“You didn’t move out,” Thistle said. “You threw some clothes in a bag and walked a hundred yards to sleep on a couch for a night. You basically had a really boring slumber party.”
Clove smiled. It was weak, but heartfelt. “I guess I should thank you guys for not trying to make me feel bad about how I’ve been acting.”
“We don’t ever want you to feel bad,” I said.
“I want you to feel bad sometimes, but not right now,” Thistle said. “Now you just need to get some sleep. You look as if you haven’t slept in days.”
“I’ve slept,” Clove protested.
“How long?” I asked.
“I … a couple hours.”
“Total, or each night?” I asked.
“Total.” Clove lowered her dark eyes sheepishly. “I’ve had a lot to think about.”
“We know,” I said. “It’s been a rough three days.”
“You should probably prepare yourself,” Thistle said. “I think things are going to get worse before they get better.”
“How could they get worse?” Clove asked.
“Something could happen to Sam when they try to take him into custody,” Thistle replied.
I smacked her arm, the sound echoing throughout the quiet night air. “Ow,” Thistle said, jerking her arm away from me. “That hurt.”
“It was supposed to,” I said. “What were you thinking? She doesn’t need to hear things like that.”
“I … it was an accident,” Thistle said.
“It’s fine,” Clove said. “I’ve already figured out how bad things could go on my own.”
“Sam is smart,” I said. “If he’s caught, he’ll surrender without incident. He won’t risk being shot. That’s not like him.”
“I hope so,” Clove said. “I didn’t think it was like him to run either.”
She had a point. “Are we sure he ran?” I asked. “Maybe he was just out.”
Thistle rolled her eyes. “His car was at the Dandridge.”
“Maybe he went for a walk.”
“When did you become such a Mary Sue?” Thistle asked.
“About the same time you became Nellie Oleson,” I shot back.
“You’re such a geek,” Thistle said. “Who makes a Little House on the Prairie insult?”
“Someone with great taste in television,” I replied. What? I have a thing for that show. I keep catching the repeats on the Hallmark Channel. It’s completely ridiculous, and the continuity is non-existent, but I can’t stop myself from watching. I keep picturing Aunt Tillie in Walnut Grove. We all know she would be Harriet Oleson. Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking it. “That show is heartbreaking and poignant.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that Charles Ingalls was shaving his chest in the 1800s?”
Huh. I had never considered it. “Maybe he was follicly challenged.”
“He had a huge mullet.”
She was ruining my fun. “Oh, just stuff it.”
“You stuff it.”
“Both of you stuff it,” Marcus said.
Thistle’s mouth dropped open as she turned to face him. He wasn’t watching us, though. His gaze was focused on the greenhouse. “What did you just say to us?”
“Shh.” He held his finger to his lips, his eyes trained on the greenhouse.
“Did he just shush me?”
“We all wanted to do it,” I said. “He was just the first one to say it.”
“There’s a whole pile of dirt right there,” Thistle said, gesturing to a nearby flowerbed. “I’m going to make you eat it.” Thistle leaned over to grab some of the dirt, but Marcus stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Don’t you guys hear that?” Marcus hissed.
“Thistle never stops talking,” I said. “I spend half my day listening to it.”
“Like you have room to talk,” Thistle snapped.
“Not that,” Marcus said. “And, for the record, you both never shut up. That’s not what I was talking about, though. There’s someone in the greenhouse.”
We turned in unison, focusing on Aunt Tillie’s special building. The unmistakable sound of shuffling – and pots being moved around – wafted to us.
“Maybe it’s Aunt Tillie,” Clove said, nervous. “Maybe she’s practicing being Batman.”
“She was still at the inn when we left,” I said. “She’s sneaky like a cat – a really mean one that waits until your back is turned before attacking – but she can’t move that fast.”
“She’s more like the cat who kills animals and leaves their half-eaten corpses on the porch looking for praise,” Thistle said. “Plus, let’s be honest, there’s no way she’s gardening after dark. She doesn’t believe in gardening unless she can bully Marcus into doing it for her.”
“She doesn’t bully me,” Marcus argued. “I like to help her.”
“Why?”
“Because she knows a lot about gardening,” Marcus replied. “I’ve learned a lot from her.”
“You help her with her pot field,” Thistle said. “Has she taught you a lot about cultivating bud?”
“Michigan is a medical marijuana state,” Marcus said.
“The only thing she’s treating with that pot is boredom,” I said.
“Is now really the time for this conversation?” Clove asked. “Someone is rummaging around in the greenhouse. What if it’s a robber?”
“It’s probably a guest,” I said, hopeful.
“What if it’s Sam?” Thistle asked.
“It’s not Sam,” Clove said, although she didn’t sound convinced.
We all shared a look. “Well, now we have to check it out,” I finally said.
“I don’t think Landon would like that,” Marcus said. “I think we should go to the guesthouse and wait for him. Then we’ll all check it out together.”
“Are you afraid?” Thistle asked.
