“I’ve no doubt on that at all, Ms. Jenkins,” Bradford said, taking my money. “May this give you exactly what you need.”
One bill of sale later, I was the proud renter of a book on Egyptian potions and their respective antidotes.
Usually, I would have gone back to the Angel by broomstick. But the library had been a short walk from my place of business and frankly I had been just too mad to bother getting it when I headed to the Scroll. Besides, the walk did a good job in curtailing the anger I felt at my run-in with Druida. Plus, just the motion of strolling added another layer of serenity. Onyx was deep in thought himself, so our journey was blissfully quiet. Soon enough, I was back in the row of clapboard storefronts that made up three-quarters to ninety percent of the economic activity on Glessie. A host of quaintly crooked chimneys spewed aromatic smoke into the azure blue skies. Shop owners chatted with customers behind the counters or in front of their stores, and the cobblestone echoed the footsteps of a good-sized, all-consuming crowd. Apparently the word on the street was that tourist trade was dying off, largely in part because the Coven Isles could only be accessed by boat. There were no airports or runways in the isles to mar their landscapes. But the public, by and large, didn’t want to waste their precious time on long sea crossings. Not when they could fly to other holiday destinations in a fraction of the time. The scene before me though, looked brisk and lively. I remember one Mainland tourist comparing this street with the backdrops he saw at Disneyland. For me, it was just home. A home I loved dearly enough to want always to protect. I winced a little at the word: protect. My parents had named me Seraphim -- a Seraphim being the ultimate guardian angel -- when I was born. But it was a name I’d given up on when I stopped thinking I could ever be anyone’s protective, guardian angel. Yet, what had I been doing over the last little while BUT protecting this place I love so much?
I got so wrapped up in this thought that I was startled when Onyx announced: “We have visitors.”
My head kitty always made a clear distinction between visitors and customers. I wondered who it could be.
The answer came as soon as I walked through the front door. David was standing next to the counter, talking with a figure I recognized instantly. Mayor Marty Fog was almost a caricature of a politician: heavy, roly-poly build, a soft, doughy face, immaculately groomed hair and a moustache above his sweaty top lip. He had that nauseating body language that looked like it was torn between acting like a man of the people and at the same time, being above the people he supposedly served. He wore a beige Armani suit, imported from the Mainland, that looked like it cost six months of sales from my shop. His eyes were basset hound shaped, vertical ovals that darted and absorbed everything he took in, but never giving anything back. My personal theory was that there was nothing to give back, one of the reasons why I didn’t vote for him.
“Ahh, and there is the lady herself,” Mayor Fog said with a nasal tone that sounded like a bad JFK impersonation.
His fatuous smile rekindled my anger, and I sincerely just wanted to punch him. Onyx's head nudged my leg. "Hattie ..."
I restrained myself as he walked up to me. David followed and watched as the Mayor pumped my hand like he was still on the campaign trail. A glance at David’s face told him exactly how uncharmed I was by this man’s appearance in my shop. He gave me a look that said, “Grin and bear it; it won't last long.”
“Chief Para Inspector Trew and I were just talking about what a great thing you’re doing for this isle,” Fog announced with forced, booming cheer, as he finally let go of my hand.
“Devoting your time and industry to helping us find an effective treatment for the poor Stranded? Very admirable. A model citizen. Well done, Ms. Jenkins.”
“It’s too bad the same enthusiasm for civic duty isn’t shared by our head librarian,” I said, my lips almost in a sneer.
David’s eyes widened, while Fog’s smile faltered a little. “I, uh…I have heard that Ms. Stone can be a little bit cantankerous on some subjects.”
“Like Romani lore being superior to all others, several of which made that VERY lore possible?” I snapped back.
My mind knew instinctively that another bout of conflict wasn't a great idea, but my mouth had other ideas. My flapping lips were in the mood for some mindless partying. Good grief, I was tense!
“I TOLD her why I needed what I finally had to get from the Scroll of Thoth,” I added, holding up my newly acquired book. “But instead she’d rather perpetuate a public health crisis than give one inch on pushing her preferences onto everyone else.”
