I closed the book and gathered all of them in my arms.
I had to fill out some forms to get my library card, and the librarian did a double take at my last name—as everyone always did—before entering it into her system. “Strange, eh?” she said.
“Yup. You haven’t lived till you’ve sat in your brand-new third grade class and had the teacher call out that name.”
“I can imagine,” she said, continuing to type. “You a flatlander?”
“A what?”
She chuckled. “That’s our affectionate term for someone not born in Maine.”
“Yeah. I’m from California. How long does it take for someone to be considered a Mainer? Or is it Mainiac?”
“It’s both. But if you aren’t born here, I’m afraid it never happens. You’ll always be thought of as ‘from away.’”
I took out a business card. “Here. I’m opening a tea and herb shop in Moody Bog. Maybe you’d like to stop in some time.”
“Oh!” She read the card and smiled. “That sounds lovely. Leave a few.”
As I walked down the leaf-strewn steps, it occurred to me. I would have to make some other arrangements with the Moody Bog market about baked goods in my shop. Now that Bob Hitchins was…well, no more. And wasn’t that my fault, too, for opening the Booke…
No! I refused to be blamed for something I couldn’t possibly have known about. Yet the guilt lingered, and the urgency to do something intensified. Was it my own hubris, or was it coming from the Booke? “Oh that’s just great. I can’t even tell if it’s my own feelings or from some supernatural object!” But when I swiped at my face I felt my own very real tears on my cheek.
Once I was back in my shop with my library finds on the desk next to the Booke, I was about to fire up my kettle when I noticed the time. Holy cats! I’d be late for the Chamber of Commerce Get-Together. And despite biker gangs and succubi, I did have a business to run.
It was weird worrying about mundane matters when my life was in danger. But like my herbs and tea, everything had a cubbyhole to be sorted into, prioritized. And though each minute felt a little like the Sword of Damocles had one last thread left, I still had to get on with it.
Once I checked myself in the mirror, I was back in the Jeep, wending my way over the shadowed street, heading toward the white steeple.
Cars filled the parking lot. The church looked like one of those old New England jobs—white clapboard sides, tall windows, and distinctive pointed steeple, but the one-story building nestled beside it was from the forties, a typical church hall.
I found a spot and pulled in. And then I rushed into the hall and peeled off my coat in the warmth.
The noise of the crowd echoed throughout the building, and it looked like half the population of Moody Bog was there. The smell of countless church pancake breakfasts and Sunday night stews permeated the very walls, and I couldn’t help but feel a certain camaraderie with the folks milling and drinking coffee, even though they were all strangers to me.
Marge spotted me the same time I caught sight of her, and she waved and scuttled over.
“Glad you made it,” she said, slightly less cheerily than usual. She gestured toward a framed picture of someone flanked by flowers. “We just did a tribute to Bob Hitchins.”
I told her I was sorry to hear about Bob and she gave a little sniff.
“Yeah, he was pretty beloved. Sheriff Ed is being tight-lipped about what happened, though everyone suspects it was probably a heart attack. Bob did like his pastries.”
“I’m so sorry. I never had a chance to meet him.”
“Bob was quite a fixture around here, that’s for sure.” She made a swiping gesture with her hand and put on a brave smile. “Come on. Let me introduce you around.”
She led me first to a tight klatch. A thin woman in her fifties wearing a plaid skirt with a sweater draped over her shoulders was talking earnestly to a group of business movers and shakers. Beside her, listening with barely the patience to do so, was a man, blond, overweight, with a red nose, blotchy red cheeks, and a bristly mustache. He fingered his plastic cup full of what looked like pink punch, probably wishing it were spiked, by the look on his face. Another man, with dark, longish hair tucked behind his ears stood listening. He wore a sweater vest unbuttoned that hung over the baggy waist of his corduroys. His eyes were wandering, as if he’d heard it all before. A middle-aged man in a clerical collar and cardigan listened attentively to the woman.
“Sorry to interrupt, Ruth,” Marge said, imposing us into their little circle.
The woman, Ruth, looked startled. If the look on her face was any indication, interrupting her simply was not done.
