by Sharon Pape
“Kailyn Wilde,” I replied, briefly putting my hand in hers. It was overly formal for a shopkeeper and a customer, but hey, I’d been taught the customer was always right.
“To answer your question,” she continued, “I moved to Watkins Glen two years ago. I guess by now I should know what the weather’s like this time of year, but I go from the garage where I live to the garage where I work and hardly ever poke my head outside.”
“What brings you to New Camel today?” I asked.
“Your shop. I’m on a mission to find a good moisturizer, and everyone raves about your products.”
“Word of mouth is our best advertisement,” I said. It was nice to hear that a customer made the trip to town specifically to visit Abracadabra. In many instances, my shop was an afterthought, a let’s-peek-into-the-magick-shop idea after the tourist had already bought pounds of candy at Lolly’s, skeins of wool at Busy Fingers, or lunch and a shake at The Soda Jerk. My mother had been pragmatic about it. For her commerce was commerce no matter how it came about. But I got a kick from knowing the shop was the primary reason someone came into our town.
“Let me show you where to find the moisturizers,” I said, leading the way to the second aisle. I pointed out a shelf at eye level. “There are quite a few, so take your time. Feel free to ask questions.”
“Thanks.” Jane sniffed the air. “Where is that incredible smell coming from?” She was turning in a circle, trying to pinpoint the source. “Do you have a bakery in here too?”
I laughed. “It’s coming from next door. The owner is a not only a renowned psychic but also an incredible pastry chef. You can have a glimpse into your future and then enjoy an authentic English tea.”
“The tea sounds great,” she said, “but I don’t believe in psychics or any of that paranormal stuff. I’m a scientist from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head.”
I pasted on a smile, and in the politest of tones, I reminded Jane that she was standing in a magick shop.
“I know,” she said. “It’s a cute gimmick.”
“Are you sure it’s just a gimmick?” I was baiting her, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Of course. Not even the Great Houdini was capable of real magic.”
“But you’re willing to believe my products are somehow better than others, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“You’ve hit upon more successful formulas than anyone else in the industry, and I’ve seen proof of it on friends and colleagues.”
I would have loved to demonstrate some levitation or a little telekinesis and watch her jaw drop to the floor. But she would probably chalk it up to a clever trick, the way Travis had the first time I disobeyed the rules. So I left her to browse on her own and marched myself out of the aisle and up to the front of the shop, before I did something hat warranted another visit from my dearly departed.
When Jane came up to the counter a few minutes later, she was holding two jars. “I can’t decide which would be better for me.”
I pointed to the one in her left hand. “That one is better for really dry skin.” I would have loved to add a spell that made hairy warts grow wherever the cream touched her, but I behaved myself. Jane charged the purchase and went on her way, blissfully unaware how lucky she was that my family never dabbled in black magick.
Only two more customers stopped in during the morning, locals who needed health-related items. One was desperate for a lip balm that would actually work for her kids, and the other bought my last bottle of cough medicine for her husband, an early victim of the flu. I wasn’t aware I’d run through my entire stock of cough medicine until she pointed it out. The slow morning instantly turned into a boon, giving me time to whip up more of the three different formulas I sold.
It had been a whole lot easier to keep up with demand and still run the front of the shop when my mother and grandmother were alive to share the workload. But I found that if I left the storeroom door open and didn’t listen to music, I could easily hear the bells marking someone’s entrance. That worked well for simple formulas. The more complicated ones required me to add ingredients at specific times in the process or complete the recipe without interruption. I had to leave those for afterhours. It made for longer workdays and a glower of cats unhappy about their delayed dinner hour, but I didn’t collapse from the longer day, and they didn’t starve from waiting an extra hour or two to eat. If it wasn’t an elegant solution, it was at least an equitable one.
Fortunately I had all the ingredients I needed on hand. The basic honey, lemon, coconut oil mixture was number one on the hit parade. It always sold out first. The thyme tea only appealed to those who enjoyed the flavor of the herb, but those who did were rabid in their devotion. The ginger peppermint syrup was favored by people who preferred a little zip to the taste of their medicine. They were all somewhat effective in easing coughs. The game changer was the addition of the spell my mother created decades earlier. It drew its strength from the power of three. It required three candles, three oils—myrrh, mint and sandalwood—and three pieces of quartz. I anointed each of the candles and quartz pieces with each of the three oils. Then I placed a candle and a piece of quartz together at each point of an imaginary triangle with three equal sides. The words of the spell were deceptively simple, but repeating them three times imbued them with power if the practitioner came from the right bloodline.
Magick mend and candle burn.
Illness leave and health return.
I printed out the labels and was applying them to the bottles when I checked the time and realized I was late. I ran out of the storeroom, set the I’ll Be Back clock to one thirty, put it in the window, and bundled myself into my down coat, gloves, and scarf for the two-block walk. No amount of weather was going to discourage me from meeting Travis for lunch. As I hurried to The Soda Jerk, I saw other shopkeepers using the quiet day to switch out the Halloween decorations in their windows for images of turkeys, cornucopias, and pilgrims. My family always steered clear of decorating our shop for holidays, believing that magick isn’t seasonal.