By now, the mayor’s smile had frozen into a very awkward rictus and David was looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but where he was standing. Onyx's ears were flat again, and Jet, my furiously-fast cat, who was both an agoraphobe and catnip user, snaked between my legs in a blur. He looked just about ready to pounce on the catnip jar, but really he was just jumping to a higher shelf for a better view of the human battle going on.
I was just about to unleash another outburst, when Millie Midge, my herbal assistant, walked in from the back. I knew the look on her face all too well; if this got ugly, she’d get between me and whoever was pissing me off. I didn’t anger easily, but these last twenty-four hours … well, I felt my whole being was balancing on a knife edge. My assistant might be Unawakened, but she was deeply intuitive of the mysteries of the Universe. Millie, therefore, could see the stress in my auric field, my energetic halo, erupting in violent swirls of raging color. Which was pretty surprising, actually, seeing as my assistant was sporting yet another daring hair color on her head. This time, a vivid purple. Wow, she’s making her way through the whole of Violet’s Florid Lights collection.
I swallowed and kept quiet while the Mayor continued. “Ahh, I can’t believe that she’d be this unreasonable,” he paused. “After all, she’s been serving our community for fifteen years now, more or less.”
“Well, my family has been serving it for more than a century,” I said, unimpressed. “That might be why I nearly dealt her a fist to the jaw a couple of hours ago.”
“Careful, Hattie.” David became alert, giving me a stern look that told me I was near the end of his rope. “If anything happens to Druida in the next week or so, you’re heading toward being a prime suspect.”
There was a flicker of a smile as he spoke and then it was gone, as he fell into his professional identity of composure and professionalism.
Millie’s worried expression got even more animated at the Chief's words, telling me with her face, “He’s right, Hattie…not worth it.”
“Fine,” I said, throwing up my hands before I knelt down. Onyx said nothing as I removed his kitty leash, probably because whatever he could have said had already been spoken by everybody else around me.
I felt someone behind me as I got back to my feet. My skin broke out in goosebumps briefly when I saw who it was.
While we had all been arguing about Druida, Portia Fearwyn had swooped in the shop like a low flying bird of prey. Her old, pinched face looked like the Mainland Halloween stereotype of a wicked witch. Her thin (really, threadbare) white hair, flew out in wispy strands from beneath her hat. Her skin was sallow and waxy, and painfully pale. With her beak-like nose, her countenance was positively vulpine. Her eyes held the depths of ancient mysteries; cauldrons of eldritch power that gave a critical view to all she saw. Portia’s formless black robes concealed the old witch’s ancient and powerful broom.
Millie, who was the furthest away from Portia, looked like she wanted to make a break for the back if things got unpleasant. However, Mayor Fog managed to recover long enough to say, “Mrs. Fearwyn! This is, uh…this is an unexpected honor for…for, um, um…”
The words died in his throat as she pinned him with her penetrating gaze after stopping right in front of him.
Portia Fearwyn, our Witch of the Gorthland Swamps. She lived in a crumbling edifice she called home, deep in the swampy Gorth terrain, where the only company
the old witch kept were the vicious gargoyles adorning her abode and the shrill warblings of the Godmarsh toads that lived in the area. Poor old Mrs. Fearwyn had made it to prime suspect number one in both of mine and David’s previous investigations. In fact, Portia never seemed to fail getting herself atop the suspect list when things went awry on the Coven Isles. For some reason I liked her. I felt an odd sense of trust for her. But, that didn’t mean I couldn’t see why everyone thought she was guilty of … well, everything bad, really.
“You may leave now,” Portia spoke levelly to the Mayor, her voice like a scratchy branch across a cold window pane.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mayor Fog said way too quickly as he stumbled towards the front door. “So happy to see you all…hope to see you at the town hall meeting regarding the Sugar Dunes proposal?”
He stretched out his arms, shoulder level, and started maneuvering like a kid pretending to be an airplane. We all stared, jaws slack, at our childlike Mayor. Marty Fog, seeing our blank stares, shuffled, head down, out the door. The tinkle of the celestial bell celebrating his exit.
