by Angela Zeman
After yet another week had gone by, as Mrs. Risk observed the milkman again sneaking furtively back to his truck from Mrs. Elias’ house, she signaled to him that she wanted to see him. After making an appointment with him at her home at dusk of that same day, she went on about her business.
That evening, the milkman parked in a lane that stopped about a hundred yards from the witch’s house. The air was much more comfortable here than in the village because of all the surrounding trees. He waited as he’d been instructed.
“Hello, Charlie.”
He jumped, nearly falling because of the foot he’d left propped on the running board of his ancient panel truck. “Oh, hi, there, uh, Mrs. Risk. I came like you asked me to.”
She smiled, eyes widening in surprised appreciation. “You remember my name. Few do.” She studied him as he stood there in front of her, and while she did so, he leaned lightly against his truck. He had thick auburn hair and light hazel eyes that crinkled pleasantly in the corners, giving him a good natured look. His mouth widened into a broad smile now, and his eyes twinkled intelligently at her as he watched her look him over. She admired the restraint he held on the curiosity he must have felt.
“Well. At least it’s understandable,” the witch finally said.
“What is?”
“This attraction you seem to hold for half the village housewives.”
He relaxed a little more. “That might be a compliment. It depends. Unless you mean what I think you mean.”
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Risk studied him with increased interest. “And what do you think that is?”
“Oh, the old cliché. I’ll bet that you, like most of the husbands in this place, think that just because I see their precious better-halves in their nighties at the crack of dawn, I’m itching to jump their bones while hubby’s at work. How’m I doin’, as a certain ex-mayor used to ask?” He folded his arms across his chest.
“Not bad. Are you implying that the truth of the situation is something different?”
“Truth is, most women look like coyote bait at that hour of the morning. Their husbands are welcome to ’em, with my heartfelt sympathy. Only about two women in this whole burg hold any attraction for me whatsoever, and they both have husbands who could chew new artwork out of Mount Rushmore before breakfast.”
“So I take it you resist temptation.”
“And will continue to do so until I feel suicidal.”
She studied him thoughtfully for some more minutes while he waited patiently. His face betrayed his bafflement, but he seemed in no hurry to push for explanations.
“So all this running from the back door of Mrs. Elias’ house each morning is merely to avoid personal injury at the hands of a husband who really has no reason to worry?”
He whistled softly. “In that one case, I’m in danger just for daring to sell her milk. When it comes to his wife, that is one mean ba—person.”
“Have you had any actual confrontations with Mr. Elias over…Mrs. Elias?”
“Ohhh, yes. I certainly have. Please. You don’t want descriptions. I’m the only milkman in the area and he insists on having everything delivered—from me, the grocer, the druggist… Otherwise, I’d never be allowed within blocks of that back door. Neither would the others. Just ask them. He tells us to come around, but he doesn’t like it, so I’m in and out like a bolt of lightning. I never saw a guy go so nuts for absolutely no reason. Unless he could read my mind.”
“Your mind in this case is not exactly classifying Mrs. Elias as…coyote bait?”
“Not even at ninety could that female be anything other than a wow. But besides being gorgeous, she’s still married.” He shrugged. “I admire, maybe, but she’s not available, to my mind.”
“Scruples? Or self-preservation?”
He grinned. “Possibly a healthy dose of both.”
“Well.” She considered him thoughtfully. “I hope you’ll consider a favor I’m about to ask you. It’s going to involve you compromising your survival tactics a bit, I regret to say.”
“And what’s that?”
“Someone is in imminent danger of being murdered, and as distasteful as it is to me to get involved in others’ difficulties, someone very dear to me will suffer if I don’t. I thought of you immediately as a person who is in a unique position to help. You finish your work early and so you’re available. You’re young, and you seem able bodied. Your passable appearance is a bonus, but not necessary.”
“Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. He waited, but she added nothing to her request. “And you’re not telling why, wherefore, or whereas?”
