days before Jose died. She probably cased his house and shadowed him around.

  Maybe, just maybe, she got a book from here. She probably wanted to cover her tracks. That would make it more likely that she would buy a book from here instead of in Peterborough itself. I could hope to get that lucky, at least.

  My blood burns in my veins. I itch to get out there, but just then, a Girl Scout troop comes in to buy candy for a piñata at a party they’re having over the weekend. After that, a grandmother enters with her grandson. He takes almost an hour to select just the right lollipop, but I sense he just wants to be around the candy for as long as possible.

  By the time they leave me alone, the clock hands are creeping up toward noon. I dash out and skid down the street to the bookstore. I cringe when a musical bell announces my arrival. A tall man in bottle-end glasses emerges from among the dusty stacks.

  He blinks through his spectacles at me. “Well, upon my word! If it isn’t Miss Margaret Nichols. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  I smile at his use of the royal We. I hold out my hand. “You’re Horace Bentley, aren’t you? I’ve been dying to meet you for ages.”

  He shakes my hand heartily and smiles in undisguised pleasure. “Likewise. I keep hearing so much about you. It’s a pleasure to welcome you to my humble establishment. What can I do for you? I didn’t peg you as the used book type.”

  I chuckle. “Actually, I’m here about a murder case I’m working on.”

  His eyes snap open. “Oh, really! How exciting! What can I do for you?”

  “Do you carry books on magic and witchcraft and stuff like that?”

  His mouth falls open with a gasp. “Oh, that! I should have known. The whole town is abuzz with it.”

  “Yes, I know. So do you?” I ask. “Do you carry books like that?”

  “I do.” He escorts me to a back corner and waves to a shelf. A fleeting glance at the titles shows me everything I could want and more. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “I’m not, but I’m wondering if Jose Santiago’s killer was looking for something in particular. Did anyone buy a book on magic from you recently?”

  He blinks at me. Then he looks at the books. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

  I wait for him to say something. “Horace?” I ask. “Did you hear me?”

  He gestures to the rear of the shop where a bead curtain hides another room. He walks there, pauses, and casts a significant glance over his shoulder before he slips out of sight. I breeze through the curtain to find him in a tiny office. Layers of dust cover everything except a high-powered computer on the desk.

  Horace leans close and hisses into my ear. “No one bought any of those books recently, but one of them did go missing. I couldn’t tell you exactly when because I only inventory the stock once every six months. I noticed it gone a few days ago, but someone could have stolen it any time between now and last Easter.”

  “What book was it?” I hardly dare ask.

  “It was a book of love potions,” he whispers, “very rare and very expensive. It went out of print decades ago. You just can’t get that information anymore. I could wring the cockroach’s neck for stealing it.”

  “That makes sense,” I remark. “The person obviously couldn’t get the information off the internet.”

  “Definitely not!” he exclaims. “They could have found out about the book on the web, though. I’m certain of that. It’s a famous book and it’s mentioned in lots of places as the definitive guide to love potions. I even advertised it for sale on eBay and Etsy. If someone wanted to find it, they could have found out I had a copy and then come and pinched it. Really, a book that rare and valuable, I should have kept it under lock and key.”

  He punches his bony fist into his left hand to emphasize his irritation at the thief. I nod. “Thank you, Horace. That’s a big help. Could you tell me the name of the book?”

  “It’s Friar Paulino’s Recipes and Herbarium. I even have a few scans of some of the pages that I took for the ad—nothing comprehensive, you understand—but enough to give a potential buyer a sense that the book was authentic.”

  “Do you mind if I see the scans?”

  He jumps on his computer and navigates to a handful of photos of rough printed pages. One shows a spell titled For a Fond Heart. A few lines list the ingredients for the potion, but not the quantities or the preparation instructions. My eyes skip down the list. Rose petals, dandelion heads, comfrey leaves, dried and powdered.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise on end. “Would you mind emailing me these scans, Horace?”

  “I don’t have to,” he replies. “You can get them off eBay. I was going to take the ad down, but I didn’t get around to it. Just look up that book title. I can guarantee you it’s the only listing for the book.”

  “Thank you. That’s a big help.”

  He bursts into a smile that radiates out of his gaunt face. “Anything I can do to h
elp, you just let me know.”

