The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

I look at him. After Alice died, I spent a lot of time avoiding thinking about their parents and what they were going through. But I know enough to admit Tyson’s right—Mrs. Belmonte would give a life—her own, someone else’s—for all of her children’s.

  “Too bad Gru’s son is a major asshole,” Tyson says.

  “I’ll drink to that.” I take a sip of tea.

  Something specific is bothering me about Gru’s little confession. It raises so many more questions. I feel for her. Of course. She’s lost her son, who disappeared years ago and now sits in jail charged with murder. And then there’s her daughter, who died horribly, drowning—

  That flickering connection I felt back in Tucker’s study finally clicks into place. “Drowning.”

  “What’s that?” Tyson puts down his cup of coffee.

  “Sadie LeBrun Murray drowned. So did Gladys.” I’m getting that shiver up my spine again. “I have to wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  I don’t even want to say it out loud—the idea that Isaac murdered his own sister. I don’t have any proof, and I don’t have a motive, except from the playbooks of William Shakespeare and Masterpiece Melodrama Theatre. But Isaac had a hand in my almost-demise, in the kidnapping of Cooper, and the mistreatment of innocent rock musicians—and of his own daughter. He certainly killed Gladys. So it’s not too far-fetched to surmise that he’d kill his twin.

  For now, I’ll leave it alone. There will be time to decide just how much I want to get involved with the whole justice system thing.

  “I just wonder where Gru could be,” I say. Tess took a posse of her fellow single-practitioner witches up to Gru’s Mendocino compound, but it was deserted. Not even any evidence of protection spells around the house or grounds.

  Tyson pats my knee. “I have an idea.” He takes out his cell phone and makes a call. “Hi. It’s me. I know, but I thought of something. Do you know where your grandmother is?”

  Cheradon.

  “Yeah? You sure about that? Well, sure.” He glances at me. “Yes, I am. No. No, we’re not.” Long pause and the sounds of animated talking on her end. I resist the urge to magickally eavesdrop. “You’re definitely sure? If you say so.” He listens for a while more before saying goodbye and putting the phone in his pocket.

  “I suppose,” he says, “since you’re a good witch and all, you already know what she told me.”

  I shake my head. “Oh, the things I don’t do.”

  “Really?” He mulls this over. “She said Gru is not to be found.”

  I don’t ask about the rest of their conversation. “It was worth a shot.”

  We sit for a while without talking.

  “I thought of something else,” Tyson says. “When Isaac and D.B. started using Cheradon, I think they were looking for built-in minions. Cheradon’s fans would become Isaac’s followers. As soon as he regained his power with the Flower Bowl Spell, she’d bring them to him.”

  I nod. It makes sense. A cute young woman is much more palatable to potential sycophants than a creepy middle-aged man.

  I glance behind us and spy Cooper in the market, Cleo riding on his shoulders. I catch his eye and we wave to each other. I resist wincing at the sight of his bandaged hand. Cleo reaches down to pinch Romola’s puffy ponytail. There’s an ache in my heart—how I will miss them.

  “What’s next for you, Miss Zhang?” Tyson asks, and I turn back to him. “Are you going to go back to writing about emerging rock sensations such as myself? Or has all this magick made you hungry for more supernatural exploits?”

  “Why can’t I have both?” I ask. “And dog-walking. Don’t forget the dog-walking.”

  “Right. Because you claim that’s where the real money is.”

  “About money, I never lie.”

  “Maybe,” he takes my hand, “you should come away with me. I mean, now that the girls are back with their dad and we don’t have to abandon them by the side of the road.”

  I start to say something smart, but we’re holding hands and it’s so comfortable. I just look at him, not sure of what to do, not sure what my next move should be.

  There’s something moving in a flower bed near our bench that catches my eye. It’s a pigeon rooting around for crumbs, and on her back is my fairy friend. Xien waves his cap to me in greeting. Or maybe he’s beckoning me to him. Whichever it is, I lean in closer to find out whatever it is I need to know.

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  About the Author:

  Olivia Boler is the author of a novel, Year of the Smoke Girl, and her short stories have appeared in several publications including the AAWAA anthology Cheers to Muses, The Lyon Review, Mary, and DIY…Or Else. Her nonfiction has been published in the San Francisco Chronicle, Marin, Poets & Writers, ForeWord, and The Noe Valley Voice among others. She lives in San Francisco with her family. To find out about her latest work, visit http://oliviaboler.com.