“Thanks, Stuart,” I said. “That's very proactive of you.”
“If you want to take a walk, I’ll have this cleaned off for you by the time you get back,” Stuart said.
“You don't have to do that,” I said. “It's not your job.” Then again, I didn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon scrubbing my scooter clean. It was too close to the mess that was inside my house. I needed to put some distance between chaos and me. Chaos was my Kryptonite.
“That's very kind of you,” I said. “I think I'll take your suggestion and walk into town. My heart could use the exercise.” And I knew exactly where I wanted to go.
“I’ll be here,” Stuart called after me. “Getting the job done for you!”
I walked into town, slowing my pace when I reached Cackleberries. Zola wouldn't expect me to show up so soon. She probably expected me to still be obsessing over the mess.
When I entered the shop, her expression of shock confirmed my theory.
“Kenna,” she said. “How did you get here?”
“Not on my scooter,” I said, “but I'm sure you already know that.”
Zola couldn't disguise her guilty expression. “It was only payback for the candle wax.”
“You do realize that I wasn't responsible for that prank, don't you?” Apparently not.
Zola stared at me for a long moment before understanding rippled across her features. “It was Skye, wasn't it?”
I nodded. “She was messing with me by messing with you.” I should have cleared up the confusion when it happened, but I was so busy with work that I didn't want to spend the time correcting Skye’s childish behavior. Lesson learned.
“I'm really sorry, Kenna,” Zola said. “I should have realized it wasn't your style.”
No, it certainly wasn't. Skye had replaced Zola’s hair removal wax with candle wax that smelled like honey. When Zola went outside into her garden, her legs were attacked by a swarm of bees. And judging by the slight swelling still evident on her face, the bees got to her upper lip, as well. Thankfully, as an earth witch, she was able to subdue the bees before too much damage was done.
“The wax still managed to remove the hair,” Zola said. “I'm still trying to figure that one out.”
“You also should have realized that I would never deal in melted wax,” I said. “Just because I specialize in flames doesn't mean I’d let things get out of hand.” Everyone knew I disliked mess and disorder.
“You even like all your wicks to be the same length,” Zola said, shaking her head. “How could I be so foolish?”
“Don't feel bad,” I said. “Skye designed the prank so that we would both suffer. She knew your reprisal would involve dirt.”
“We need to pay her back for this,” Zola said.
I waved my hands frantically. “No more,” I said. “It will only escalate matters. I don't have time to deal with anymore nonsense.”
“Well, I owe you one,” Zola said. “Is there anything you need from the shop? I won't charge you.”
I scanned the array of jars and vials. “What I could really use right now are cackleberries. How are you fixed for those?”
Zola groaned. “Anything else, I could give you in a heartbeat. You know how precious cackleberries are, though.”
I did know. I also knew the Cottonmouth Copse had been cleaned out by Skye.
“Do you have anything else that could serve as a substitute?” I asked.
Zola studied me. “Why? Do you need truth serum? I have no doubt that Skye will cop to this latest prank. I’m sure she’s proud of herself.”
“It isn't for Skye,” I said. “I want to have it in case I need to grill a suspect about Pete's murder.”
“You’re grilling suspects now? I thought you were dealing with the flying monkeys.”
“I can multitask. You know that.”
“I heard Pete’s death was a drug overdose,” Zola said. She crushed a planet of berries and dumped them into a blender.
“That's Buddy talking,” I said. “You know him. He wants this to be cut and dry.”
Zola tossed in a handful of flower petals and pressed the button. “But you don't agree?”
“I don't,” I said. Although life would be easier if I did. “I can't afford to have a murderer running around town. What if someone’s targeting musicians?”
Zola’s brow creased. “Like a serial killer? Could it have been the monkeys?”
“You think flying monkeys invaded the men’s bathroom at Anchors Away, killed a man by knocking his head against the toilet seat, and then flew away without anyone noticing?”
