A Familiar Sense of Dead

by E L Wilder

  Charlie spotted Hazel and waved enthusiastically, motioning her over with such fervor it was a miracle she didn’t dislocate her shoulder. She had been dying to introduce Hazel to her new flame.

  “Hazel!” Charlie yelled from only a few feet away. “Meet Nancy! Nancy, this is Hazel Bennett. She’s my bestie from another testis.”

  Hazel snorted and slapped a hand over her mouth as if she could take it back. “That’s lovely, Charlie.”

  “I believe the singular is testis,” said Nancy, pronouncing the s.

  “Sure, but then it isn’t funny,” said Charlie, winking lasciviously.

  Hazel put out her hand to Nancy. “It’s nice to meet you, Nancy. Heck of a catch you’ve landed there.”

  Nancy grinned a touch, maybe just a smirk, or maybe she just had a lazy mouth. “You’re a Bennett,” she said. “You own this place.”

  “Well, my mother owns it, technically,” said Hazel. “And my sister runs it. So mostly I just take up space.”

  “And she’s a celebrity,” said Charlie, reaching out to pinch Hazel’s cheek. “This one has a face made for the silver screens.”

  “Charlie . . .”

  “I’ve heard. Helena Rose,” said Nancy with barely masked disdain. Hazel had heard that tone enough to know what it meant. It was the unmistakable catcall of somebody that didn’t respect her work. She was used to it, but coming from Charlie’s bae, it stung like a slap.

  Charlie seemed oblivious to the barb Nancy had lobbed in Hazel’s direction. Hazel considered making a comment about a girl who dressed like a black widow but thought better of it, if only for Charlie’s sake.

  “Nancy is an artist!” said Charlie, clearly expecting that it would cement the bond between her best friend and her girlfriend. “Can you believe it?”

  “Great!” said Hazel with feigned enthusiasm. Just think of it as playing a part, she said to herself. You’re the ever-enthusiastic friend, pure sunshine and rainbows. You are a unicorn. Not the real ones, but the store-bought brand. “What is your medium?”

  “My work is highly impressionistic,” Nancy said, as if explaining something to a toddler. “It’s post-medium. It’s not for everyone.”

  “She’s being modest,” crooned Charlie. “She just finished a new piece—it’s a tapestry of discarded dental floss and toothbrushes and it’s taken her almost a year to weave. It’s exquisite.”

  Hazel stifled a cringe. “Woven dental floss . . .”

  “It’s a commentary on our disposable culture,” said Nancy.

  “Right! But now she’s working on something new!” said Charlie.

  “Oh!” said Hazel. “What’s it about?” Disposable straws, perhaps?

  “I don’t talk about works in progress,” deadpanned Cordelia.

  Charlie, however, had no such qualms. “The project is called ‘Buy the Farm’!” she blurted.

  Nancy rolled her eyes and begrudgingly offered some information. “It’s about the decline and death of the Vermont farm. I’m here doing research.”

  “I see . . .”

  “Isn’t that great?!” asked Charlie

  “Yes,” replied Hazel, this time with no attempt at enthusiasm. “Just super. I’m not sure how much you’ll find for your project here though. As you can see, this farm is alive and well. Thriving even.”

  Nancy smiled politely, but her eyes were lacquered with an isn’t-that-cute shine. “Time will tell, I suppose.”

  Charlie checked her watch. “I gotta get back to work,” she said, scanning the bakery entrance. “Bretta has been working me double-time and if I’m even a minute late, I’ll hear about it.”

  “Why the extra work?” asked Hazel.

  “The evils of capitalism,” said Nancy.

  “Ugh,” groaned Charlie, her impervious mood cracked for the first time. “Bretta has hatched some hairbrained midlevel marketing scheme, so now we’re doing the work for two businesses. I swear I’m two cannoli away from peppermint poisoning.”

  “Peppermint cannoli?” asked Hazel. “That’s . . . different.”

  Nancy gagged, seeming barely able to keep herself from getting sick on the spot. “I can’t even go in there right now. It’s foul.”