She laughed softly. He rubbed his forehead where for the first time she noticed faint freckles. “You’ve got a certain reputation, you know,” he said. His frown contained a small element of alarm.
She shrugged.
He sighed. “I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty woman.”
“Oh, my word,” she said with a snort, but she’d plainly enjoyed the compliment.
“Okay,” he said. “Dare I mention that you will then owe me one?”
“I owe nothing. I ask for this favor with no strings, depending merely on the measure of altruism present in a fair number of human beings. But I will take care of any necessary hospitalization.”
He paled slightly. “Heh, heh. Funny you should mention that, but that’s not funny.”
She laid her long graceful fingers across his wrist. “It isn’t meant to be funny. And you’re a fine man. A trifle shallow, but goodhearted.”
“Never mind that stuff, just tell me the details before I chicken out.”
“Well, to begin with, did you know that henbane, foxglove, lily-of-the-valley, and monkshood are all deadly poisons?”
He didn’t, so she explained.
Two days later, the witch, bearing a napkin covered tray before her like jewels of state, entered Ike’s Fishmarket at the exact moment that the lunchtime crowd was at its peak. She sailed across the damp floor and, as she presented him with the dish, she lifted the napkin away with a flourish. Revealed was a wide bowl filled with the stew that contains—with several varieties of fish and shellfish—chicken, sausage, spices, and a sauce on rice. A paella. And such a paella that it filled the already odiferous air with a rich, mouth-watering aroma.
The fishmonger, bursting with self-importance at this unheard-of attention paid him by the village’s most fearsome resident, was beside himself with pleasure and called to his customers and to his wife to come see.
Mrs. Elias came running. When she saw what her husband held in his hands, she immediately understood that here at last was the witch’s gift she’d said she was bringing. So she added her thanks to his, although she was extremely relieved when Mrs. Risk insisted that this dish was only for Ike, that no one else was to have so much as a taste. Ike’s chest swelled at this added honor. Mrs. Elias smiled graciously and modestly stepped away from her husband, leaving it to him to be the center of the commotion. His voice vibrated with excitement and pride.
At the witch’s urging, he picked up one of his own serving spoons and shoveled a great mound of paella into his mouth, swearing with his mouth full that it was his favorite dish.
Ike then demanded that everyone join him on the house with drinks from his cooler and things to eat from his deli case. His customers responded with cheers and the atmosphere in the shop became like a party. Mrs. Elias handed out dishes and opened the cases up to everyone. The noise level rose and rose in the small market as Ike plowed his way through the bowl of paella to please Mrs. Risk.
When he’d nearly disposed of it all, he wondered out loud where she’d gotten all the fish and shellfish it contained. He didn’t remember selling her any yesterday, or even the day before that. He stoked his mouth with the last spoonful. She murmured in reply that he had himself to thank for it, after all.
When he raised puzzled eyebrows at that—his mouth being too loaded to open—she explained she had ‘borrowed’ a
few of Mrs. Elias’ lunches he had himself prepared to provide some of the ingredients of the paella. After all, he always fixed his wife such an overwhelming amount each day, much too much for only one woman.
Mr. Elias froze. His massive jaws ceased to chew and remained poised in place like a great masticating machine from which someone had pulled the plug. The color fled from his perspiring, ruddy face. He stood there holding the dish close under his chin, in the center of his shop, in a shock his friends couldn’t understand, because the paella was no doubt as delicious as he’d said. Just as his eyes had reached the size of golf balls, he swiveled sideways, still not chewing or swallowing, to stare at his wife. The moment he spotted her in the back of the crowd, he caught sight of the milkman seizing his bewildered wife and planting on her soft lips a kiss that would’ve brought cheers in the late night movies.
Ike promptly spewed the contents of his full mouth all over his disgusted customers, turned purple in the face, clenched his teeth, then reeled and hit the floor like a felled oak.