I wasn’t surprised to find The Soda Jerk less than half full. Folks who didn’t need to leave the warmth of their snug homes hunkered down on days as raw as this one. I looked around to see if Travis was waiting at a table. He was usually punctual, but this time I’d beat him there even though I was five minutes late.
I didn’t know any of the other patrons, but I could tell by their uniforms they were deliverymen, cable guys, and one lone mail carrier. For those who worked outside year-round, a warm restaurant was a welcome refuge from the cold.
The wait-staff at The Soda Jerk was back to its post-summer numbers, one busboy and the two waitresses I’d known all my life. Margie spotted me first and whisked me off to her section, which was fine with me. Her counterpart was often brusque and stingy with a smile.
“There are only two people you’d come out for in this weather,” Margie said, seating me at a booth away from the draft of the door. “Who is it today: Elise or Travis?”
“Travis,” I said with a grin. “I’ll bet you know all the secrets in this town, don’t you?”
“Who me?” she said with a wink. “How about I whip you up a cup of hot cocoa?”
“You twisted my arm, though to be honest, it didn’t take much twisting.”
“One cocoa, double whipped cream coming up.”
Travis arrived as Margie was setting the cup in front of me. She must have seen his eyes widen at the sight of it. “Can I get you one too, Mr. TV?”
He slid into the booth across from me, looking harried. “Another time. I’ll stick to coffee, thanks. Mind if we order right away?” he asked me before Margie could leave.
“No, sure.” I knew the menu by heart anyway. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup combo.”
Travis handed back the unopened menus. “Make it two.” He always engaged in a little banter wi
th Margie, but today he was all business. It derailed me for a moment.
“I’ll put a rush on it.” Margie said. She’d waitressed enough years that she could read people and situations better than most psychologists.
“What’s wrong?” I asked after she left.
“A colleague of mine is missing.”
“Oh, Travis, I’m so sorry. Are you two very close?”
“I’ve known him since high school.”
“I’m sure his family must have notified the police.”
“He has no family. Besides, the police won’t act on a missing person’s report for an adult until they’ve been gone for at least forty-eight hours.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Not really. Can you imagine what it would be like if you could call the police and send them searching for everyone who’s late arriving somewhere or isn’t answering their cell? There’s a fine line between protecting people and keeping tabs on them.”
“I guess I didn’t think of it that way.” But I was still far from convinced that forty-eight hours was a reasonable amount of time to wait.
Travis’s coffee arrived by busboy. While he was adding sweetener, I took a sip of my cocoa. When I looked up again, he was smiling.
“A white moustache is a great look for you.”
I grabbed my napkin and wiped it off. “Way to win a girl over with compliments.” The moment of levity felt good, but it couldn’t last beneath the cloud of Travis’s concern. “You’re certain this colleague is missing?” I asked.
“I am. If you knew him, you’d understand. He digs for stories that might be better left unearthed. Stories that can get him killed. And he has a bad habit of trusting the wrong people. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s needed to be rescued.”
“We needed a little rescuing ourselves not too long ago,” I said, reminding him of our last case. “Things aren’t always as dire and hopeless as they seem.”
“But we had a secret weapon; he doesn’t.”
“You mean my family?” There was a time when the idea of real magick had sent him running from me and now my family had become his secret weapon. Talk about zero to sixty in a flash.
Margie arrived with our lunches, gooey cheese and steaming soup. “Enjoy,” she said, off to the mailman who was beckoning her.
I took a bite of my sandwich, Travis took two, polishing off half of his. “When did you start looking for your friend?” I asked.
“Six p.m. yesterday,” he said between spoonsful of soup. “We were supposed to meet for an early dinner in Watkins Glen. He never showed. Doesn’t answer his cell.”
“Have you slept or eaten since then?”
“I catnapped in my car for an hour or two this morning. And I had a couple of donuts and lots of coffee.” He looked up and met my eyes. “I’m fine. Believe me. I’ve survived on less.” He checked his watch and stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth.
“I understand if you want to leave,” I said. “Lunch is on me. Just, please, don’t choke on it.”
He gulped down the coffee and reached across the table for my hand. He turned it over and planted a lingering kiss on my palm. As kisses go, it was a lot more effective than I would have thought.
“I’ll call you.”
“You’d better,” I said, “or I’ll have to go searching for you.”
About the Author
Sharon Pape launched her delightful Abracadabra mystery series with Magick & Mayhem and plans many more adventures starring Kailyn Wilde and her fellow characters. Sharon is also the author of the popular Portrait of Crime and Crystal Shop mystery series. She started writing stories in first grade and never looked back. She studied French and Spanish literature in college and went on to teach both languages on the secondary level.
After being diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer in 1992, Sharon became a Reach to Recovery peer support volunteer for the American Cancer Society. She went on to become the coordinator of the program on Long Island. She and her surgeon created a nonprofit organization called Lean On Me to provide peer support and information to newly diagnosed women and men.
After turning her attention back to writing, Sharon has shared her storytelling skills with thousands of fans. She lives with her husband on Long Island, New York, near her grown children. She loves reading, writing, and providing day care for her grand-dogs. Visit her at www.sharonpape.com.