Zola chewed her lip. “Well, when you put it that way…”
“So far, I’ve ruled out Pete’s wife and his brother,” I said. “Those are the two people closest to him. So what if it wasn’t personal? What if it was someone who wants to knock off the competition? Fat Gandalf is favored to win the competition.” For a brief moment, I wondered how Pete’s death affected the odds.
“I don't know how you keep so many plates spinning at once, Kenna,” Zola said. “I'm perfectly happy here in Cackleberries, doing my thing.”
“Maybe that attitude is the reason we’re stuck here,” I said.
Zola's head snapped toward me. “Are you serious? You're going to bring that up now? I just complimented you!”
“It's true,” I said. “If we’d been more alert, instead of ‘doing our own thing,’ as you put it, maybe the Incident That Shall Not Be Named never would have happened. We’d be living our lives in a place of our own choosing, instead of stuck here like genies in a bottle, chasing after flying monkeys.”
Zola gaped at me. “Now I'm glad I don't have any cackleberries. And, even if I did, I wouldn’t give them to you.”
“You don't need them to make truth serum for me, Zola,” I said. “I'll always tell you what's on my mind.”
Her expression clouded over. “That may be true, but maybe some things are better left unsaid.”
I left Cackleberries feeling worse than when I’d arrived. At least when I got there, I was energized by anger. Now I simply felt guilty for what I'd said to Zola. It wasn't her laid-back style that caused the incident at St. Joan of Arc. She didn't deserve my ire. Part of me wanted to go back and apologize, but my pride kept me from doing so. Another time, when I felt calmer and more in control.
I took a few cleansing breaths and continued walking through town. Something I thought to myself in Cackleberries was sticking with me. How did Pete’s death affect the odds? What if my theory was right? What if Pete's murder had something to do with the competition and nothing to do with his personal life? I had no doubt that people would be betting on the outcome. There were three prizes to be won—first, second, and third place. Whenever there was a winner to be announced, there was sure to be gambling behind the scenes. And I happened to know one of the primary bookies in town. Although gambling isn't legal in Eternal Springs, Buddy turned a blind eye, mostly because he liked to place bets, too. Before I could stop myself, I headed straight to Manny’s Pizza.
I bypassed the counter when I arrived, and left the acne-riddled teenager staring after me. He was clearly torn between his need to stop me and his fear of me. No doubt my hardened expression was enough to keep anyone at bay, even Manny Alfredo’s nephew.
The door to his office was open, so I sauntered in. “How's it going, Manny?”
He glanced up from his heaping plate of chicken parm with a side of spaghetti. He wore a red and white-checkered handkerchief around his neck. “Kenna Byrne, if it isn't my favorite director of tourism. Have a seat, sweetheart. You hungry? I can ask Johnnie for another plate.”
“Not hungry, but thank you,” I said. I never eat spaghetti. I can't stand the way the noodles splashed sauce everywhere and constantly slipped off the fork. I preferred penne pasta that I can easily stab without incident.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your attractive company?” Manny asked, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the handk
erchief. There was still a spot of sauce on the tip of his nose, and I was sorely tempted to wipe it off myself. I couldn't seem to focus on anything except the red splotch.
“I was wondering if you were planning to attend the Battle of the Bands competition,” I said. “It’s obviously in the town’s interest to have a full house.”
“Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of missing a major event like that. I fully support our splendid community here, you know that.”
I smiled. “Good. By any chance, are you engaged in any side activities related to the competition?”
He flashed a look of mock indignation. “My dear Kenna. What are you suggesting?”
I tapped my fingers on the arms of the chair. “Listen, Manny. I’m not here to get you in trouble. I’m just curious if anyone has big money riding on Fat Gandalf tanking in the competition.”
He removed the handkerchief and set it on the desk. “Of course I do. Fat Gandalf is the favorite. It’s inevitable somebody would bet against them.”
“Who has the biggest stake?” I asked.