  I bolt back to the candy story bubbling with the information. The very first thing I do is look up the ad on my office computer. I download the images to my hard drive just in case something happens to the ad. Then I jot down the book title. Friar Paulino’s Recipes and Herbarium.

  So on top of everything else, the killer stole that book from Horace’s shop and used the spell on Jose. Too bad it didn’t work. The book must be out of print because the spells were bogus.

  Nearing closing time, I get a text from David. Sorry I can’t walk you home tonight. I’m under the water with paperwork from last night’s mass arrest. Can you survive the disappointment?

  I grin to myself. I just might have to put a hex on you for this.

  He sends back a picture of a laughing emoji. I don’t mind him not walking me home tonight. I have something important I need to do.

  Darkness settles over the countryside by the time I lock the candy store, but I don’t go home. I cross town and enter the other neighborhood. I retrace my steps to Cheryl Whitfield’s house.

  To my surprise, I find Cheryl, her husband, Oscar, whom I saw on the phone the last time I visited, and her two children standing on the sidewalk outside. Oscar speaks into his phone again. Cheryl clutches a sobbing little boy against her side, and her face is pinched with agitation. She casts fiery glares at the houses on all sides.

  I walk up to her. “Is anything wrong, Cheryl?”

  “You tell me.” She waves toward the house. “Just take a look at that and tell me if anything’s wrong. Then I hear that the other kids threw rotten tomatoes at Joey at school today, so you tell me if anything’s wrong.”

  I look at her house. Someone scrawled WITCH in big black spray-painted letters across the white siding. When I look down at the little boy, he hides his tear-streaked face in his mother’s thigh.

  The girl hovers close to her parents, too. The whole family keeps searching the surroundings for hidden threats.

  Oscar puts his phone away. “The nearest motel is in Peterborough, and they’re all booked up for tonight.”

  “We can’t stay in Peterborough,” Cheryl returns. “The kids have school tomorrow and you’ve got work.”

  “Do you need a place to stay tonight?” I ask.

  “Well, we can’t stay here,” Cheryl snaps. “I’ll be ripped if I let my children spend the night in that house.”

  “We’re leaving town,” Oscar adds. “We’ll find another place to stay, and then we’re selling the house. We don’t want to stay in a town where people treat each other like this.”

  I take a deep breath to calm myself. “Listen. I won’t try to convince you to give West End another chance, but if you need a place to stay tonight, you’re all welcome at my house. We have plenty of extra rooms all set up for guests. You’ll be safe there. If you still want to leave town, at least you’ll have somewhere comfortable to stay while you make your plans. The kids can keep going to their school until you move.”

  Cheryl fires a harsh glance my way, but I already detect her features softening. A little kindness goes a long way when someone gets harassed and abused for no reason. Oscar shrugs and looks away, and the daughter, Emily, peers up at me with pathetic hope.

  I follow up my initial advantage. “Not everyone in West End is like the people who did this. Some of us know you didn’t have anything to do with the stuff going on in this town. I tried to convince Detective Graham that your group wasn’t involved in Jose Santiago’s death. I’m pretty sure he knows it, too, but he had to do his job. I know you’re all upset right now. Just come to my house. You can spend the night there. Heck, you can spend the next month there if you want to. Just come. You’ll be comfortable there at least for tonight, and you can decide tomorrow what you want to do. What do you say?”

  Cheryl’s mouth wrenches. “All right. Just for one night.”

  “Great. I see you have your own car. I’ll meet you over there. It’s the old Barrowman house on the other side of town.”

  “I know where it is,” Cheryl growls.

  I do my best to ignore her attitude, reminding myself she’s been through one doozy of an ordeal last night and then today. “Great. I’m walking, so give me a minute to warn my son Zack that you’re coming.”

  12

  I hurry across town to my house and burst through the door just as the Whitfields’ car noses up to the curb outside. “Zack!” I call as soon as I walk in. “Zack, where are you?”

  “I’m right here, Mom.” He appears from the kitchen. “Where’s the fire?”

  “A family of four is coming to spend the night and maybe longer. Are you making dinner? Oh, good! Can you make extra? Great,” I say when he nods. “I’ll just welcome them inside and then I’ll go upstairs to make sure the guest rooms are all set up.”

