Wickedly Dangerous

by Deborah Blake

  Baba walked into the office, which was only a few degrees cooler than the scorching atmosphere outside. Three small fans revolved frantically, trying with futile perpetual motion to cool the space. One of them had a bent blade and clicked irritatingly on every revolution. Whirr, whirr, click. Whirr, whirr, click.

  The room was dim and empty, other than a countertop that separated the waiting area from two small desks and a doorway that led to the garages, and maybe a bathroom. The only decorations, if you could call them that, were posters of tires, a wilted and dispirited spider plant, and an auto parts calendar featuring an improbably large-breasted woman holding a huge wrench, perched on the roof of a red corvette. But the room itself was clean, and the plastic chairs for customers to sit on all bore colorful paisley cushions.

  Baba nodded in satisfaction, perversely reassured that all the money and effort for this business was clearly focused on the cars, and not on the people who owned them. Just as it should be.

  A tall man with faded red hair, a spattering of freckles, and a receding hairline came into the room and stopped dead when he saw her standing there. He gave a jerking glance over his shoulder, tugging gray overalls into place with a nervous gesture. The name embroidered over his chest said Bob, so she assumed this was the wizard she’d come to see.

  “Hi,” she said. “You must be Bob. I’m Barbara Yager. I’ve come to pick up my BMW. Thanks so much for fixing her. I really appreciate it.” She remembered something and pulled a small white porcelain jar out of her pocket. “And I brought you the salve you wanted for your father’s gout.”

  Bob glanced furtively behind him again, and reached under the counter to grab her keys and toss them onto the smooth laminated surface. Not meeting her eyes, he shoved the jar back toward her and said in a low voice, “Look, just take the bike and go. You can pay me later. And I don’t want the salve. His leg is much better.” He looked toward the back of the room again, and an expression of near panic flitted across his face as she stood there, not moving. “Go on, the bike is fine. I didn’t bother with the paint job, like you said, but otherwise, she’s good as new.”

  What the hell was going on here? Bob had been perfectly pleasant the one time she’d called from a rare pay phone in town and talked to him about the motorcycle; now he was acting like she had some kind of contagious disease—one with unpleasant social ramifications, at that.

  She shook her head and pulled the roll of bills out of the front pocket of her jeans, peeling off five hundred dollars’ worth and placing them on the counter next to the little white jar. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.

  Bob scrambled for a handwritten invoice, almost dropping it in his hurry to get her out of there. But before he could pick it up, a door slammed in the back and a tornado blew in on a wind of bluster and bellowing. A smaller, shorter version of Bob, with close-cropped white hair and the bearing of an ex-military man, he limped up to the counter, grabbed Baba’s money, and threw it at her. It drifted down like autumn leaves to rest by her booted feet.

  “Is that her?” the senior O’Shaunnessy demanded of his son. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Baba and said with a snarl, “Get out of here. We don’t want your kind here. Take your damned motorcycle and be grateful we didn’t put it into the crusher. And don’t come back.”

  Baba could feel her mouth drop open, and she blinked a couple of times to see if that made the world make any more sense. Nope. No help at all. She looked at Bob for a clue, but he just lowered his gaze, an embarrassed flush spreading across his freckled cheekbones.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to his father. “Have I offended you somehow?”

  Veins pulsed rapidly in the old man’s neck as he glared at her. “You are an offense to all good Christian people. I heard about you down at Bertie’s. Taking money off of people who can’t hardly spare it, and givin’ ’em fake medicines that make them sick. That tea you made for Maddie over at the library to fix her allergies made her sneeze so hard she fell off a stepstool and broke her ankle. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Baba’s stomach clenched as if he had punched her. Normally, she would have yelled back. Hell, normally, she wouldn’t have cared. But she liked this place, with its open meadows and high pine-covered hills. She liked going into the slightly ramshackle old town and having people greet her by name, and smile at her when she passed them in the grocery store aisle. She liked the folks who’d come to her for herbal remedies. What the hell had gone wrong?