Days of hysteria, questions, and long testimonies fraught with suspicions and accusations later, Mrs. Elias attended the funeral of her husband. After a proper two more days, she installed an air-conditioner in the upstairs rooms, where she then sat and spent hours doodling designs for a new sign proclaiming ‘Flower Shop and Nursery.’
It wasn’t long before she decided to visit the witch. She had a few questions she wanted answered.
She waited at the end of the path, where the milkman had waited with his truck, although she didn’t know that, and felt sure the witch would know she was there and would come. And she did.
“It’s the oddest thing. I can’t help this feeling I have that somehow you’re connected with the death of my husband. But I can’t quite see how. Or…” She brushed glossy thick hair back away from her face. She sighed. “There was so much—so much going on that you couldn’t have known.”
Mrs. Risk smiled. “On the contrary, my dear. There was much you didn’t know, yourself. I knew it all. Here. Have a little of this.”
“What is it?”
“Carrot juice. You quite need building up. About that, your departed husband was quite right. Tell me, Mrs. Elias. When you began your new preoccupation with gardening, is that about the time Ike began his devoted lunch preparations for you?”
Mrs. Elias gazed with disgust at the orange liquid in her glass, then frowned off into the distance. Mrs. Risk had taken her back to her house and they sat on a bench beneath a huge shady tree. The breeze was pleasantly cooling. “You know, I think it was. Isn’t that funny?”
“No, it’s not funny at all. Didn’t you tell me that he insisted that you use pesticides instead of the natural methods I suggested?”
“Oh, yes. He said it was bad enough the time I already spent in the garden without doing extra stuff. He wouldn’t permit it. What could I say? He went out and bought the chemicals for me, so I used them. I really didn’t have any choice.”
“Yes. That was another thing. You had no choice. You have no friends, either, I noticed. And you weren’t even permitted to talk with people in the shop. You had things delivered to you, you didn’t shop, didn’t visit anyone, never went anywhere…I noticed.”
Mrs. Elias stiffened. After a long silence, she said, “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m merely answering your questions. Here’s a question for you: did you ever have your ‘lunch’ analyzed by a pathologist? No, of course not. How silly of me, you weren’t permitted to leave the house. Well, I did. They contained pesticides. That first—lunch—I analyzed didn’t contain enough to kill you, but enough to make you ill. Increasingly ill, because the doses were gradually increasing.”
Mrs. Elias’ lips moved, but nothing came out.
“Ironically, it was only because of your wonderful constitution that Ike claimed to have been tending that you survived until I managed to get a good look at you that morning a few weeks ago. You looked so pale and drawn—”
Mrs. Elias made a small noise that suddenly exploded into high pitched laughter.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Risk. “I know that, too. What a collection of poisons you managed to cultivate in that garden of yours. I realize that I not only saved your life from Ike’s loving stranglehold, but I saved you from throwing your life away by murdering your husband. Tell me. Why didn’t you just try to escape along conventional means? Like talking to a divorce lawyer?”
Mrs. Elias gazed at Mrs. Risk long and carefully. Then she said, “I really hate this carrot juice. May I have some of that wine you’re drinking?”
“No, dear. Not until you’re better. Give it another month.”
Mrs. Elias sniffed at her glass and made a face. “To answer your question, because he said that if I ever tried to leave him, I’d be dead within the day. He said I was his, only his, and no one else would ever have me. He was terrifying. He never threatened…idly. I believed him. I have no family who could help me, so I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
They sipped composedly at their respective drinks.
Finally Mrs. Elias said. “So you poisoned Ike with his own concoction?”
The witch looked scandalized. “Of course not. I would never make paella with days-old reheated food. For pity’s sake. How disgusting.”
“You mean it was all fresh and—and poison free?”
“Every bite. Ike’s not the only fishmonger in town. How disgusting, making paella with leftovers. Those atrocious lunches. How could I poison a living creature, anyway? Tcha.” The witch made a face.
“Then how did you kill him?”
