by Jan Eldredge
“I don’t like people touching my belongings. Return my magnifying glass to its proper place.”
“Huh?” She cast a puzzled glance at the messy table, having no idea where it belonged.
“Between the yellow-handled screwdriver and the tube of superglue.”
She scooped the magnifier from the floor and scurried to the table, about to comply, when she paused. No. She would not replace it where she’d found it. This boy was rude, and she did not cooperate with rudeness. Not if she didn’t have to. She set it between a paintbrush and a box of Q-tips instead.
“Why do you smell like the herb rosemary?”
Another flare of embarrassment ignited inside Evangeline, but she quickly extinguished it. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “The aroma of rosemary brings its wearer good luck.”
“You don’t have many friends, do you?”
Evangeline furrowed her brow. “Because I smell like rosemary?”
“Because your hand went for what I infer is a knife strapped to your left leg, an action that would cause most potential friends a great deal of anxiety.” He gave a casual shrug. “I don’t have many friends either. I’m rather particular about who I choose to spend my time with.”
Before she could reply, not that she had a reply ready, the boy fired off more questions. “What do you want? Why are you in my room? Are you one of Camille’s relatives?”
“No.” Evangeline shook her head. “I’m here with my gran to take care of the lady of the house. My gran’s a . . . a nurse. And I’m here to help out with . . . thermometers and ice packs and stuff.” She smiled, but she knew it was strained. Gran always said her natural smile could dazzle starlight itself, but not to bother with her fake one because it looked as gruesome as a ghoul’s.
“Father didn’t tell me the shaman woman would bring a little girl with her.”
Evangeline’s mouth fell open, but only for a fraction of a second. Then she drew herself up. “Well, Gran didn’t tell me the Midsomers had a little boy.”
Her comment didn’t have the withering effect she’d intended. The boy’s expression remained impassive as he studied her face. “You don’t look like a smoke detective.”
“I . . . a what?”
“A smoke detective. It’s a term I coined. It means one who chases things that don’t exist. A person who communes with spirits. A man or woman who practices faith healing. A mystic, a spiritualist, a medium, a witch doctor, a sage, a healer. Father is at his wits’ end and has apparently resorted to hiring such charlatans.” The boy’s tone wasn’t accusatory. Had it been, Evangeline might have taken a swing at him.
“Gran and I are not charlatans. We are haunt huntresses. Some people might call us swamp witches, but we are not charlatans.” She stabbed a finger at him. “We’re the women people like you call for help when ghosts, monsters, and other assorted haunts get up to no good.” She took a step forward, keeping her finger directed at him. “We’re the ones who send those creatures back where they belong, whether that be the mist-shrouded graveyard, the murky depths of the bayou, or even the fiery-frozen pits of hell itself.” She gave an indignant huff, then shot him a glare for good measure.
“Which means you’re not really nurses.”
Dang it! She’d said too much. She did not like this boy. Not at all.
“What happened to your face?”
The tips of Evangeline’s ears burned scarlet. “What do you mean?”
“You have a contusion near your eye and a laceration along your cheek.”
“I . . . It’s none of your business what happened to my face.”
Gran would have given her a disapproving look for such a rude comment. A tiny wave of shame lapped at the edge of her conscience. But if the boy had been insulted, he didn’t show it.
“I’m glad your laceration has scabbed over. I don’t care much for the sight of blood.” He walked to the table and moved the magnifying glass to its correct place.
Finally, Evangeline had the upper hand. “You’re afraid of blood?” She didn’t even try to suppress her smirk.
“The sight of blood makes me extremely uncomfortable, as do ventriloquists’ dummies, hair clumps in sink drains, the possibility of a sudden reversal in the earth’s gravitational force, and the possibility of contracting a brain tumor from radiofrequency waves. I also have a fear of waking from an anesthesia-induced coma, only to discover my face has been permanently painted with mime’s makeup.”
Evangeline mentally sifted through the contents of Gran’s valise, though she doubted even the most potent of Gran’s tonics could cure what was wrong with this boy.