But the men seemed relieved, and then they perked up when they looked me over. My twenty-six years decidedly brought down the average age of the room.
“I just wanted to introduce our newest entrepreneur,” said Marge. “She’s young but I have a feeling she’s pretty savvy. Everyone, this is Kylie Strange. She’s opening that cute Strange Herbs & Teas on Lyndon Road.”
“I did wonder about that sign,” said Ruth, mouth pinched slightly.
“And this is Ruth Russell,” Marge went on. Ruth didn’t offer her hand so my arm stalled in mid-flight. But I changed direction and held it out to the clergyman. “And this is Reverend Howard Cleveland.”
He shook my hand with a firm, curt shake, likely borne of many Sundays and many hands. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Strange.”
“Kylie, please.”
Marge grinned and clutched my shoulders for a moment. “I’ll leave you to it. Must see how the punch is doing.”
She whisked away and the red-nosed man held out a beefy hand. “John Fairgood, of Fairgood Gun Shop. Are you a gun owner, young lady?” His grip squeezed my hand hard. I resisted shaking it out when he finally released me.
Does a crossbow count? I wondered.
“No, but I’m not opposed to it on principle.”
He frowned slightly, trying to ferret out my meaning.
The last man in the circle with the longish hair offered a weak handshake. “Sy Alexander. I own the Coffee Shack. I hope we won’t be competitors.”
“I don’t really plan to sell prepared brews. Just the makings.”
I was suddenly bombarded by waves of silk, perfume, and clicking bracelets. Seraphina swept in and gave me an encompassing hug. “Kylie, I completely forgot to mention this to you. I’m glad you found us anyway.” She glanced around our little circle, and a small line creased the center of her brow. “Well…I’ll let you meet our chamber. I’ll see you later this evening. Bye!” She waved her fingers at the others and glided quickly to the next group.
Ruth tsked. “Of course, she’d have met you already. I’m sure all these herbs come in handy for her notions or potions or whatevers. Is that what your shop is for? All that witchcraft nonsense?”
Reverend Howard shook his head. “Now Ruth, the Wiccans have every right to—”
“It’s not right, Reverend! And I’m surprised at you for condoning such devil worship in your parish. Someone should put a stop to it.”
“It’s not illegal,” said Sy, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. “And it isn’t devil worship. I know the kids involved. The Wiccan tradition is—”
“That’s baloney and you know it, Sy,” she said, pulling her sweater taut over her chest. “It’s disgraceful. To allow children access to that. Isn’t the Ayrs girl far too young? I’m surprised at her parents for allowing it. But just you wait. She’s a high school drop-out in the making.”
“Jolene?” I said incredulously. “She’s whip-smart. I wouldn’t be surprised if she graduated early. And Wicca is just as much a cultural tradition as any religion, really.” I turned to Reverend Howard. “No offense.”
“None taken, Kylie. Wicca has combined some very old traditions into a fairly new nature faith. The ritual practices of Wicca today, as I understand it, stem from around the forties.”
“Oh?” I said. �
��I didn’t know that.”
“Some think the traditions are older. What’s the harm?”
“Worshipping the moon, for heaven’s sake,” spat Ruth.
“You can’t trust people like that,” said John. “Too flighty. Seraphina. She doesn’t even have a shop in town. Uses the Internet.” He said the last as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Tax dodger, if you ask me.”
Reverend Howard breathed an irritated sigh. “Now John, that’s not very charitable talk.”
John glared at me. “Just what kind of herbs are you selling in that shop of yours?”
Reverend Howard took me by the arm and steered me away before I could open my mouth to reply as sharply as I had wanted to.
“Let’s meet some others,” he said in my ear. He led me across the linoleum floor and said confidentially, “They’re mostly harmless, believe it or not. Just a little set in their ways. A closed mind is an unhappy mind, I’m afraid. Even though many of them have known Doc Boone for ages—have you met Doc?”
“Oh yes. He’s great.”
