“Sorry,” I said, grabbing a bottle of pomegranate juice and upending it over the blender. “I’m trying to wrap my head around it. I mean...another murder?”
Tessa shrugged and popped a strawberry slice into her mouth.
“Maybe murders come in pairs...like shoes!”
“Tessa Smith!”
“What?” Tessa threw up her hands. “I never met the guy, but everyone who came in the restaurant made it sound like was a complete cretin. Sounds like he probably ticked off the wrong person.”
“Or people,” I said, thinking back to last night’s scene in the coffee shop. “I need to ask Ada something.”
I poured the Detective’s Delights into two to-go cups and carried them over to the table where Ethan and Ada were engaged in hushed conversation with David.
“Here you go,” I said, setting the drinks on the table. “That should help you get through the day.”
“Thanks so much, Sam. That’s very kind.” Ethan said with a tired smile.
Tessa gave him a small wave. “Hey, detective,” she said.
“Miss Smith,” Ethan replied coolly. Tessa deflated a bit, but smiled and returned his nod.
“Hey! What are y’all whisperin’ about in here?”
The front door slammed closed with a clatter of bells and Phineas Lichen walked stiffly toward the table, muttering about the weather. Chuckles, his pet rooster, was perched on his shoulder.
“Good morning, Mister Lichen,” I greeted him, “how are you this...uh...day?”
“Truth be told, Miss Greene,” Phineas drawled, “I could do without this rain. The humidity is doin’ me no favors, I tell you.”
He pulled off his wide-brimmed hat to reveal a voluminous puff of frizzy white hair. Tessa whistled. Chuckles cackled and pecked at a stray lock.
“Can I get you your usual, Mister Lichen?” David asked, rising from his chair.
“Let’s see...” Phineas squinted at the menu. “What’s today’s special?”
“No special today, Mister Lichen.” I apologized. “I’ve been a bit distracted this morning.”
“On account of the murder?”
Ethan sighed.
“I see the news has already spread,” he said, turning to Ada. “We had better get going. Get ahead of the gossip.” He picked up his smoothie, waved good-bye, and strode out of the shop without another word. Ada watched him go, frowning, and stood to follow.
“Before you go,” I caught her arm. “Did the...murder...have something to do with what happened last night at the cafe? Last I saw, Mister Crane was safely in your custody.”
Ada’s frown deepened.
“I didn’t place him under arrest.” she said. “I let him go with a warning. Thought I was being merciful. But he'd probably still be alive if he were at the station...”
“It’s not your fault he’s dead,” I said gently. Ada shrugged.
“It’s not,” she agreed, “but I’m going to figure out whose fault it is. Thanks for the smoothies, Sam.” With that, she followed her brother out onto Main Street.
I watched her go, lost in thought until Phineas Lichen tapped my shoulder.
“I’ve figured it out,” he announced proudly, “and I reckon I’ll have my usual.”
Chapter 10
The rest of the morning whooshed by in a flurry of activity. The street vendors streamed in and out of the shop, sharing news and asking David and I if we knew anything. Most seemed rattled and desperate for information, while others were eager to share their own perspective on the murder.
Chadwick Crane, it seemed, had earned himself quite a reputation in the few days he had spent in Goodsprings. Kris McKracken of the Fry Everything Once booth stopped by just after the detectives left to order a half-dozen Watermelon Whirls for her crew. She lingered at the register to tell me how Mr. Crane had threatened her with legal action when he saw her dusting her fried cakes with powdered sugar. The dusting, he’d claimed, was stolen from a technique he’d developed as a patissier. When she had refused, Mr. Crane knocked her shaker onto the ground and claimed it was an accident.
A couple from the corn-on-the-cob booth had a similar story. Mr. Crane had visited their stall to complain about the smoke from their grill, which he said was wafting into his patisserie tent. They agreed to move the grill at the end of the day but found out later that someone had cut open all their bags of charcoal and soaked the contents with water. They suspected Mr. Crane was responsible for the sabotage but had no way to prove it.