A high-pitched beeping broke the silence. He pressed a button on his watch. “Ah, dinnertime.”
“You need to be reminded when to eat?”
“I set my watch alarm for all the important events of my evening. Seven p.m. is dinner. Eight p.m. is model painting. Nine p.m. is when I watch Dr. Who. Eleven p.m. is reading time, and midnight is lights-out. I find an orderly life to be a more productive life, don’t you?”
“What about ten p.m.?” Evangeline cocked an eyebrow, certain she had caught a mistake in the know-it-all boy’s schedule.
He gave her a disdainful look, as though the answer were perfectly obvious. “If I watch Dr. Who at nine p.m., it will end at ten p.m., which will clearly indicate it is then time to brush my teeth, shower, and put on my pajamas.”
Evangeline shook her head, at a loss for how to reply to something so nonsensical.
He focused his gaze on her feet. “Why are the tips of your boots silver? Does it have something to do with one of the quaint superstitions of your people?”
Oh, but this city boy was pushing her too far. She glanced at the family photo on the wall and back to the boy. “You don’t look anything like your parents.”
“The reason I don’t look like them is that I was adopted; therefore, I share none of their genetics. My father is of Italian and Romanian descent. My mother’s ancestry can be traced to South Asia, as well as Spain, France, and Morocco. Based upon my fair skin and eyes, I’m most likely of Scandinavian descent. Your comment regarding our dissimilar appearances, though accurate, was a rude one.”
Evangeline’s face steamed with shame. All she wanted to do at that moment was climb beneath a floorboard and disappear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” She had no idea what else she could say to soften her offense.
“You didn’t make me feel bad.” He shrugged. “It’s simply a fact of genetics. Facts are truths, and it’s illogical to feel bad about truths. I was just relaying a helpful social cue so you can avoid insulting others in the future.”
Her emotions were flipping and flapping like a stop sign in a hurricane. She didn’t know how to reply. Not for the first time in her life, she wished she had a familiar at her side. Then maybe it would attack him, and she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it.
The boy continued. “I possess a keen sense of bluntness. I’ve had to teach myself what’s considered rude and what’s not so I won’t inadvertently offend others. My expressed truths are often mistaken as insults.”
Evangeline stepped toward the door. “I have to go.”
“There’s a bathroom at the foot of the stairs. It’s the first door on the right.”
“No! I didn’t mean I needed to go to . . .” Evangeline shook her head. “I meant I have to leave. I have—”
Footsteps mounted the stairs outside the room, the treads creaking. A delicious smell wafted ahead of the climber, and Evangeline’s stomach growled loudly and embarrassingly.
Camille entered carrying a tray containing a plate of chicken nuggets, a white ramekin cup of ketchup, a second ramekin containing three carrot sticks, a can of Coke, a fork, and a white cloth napkin. “Oh, hello, Miss Evangeline. I see you’ve met Julian.” She set the tray on a TV table next to a large chair.
The boy, Julian, took a seat, and his eyes grew wide. “Are you injured?” He pointed
at Camille’s left hand. “You’re not bleeding, are you?” He leaned away from her, glaring suspiciously at the Band-Aid attached to her inner wrist.
Camille waved away his concern. “I nicked myself with a kitchen knife—nothing to get all worked up about. It’s little more than a scratch really.”
Julian cast a horrified glance at the ramekin of carrot sticks, his face going pale.
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes. It happened after I prepared your meal, while I was washing up the dishes.”
Julian’s shoulders relaxed, but he still peered closer at the carrots.
Camille shook her head and rolled her eyes, then gave Evangeline a smile. “Your grandmother requests your presence in your room.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Evangeline nodded, grateful for the excuse to get away.
Seeming satisfied that the carrot sticks were up to his sanitary standards, Julian snatched up the fork and stabbed a chicken nugget.
“Now, don’t go wolfin’ down your food,” Camille admonished. “You know how that upsets your stomach and gives you gas.”
Evangeline rushed down the staircase. Remembering her manners as Gran had taught her, she called out behind her, “It was nice meeting you, Julian.”
Even though it wasn’t.