“Kill him? I certainly killed nobody. It was his obsession with you that killed him. His pathological jealousy made him imprison you in that house and ultimately drove him to destroy you. He was afraid he couldn’t hang on to you much longer, and if he couldn’t have you, no one would. He knew about the milkman, you see.”
Mrs. Elias began a protest that Mrs. Risk held up a palm to forestall. “I know. I know there was nothing going on between the milkman and you. But to someone like Ike, just the mere existence on the same planet of another male was more threat than he could handle.”
She smiled suddenly. “You know, I’ve never agreed with that movie song that Sam played again. About kisses all being the same. Do you know the one I mean?” She glanced at Mrs. Elias, who now gazed back with equanimity. “Charlie showed an unexpected flair, I thought,” said Mrs. Risk.
Mrs. Elias lifted her glass of carrot juice to her lips and said nothing.
“And don’t forget: Ike had also just received the shock of thinking he’d swallowed a few days’ worth of the poisons he’d been feeding you. I think by then he must have been adding fatal doses. I wonder what he thought when you kept living? Well, never mind. Rage plus fear, my dear, compounded by a macho stupidity he had of not taking care of his blood pressure properly. He killed himself.”
Together they gazed out over the water companionably for a while. Then the witch said, “By the way, I think it’s rather deplorable that the only thing you could think of to get yourself out of trouble was to murder. You need to learn other methods of surviving in this world, my dear.”
“Like you have?” Mrs. Elias smiled at the witch and stretched her young, robust, and not visibly depleted body. “Just please don’t call me Mrs. Elias anymore. That name brings back memories of my stomachaches. My name is Rachel.”
“Very well. Rachel Elias.”
“No, just Rachel.”
Mrs. Risk nodded. “My name is Mrs. Risk.”
“What can I call you?”
“You can call me Mrs. Risk. Fetch me that volume by that log, dear. We have a lot to do.”
THE WITCH AND THE CURSE ON BLACK DAN HARRINGTON
THE WITCH OF Wyndham-by-the-Sea took an appreciative sip of the Oregon Pinot Noir that Black Dan Harrington had opened just for her, and after complimenting him on his selection, mentioned that she never saw his wife, did she not like comi
ng to his restaurant?
He poured a small sample of the wine for himself, then answered, “Oh, and that’s an old custom, handed down from my da, and to him from his da, keeping the wife apart from the way we make a living. It prevents the curse, you see.”
Black Dan nestled more comfortably in the white plastic chair, which was structured for lesser frames than his, sipped his Pinot and surveyed, with the expression of a cat full of cream, his restaurant’s tables. Each one, whether indoors or out here by the dock, had been filled with patrons since lunchtime. He’d hustled Chris Greco to work at the piano on the balcony at three this afternoon. Pete and Frank, who played saxophone and bass fiddle, respectively, had been called and were to join him as soon as they could arrive, instead of waiting for the customary seven o’clock set. Black Dan worked determinedly to see that Harrington’s Restaurant meant good food, good drink, and good jazz to its patrons.
The witch smiled down at her cat Jezebel, who had just yowled and curled her tail around Black Dan’s ankle. Jezebel never lost an opportunity to seduce someone who had access to fresh fish.
The witch said, “You don’t mean to tell me that you keep your wife away from here because of some curse an ancestor of yours dreamed up to keep a nagging wife away during the day?”
Black Dan looked anxious. “Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous, but the curse says that to allow your wife a bit of your business ‘will drive the food and drink from hungry mouths’.” He smiled back at her then. “My family has always been in the saloon and restaurant business. We have a vested interest in keeping mouths from going hungry or thirsty, you see.” As if to prove his point, he poured a little more wine into the witch’s glass.
He glanced at the boats bobbing like happy corks at their moorings in the technicolor sunset and added, after a sigh, “But you know, I should invite her to come. On a day like this, I have to believe that any curse would be helpless.”