Manny sucked down Mountain Dew through a giant green crazy straw. With his big brown eyes and chubby cheeks, he looked oddly adorable. “You know I can’t reveal confidential information about my clientele.”
“The person’s not going to get in trouble for betting, I promise.” I couldn’t promise they wouldn’t get in trouble for murder, though. That would be out of my hands.
“Kenna, you know I have a soft spot for pale skin and freckles—it’s like you were carved from a bar of Irish Spring soap—but some things are simply not done, and this is one of them.”
I wracked my brain to think of something Manny could want. “What if I made it worth your while?”
He steepled his thick fingers. “Miss Byrne, are you trying to make me an offer I can’t refuse?”
“Not exactly.” Just an offer that he would really, really want to accept. “How about a free pass to the mud pits for the rest of the year? Think of how amazing your skin will look. The mud is far more magical than Irish Spring.”
He examined his hairy arms. “I like my skin fine the way it is.” His brow furrowed. “You think my skin needs help? Like it doesn’t glow enough already?”
Uh oh. The last thing I wanted was to insult Manny Alfredo. “No, not at all. Your skin is—” I caught myself before I said apelike. “It has the elasticity of a twenty year old.”
“Not a twenty-year-old like Johnnie, I hope,” he said. “That kid still has acne in more places than I care to look.”
My gaze fixed on his chewed fingernails. He wore rings on almost every finger, probably in an effort to distract from his unattractive habit.
“How about a weekly appointment with Sara at Nailed It? She does the best manicures in town. I swear by her.” I held up my hands for him to view my perfectly manicured nails.
Manny’s interest appeared piqued. “They look good. For the rest of the year, you say?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Sara is very accommodating. I’ll make sure she fits you into her schedule.” If there was one thing I could handle, it was scheduling.
Manny stared at his nails. “I’ve tried everything to stop biting them. Nothing works. Maybe if I have a weekly manicure, that will keep them too nice and tidy to chew.”
I gave him a reassuring smile. “Sounds like a good plan. So what do you say?”
Manny leaned forward. “The guy you wanna to talk to is Seymour Fraser.”
“Seymour? As in Segue Seymour?”
Manny splayed his hands. “I’m a man of my word. I can’t help it if you don’t like the answer.”
“No, that’s fine. It’s just not a name I expected to hear. Thanks. I’ll let Sara know you’ll be in touch.”
“Remember. You didn’t get his name from me,” Manny said.
“Got it…or, no, I didn’t get it. From you, that is.”
“Good girl.” He paused. “What about pedicures? Will she do those, too?” He held up a sandal-clad foot.
Manny Alfredo wore leather sandals? How had I never noticed that before? Good grief. His toenails looked as shabby as his fingernails. I didn’t want to contemplate how that happened. Gross.
“I’d be happy to sort that out for you, Manny,” I said. I considered it a public service. Nobody should be subjected to those feet. Nobody.
“Thanks, Kenna,” he replied. “You’re a peach.”
Chapter Eight
Every town has its own “weird guy” and Seymour Fraser was ours. He wore his hair in a buzz cut except for a few longer strands in the front, which were dyed orange. With his long, pointy nose and his beady eyes, he resembled the exotic birds that he sold at his shop, Feathered Friends. It didn’t help that he wore brightly colored suits. And did I mention he rode around town on a Segue? There were times I passed him on the road when he looked downright sinister. He was like a Bond villain without the cool evil lair.
Birds squawked loudly as I entered the shop. Appropriately enough, a Flock of Seagulls’ song played through the speakers. It was difficult to hear, with the incessant shrieking of the birds in the background, but I know my ’80s music.
Seymour parted the beaded curtain behind the counter and gazed at me curiously. “You’re not here for a bird, are you?”
I feigned interest in the nearest cage that hung from the ceiling. “I don’t know. This one is awfully pretty.”
“Pretty?” Seymour balked. “He’s gorgeous. A rare gem in the bird world.”
“I like rare gems.”