  “You’re a trooper,” she said. “I swear I’ll make it up to you.” She gave Nancy a quick kiss, hugged Hazel, and bounded toward the bakery, calling over her shoulder as she went. “You two keep talking!”

  Hazel watched in desperation as Charlie climbed the stairs to the Doughn’t Even Bakery, took one last look over her shoulder, winked at Hazel, and disappeared inside.

  Hazel turned back to Nancy, who watched her blankly.

  Small talk. Another thing Hazel didn’t have the knack for. Hollywood had demanded a constant flow of it. A flood of small talk. A tsunami. Learning and saying one’s lines was one thing. Even interviews were framed by questions. But small talk was just an open wasteland of discussion about everyday banalities.

  Hazel sensed that a loathing of small talk might be the one thing, other than Charlie, that she and Nancy had in common. So ducking out would be a blessing for both of them.

  “Hey,” said Hazel, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “It was super nice to meet you, and I hope we get a chance to hang out together soon. But I need to talk to Charlie real quick . . .”

  Quick being the optative word. She really needed to get a move on.

  Clancy was waiting for her at the Postern.

  “Ta ta,” Nancy said flatly.

  Hazel hurried after Charlie and took the bakery steps two at a time.

  When she pulled the screen open, it felt like she was stepping into Santa’s Village. The Doughn’t Even Bakery was, in fact, drowning in a cloud of peppermint aroma so thick it might qualify as a biological weapon, or at the very least strong enough to turn away potential customers.

  Hazel found Charlie at a worktable, judo-chopping a pillow of dough as she belted out an off-key version of “My Endless Love.” She broke out in a contagious smile when she saw Hazel. “What do you think?” she squealed.

  “She’s great, Charlie,” said Hazel. While she might not be enamored with Nancy, it was clear that Charlie was head-over-heels, and for that reason alone, she would do her best to win Nancy over. And if she couldn’t do that, she would take Nancy’s hostility with stoic grace. She’d suffered worse critics. Granted, she was disappointed that her hangout time with Charlie had been cut in two, but she would be a poor friend and worse citizen of the world to keep Charlie Campbell all for herself.

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Hazel said.

  Charlie grinned and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Yes, we have. Let’s just say we have been all over this farm learning about the birds and the bees, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I have the picture. This is a family establishment, Charlie.”

  Charlie giggled. “Not by the time we’re through with it. What about you?” asked Charlie with a sprinkle of guilt. “I feel like I haven’t seen you much.”

  “Tyler and I have been staying busy wrangling creatures from sunup till sundown.”

  “Wrangling creatures,” Charlie said, smirking. “Is that what we’re calling it now? I thought this was a family establishment.”

  Ever since she’d gotten back, Charlie had been insinuating something between Hazel and Tyler. Just because they’d dated in high school and left things a tad unresolved when Hazel had run away from Bennett Farms, it didn’t mean anything. “We’re just friends. It’s Tyler. The only one wrangling creatures these days is you.”

  “The entirety of Noah’s Ark, my friend.”

  Hazel laughed, which proved an instant summons for Bretta, who poked her head around the edge of a cooling rack. “This startup isn’t going to start itself!”

  “Hey, Bretta,” said Hazel politely. She didn’t have time for interruptions. She had to convince Charlie to come to the Postern with her and she had no time to spare.

  “Hi, Hazel!” Bretta be
llowed in uncharacteristic cheer. It was an odd look for a woman who was often dour by default. “Boy, do you have good timing! You’re just in time for everybody’s favorite.” She held out an offering.

  “Ooo, cannoli!” squealed Hazel in mock delight.

  “Go ahead!” Bretta crowed proudly.

  Hazel picked up the cannoli and took a bite. “Peppermint!” she exclaimed, between chews, her eyes watering from the unexpected intensity. It wasn’t just that it was an unexpected punch of peppermint—though that was part of it—it was that it just plain awful. The filling had the consistency and taste of glue and the shell of wet cardboard. “Nothing like a peppermint cannoli in July. Very . . . rich.”