David turned to Portia. “You’re a long way from your usual haunt, Mrs. Fearwyn,” he noted. “Are you here to help us with a crime?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Mrs. Fearwyn replied as she pulled a medium sized, black velvet bag from the folds in her robe. From this she pulled out a thick stack of handwritten papers which she then handed to me.
“Notes for a possible Strands detox potion,” she explained while I laid the papers on the book I had taken out from the Scroll. “These papers are extensive. Perhaps they are more comprehensive than anything you have so far? They may or may not help you come up with a true cure. But, stranger things have happened, so …”
Just a brief glance at the notes told me that she was onto something. I looked up at her in surprise. “Why are you helping me with this?”
“Yeah, why are you helping?” David repeated, assuming an authoritarian stance to reinforce the severity of his tone. There was no love lost between the two of them.
Mrs. Fearwyn gave one of her nearly French shrugs. “Community service.”
“Huh,” David grunted. “Are you even aware of the common perception of you, Mrs. Fearwyn? It’s believed that you do all you possibly can to AVOID the community.”
I caught him by the arm and shook my head. One more misstep and Mrs. Fearwyn might decide to use a Gloomy spell to teach him some manners.Portia’s eyes, like deep, still pools, locked on David’s. Two seconds went by that felt more like ten minutes.
But then she broke her gaze, and gave me a barely perceptible nod of appreciation. She turned back to David and said, “True, I loathe the petty minds of most of the people on this isle. But, they are innocents, nonetheless. And, despite what your tainted mind thinks of me, Officer Trew, I very much consider myself to be a guardian of our community.”
That shut David up, and, I had to admit, I was silenced by the woman’s words myself.
Then, noticing the book I was holding beneath her stacked papers, Portia asked me, “May I?”
I nodded and handed her the tome, hoping that Bradford hadn’t put some additional charm on it that would cause Mrs. Fearwyn harm. She took a quick glance at the cover and flipped through the pages, skimming here and there but seeming to soak up the gist of the knowledge contained within them.
“Very good choice,” she said, handing it back to me. “The people of Tamara were not only in intimate contact with the Strands. They also had a medicinal tradition that was unparalleled.”
“I have one too,” David said, rather uncertainly holding up the Paracelsus treatise.
Mrs. Fearwyn glowered at him before gesturing to hand the book over. She took a lot less time with this one, her face showing blatant disgust as she snapped the volume shut. “That fool of an alchemist might have something useful to tell. But I have yet to find it.”
“Oh, and who would YOU recommend?” David retorted.
“For potions, Artemus Caves,” she said. “He’s working on a book about formulations right now. The Strands could be part of his research.”
Portia paused before adding, "And, for alchemic practices, Aurel Nugget. His approach is fresh; not outdated claptrap like this."
She thrust the book back in David's hands to emphasize her point, while David and I exchanged glances. Portia didn’t yet know Aurel was Stranded in the same psychotic state as his beloved and talented son. I guessed she would soon find out.
“Wait, wasn’t it Artemus Caves whose book of Celtic Magic started with meteoric success and then crashed and burned like, well … a meteor, shortly after?” Millie blurted from behind the counter.
She folded her hands in front of her and smiled sheepishly, and added, “I just heard that his sales went down the toilet after a seriously bad review was published.”
“Another of Druida’s victims,” Onyx said. “I understand that her takedown of everything in that book was meow-st appalling. Poor Artemus' sales plummeted once Druida’s review was published in the Talisman Tribune.”
One French shrug later, Mrs. Fearwyn said, “Best of luck, Hattie. Should you need me, come by Gaunt Manor…Chief Para Inspector.”
Her curt farewells out of the way, she turned toward the door and walked out without another word.
Once everyone felt sufficiently safe to speak again, David started to ask me, “Do you really think that this book—“
“You said it yourself, so forget Portia's opinions on this,” I said, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. “Ego aside, Paracelsus did know a lot about weird chemicals. So why don’t you look it over while I do the same with the leads on my end?”