  “My preparations do not make people sick,” she said through her teeth. “Try the ointment I brought for you, and you’ll see.”

  The senior O’Shaunnessy picked the little jar up off the counter and threw it into the garbage can at his feet. “Not on a bet, missy. They’re saying you’re some kind of witch. That maybe all the stuff that has been going wrong around here is your fault. I’m not using nothing you made, no how.”

  He turned to his son, somehow towering over the younger man, even though Bob was a good six inches taller. “You’re an idiot, Bob. Letting her trade some poison voodoo for your hard work. You’re like that boy with the cow and the magic beans.” He shook his head, looking like a bee-stung bear. “Jee-sus. Get her the hell out of here, will you? Idiot.” He limped back out the way he’d come, cursing under his breath the entire way. The door slammed hard behind him, like a death knell in the quiet room.

  Bob’s freckles stood out in his white face as he bent down to pull the jar out of the trash. The tips of his ears glowed a vivid, embarrassed red. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still not meeting her eyes. “His gout is acting up. It makes him a little difficult.”

  Baba swallowed a dubious snort. She thought it was more likely that the old man was more than a little difficult at the best of times. Still, his reaction to her had been fairly over the top.

  She bent to pick up the scattered hundred-dollar bills from the floor by her feet, placing them together in a neat stack on the counter top. “I’m a bit crabby on occasion myself,” she said in a neutral tone. “But my medicines never make anyone sick, I assure you.”

  No point in trying to explain that they were two parts herbs and one part magic, especially if someone was trying to pin the name “witch” on her. She was a witch, of course, but no good could come of folks starting to call her one. But there was no way her mixtures could make someone sick—the worst that could happen was that they simply did nothing. And even then, they’d smell like heaven and feel like a caress.

  Bob darted a glance over his shoulder and stuffed the money into a small gray cashbox. Finally, he looked her in the face, his eyes a startling blue framed by pale red lashes. “It’s true what he said, though. People seem to be having bad reactions to the stuff they bought off of you.” He gave her a halfhearted smile as he pushed her keys and the ointment onto her half of the counter. “I’m sure you didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “I didn’t do it at all,” she growled, more to herself than to him. “Something is seriously wrong with this scenario.” She bit her lip, thinking madly as she jammed the jar back into her pocket. “Look, Bob, I need to find out what the devil is going on here. Can you tell me the names of some of the people who had problems with my medicines and where they live?”

  He looked doubtful, and she added quickly, “If the herbs didn’t work, I need to collect them to see why. And give everyone their money back, of course.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, that would be good. Folks around here don’t have much extra. If you gave them their money back, then they could go to the drugstore and buy something else for whatever ails them.” He grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and starting writing down names and addresses. “Are you going to be able to find these places? I know you’re not that familiar with the area.”

  Steely determination caused tiny sparks to arc off the tips of her fingers, singeing the paper slightly as she slid it into her pants with the rejected oin
tment. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’ll find them.” The words and find out what the hell is going on here were added only inside her own head.

  TWELVE

  THE FIRST PLACE she stopped was only about a mile down the road from Bob’s, on a rough gravel street that dipped into a gulley off the main route that ran through town. The place she was looking for perched precariously on a hillside overlooking a stream that looked like it flooded every spring. The house had faded, peeling white paint, and the roof was patched with mismatched shingles. A few chickens wandered lazily through the front yard, pecking at the dirt and clucking at Baba when she got out of the truck.

  “Hello, girls,” she said, magically producing a few handfuls of corn to toss in their direction. Baba liked chickens; they were cheerful, useful, and entertaining. If she ever settled down in one place, she was going to get herself some chickens. Of course, if she did, Chudo-Yudo would probably just eat them.

  “Are your people home?” she asked the nearest hen, a black and white beauty with fluffy feathers that covered her feet. “I need to talk to them.”