  “It’s one of the recipes we’re testing for the launch of Half-Baked!” exclaimed Bretta. “We’re going to sell baking kits to consumers who only have to do a fraction of the work to enjoy delicious baked goods at home. You wouldn’t guess it, but we used alternative ingredients to keep it fresh in the mail. Full flavor, half-baked. That’s our slogan!”

  “That’s . . .” Hazel started to say.

  “Half-baked?” Charlie muttered as she continued abusing the dough on her worktable.

  Bretta took no notice of the comment. “You know,” she said, “I’m still looking for investors. Maybe even a partner if they could provide enough financial backing to get us off the ground.”

  “A partner,” said Hazel blankly before piledriving another bite of cannoli.

  As a celebrity, she—or rather her manager Marco—was constantly bombarded with sponsorship and partnership requests. As best she could tell, midlevel marketing was just a pyramid scheme by another name, but she kept her opinions to herself and stuffed another bite of cannoli into her mouth to keep quiet.

  In truth, Hazel could probably afford to back the venture. Her earnings from her last few movies had put more money in her bank account than most people saw in a lifetime. But she’d already earmarked most of her wealth for a project she knew she could feel good about—Bennett Farms. She figured that her celebrity, and the money that followed, should at least benefit her family.

  “You don’t have to decide right now,” Bretta said. “Let’s go out for dinner at Four Score and talk about it.”

  “That sounds lovely,” replied Hazel. “I love food and booze. Though not as much as Charlie.”

  “Wish I were drunk right now,” Charlie glowered.

  “Here,” said Bretta. “Take one of the sample kits. You could try to make it yourself! We’re looking for testers.” Bretta hurried toward the back of the bakery and, before Hazel could escape, returned with a take-out-sized box with the Half-Baked logo printed on it. She handed it to Hazel, her face lighting up as something dawned on her. “You could document the process. Maybe post a little something on social media. We could sure use the helping hand of a hometown celebrity.”

  “I’m on a social media hiatus. This Twitter bird tweets no more.”

  “This is the perfect thing to get you back in the game,” said Bretta as if that settled everything.

  Hazel stuffed the cardboard box into her satchel, muttering, “Thanks, Bretta.”

  “Back to work!” said Bretta, disappearing back around the cooling rack.

  Charlie leaned in and whispered, “I can’t take much more of that.”

  This was Hazel’s chance. Now or never. “Charlie, something has happened and I need your help. I’m not going to lie, it’s a big ask—the biggest.”

  Charlie looked at Hazel questioningly. “Is this about the death in town?”

  How did Charlie know about Quark? Hazel herself had just found out.

  Charlie nodded toward the table by the door, where that morning’s edition of the Larkhaven Scryer sat. Hazel retrieved the paper. The headline read “Man mauled by a wild animal in Larkhaven” and below it appeared a grainy photo of a man sitting on a bench on the Larkhaven town green. Aside from his vacant stare, there seemed nothing unusual about him—just an older gentleman with snowy white hair and a dark goatee.

  “What happened?” asked Hazel. How had she missed a death in her own town? Had she and Tyler really been working so hard that she could miss news about a body being found in the village?

  “Seems he was a drifter,” said Charlie. “The police are asking for leads.”

  “Which means they have nothing.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “This isn’t what I need your help with,” she said, tapping the paper. “There’s been a murder in Quark.”

  “Quark? Isn’t that the magic town?”

  Hazel nodded. “Clancy wants me to go through the Postern.”

  “Oh my god,” said Charlie, eyes wide. “I wish I hadn’t blown my lunch break now. Though nobody ever regrets a little afternoon delight.” She grinned mischievously.

  “Charlie!”

  “Don’t go all prudish on me now.” She leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. “Maybe when you swing by in the morning, you can share what you have so far—like last time!”

  “We’re talking a murder, Charlie, not a reunion.”

  “I know,” said Charlie, disappointed. “Just because I can’t go with you, doesn’t mean I don’t want the full play-by-play when you get back.”

  Hazel’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t expected to play Sherlock without her Watson. Suddenly the task before her seemed that much bleaker.

  “Hey,” Charlie said. “Don’t leave empty-handed.”

