The Patsy's Patsy

by Brooke Shelby

  “Listen, Billy, you are our only hope of taking this guy down,” Maggie said softly. “We won’t let him get you. Of course not. If the sheriff knows who he is before you are discharged, the police can apprehend him and then he won’t be able to hurt you at all.”

  After some time and some mild coaxing from Maggie, Billy recovered what composure he had left. He had some water and took a moment to calm down before continuing their conversation. Under the pale white light, the boy wished that he could be outside again. The clock revealed the time, but inside his small, windowless room, his existence felt pointless and timeless. Subconsciously, Billy Mason was already imprisoned, so he had very little to lose.

  “He will kill me for sure,” Billy told his visitors, “especially if I cost him business. Even online sales depend on how hush-hush we keep the drug. You see, it is an exclusive thing, making kids believe only the best and coolest can get it.”

  “Where?” Carl asked. “Where does he sell it from? Maybe you can point us to his stronghold instead of giving us his name. That’ll do for now.”

  “I can’t, Sheriff,” the boy pleaded. “It is sold online by the dozen.”

  “Already in powder form?” Carl pushed.

  “No, usually it comes in amber glass, like, you know, dropper bottles or something,” the boy revealed as the two adults listened. “That is why so many kids think that Corey’s Herbs and Simples are holding, see? It looks just like Miss Corey’s dripper oil tinctures, but I know it ain’t. You buy them online too.”

  Maggie sank back in her chair at the revelation. She drew a deep breath, but Carl continued to urge the boy.

  “Dropper bottles,” Carl started. “I thought it was powder that kids are snorting. Are you lying to me?”

  “No, sir! No, I ain’t lyin’, I swear! It’s just … just different ways,” he babbled and stammered. “Look, some people chew it like you chew tobacco, but it tastes like old rubber. Disgusting. So some kids drop the oil on their tongues and wash it down with beer, because of the taste. We prefer to snort it, so you don’t have to taste it, you know, so our local dealer powders it up and cuts it with something to make it easier to snort. But you can get it off the net in oil form, like in those yellow dropper bottles.”

  There was silence in the room. Maggie and Carl looked at one another, but neither said anything while the only sound came from the echoing paging calls in the hallway and the squeak of gurneys. Maggie decided that Billy was conditioned enough for straight talk and she came to sit down next to his bed.

  “Listen, Billy,” she sighed. “In your opinion … in all honesty now … why do you think the dealer would want to set me up? I am a nobody. Why would he want to blame all this on me, of all people?”

  Billy swallowed hard, his tongue brushing over his cracked lips. “To tell you the truth, Miss Maggie? I think you are just easy to blame.”

  “How do you mean?” she frowned.

  “I think he just found it convenient, since a lot of people already think you’re suspicious,” he shrugged, “because your aunt was that witch.”

  18

  Although Maggie held her composure at Billy Mason’s utterance, she barely made it to the parking area. She practically ran toward her car parked under the ornate fine willows that adorned the curb of the driveway. In her wake, Carl pursued her with a brisk walk.

  “Maggie! Maggie, wait up!” he cried, surprised at her speed. “Maggie, stop!”

  He caught up to her as she tried to unlock her car. Carl’s huge hand slipped under hers and swiftly seized it, keys and all. He held her hand in his, using the leverage to pull her closer to him. It was the closest they had ever been to one another and Maggie fought to hold back the tears. She was distraught by Billy’s words, almost frantic about what Carl would think of such an insinuation, but she had no idea what he wanted to say.

  “Listen, Maggie,” he said softly, “don’t let that get to you. Hey, you have nothing to feel bad about. You are like my second-favorite woman—and I don’t hang out with losers.”

  Maggie dared to look up at his face. She noticed every line, every pore, his light stubble … but what enslaved her senses even more than his warm brown eyes was the incredible odor that permeated his body. It reminded her of her late father’s cologne with a tinge of cigar and dried leaves, but she knew that the dark musky smell was Carl’s own and it was bewitching.

