A Pumpkin Potion Explosion

by Constance Barker

  “We’ve already made enough to stay closed the rest of the month!” I started turning off the blenders.

  I turned to the crowd, cupped my hands over my mouth, and shouted, “Hey y’all...we’re closed!”

  “Are you feeling alright, Sam?” David asked, concerned.

  “I’m a little sleep-deprived,” I admitted, “but otherwise I feel great.”

  “You just closed Happy Blendings during the busiest day of Harvest Festival...”

  “That’s exactly it, David. Harvest Festival! It’s a holiday.”

  “Sure, but no one closes for it.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed, “and isn’t that just terrible? Harvest Festival is a Goodsprings holiday, but everyone who lives here ends up working all week so other people can enjoy it. We should be celebrating the town, spending time with friends, eating ourselves into a food coma...”

  “Alright, alright, I get it,” David laughed, pulling off his apron. “Remember how great Harvest Festival was when we were kids?”

  “It was amazing!” I cried. “Granny Greene and I used to camp on Main Street on Friday night to watch the Saturday parade. There would be a huge tailgate party and Phineas Lichen would tell those crazy stories.”

  “I remember that,” David nodded. “And on Saturday, everyone brought out their homemade floats and marched down Main Street. It was never a big production like it is today. It was always just us. Just the town.”

  “Let’s go enjoy the festival, David.” I said, grinning.

  It wasn’t long after we’d stepped out onto Main Street that David was snatched up by a few guys from his motorcycle club, The Good Guys, who wanted to practice their riding formation for the parade. I wished them luck and set out on my own, meandering through the crowd and looking for familiar faces.

  My stomach rumbled as I passed the Fry Everything Once booth and I was briefly tempted by the smell of onion rings. The line that wrapped around the booth, however, was far from appealing. I made to cross the road to try my luck at the pretzel stand but found myself being pushed further down Main Street with the flow of the festival-goers.

  Feeling claustrophobic, I searched around for a break in the crowd and found only one—a small, empty space surrounding the jewelry table manned by the grumpy teenagers I’d met earlier that week. I shuffled through the crowd and broke away a few yards from the table.

  “Look, Tucker,” the one teenager—Tanner, I remembered—nudged the other. “It’s the smoothie lady.”

  Tucker, who had been asleep at his chair, awoke with a start and acknowledged me with a sleepy wave.

  “Hi, lads,” I waved. “How’s business?”

  “Not great,” Tanner sighed. “People will come look and try stuff on but we’ve only sold a few rings and a bracelet this week.”

  “Where do you get all of this?” I asked, inspecting the rows of vintage rings and beaded bracelets.

  “We find the rings at garage sales and antique stores mostly,” Tanner said bored. “But Tucker and I make all the bracelets and necklaces.”

  I picked up a delicate, two-strand necklace and held it up in front of me. The tiny beads shone bright green and milky white in the sunlight.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “You made this? That’s very good work.”

  “I made that one last week,” Tucker said proudly. “It’s jade and snow quartz.”

  “Have you lads ever considered revisiting your marketing strategy?” I asked, feeling around in my purse for my wallet.

  “What do you mean?” Tanner blinked up at me.

  “Well, for starters, your sign just says ‘Rings and Stuff’,” I said, pointing at the hand-painted sign. “I think more people would stop by if they knew you were selling handmade and one-of-a-kind items. How much for the necklace?”

  “Fifty dollars,” Tucker said eagerly. I counted out a few crumpled bills that I’d retrieved from the Happy Blendings tip jar earlier that week and set them on the table.

  “I can change the sign, sure,” Tanner said, “but plenty of people stop by already. They take pictures and try stuff on, but they don’t buy anything.”

  “Forgive me,” I said gently, “but have you two considered being more...approachable?”

  “Approachable?” Tucker frowned while poking the bills into a lock box.

  “You know,” I fastened the necklace around my neck, “maybe smiling every once in a while? Asking shoppers if they’re looking for something in particular? Offering assistance?”