“Isn’t he? But when he stopped coming to church and took up with the Wicca way, lots of folks in the village were…well, less than Christian about it. They broke ties they had had with him for decades. A shame, really.”
“That’s a kind of funny thing for you to say, Reverend. I mean, Wicca is pagan, right?”
We reached the table with the pink punch in a pressed glass bowl. Small piles of cookies set on individual napkins surrounded it. “Well, Kylie, I’ll tell you.” His accent was vaguely Midwestern. I guessed Reverend Howard, like me, was “from away.” “I think that God has left room on this good earth for all sorts of beliefs. And as long as their main tenet is love, I don’t see a conflict of interest, do you?”
I smiled. I liked Reverend Howard’s face—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his gray pelt of hair. “Neither do I.”
He chuckled and ferried me around the room, introducing me to more business owners. I passed out my cards and let them know that I’d be opening by Friday.
I even saw Deputy Miller wandering about, and I strained above the crowd, looking for the handsome sheriff. He didn’t appear to be there. The deputy caught sight of me and scowled, making his way to Ruth and John, who were still talking. I sized up the room. One might divide it into Pro-Wiccan and Anti-Wiccan. Unfortunately, it looked as if Deputy Miller was definitely in the Anti-Wiccan camp.
I got myself a glass of punch and after a careful sip, felt my teeth squeak in pain at all the sugar. I glanced back at Ruth Russell, still pontificating to her audience, thinking that she probably made the punch. Anyone that sour needed all this sugar. And here’s a nice ripe, red apple for you, deary. Anti-Wiccan my ass. She could be the head witch, with her perfect pinched face and dark frown that would look just fine under a tall pointy hat.
I pulled myself back. What was it that Reverend Howard said about charity? I needed to practice a little myself, I guessed.
Ruth caught me looking at her and furrowed her already wrinkled brow.
“How’s it going?” asked Marge, startling me.
“Oh, fine. Some interesting folks here.”
“That’s one way to put it.” She smiled, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Don’t let Ruth bother you. She’s the local president of the Knitting Society, the DAR, and Mayflower Descendants. I daresay if she could trace her family back to Eden she’d be president of that, too. But she would more than likely end up being related to the snake!” She made a honk of a laugh and clapped her hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t nice. But Ruth does have ancestors that go all the way back to the founding of Moody Bog, at least.”
Wait a sec. Didn’t Karl Waters say…? “Isn’t she supposed to be related to the Howlands?”
“You’ve heard of them? Well, stay in this town long enough and you’re bound to.”
“I, uh, only heard about them peripherally. What’s so special about them?”
“They’re just one of the founders. Although to hear Ruth tell it, they’re John Alden and George Washington all rolled into one.”
“Isn’t there a Howland who was, um, on trial for witchcraft?”
She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Oh my dear. If you want to get in good with Ruth, never mention Constance Howland. She’s the black sheep of the family. No one talks about her around Ruth.”
I turned to look at Ruth Russell holding court with her cronies.
Marge excused herself to do more mingling while I surveyed the village chamber. Mostly men, as I expected, but there were a few women here and there, like Marge. But I was definitely the youngest by far.
I would have to find a way to talk to Ruth Russell. As a descendant of Constance Howland, she might have information I could use.
I brought the cup to my lips again and then thought better of it. What I needed was water to wash the sugar away. Behind me was a doorway to a narrow corridor. I passed through onto shiny floors that smelled of pine-scented cleaner. The overhead fluorescents were turned off, but I could plainly see that one side of the corridor was the kitchen, with its swinging door and roll-down metal gate over a wide cafeteria-style window. On the other was what appeared to be a storeroom with its door ajar.
As I passed it on my way to the kitchen, I glanced inside.
Mop, bucket, long rolls of colored paper leaning upright in a corner, plastic flowers arranged in centerpieces, shelves of cleaning supplies…and something drawn on the floor, partially hidden by a rubber mat.
I stepped in without thinking, fumbling for the light switch on the wall but not quite finding it.
“What are you doing there?”
I whipped around and came face to face with an old man in overalls, who I guessed was the janitor.
“Sorry. I was just looking for some water.” I held up my glass.