Allie and Genevieve showed up in the early afternoon, just as the excitement moved from inside my shop to the stalls lining Main Street. Despite the rain, droves of hungry, bored tourists had already started to wander into town to be fed and entertained, leaving the vendors little time for gossip.
The girls were yawning and rubbing their eyes when they arrived, so I asked David to brew a pot of green tea to help them wake up. I showed them to the patio, where their float had been safely tucked away from the rain beneath the covered portion.
“Thanks for the watermelons, Aunt Sam.” Allie gave me a sleepy hug before joining Genevieve at the watermelon pile. I went around the patio, collecting empty glasses and wiping off tabletops.
“...and it only appears every hundred years.” I heard Genevieve whisper conspiratorially. “Just for Harvest Festival. It chooses its victims during the day and starts stalking them as soon as the sun goes down.”
“That’s dumb,” Allie scoffed. “Why would it bother with all that? What does it get out of killing people? And why would a ghost hang out in Goodsprings of all places?”
“My dad said there was a game they used to play, back in the old days. All the young men in Goodsprings would race down Main Street on horses—”
“—Why just the men?” Allie cut in.
“Because things were stupid back then!” Genevieve retorted, frowning in annoyance. “Let me finish.”
Allie shrugged and plunged her hand into the watermelon she had just scalped.
“Anyway,” Genevieve continued, “the young men of Goodsprings would race down Main Street on the last day of Harvest Festival. The winner would be crowned Harvest King.”
“Harvest King?” Allie snorted.
“The legend is that there was this one guy that won every single year. He was the best rider in the whole county. All the other racers were jealous of him. Each of them wanted a shot at being Harvest King. So the night before the race, when he was riding home in the dark...they ambushed him.”
“Did they kill him?”
“Well...my dad just said they beat him up and took his hat. But I reckon he softened it up a bit. Either way, the point is that he returns during the Harvest Festival, wearing a jack-o-lantern as a head, to take his revenge.”
“Who is this?” I asked. Both girls looked up sheepishly. Allie’s arm was soaked in watermelon guts.
“I was just telling her about the Capless Cavalier, Miss Greene.” Genevieve said.
“Capless Cavalier?”
“Lots of people are saying it’s what killed the pastry guy,” Allie rolled her eyes. “It’s like a Harvest Festival ghost, apparently.”
I had lived in Goodsprings my entire life and never once had I heard anything about a “Capless Cavalier”, though I wouldn’t put it past some of my fellow citizens to invent a legend to entertain the tourists.
“Sounds spooky,” I said. “Have y’all checked with the library to see if there’s a mention of this “Capless Cavalier” in any of the town history books?”
“No, ma’am,” Genevieve admitted, “but Tanner from the jewelry stall says he talked to Mary Anne from the caramel apple stand who said she heard a tourist saying his cousin’s roommate had been the one who found the pastry guy...” she took a deep breath, “...and he said there was a jack-o-lantern head right there next to the body!”
“That’s how you know it’s just a rumor,” I chuckled, “because there aren’t any pumpkins to be found in Goodsprings. Unless it w
as a watermelon jack-o-lantern.” I pointed to Allie’s unfinished creation, a melon with a goofy smile and crossed eyes.
“They definitely said there was a jack-o-lantern,” Genevieve insisted. “It had angry eyes and a smile full of pointed teeth!”
Allie leaned back to inspect the watermelon.
“Not very intimidating,” she said. She hoisted it up in front of her face.
“Behold!” she shouted, affecting a low, warbling voice. “I am the Capless Cavalier, here to take your souls!”
“Don’t make fun!” Genevieve gasped. “What if he can hear you? What if he comes after you next?”
Allie laughed and put the melon down.
“It’s okay, Gen. The Capless Cavalier isn’t real.”
Genevieve let out a long-suffering sigh, shook her head, and got to work on her own watermelon jack-o-lantern.