  Tanner snorted.

  “No one falls for that,” he said.

  “People fall for that all the time,” I countered. “Nobody wants to give their money to someone who makes them feel like they’re wasting their time. Would you?”

  Tanner responded with a noncommittal shrug, but Tucker shook his head vigorously.

  “Maybe try it out?” I shrugged. “I hope business picks up for y’all. Thanks for the necklace!”

  I turned, checked my wallet, and found only a lone, smoothie-stained five dollar bill remaining. It wouldn’t be enough to buy lunch at any of the overpriced festival stands. Fortunately, I always had the option of visiting the Good Eats Grill and mooching off of Tessa...which is exactly what I decided to do next.

  I fought my way across the street once more, emerging in front of Patty’s Pies. The smell of fresh-baked pies wafted from the oven and I found myself inching closer to the booth. Patty was just pulling a tray of crispy, golden hand pies from the oven when I approached the counter.

  “Good morning, Miss Pearson!” I said, glancing at the menu. “How much for a pumpkin hand pie?”

  “Good morning!” Patty beamed, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. “Hand pies are five dollars apiece, but as I recall you were the gal that brought me that delicious smoothie the other day. That’s a half-off discount right there.”

  “Guilty,” I laughed. “Glad you enjoyed it. Can I get two?”

  Patty wrapped up a pair of the fresh-baked hand pies and handed them over. I unwrapped one and took a bite, instantly remembering why Patty’s pies were so famous. The crust was crispy and airy, providing a delightful contrast to the rich, warm pumpkin filling.

  “Amazing as always,” I told Patty.

  “You’re too sweet,” she protested. “But I have to admit that I am quite proud of this batch. I prepped them from scratch just this morning and they’re almost sold out!”

  “Very impressive,” I said. “Glad I could get my hands on one before they disappeared.”

  I had just taken another bite and was savoring the sweet, slightly-spiced pumpkin flavor when it hit me.

  “It was you!” I said, almost choking on a bit of crust. “If you prepared these from scratch...that means you’re the one that bought out all the pumpkins! Nobody else has been selling pumpkin anything all week.”

  Patty grinned guiltily and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Very cunning, Miss Pearson,” I congratulated her, “monopolizing the pumpkin pie market like that.”

  “Harvest Festival can get quite cutthroat for us vendors,” she said, winking. “I wanted to get ahead of the curve this year.”

  “As a fellow businesswoman, I commend you,” I said, “but as a Goodsprings girl who has missed her pumpkin products all week, I have to say...” I shook my head in mock disapproval.

  “Oh, don’t you worry,” Patty smiled. “As soon as the festival wraps up, I’m going to donate all the leftover pumpkins to the people of Goodsprings.”

  “In that case, carry on,” I laughed. “And Happy Harvest!”

  I took another bite, turned, and headed down the sidewalk toward the Good Eats Grill.

  Chapter 18

  Tessa greeted me with a steaming bowl of red beans and rice, a tall glass of sweet tea, and an exasperated look.

  “Harvest Festival can’t end soon enough,” she growled, sliding my food across the bar. “These tourists are driving me crazy.”

  The fryer began buzzing an
d she whirled around to pull a basket of crispy, golden oyster mushrooms out of the crackling oil. The Good Eats Grill was full again, packed wall-to-wall with festival-goers enjoying plates of herb risotto, sweet potato dumplings, and braised leeks alongside short-order staples like grilled sandwiches and onion rings.

  “Someone asked me if I had “regular mayonnaise” this morning, Sam!” Tessa shook her head and began working through a pile of baguettes, slicing them lengthwise.

  “The nerve of some people.” I shook my head and took a bite of my red beans and rice. The gravy was thick and salty, the rice fluffy and sweet. I savored the complex flavors of spice and smoke, reminding myself to never take Tessa’s cooking for granted.

  “Excuse me?” a goateed man snapped his fingers to get Tessa’s attention and leaned over the bar. “Are we going to get our food anytime soon?”