  “Your second favorite?” she asked inadvertently, not thinking much under the spell of his closeness.

  “Yeah,” he scoffed with a goofy smile, “only next to Nellie, of course.”

  Maggie’s wet eyes blinked under an awkward frown as she realized the logic behind his statement. “Of course,” she chuckled, still sniffling, “I’m so stupid.”

  “You’re everything but,” he smiled coyly, finally letting go of her hand. Maggie wished he had not done so, but it would look strange if she grabbed it back, so she settled for lamenting the loss of his touch. “Just know that I will never think anything bad about you, Maggie. I really care about you.”

  Carl did not realize how soppy he was sounding until it fell from his lips, but Maggie appeared to welcome his sweet confession. He had to say more, because he could not leave the tender sentiment naked like that. “I care about what happens to you here and I consider you one of my few real friends.”

  Yes. That was it. That little tail of words sufficiently softened the intensity of his previous admittance, but a follow-up would not hurt.

  “So he called Clara a witch. So what?” he continued. “I have been wondering for ages if you are a witch as well.”

  Maggie gasped and she tilted her head back to meet his eyes.

  “W-what?” she stuttered, but she looked more surprised than insulted.

  He shrugged nonchalantly, if only to remove her concerns. “I have always wondered if you are a witch … and, well, actually I am not even sure what that actually means.”

  Maggie found Carl adorable. He looked so out of place in this conversation, self-consciously pulling his hat from his unkempt dark hair and failing to lock eyes with her for a few seconds.

  “You wanna know?” she jested.

  “I wanna know,” he played along.

  “You sure? You really want to know?” she began to smile.

  “Hit me,” he challenged her, proud of himself for having cheered her up.

  Maggie shrugged at the answer she was supposed to formulate. After all, she had never before been asked to just come out and describe what she was. Clearing her throat, she started her explanation as casually as she could.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure myself,” she admitted. “I mean, I knew nothing about any of this stuff until I came to live with Aunt Clara in Hope’s Crossing. I literally knew nothing until I started hearing the insinuations and antagonistic references to her being a witch.”

  “I remember all that. Poor Clara was always at the receiving end of unfair treatment and name calling,” Carl said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, and now all I really know about this stuff is the little things I do to help people. Some brews, some potions that heal and such, as you know. There is really nothing weird or nasty about it all,” she bubbled. Maggie felt liberated to finally just talk about it without fear of judgment.

  “Do you have a broom?” he joked with a wink that had Maggie giggling.

  “I have many, but only use them for sweeping at the moment. I tell you what … as soon as I get my pilot’s license, I’ll take you for a ride,” she teased, bringing the sheriff to a hearty chuckle.

  Then, as the storm of merriment and sweet confessions came to a drizzle, Carl could not help but consider something. Earnestly, he asked Maggie.

  “I know this sounds a bit crazy, even for us, but do you think you could track down the drug dealer by means of more … unorthodox methods? Perhaps you could help us find this guy in a less ‘normal’ way?” Carl battled to make his request in a politically correct manner, but he realized that w
itchcraft had no pansy-assed boundaries. Quite frankly, if a witch was ever offended by being called upon, she was the antithesis of her nature.

  “You mean use the old ways?” she helped him.

  Carl nodded, grateful for the relief.

  “I’ll give it a try, Carl, but I can’t promise anything, okay?” she assured him. “Do you want to join me when I do?”

  “Um, no thanks,” he quickly answered. “I have to be on duty tonight, so …”

  Maggie laughed. It was obvious that Carl was a little bit spooked at the idea of eliciting the help of the underworld, or at least that was how it felt to someone like him who had little to no knowledge of witchcraft.

  “No worries, Nancy,” Maggie pestered the sheriff. “I’ll call you if I get anything.”

  Carl could take a joke, especially from the beautiful witch he had come to trust with his life. He laughed and playfully slapped her hand before opening her door for her.

  “You do that, Sabrina,” he winked.