“I’ll be back with your tea,” I told the girls. I went back inside the shop, which had all but emptied since the festivities on Main Street had begun.
I was just about to start pouring the tea when I felt my phone buzz in my apron pocket. A text from Mara flashed on the screen.
I’m picking up whispers. Not good ones. We need to talk.
I put the teapot down to type out my response.
How are you feeling? I can stop by after work to talk.
Her next message came just seconds after I hit send.
Not in town. Not safe.
I tried calling her and sent a few more texts, but never got a response. It wasn’t until just before closing time that night that my phone buzzed again.
Tonight. At the lake.
Chapter 11
I hurried through my closing duties that night and locked up Happy Blendings just as dusk had settled over Goodsprings. The rain had let up and Main Street was aglow with flickering street lamps, sparkling string lights, and dozens of multicolored lanterns that adorned the vendors’ stalls, carts, and signs. Some booths were already closed for the night, while others were gearing up for the night shift.
For many vendors and attendees, Harvest Festival doesn’t truly start until the sun goes down. Nightfall brings street performers, local bands, and hearty, delicious food designed to keep revelers fueled for hours. The Goodsprings Brewery hosts nightly dances, local farmers offer “haunted” hayrides, and there is live storytelling on the steps of the town hall building.
All in all, Harvest Festival makes for a roaring good evening...if you’re not silly enough to try and ride a bike through the festivities. I pedaled slowly, weaving between groups of costumed tourists and muttering apologies as I pushed through lines and swerved between stalls.
I was just about clear of the crowd that had formed around Patty’s Pies (where Patty was hard at work serving up savory hand-pies and tarts) when someone stepped directly in my path, forcing me to a stop.
“Excuse me, miss. I did not see you there.”
The speaker was a handsome, middle-aged man with a slight smile and an impeccable appearance. He wore white gloves and a well-tailored suit with a crisp, buttoned vest and a slender silk tie. I recognized him as the man I had seen assembling Madame Mysteria’s tent.
“Not to worry,” I assured him. “Enjoying the festivities?”
He gazed around bored before answering with a noncommittal “hmph”.
“Alright then,” I said. “Happy Harvest!”
I started to pedal around him, but he stepped in front of me once again. His movement was so quick and fluid that I did not notice the change until I had almost collided with him.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep from sounding too annoyed. “Can I help you?”
“Can you even help yourself?” the white-gloved man countered, tilting his head.
“Excuse me?” I frowned up at him. I didn’t have time to banter with a rude tourist.
“You should go see Madame Mysteria,” he said, oblivious to my growing frustration. “She can help you...help yourself.”
“So I’ve heard,” I muttered. “Kindly remove yourself from my path, sir.”
The gloved man nodded and swept aside with a slight bow.
I rode on, taking a right turn on Lake Street and finally picking up some speed. It was a long ride to the lake, but I was looking forward to some quiet time after the drama and frenzy of the day.
Within a few minutes I was far enough from the town center that my bike light was the only source of illumination. The road was still slick from the rain and a thick wave of fog was rolling through the woodlands that surrounded the lake, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. I rode carefully, keeping an eye out for potholes disguised as puddles.
Mara hadn’t clarified whereabouts the lake she wanted to meet, so I headed for what I thought was the most likely place—the park. We had been there together just recently, searching for evidence of a cryptid called a dobhar-chu. While we had managed to track the dobhar-chu down, it ended up being a far cry from the murderous monster we’d feared.
I turned into the park, which was illuminated by a single yellow street light that barely cut through the fog. Riding into the parking lot, I saw a hunched figure sitting alone on one of the park benches. I waved at it and it sat upright.
“Mara?” I asked, dismounting. I reached out with my magic and took control of some nearby kudzu vines, just in case. I rested my bike against a tree and approached the figure slowly.
“Hey, Sam.” I heard Mara’s voice and let out a sigh of relief, releasing the vines. She sounded tired and hoarse—not at all like the bright, lively young woman I had known for years. She rose from the bench to greet me and I gave her a quick hug.