  The door to the house opened a crack and a skinny man of around thirty stuck out his head, gazing at her with a pleasant but slightly befuddled expression.

  “Are you talking to my chickens?” he asked, opening the door wide enough for her to see two small children peeking out from behind his gangly legs. “I wouldn’t bother, if I were you. They’re not very bright.”

  “That one’s Esmeralda,” the little boy added. “She lays a lot of eggs, so we’re not going to cook her for dinner.”

  Baba glanced down at the hen at her feet. “Do you hear that, Esmeralda? That’s good news, isn’t it?” Esmeralda squawked loudly and both kids giggled. The boy looked to be around five and his sister maybe a year or two younger.

  Baba took a few steps closer to the house and said, “Hi, my name is Barbara Yager, and I’m looking for a woman named Lily. Does she live here?” She aimed a small smile at the children, which made the girl duck her head shyly and stick her thumb into her rosebud pink mouth.

  “Lily is my wife,” the man said and looked more closely at Baba. “You’re that herbalist who sold her the cream for her tendonitis.” He shook his head ruefully, catching the boy by the back of his overalls when he tried to make a break for the yard. “I’m not so sure she’s going to want to talk to you. Her arm swelled up like a balloon when she put that stuff on it.”

  “Like a balloon,” the boy said in his high-pitched voice, giggling some more and spreading his arms out to show how big the arm had gotten. “Whoosh!”

  Baba winced. “That doesn’t sound good. I heard from Bob O’Shaunnessy that there was a problem with some of my remedies, and I’ve never had that happen before. So I came to give Lily her money back and see if I could figure out what went wrong.” The knot in her stomach pulled itself tighter, making her suck in her breath.

  “Oh,” the man said. “Well, we could use the money, although I know she said it wasn’t much.” The threadbare shirt he wore seemed to prove his point. “If Bob sent you, I’m sure it’s okay. He’s good people. Fixed my old Toyota for next to nothing.” He held the door open wider. “Come on in. I’m Jesse, and these little monkeys are Trudy and Timmy.”

  Baba thought it wouldn’t hurt to have these folks on her side. Besides, she liked Jesse and his little ones. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got a double-your-money-back guarantee on all my herbal medicines. So you’ll be getting back twice what Lily paid me.” She looked down at the chicken and added, “Isn’t that right, Esmeralda?” which made the children giggle again.

  Jesse’s smile grew a little wider. “Well, that’s pretty fair,” he said. “Though I suspect Lily would be happier if her arm didn’t look like a giant sausage.”

  Baba winced again, dismay rattling her bones. Jesse and the kids led her down a short passageway into a small rectangular living room with pale blue walls and homemade denim curtains pulled shut against the afternoon sun. Children’s toys were everywhere; three dolls and a stuffed bear sat in mid–tea party, and a pile of colorful plastic interlocking blocks seemed to have exploded over half of the worn wooden planks. An equally worn-looking woman was stretched out on a battered sofa, one arm encased in an ice pack that was slowly dripping onto a few red and yellow blocks on the floor underneath it.

  She lifted her head as they all trooped into the room. “What’s going on?” she said, then hoisted herself up with a grunt when she saw Baba. “Hey, I was going to come by and see you.” She held up the swollen arm. “I think there was something wrong with that stuff you sold me.”

  Ouch. Baba could feel the dark, prickly aura coming off the arm from half the room away. She didn’t know what had caused it, but it wasn’t anything she’d made, that was for sure. She handed a twenty to Jesse, who stuffed it into his pocket as if afraid she’d change her mind, and went over to perch on the sofa next to Lily.

  “May I take a look?” Baba asked, peeling off the soggy pack and handing it to the little boy. Lily’s pale skin was covered with tiny reddish bumps and the arm was so swollen it felt more like a tree limb than a human one. She laid her hands gently on the surface, feeling for the malignant energy that overlay the normal healthy muscle, bone, and skin and pulling it out, bit by bit, until it was gone. For good measure, she mended the original tendonitis, easing the strain and inflammation caused by too much lifting of small wriggling bodies.