  In Billy’s hospital bed, the sedated boy’s sleep was drenched in panic nightmares, but the true nightmare was lurking in a far more realistic world, watching him under the heated breath of the Hope’s Crossing summer.

  19

  “Bramble, do you think you could help me with this?” Maggie asked her familiar.

  “Depends, my dear. What are we looking for?” he wanted to know. “The weather is not exactly right for certain spells right now.”

  She shrugged, having no idea what he was talking about.

  “I don’t know. I need your advice. How does one usually locate a certain person?” she inquired as she mixed up some batter to prepare him a sweet treat. Bramble leaped up on the chair at the kitchen table and curled up in a comfortable pose. His beautiful tail twitched from side to side as he gave it some thought.

  “Scrying is usually used, using a pendulum on a map,” he stared, “but the electrical air outside as a portent to the coming rainstorm might influence the efficacy of the spell. I suggest we do a dowsing spell using a less magnetic object.”

  It was true. Although the sun was shining, there was a bank of dark clouds haunting the horizon, rolling slowly towards Hope’s Crossing. Maggie had marveled before at how her cat was able to predict the most uncanny weather patterns, which she usually chalked up to being an animal superpower, but sometimes he predicted beyond the senses of the beasts and it fascinated her. It even frightened her a little sometimes and she was grateful that he was on her side.

  “Dowsing? Like looking for water?” she asked.

  “Yep. But this will be a tad different. Call me old-fashioned, but Clara and I still did things the ancient way, even with the advent of technology and more contemporary methods of spell work,” he mused. Bramble’s eyes glinted as they always did when he felt amused. “Would you like to do it the old way?”

  “I would love to!” Maggie beamed.

  Although she had been a city girl all her life, oblivious to the magic of creation, save for the odd glimpse of nature at work, she had become enamored with the older eras since she moved into Clara’s house.

  On Bramble’s instruction, she drew a basic map of New England in the sand circle between the two greenhouses that occupied her backyard. It contained only the main aspects of the area, such as the rivers, prominent mountains, towns, and landmarks. She used two hazel sticks as her rods, fashioned into an L-shape to facilitate untainted efficiency.

  Maggie stood in the center of the circle, her petite body under the folds of a ceremonial robe that used to belong to Aunt Clara. She did exactly as Bramble commanded and called upon the rods to locate the dealer. As expected, it rested in Hope’s Crossing’s quadrant of the map, luring Maggie over to where the gas station was drawn in the sand. The thought of locating the dealer gave her great excitement. How awesome would it be if she was the one who could tell Sheriff Walden where to go?

  “Look, Bramble,” she shrieked in exhilaration, “it is pointing to the gas station. I’ve done it twice now and it keeps going there!”

  “Good, good!” he supported her, pleased by her enthusiasm.

  “So now what?” she frowned as the rods stopped moving. “Bramble, what is wrong? I don’t feel the buzz anymore.”

  “That means someone is interfering. Literally robbing you of the spell,” he advised.

  “Wait. You mean that someone knows what we are doing?” she complained. “That means that there is another witch in town?”

  “It would appear so,” he replied, looking bewildered. “Only counter-magic can achieve such a block and I don’t have to tell you that such a witch would not have the town’s best interests at heart.”

  Maggie sighed, devastated by her attempts at being thwarted by a new enemy.

  “That is scary to think,” she admitted. “Imagine what they could do to normal people if they can do this to us.”

  Bramble was perplexed, something that instantly planted a seed of panic in Maggie’s heart. He was her guide and knew practically everything, and here he was, confounded. It worried her, but she dared not let him know and risk hurting his feelings by implying that he did not know everything about the town and its people. It was peculiar though, that Bramble was unaware of another witch in Hope’s Crossing.

  “We will try again later,” Bramble persisted. “Even a witch is only human and she has to sleep sometime.”

  “Agreed!” Maggie exclaimed.