  She grabbed the newspaper from Hazel, pulled a few pages free and wrapped up a handful of cannolis.

  “I think a cannoli hobby kit is plenty—”

  “Oh no. You get ’em fresh. Seriously, we can’t give these things away. It turns out nobody wants a radioactive peppermint cannoli in July, if there’s ever a time they want them.” She pushed the newspaper package into Hazel’s hands and walked her to the door. “Now get out of here before you end up a partner in Half-Baked. And, Hazel—”

  Hazel looked back at her Watson.

  “Be careful over there,” said Charlie. “We just got you back.”

  Hazel smiled glumly and tucked the cannoli bundle into the zippered compartment in her satchel. She trotted down the bakery steps, fresh off her third failed partnership for the day, her satchel filled with fresh peppermint cannoli and a heart filled with fresh disappointment.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hazel double-timed it across the farm and back to Bennett Manor, and arrived more than a little winded for her effort. Her early-morning sessions with Clancy were really cutting into her fitness routine.

  She rushed up to her room to change out of her forest-tromping outfit. She greeted the white kitten that slept on her bed. “Good boy, Odysseus,” she said, scratching him behind the ear and retreating before he turned her hand into a chew toy. It was essential with that one to get in and get out as quickly as possible.

  She turned her attention to finding an outfit she hoped befitted her first trip beyond the Postern, panicking a little as she tore things from her drawers and emptied her closet. She’d been living out of her suitcase for most of her time home, but just the week prior a friend back in LA had boxed up some of her clothes and personal effects and shipped them out east.

  How was she supposed to pick out a Quark-appropriate outfit? She didn’t want to make a fool of herself. Did they wear normal clothes or was it all black robes and pointy hats? How had this never come up in conversation with her Gammy? Of course, her Gammy wasn’t around to answer her questions—unless Hazel wanted to make another cold call on the phone booth stashed down in the library. And, after her last experience, she most certainly did not.

  She finally settled on a pair of skinny jeans and a black tank top, slipped on a pair of black Chuck Taylors, and draped a black sweater over the top of her satchel. Stylish but versatile. She could feel herself bonding with Nancy already.

  Hazel pulled her travel spellbook out of her desk. It was a handmade, leather-bound book. Her mother had crafted it as a young wo
man grappling with the disappointment of being born quaint—the Bennett phrase for those without a mark and subsequently unable to practice magic. It would seem as though the magical aptitude that had been passed down from Bennett woman to Bennett woman for generations skipped a few from time to time. Hazel’s mother and sister, for starters.

  As part of her mother’s rebellion, she had stolen The Book of Bennett one hot summer, formed her own sham coven, and copied a handful of spells into her own journal before the master spellbook, the most important heirloom in the family, had been stolen. And just like that, the collective wisdom of more than two hundred years of the Bennett family women—an irreplaceable wealth of magical tricks, tips, and spells—had vanished. All that was left, was this little abridged version.

  Hazel hesitated. Did she really want to risk bringing it across the Postern and having something happen to it? She hadn’t let it leave her bedroom since the day her mother had handed it to her. But if there was anywhere she ever needed it, it was beyond the Postern. She slipped the book into her satchel.

  She bounded down the stairs to raid the kitchen. She didn’t think a bagful of cannoli would be enough to sustain her throughout the day, and, honestly, she was planning on dumping the confections on the counter in hopes that somebody else would dig in.

  As she approached the kitchen, she was greeted with a rush of peppermint scent. She was about to check if the spellbook had crushed the flimsy Half-Baked box or the wrapped newspaper, but as she entered the kitchen, she found her mother, book thief Amy Bennett herself, shuffling around the scullery, a plastic spray bottle in hand, spritzing the many corners, crooks, and crevices in the theater-sized kitchen. A house like Bennett Manor tended to gather cobwebs in the summer months—maybe because of its proximity to the lake. And every summer her mother claimed to have found the perfect medley of herbs and oils to create a foolproof DIY spider spray guaranteed to banish the creepy-crawlies.

  At least it wasn’t the cannoli, Hazel thought with relief.