  Tessa’s eyes narrowed. She finished slicing the last baguette and spread it open on the prep counter.

  “You came in ten minutes ago,” she said through gritted teeth, “with a party of twelve. And you all ordered the special...with modifications. I’m working on it.”

  She gestured to the line of sliced baguettes that now spanned the length of the bar.

  “We’ve got an apple-picking session in one hour,” the man shot back. “We picked this place because we needed a fast lunch and there are no drive-throughs in this backwater joke of a town. If you can’t hurry it up we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

  “Oh no!” Tessa cried, throwing up her hands. “Not your business! How will I ever survive without the twenty-cent tip you’ll leave after writing a passive-aggressive note on your receipt?”

  A few of the customers seated at the bar looked shocked, while others tried to stifle their laughter. The goateed man flushed.

  “So much for Southern hospitality,” he spat, face contorting. “Good luck keeping a business afloat with that attitude, bi—”

  “—Whoops,” I said, tipping my glass of sweet tea just enough so that it splattered all over Goatee’s cowboy boots. “Oh, my. How clumsy of me.”

  He wheeled around to confront me, face beet-red with rage. I rubbed my hands together, warming up a poison ivy spell. I almost hoped he’d try to start something—he’d be itching for a week.

  “Get OUT of my restaurant!” Tessa commanded loudly, pointing at the door with a spatula. Three plumes of fire flared up from the range behind her. Goatee stumbled back, startled.

  “Come on!” He bellowed at a booth full of wide-eyed tourists who were apparently in his party. They followed him out the door, muttering vaguely about bad service and social media reviews.

  The restaurant was silent except for the bubbling of soup on the stove and the popping of the fryer. Tessa glared out the window at the retreating party. I watched her apprehensively, worried that another burst of rage-induced magic might leak out. Angering a fire-witch is never a good idea...especially during the lunch rush.

  “I already sliced all these baguettes,” Tessa seethed. “What am I going to do with a dozen unwanted oyster mushroom po’ boys?”

  “Pack ‘em up,” I suggested. “I’ll take them to The Good Guys. They’re out practicing for the parade—I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.”

  Tessa began slathering the baguettes with her house-made “Secret Sauce” and filling them with fried oyster mushrooms, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles. The noise levels in the restaurant had returned to normal as the remaining customers turned back to their food and conversations.

  “I talked to that fortune-teller last night,” I said quietly, “Madame Mysteria.”

  Tessa rolled her eyes.

  “I can’t believe we let that one slip through,” she said, shaking her head. “After years of keeping the psychics and whisperers and other crooks away from Goodsprings...”

  “Yeah...about that. I think she might be legitimate.”

  Tessa paused and looked up.

  “Is this our unknown water-witch?”

  “I don’t think so, no,” I said, shaking my head. “She didn’t use magic...at least as far as I could tell. But she read my cards and...it was a bit spooky, honestly.”

  “How so?” Tessa resumed smashing po’ boys shut and wrapping them in brown paper.

  “Well...it’s hard to say. I think some of the cards alluded to our elements...and us. But the important thing is that there was this one card...the Five of Swords...I think it represents whoever killed Chadwick Crane. Madame Mysteria said it meant they were going to kill again. Tonight.”

  “Who are they going to kill?”

  “She didn’t say,” I admitted. Tessa groaned.

  “This is why I can’t stand fortune-tellers,” she said, scowling. “They say a bunch of vague nonsense that could apply to anyone in any situation and people pick and choose what they want to take away from it. There’s never any real information.”

  “I know,” I said gently, “and I generally agree. But you have to trust me when I say there’s something else going on here. Something that’s not your standard psychic scam.”

  “I trust you, Sam. I just think you’re getting a bit caught up in this murder thing...again. We already did our job by looking into potential supernatural causes. The Capless Cavalier lead didn’t pan out, so we’re done. The rest is up to the police.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I sighed. “And it’s not like we don’t have enough to think about already, between Mara’s infection and our elusive water-witch.”