  Upon discovering that there might be another witch at work against her, Maggie could not help but consider that this might be why the church was so paranoid about witches in town. Maybe, after all this time, the church was aware of a particularly nasty witch living in this area and thought that Aunt Clara and Maggie were just that. Even knowing all this, Maggie’s urge to sleuth did not abandon her. In fact, it only heightened her urge to snoop.

  “Apparently, the gas station is a good place to start. At least then I have a starting point to get my leads from,” she told Bramble. He was happily munching away on the pudding she had baked for him and did little more than yelp in support from his jam-covered snout.

  Maggie decided to follow her hunch that the dealer’s trail started at the gas station. Considering that that was where she had seen the giddy bunch of young people act out that night, the notion made perfect sense.

  When she arrived at the gas station, the usual group of delinquents was soiling the once- respectable establishment. Since the Green Demon epidemic started, business had declined as most motorists got tired of being accosted by the overactive and potentially dangerous youths. Most people now traveled outside town for gas, if only to avoid interaction with the sometimes-aggressive kids. Others were concerned that they would accidentally run someone over, since the kids had a habit of lunging for headlights or playing chicken with cars.

  Maggie watched them closely as she parked her car and sauntered over to the shop to buy a soda.

  Great cover,’ she mocked herself. A soda, because those are not available at any of the supermarkets, are they?

  Still, it was the only cover she had right now and it would have to do. They leered at her as she approached, but Maggie looked unassuming as she headed to the entrance of the gas station shop.

  Inside, it was empty, apart from one old man who came in for some batteries. Behind the counter, Maggie saw the two brothers running the shop. She recognized Donnie Kiernan first. Donnie had bought some soap from her shop once for Sharon’s birthday, as they were both congregants at the church. Sharon never had anything bad to say about the thirty-something Donnie, apart from the fact that he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Donnie was naïve. Everyone acquainted with him knew that, but it was also common knowledge that he was kind and helpful in his slow-witted manner.

  His brother, on the other hand, was different. Maggie did not know anything about Jamie but his name. Sharon never discussed him much, but she had mentioned once that Donnie was having his brother over from Boston to live with him. It was true. Ja
mie Kiernan was a loose cannon, which was not altogether strange these days. Most young people seemed unhinged lately, due to the drug scourge, and Maggie reckoned that was why poor Donnie wanted to take his brother under his wing.

  “Hey guys,” she greeted as she selected her soda.

  “Good day, Miss Corey,” Donnie smiled. “Looks like rain, right?”

  Maggie had to take a moment to realize that Donnie was trying to make small talk in his rather awkward way. Most of the men in town found her stunning, but with her reputation, they were always reluctant to approach her—especially churchgoers like Donnie.

  “Oh, uh, yes. I hope we get some rain to cool us down,” she smiled as she came to the counter. Her eyes briefly caught Jaimie’s and the twenty-three-year old recoiled, sinking to his haunches to pack some shelves behind the counter.

  “Oh, this is my brother, Jaimie,” Donnie introduced them.

  “Good to meet you, Jaimie. I’m Maggie,” she said cordially. Maggie leaned on the counter and looked past Donnie, pretending to search for some gum. “I guess it is a slow day, hey?”

  Donnie sighed. “I know, right? These bloody teenagers are making me lose so much business, as you can guess.”

  “So true,” Maggie played along, pushing the heat a bit. “The townspeople think that the drug dealer hangs out here, so you can’t really blame them, I suppose.”

  “They do?” Donnie asked, looking decidedly unhappy at the revelation. “They mustn’t think that. I wish I could show them it’s not true, but you know, these kids are making it look so bad for my shop.”

  Maggie scoffed with a chuckle. “Oh tell me about it. I had to board up my shop because of unwanted attention too.”

  Again, her gaze fell on Jaimie to include him in the conversation, but he was fidgeting and looking quite nervous in her presence. Maggie figured that Donnie’s church influence probably fed his younger brother’s paranoia about her reputation too, but she did not want to jump to conclusions.