“I talked to your mom,” I said. “She’s worried about you.”
I leaned back to take a good look at her face. Her eyes were glassy and her lips were badly chapped. Her usually glossy, golden braids had gone frizzy and were bound up in a plain, gray bandanna.
“She shouldn’t be,” Mara sighed, “I’m just feeling a bit under the weather. I don’t think it’s as bad as mom makes it out to be. It’s more embarrassing than anything, honestly.”
“Regardless,” I said, “I will be working on finding a cure, don’t you worry.”
“You’re as bad as mom,” Mara scoffed, but I saw the ghost of a smile flicker across her face.
“Naomi is an extraordinary person. I take that as a compliment.” I said, taking a seat on the bench. “Come on. Let’s get this super-secret meeting started.”
Mara sat down beside me.
“Sorry for the cryptic texts,” she said sheepishly, “I just...I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s safe...or who. I’m hearing things...not just whispers—thoughts! Dark thoughts. Evil, violent...”
“Slow down,” I said gently. “Let’s tackle one thing at a time. Do you feel unsafe here?”
“Not here,” Mara said firmly, “It’s safe here. This is the Otter King’s territory.”
“So it is, young air-witch.”
The low, rumbling voice made both of us jump. A massive, hulking shape emerged from the fog between us and the lake and began moving across the parking lot. Its long, six-legged body resembled that of an otter...if an otter were roughly the size of a large family car.
“Good evening, your majesty,” I said.
“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Otter King said, “but I could not help overhearing.”
He climbed up onto the grassy hill beside the bench, turned around three times, and laid down. He blinked his enormous black eyes, flicked some water from his whiskers, and yawned, revealing a pink mouth and two rows of razor-sharp teeth.
“Please, continue.”
“Please do,” I agreed, turning back to Mara. “You were saying something about safety?”
“Well...” Mara inhaled deeply, as if bracing herself for what she was about to say, “...I’ve started to hear more whispers when I’m in town. But they’re not like they usually are. I’m not hearing conversations, I’m h
earing what people are thinking.”
“Telepathy?” I asked. “That can’t be right...the simplest telepathy spell I know requires a massive amount of planning and magic power. And you’re just doing it passively?”
“I don’t want to be doing it at all!” Mara cried, wrapping her sweater around herself as if struck by a sudden chill. “I hate it. The thoughts I hear...they’re not nice. I think something is happening to Goodsprings. Every day, all day, all I hear is such evil...”
“How do you know,” the Otter King said casually, sniffing at the air, “that these are real thoughts you’re hearing?”
“I...I don’t, I suppose.” Mara admitted. “But I hear them in real voices...voices of people I know. People I’ve known my whole life.”
“Can you hear what I’m thinking?” I asked.
“I haven’t heard you at all...which is why I reached out to you. I don’t know who else I can trust with this information.”
“Even your mom? What about Tessa?”
Mara shook her head violently.
“Even them,” she whispered.
“Mara,” I said gently, “honey, forgive me, but I think you’re being a little paranoid. Your mom, Tessa, and I...we all care about you very much.”
Mara shuddered and shook her head. “I know,” she said, “I know. I’ll talk to mom about it later. It’s just so confusing. Sam...your majesty...something awful is happening. Something wicked has come to our town.”
“Perhaps,” the Otter King rumbled, scratching his ear. “But allow me to put forth an alternative hypothesis. I perceive from your scent that you have suffered a recent injury of the magical variety, no?”
Mara frowned and avoided his gaze.
“She collided with an anti-magic field,” I said softly, “created by Lily Windermere...the water-witch who used black magic.”
“Ah,” the Otter King nodded his huge head. “Then it is as I suspected. This is naught but a black magic infection, little witch of the Four Winds.”
“You make it sound like that’s somehow not the worst possible thing it could be,” Mara muttered, kneading her forehead with her hands.
A Pumpkin Potion Explosion Page 4