“I’ll make a point of making the time. Damn the timing on this, though. If only Aurel hadn’t dived into trying to find a cure for Orville so enthusiastically...”
David wiped his hand over his face, then looked at his watch. “But I’ve really got to get back to the station. My men are good, but the place doesn’t run itself.”
We said our goodbyes and David departed for the chaos of his second home; Gless Inlet Para Police Dept. Or, simply, ’the Station.’
“Wow,” Millie said as I put my new reading materials on the counter. “Just…wow.”
“Which part?” I asked. “Where I nearly got arrested or where Mrs. Fearwyn was spotted outside her natural habitat?”
“Going to have to go with both, Hattie,” Millie said. “I mean, I know this is a weird little place where the unexpected happens all the time. But still, after all that? If there is a Hell, it’s glistening under a solid glacial sheet of ice right now.”
“How’s the shop?” I asked, getting back to business while I walked around the counter. I felt like there was a dead weight on my shoulders, and I wanted to change the subject, I wanted to get cheery. Even if I had to force it. Weird times.
“We’re good,” Millie said. “We got the deliveries out this morning, our supplies should last us through the rest of the week and our foot traffic has been steady. Well, it was before Mayor Blowhard dragged your one Trew love in here.”
I gave her a playful slap on the arm. The barely acknowledged sexual chemistry between David and I was one of her favorite ways to needle me.
“Hey, is it my fault that you two like each other so much that you don’t want to acknowledge it?” Millie asked.
“Best let it drop, Millie,” Onyx said as he jumped on the counter. “Our dear Hattie and Chief Para Inspector will have to work that out themselves.”
“Hey, I’m all for that, Onyx,” Millie said. “But can’t I at least give her a push?”
I shook my head as I looked over the ledger. But I was barely concentrating on it. I kept going back to one of the names Mrs. Fearwyn mentioned.
Finally putting the ledger down, I looked around for my fast-paced cat, who I had spied on the top shelf just moments earlier. "Anyone here see Jet?" I asked whomever would give me an answer.
A black blur sprang from a conc
ealed spot on the shelf and came to a screeching halt in front of me. “You rang?”
Jet was every bit as black as his brothers and sister. But his eyes had a slightly playful, almost unhinged quality to them. Catnip had really done a number on this little chap but I didn't have the heart to keep him from it. He was at his happiest when he was in catnip land. Plus, I had checked with Anima Mink, our local vet, and she had advised that it would cause him no lasting harm. Sometimes, Jet could be a bigger pest than the mice my kitties frequently tried to bring in; he broke more jars than I cared to count. But this was one of those times I needed his unique talents.
“If I give you an extra helping of your favorite stuff, could you locate Artemus Caves’ residence for me, sweetie?” I asked rubbing him directly on the nose. Jet loved that, the freak that he was.
“Yep, yep, yep,” Jet assured me, licking his lips in anticipation. “Give me a boost, and I’ll give you a hand.”
I reached under the counter to give him the catnip. I happened to glance behind me to see another of my cats cautiously peering around the corner in alarm. It could only be Fraidy. This little guy was not only the most fearful of the Infiniti, but also the most fearful of any living thing, anywhere at anytime. His only safe zone in this very dangerous world was a pile of expensive sweaters rolled up into a nest under my bed in the upstairs apartment. Seriously, I’m thinking of switching to polyester yarn now that my most expensive woollens have essentially been transformed into a cat bed for this scared little moggy. I cannot tell you, however, just how much love I have in my heart for this furry little chap.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Fraidy asked with trepidation.
“It’s an absolutely lousy idea,” his sister Gloom said from parts unknown. “One that Hattie is going to regret ever thinking was a good one.”
Yep, you can expect this kind of statement from Gloom. You’ve never met a more morose mouser. She had only doomed predictions to espouse and, if left unchecked, she could bring her brothers and sisters, and anyone else around her, down. Gloom had a surprisingly tender side though. When we had to look after murder victim Spithilda Roach’s dog, Remulus, it was Gloom that took the heartbroken mutt under her, ahem, paw. I ignored both Fraidy and Gloom and reached for the catnip.
The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5 Page 39