  It wasn’t a good idea to do such a blatant healing—one of the reasons she used herbs instead of magic most of the time. But this woman had trusted her to help, and she couldn’t just leave her suffering.

  “Wow,” Lily said, her voice colored with something like awe. “That’s amazing. It feels so much better. What did you do? Reiki or something?”

  “Um, yes, Reiki,” Baba said. The popular energy healing technique was as good a cover as any. “The salve should have worked without it, but since you seemed to have a bad reaction to something in the mixture, I thought I’d better use the, um, Reiki to fix it.”

  Lily was so happy to have her arm back to a normal size; she clearly wasn’t interested in questioning the logic of the statement. “Gee, well I really appreciate it.” She glanced at her husband ruefully. “I guess we should give you your money back, since you cured the tendonitis after all.”

  “Oh, no,” Baba said, waving one hand in negation. “Not after what you went through.” She paused, and then added, as if the thought had just come to her, “Although since you’re obviously not going to be using it, I’d be glad to have the salve back.”

  “Sure thing,” Jesse said, and ran off to fetch it.

  Baba enjoyed a cup of invisible tea with Trudy, Timmy, and the dolls until he got back, and was almost sorry to leave. She had a rare moment of wistfulness, thinking about what it might be like to have a child of her own. Impossible. But still, there were times . . .

  “I apologize again for the bad reaction. That never happens,” Baba said to Lily on her way out.

  Lily shrugged, her tired face still pretty and astonishingly cheerful, under the circumstances. They were clearly people who made the best of what they had. Baba found herself liking them a lot, and wondering if there was some way to help them out. Too bad that geese who lay golden eggs were no longer in fashion. And a surprise oil well in the backyard would only pollute the stream.

  “Do you ever play the lottery?” she asked Jesse as he let her out the front door.

  “Huh?” He shooed away a couple of chickens with one foot. “Sure, every once in a while, when we have an extra dollar to spare. Never won more than ten bucks, though.” Brown eyes gave her a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.” she said, and waved good-bye to the kids, who waved back enthusiastically as she pulled out of the driveway. Their uncomplicated good will made her smile all the way to the main road, but her pleasant mood vani
shed as soon as she pulled to the side to check out the container that Jesse had returned to her.

  It was hers, all right—a small white, almost translucent jar with a faint gray cursive BY etched onto the porcelain. But the contents inside bore only a passing resemblance to the salve she’d so lovingly crafted. Bits of dark green matter flecked what should have been a pure beige cream, and it smelled wrong, like rotting wood and curdled milk and the dawn of a sullen day after a night of bad storms.

  What the hell?

  Lips tight, Baba put the truck back into gear and pulled onto the highway, headed in the direction of the next address Bob had given her. There was something decidedly odd going on here, and she was going to find the explanation if it killed her. Or better yet, whoever was behind what was clearly a plot to discredit her. Somehow, she had a feeling Maya had her dainty hands in there somewhere. If that bitch was ruining Baba’s good name, there was going to be hell to pay.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME she got back home, Baba was so angry, she was shaking like an aspen in a hurricane. It was all she could do to roll the BMW down off the ramp she kept in the back of the truck and park it to the side of the trailer until she could find the time to fix the paint job. Right now, she had more important things to do. Like track down whoever was making her clients sick and beat the living crap out of them.

  “Feeling better now that you have the bike back?” Chudo-Yudo asked when she came in the door. He was sprawled across the entire length of the couch, one large white paw holding his place in one of Baba’s historical romances. He liked to read as much as Baba did, although he preferred fantasy—especially those with dragons in them.

  He ducked as one of her boots went flying across the Airstream and bashed into a cupboard on the far end. It was quickly followed by its mate, which hit the exact same spot with a hollow thud. A stream of cursing colored the air inside a light robin’s egg blue.