Seymour folded his arms petulantly. “I’m afraid he’s not for sale.”
I blinked. “How is he not for sale? There’s a price tag right here.” I flicked the piece of paper tied to the cage with a string of red ribbon.
“That price is for the cage, not the bird,” Seymour said.
I scanned the tag. “It very clearly states that the price is for the bird. Cage sold separately.” I whirled around. “Why don’t you want me to have a bird?” Now that he’d told me I couldn’t, I really wanted one.
“You’re just not the right kind of owner,” he said vaguely.
I recoiled. “Are you kidding? I’m the best owner possible. I’m neat. I’m clean. I work on a consistent schedule, so the bird would never miss a meal.” Gerald would make sure of it.
Seymour shook his head, his orange strands of hair tangled in his long eyelashes. He blew the hair away with a single breath. “Nope. Sorry. I reserve the right to reject buyers. My shop, my rules.”
I was flabbergasted. No one had ever deemed me unfit before, not since the Incident.
“I’m wonderful with animals,” I said.
“With one animal,” Seymour countered. “Singular. A pink fairy armadillo, if I’m not mistaken.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know that?”
He swished his hand in the air. “I pay attention, Miss Byrne. It’s what I do.” He cocked his head in the attentive of style of the birds that surrounded me.
Alrighty then. “It’s your loss, little guy.” I peered into the cage and noticed the paper lining the bottom of the cage. “Hey, is that my quarterly newsletter?” Goddess above, it was.
Seymour had the good sense to look apologetic. “I have to line the cages with something. I always know where I can gather discarded newsletters.”
I tried to focus on the reason for my visit, because that matter was more pressing than my fragile ego. “So are you excited about the Battle of the Bands competition?”
Seymour pulled a bag of seeds from behind the counter and walked to one of the bird cages. He placed a seed on the tip of his tongue and opened the cage.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like?” He was hard to understand, as his tongue was still protruding from his mouth. “I’m feeding the birds.”
The teal bird trotted forward and pecked the seed from his tongue.
I cringed. “That’s how you feed them?”
>
“Not always,” he replied. “Just as a special treat.”
A special treat for which one of them?
“This method would be far too time-consuming to do regularly.” He placed another seed on his tongue and the bird pecked it away again. He closed the cage door and faced me. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” I asked.
“I’m excited about the competition,” he said. “I love live music.” He did a little dance on his way to the next cage, as though to prove his enthusiasm.
“Who do you favor to win?” I asked. “Lots of people think it’ll be Fat Gandalf, but I’m not so sure.”
“Especially now that their drummer has died,” Seymour said, his mouth forming a thin line of sympathy.
“You heard about that?” Not that I was surprised. Gossip has a way of getting around Eternal Springs, even without Skye writing about it in The Town Croaker.
Seymour fed another bird. Thankfully, this time, he used the palm of his hand. “I try to keep my ear to the ground when it’s relevant to my interests.”
My radar pinged. “Oh? You mean your interest in music?” Or gambling?
Seymour looked at me askance. “Why do I have the sense you’re asking more than you’re actually asking?”
Well, he wasn’t stupid. Just weird.
“Sorry, it’s just that my interests are divided,” I lied. “I want it to be a successful event because, let’s face it, I organized the whole thing. At the same time, I’d like to win some money.” I offered a feeble smile. “I could really use a new scooter. Mine has been on the fritz. That’s why I’m walking everywhere today.”
“What does money have to do with it?” Seymour asked. “Do you receive a bonus for successful events? That doesn’t sound like Buddy. He’s far too cheap.”
I rolled my eyes. “No, it’s not Buddy at all, which is why I resort to…” I gave him a cautious look. “Never mind.”
“What?” he urged.
I played coy. “Let’s just say I hope all the people who bet on Fat Gandalf to win don’t change their minds.”
Seymour appeared mildly surprised by my admission. “Ah, I see. Then I’m not alone in my pursuits.”
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