  “Whoa! Slow down, Mom,” he exclaims. “Who are these people anyway?”

  “The Whitfields from across town. Cheryl Whitfield is the leader of that coven, and their house was vandalized this evening and her son was harassed at school. They don’t feel safe in their own home, so I invited them here.”

  He blinks down at me. “You invited the leader of the coven to stay here?”

  “Why not? I keep telling everyone they’re harmless. Besides, they had nowhere else to stay and I couldn’t exactly leave them standing on the pavement, could I?”

  “Why not?” he asks. “Why did you have to bring them here? You know they’re the ones who cursed us.”

  “They did not!” I look him in disbelief. “Really, Zachary. I’m surprised at you. They’re just ordinary people.”

  “Yeah, and the person who killed Jose was just an ordinary person, too. I’m surprised you would even suggest it, Mom. Does Detective Graham know you’re doing this?”

  I narrow my eyes at him and lower my voice to a dangerous growl. “Now you listen here, young man. I’m a grown woman and I’m your mother. This is my house and I still make the decisions around here. I don’t need your permission or David Graham’s permission to judge a person’s character, and I think I know a sight more about the Jose Santiago murder case than you do. I invited these people to stay with us as long as they need to until they get on their feet, and that’s exactly what they’re going to do. If you don’t like it, you can find another place to live.”

  He doesn’t say anything else. I leave him standing there gaping and march to the front door to greet the Whitfields. I wave them inside. “Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home in the living room. This is my son, Zack. He was just making dinner. Weren’t you, Zachary?”

  I fix him with my most vicious glare until he scuttles off to the kitchen. It’s about time that boy learned his place around here, and I’m done accommodating his bombastic attitude. He can toe the line or pack up as far as I’m concerned.

  I escort the Whitfields into the living room. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m just going to dash upstairs to check on your rooms. I’ll be back in two ticks.”

  I dash, all right. I make the most cursory inspection of the guest rooms and zip back down. I sit on the couch next to Cheryl. “Everything’s all set. I hope the kids are all right with a room each to themselves. Our guest rooms are set up for one person each. If they don’t want to sleep alone, we could move a few things around.”

  “That’s all right,” Cheryl replies in a much softer voice than I expect from her. “I really appreciate you taking us in, Margaret. I guess we sort of overreacted to the situation. There really are good people in West End. You proved that tonight.”

  “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to stay after everything that happened,” I reply. “No one deserves the treatment you’ve gotten. The people in this town really blew the whole witch thing out of proportion.”

  “I suppose we were partly to blame,” she adds. “We were never really a coven. It was stupid and asking for trouble to call ourselves one. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “Even s
o, that doesn’t excuse what happened to you tonight. I just want you to know not everyone feels that way about you. It would be a shame for you to uproot your whole family over this.”

  She casts a glance at her husband. “We’ll think about it for the next few days. We have to get the house repainted anyway even if we do sell it. Maybe in that time we’ll change our minds. I just want you to know we’re really grateful to you for giving us the time to come to an intelligent decision about it instead of flying off the handle like we were about to.”

  “It’s perfectly understandable that you would want to leave. Oh, look! Zack’s putting dinner on the table now. Come on. You must be hungry.”

  I get busy setting out extra plates and chairs. Six people including two children certainly make a different atmosphere in this house than just me and Zack by ourselves.

  He serves spaghetti with meatballs to everyone; it turns out to have been a great choice with children at the table. The kids slurp their noodles extra loudly. The noodles slap their cheeks and splatter sauce all over their faces until Zack laughs.

  “Please excuse their behavior,” Cheryl murmurs to me.

  “There’s nothing to excuse.” I beam at the little boy. “They’re just being kids. It’s wonderful to have them here. This old place was getting pretty stuffy with just the two of us.”

  Joey stuffs two enormous meatballs into his mouth. He tucks them into his cheek pouches and makes faces until everyone laughs. “Joey!” Cheryl chides.

  I wipe tears out of my eyes. Then Emily puts a big wad of noodles into her mouth. She positions their ends under her top lip so they dangle down to her chin. She wags her head and moans like a monster. Zack puts two meatballs against his eyes and squints his eyelids closed to hold them in place. They look like disgusting eyeballs, and he makes hideous faces and groaning noises. The kids fall out of their chairs laughing.