“I’m not afraid,” Marcus said. “I’m the only man here, though. You … women … are vulnerable if there’s a crazy person in there.”
“We were raised by crazy people,” Thistle said, stepping off the stone walkway and heading toward the greenhouse. “There’s nothing in there worse than Aunt Tillie. It’s impossible.”
I followed her, while Clove hung back and Marcus remained rooted to his spot. “I think this is a bad idea,” he hissed.
“Then stay there,” Thistle said, nonplussed. “We’ll be right back.”
I caught up to Thistle, and once we were outside of the greenhouse our bravado slipped.
“Do you think we should go in there?” I whispered. “What if it is Sam?”
“We can’t turn around now,” Thistle replied. “We’ll look like cowards.”
“I thought for sure Marcus and Clove would come with us,” I said. “Four on one are much better odds than two on one.”
“We’re witches,” Thistle reminded me.
“Who don’t work out,” I added.
“We have magic.”
“Which always backfires on us.”
“Are you seriously going to wuss out on me?” Thistle challenged.
I swallowed. “No.”
“Good,” Thistle said. “We are not wusses. We’re the brave ones. We’re going to be able to lord this over Clove and Marcus for months.”
I think that was more important to her than it was to me. “Let’s just do this,” I said. “The more we sit out here, the more we’re going to freak each other out.”
“I’m not freaked out,” Thistle said.
“You look freaked out.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Are you two going in or what?” Marcus appeared behind us, Clove beside him, making us jump in unison.
Thistle slapped Marcus’ arm. “Don’t ever sneak up on me again,” she said.
“I thought you were big and brave?” Marcus countered.
“I am brave,” Thistle said.
“Then what were you two waiting for?”
“I … we were waiting for y
ou to catch up,” Thistle said.
“You realize that whoever was inside probably already left, right?” Clove’s face was grim. “You two were loud enough to wake the dead.”
“We were stealthy,” I said. “We could be ninjas.”
“Only in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie,” Marcus said. He reached forward and grasped the door handle. “Now … stay behind me.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I’m going to be our first line of defense.”
“I think we should be playing offense,” Thistle said.
“I think this is the dumbest conversation we’ve had in weeks,” Clove said.
“That’s not true,” I said. “We spent an hour Sunday talking about whether or not Aunt Tillie could fly.”
“We were drunk,” Clove said.
“We were barely drunk,” I said. “And, let’s face it, we spent most of the time talking about what kind of broom she would ride.”
“I still maintain she would fly on a vacuum cleaner instead of a broom,” Thistle said. “She doesn’t like manual labor. She wouldn’t even know where to find a broom.”
“I really hope there’s someone inside here and he kills me,” Marcus said, throwing open the door. “Anything would be better than continuing this conversation.”
Marcus strode into the greenhouse while Thistle and I exchanged a dubious look.
“He’s crabby,” I said.
“I’ll make him feel better later.”
“What are you doing in here?”
We froze at Marcus’ question. Someone was in the greenhouse. Until now, I’d actually convinced myself we were imagining things. What? It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last.
Thistle and I pushed our way in, pulling up short when we caught sight of Nick. He had an empty pot in his hand, and there were several others strewn about on the potting bench.
“Nick,” I said. “What are you doing out here?”
“Oh, hey,” Nick said. He was nervous. I didn’t blame him. He put the pot on the bench and ran a hand through his hair as he smiled brightly in our direction. “What are you guys doing out here?”
“We were on our way back to the guesthouse when we heard the noise you were making,” I said. “Do you want to tell us what you were doing?”
“I’m afraid if I do you’re going to tell your mothers to kick me out of the inn,” Nick said, his expression rueful.
“We’re probably going to do that anyway,” Thistle said, shifting when Clove kicked her ankle. “What? He’s out here sneaking around like a … sneaking around guy.”
“Nice one,” I said.
“Don’t tell on me,” Nick pleaded. “I just … I was looking for your Aunt Tillie’s pot.”
Did he think that made things better? “Why were you looking for her pot?”
“What she means is, why do you think Aunt Tillie has pot?” Clove corrected. Thistle may have referred to me as a Mary Sue, but we all knew Clove was really the Mary Sue of our group.
“Everyone in town knows she grows pot,” Nick said. “I was hoping to … I don’t know … take a really small amount of it. I’m a little tense. I need to relax.”
If he was lying it was a really stupid way to go. Who admits to trying to steal pot from a woman who could curse his manhood into a real twig and berries? “She doesn’t keep pot in the greenhouse,” I said.
“What Bay means is that Aunt Tillie doesn’t grow pot,” Clove said, causing me to roll my eyes. “He could be a narc,” she whispered.
“You know I can hear you when you whisper, right?”
“I did not know that,” Clove said.
“If you can hear us, why didn’t you run while we had the world’s lamest conversation outside?”
“I didn’t hear that,” Nick said.
I narrowed my eyes. “There’s no pot here,” I said.