“Kitchen’s over there,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder. He stood in the doorway as I slid past him and then he pulled the storeroom door shut, locking it.
“Sorry,” I said again, and hurried to the kitchen. He was still standing in the shadowed corridor, watching me as I dumped the punch in the sink and filled my little plastic cup with tap water. I drank, glancing over the rim at the man still watching, before I scuttled past him again, head down, and rejoined the Get-Together.
After a few more minutes, my watch told me that it was, thankfully, time to go. I said my good-byes. Before I left, I made a beeline toward Ruth Russell, who, by the look on her face, was fairly surprised to see me again. I grabbed her hand and shook it. “It was so nice meeting you,” I said with a smile, as sincerely as I could make it. “I’d love to chat sometime. About knitting!”
Startlement still on her face, she forced a smile. “Of course. Our Knitting Society meets Wednesday afternoons. You wouldn’t want to come to that, would you?”
And as nice an invitation as I had never heard.
“Why, I’d love to.” I gave her my card. “Why don’t you email me with the address and time. Should I bring my knitting?”
She looked like she’d swallowed that poison apple prepared for Snow White. “That would be a wonderful idea. Well. Then I suppose we’ll see you tomorrow.”
I gave her hand one more shake before I let it go. “Awesome! I’ll see you there.” You old crone.
As I was leaving, I made sure I spoke to Reverend Howard once more, thanking him for being so nice to me, before I darted for the door.
But as I drove back to my shop, leaves falling around my car in a colorful rain, my thoughts didn’t fall on Ruth Russell and her Howland ancestry, but instead on what I saw in that storeroom. The room had been dark, but surely I hadn’t seen the edge of a pentagram etched on the floor under that mat?
• • •
When I got back to my shop, I put the kettle on, collected some Formosa oolong from my private stash, stuffed it in an infuser, and got down my favorite cup and saucer. Some people go for a mug for their tea, a
nd that’s all right for coffee. But for me, tea deserved more respect. I believed it always tasted better in a proper cup and saucer.
I tapped my fingernail on the counter, waiting for the water to boil. Now that it was quiet again, my mind drifted. Thoughts of succubi, vortexes, bikers, Anti-Wiccans, and pentagrams swirled in my head like so many tea leaves in a pot of boiling water. Was this whole village a hotbed of the paranormal? I made a note to myself to find out about that janitor.
And tomorrow I had committed myself to go to the Knitting Society. If Ruth would even deign to email me. There was a problem, though. I didn’t know how to knit. Surely there was a shop here with knitting supplies. I’d just…get some things and, well. Fake it.
And then there was Erasmus Dark. I kept thinking of the hurt look in his eyes. Can you even hurt a demon’s feelings? I wandered into the main room, looking at all the work yet to be done, trying not to think of Erasmus. But each little annoyance made me think of him again, and his posh accent and high-toned attitude…and unarguably handsome features.
Why did he have to get all snooty about it anyway? He didn’t deny chasing Howland off that cliff. “He never just comes out and says what he means!”
“Who doesn’t?”
Startled again, I spun. Seraphina stood in my doorway, a strange little smile on her face.
“Oh. Hi, Seraphina. I didn’t expect you so early.”
“Thought I’d pop by to help you. How did you like our little villagers?”
“I think, everything aside, I like them.”
She gave me a knowing smile. “But?”
I shook my head. “There’s always a few who are ‘better than thou.’ I’ve seen the like before.”
She nodded sagely. I suppose she had, too.
“So Seraphina, I’m ashamed to say that I never asked what it is you did for a living. I just assumed…”
“You assumed I’m retired? Independently wealthy? Hardly. I have my own internet business. I make jewelry.” She wiggled her fingers and the light twinkled off her bat- and cat-faced rings and bangles. “And essential oils. That’s another reason why I’m so happy you happened to come to town. I’ve been dying to experiment with some of your herbs. And despite what my esteemed colleagues say, I do pay taxes. I’ve heard it all before.” She blinked languidly. “Looks like you’ve gotten a lot done.”
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