  “Exactly,” Tessa nodded, tossing wrapped sandwiches into a paper to-go bag. “Let’s not even think about the second course while our plates are still full.”

  She handed me the bag and a gallon jug of sweet tea. “Give my regards to The Good Guys.”

  “Will do,” I said, hefting the bag before dropping my voice to a whisper. “See you tonight, for the scrying spell?”

  “You know it,” Tessa grinned wickedly. “I’m looking forward to a good witchfest after a day like today.”

  Chapter 19

  The scrying spell, as it turned out, was a total bust. Tessa, Naomi, and I had gathered at Happy Blendings with the special ingredients that Naomi had gone to Savannah to procure, only to confirm what the Otter King had already told us: that there was a water-witch somewhere in Goodsprings. We spent hours gazing into a bowl of enchanted water, asking it to show us the water-witch, but all it did was ripple and show us Goodsprings Main Street.

  “That could mean anyone,” Tessa had shouted into the bowl at one point. “There have been thousands of people on Main Street every day this week!”

  We parted ways just before midnight, each of us tired and frustrated. Scrying requires both air and water magic to work properly—our attempt had done nothing but make us all painfully aware of just how badly we needed a complete coven.

  I spent a few minutes cleaning up the shop after Tessa and Naomi had left. I locked the front door, closed the blinds, swept the patio, and mopped the floor. I was in the kitchen, about to turn off the lights and head out for the night, when a flicker of movement in the back door window caught my eye.

  I stepped closer to the door, expecting to see Tessa or Naomi at the window, but all I saw was the back alley, dark and empty. I pressed my face to the window and looked up and down the alley. It was deserted save for a handful of garbage cans and my bike, which was lying on the pavement, knocked down by the wind.

  I put on my coat and scarf and turned off the lights. I stepped out into the back alley, locked the back door, and picked my bike off the ground. The metal on the right handlebar was a bit scuffed up, but all in all it seemed no worse for the wear.

  Until I tried to ride it, that is.

  My rear tire dragged as I tried to pedal, throwing me off balance and almost tipping the bike over once more. I dismounted to inspect it, confirming my worst fear: a flat.

  Grumbling, I began the walk home, pushing my useless bike down the alley and onto Main Street.

  The street was d
eserted, the festival crowd chased off by a cold, cutting wind that had picked up just after sundown. Festival litter and brittle leaves scraped across the sidewalk and asphalt, tumbling in the wind. The other shops had closed for the night and the vendors had retreated to their hotels and RVs for a good night’s rest before the main events on Saturday.

  There was a single streetlamp at the place where Main Street begins to slant upwards, turning into the narrow road that winds up the hill to my house. The road ahead was dark and empty, the only movement coming from the tree branches that swayed in the icy wind.

  Something darted down the road to my left, startling me. I let out a small, involuntary yelp and spun around just in time to see Jacques, Madame Mysteria’s black-and-white cat, disappear into the shadows.

  I took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm my racing heart, and feeling like quite the idiot. The combination of a week’s worth of stress and sleep deprivation, I told myself, was making me jumpy.

  I continued the slow trudge up the hill to my house, the wind whipping my face raw and numbing my fingers. My bike made soft clicking noises as I walked, the flat tire occasionally listing to the right. A small branch, downed by the wind, got caught up in my spokes. I would have stopped to pull it out were it not for the increasingly strong and unsettling feeling that I was being followed.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw only the empty road and a scattering of windblown leaves in the light of the single streetlamp below. Still, I began walking faster.

  The wind died down as I climbed, leaving the world around me in eerie silence and stillness. Blood pounded in my ears and my breaths became shorter and sharper. I chanced another look behind me.

  A tall, robed figure stood in the middle of the road, dark and unmoving. A jack-o-lantern sat atop its shoulders, the carved smile overly wide and full of thin, pointed teeth.

  I dropped my bike and ran. My house was just up ahead but, more importantly, so was my garden. The hedges that surrounded my property had been planted by my grandmother, who had arranged them into a Circle of Protection. Nothing with evil intent can come within that circle.