“Good to know,” Nick said, straightening. “I guess I should be … .”
“Going back up to the inn? Yeah, that would be a good idea,” Thistle said.
We watched as Nick shuffled toward the door, turning back to us before exiting. “You’re not going to tell Aunt Tillie, are you?”
“We’re going to have to give it some thought,” I said.
“That’s right,” Thistle said, hands on hips. “You should go to bed and think about what you’ve done.”
“If it helps, I’m sorry,” Nick said.
“It doesn’t,” Thistle said. “Quite frankly, I feel violated.”
A sheepish Nick turned and exited the greenhouse. Thistle moved to the door and watched him go. When she was sure he was well on his way back to the inn, she turned to us. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, moving to the potting bench and glancing at the mess Nick left behind. “Why else would he be out here? There’s nothing here but plants.”
“How does he even know about the pot?” Clove asked.
“Everyone knows about the pot,” Thistle said. “It’s the worst-kept secret in town.”
“Maybe he was telling the truth,” I said.
“That would be a nice change of pace in our life right now,” Clove said.
It certainly would.
“Well, there’s nothing else we can do out here,” I said. “Let’s get back to the guesthouse. Maybe Landon will have some information when he gets back.”
Twenty-Seven
I woke up to a warm body draped over mine and tried to clear my morning-muddled mind. We waited for Landon to return until well after midnight, but finally gave in and retired to bed. I had no idea when he’d returned, but I didn’t want to wake him. He was probably exhausted.
I shifted slightly, but Landon instinctively held on to me in his sleep. It was kind of sweet, but I really had to go to the bathroom. I tried again.
“Are you trying to escape?” Landon murmured without opening his eyes.
So much for him being sweet in sleep. “I didn’t want to wake you up,” I said. “What time did you get back?”
“A little before two,” Landon said.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“Because you were snoring like a freight train and I figured you needed your sleep,” he said.
“I don’t snore.”
“You do when you’re exhausted,” Landon said. “It’s fine. I find it cute.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Fine. You don’t snore.” His eyes were still closed.
“Thank you.”
“You just breathe really loudly when you’re sleeping.”
“And to think I was just thinking how sweet you are when you sleep,” I grumbled.
Landon finally opened his eyes and focused on me. “Is that really what you were thinking?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m genuinely sorry,” he said. “You don’t snore. I was making it up.”
I didn’t believe him. “You snore, too.”
“You didn’t even know I was in bed with you,” Landon scoffed.
“I knew there was a man in bed with me,” I said. “I just wasn’t sure it was you.”
Landon grinned. “You’re cute.”
“You’re kind of cute, too,” I said, giving in and snuggling back up to him. My bladder could hold a few more minutes.
“I’m handsome,” Landon said. “There’s a difference.”
“Fine. You’re handsome.”
“I’m the handsomest man in the land,” he said.
“Don’t push it,” I said. I ran my fingers over his stubbled chin. “Did you find out anything last night?”
“Mrs. Gunderson told the same story you did,” Landon said.
“Did you expect her to tell a different story?”
“No. But I was hoping she would remember something else when her mind was clearer,” Landon said.
“You were hoping she would be able to tell you something to clear Sam,” I said.
“I was.”
“I guess that didn’t happen.”
Landon sighed. “Sam is officially a fugitive, Bay. Every police agency in the state is on the lookout for him. His photo has been circulated to every border crossing, too.”
“Does that mean they’ll shoot him on sight?”
“That means that he needs to turn himself in,” Landon said. “The longer he stays out there, the worse he’s making things for himself.”
That was a sobering thought.
Landon brushed his thumb over my cheek. “How is Clove?”
“She’s better,” I said. “We managed to cheer her up a bit.”
“How did you manage that?”
I told him about the dinner he missed, which caused him to break out in hearty guffaws.
“I’m sorry I missed that,” he said. “I really wish I had seen the fight reenactments.”
“I think my mother was on the verge of a stroke.”
“Do you think she’ll give in and let Aunt Tillie have her still?”
“I don’t think Aunt Tillie really wants a still,” I said.
“Then why is she asking for one?”
“She’s asking for something really big and bad, and then acting up to get it,” I said. “She’s trying to wear them down to the point where it will seem a relief to give her what she really wants.”
“Which is?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I just know it’s not a still. She doesn’t need a still. She likes making her wine.”
“The real thing she wants is still going to be bad, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I can’t wait,” Landon said, rolling on his back and running his hand through his hair. “Did anything else happen?”
“Actually, yes.” I told him about our excursion to the greenhouse, making sure to leave out the bits of the story that made us look like idiots. I expected him to explode when I was done, but his expression was thoughtful.
“Do you think he was telling the truth?”
“There’s nothing else in that greenhouse,” I said. “We searched around a little bit after he was gone, but there’s nothing in there but plants. She’s not dumb enough to put pot in that greenhouse. Anyone can walk in there.”
Witch Me Luck (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 6) Page 20