She bounded down the last two steps, hurried into the long hallway, then slowed, not sure which of the many closed doors belonged to her and Gran’s room. She tapped against the one nearest to her. “Hello?”
When no one answered from the other side, she eased the door open and peered into a disheveled scene. “Heavens to Betsy,” she murmured. The bed was unmade, covers rumpled, and pillow on the floor. An empty chip bag and soda can sat on the nightstand. A maid’s uniform hung over the back of a chair. It must be Camille’s room. Scattered across the dresser lay a brush, a comb, an opened box of Band-Aids, and a very loud and very ugly paisley-print scarf.
Evangeline closed the door and moved on, pausing at the next one. She raised her hand to knock.
“Did you lose your way, Miss Evangeline?” Camille called from the end of the hallway.
Evangeline turned with an embarrassed grin. “Yes, ma’am. I sure did.”
“Right this way, my dear.” Camille led her along. “Mr. Midsomer’s giving me the night off now that you and your gran are here, but I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning.” She cleared her throat, hesitating. “Miss Evangeline, I feel I must confess something.”
“Yes, ma’am?” Evangeline wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what Camille had to say. Confessions usually involved the revelation of some sort of uncomfortable information.
“I know you and your gran aren’t really nurses, at least not in the traditional sense.” Camille glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Mr. Midsomer has a hard time believing in the supernatural, but I know there are things in this world that fall beyond logical explanation. I just wanted you to know you and your gran’s secret is safe with me. I want nothing but health, renewed strength, and long life for my beautiful mistress.”
Evangeline made up her mind right then and there that she liked Camille, certainly far better than she liked Julian Midsomer.
Camille stopped before a closed door and motioned toward it. “Here we are.”
“Thank you. Gran and I will do our best to get Mrs. Midsomer back to herself again.”
“And don’t you worry none about what might happen with the missus tonight,” Camille added. “I suppose her actions might seem frightening to those not used to such patients, but I probably don’t need to caution you, considering your line of business.” She gave Evangeline a parting wink and walked away.
Evangeline opened the bedroom door, and the musty odor of dried chrysanthemums filled her nose.
Gran sat at the room’s antique writing desk, using her mortar and pestle to grind up the dried flower heads. Some of the contents of her valise lay splayed across the bed—bags of willow bark, bay leaves, and spider legs alongside bottles of bindweed, powdered antler tips, mistletoe, rye, and aconitum.
Before Evangeline pulled the door shut, Fader trotted in after her with a large flying cockroach clutched in his mouth. He jumped onto Gran’s bed and dropped the dead bug beside the assortment of bottles.
“Thank you, Fader,” Gran said.
Fader stuck his hind leg into the air and began grooming himself.
“Evangeline, take care of that for me, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And run a comb through your hair. We’re going down to dinner as soon as I’m done here.”
Evangeline peered into the dresser mirror. Her hair looked okay to her. Aside from her bruised eye and scratched cheek, she figured she looked presentable enough. She fetched an empty vial from Gran’s bag, and using a pair of tweezers, she took the insect by one of its wilted wings and dropped it inside. It’d come in handy later if they needed to make a roach tea for someone afflicted with lockjaw.
Gathering her courage, she turned and faced Gran. She’d been patient long enough. If Gran gave her the brush-off again, this time she would insist that she trust her enough to give her the answer. “Gran? Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”
“I’m sorry, Evangeline. I’ve just been preoccupied with preparing and planning.” Gran dumped the contents of the mortar into a paper packet and folded it shut. With a sigh, she rose from the desk. She poured a mound of dry cat food into Fader’s bowl, then began repacking the bags and bottles into her valise. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with Mrs. Midsomer, only that she’s been very ill the past three weeks, and that she grows weaker every day. The medical doctors can’t seem to figure it out.”
“Oh. Is that all?” Evangeline almost felt let down.
Gran arched an eyebrow at her.
“I mean, maybe she’s possessed by a ghost. Or a demon.”
“Could be.” Gran snapped her valise shut. “But I don’t want to start speculating until I get a look at her for myself.” She opened the door and ushered Evangeline out.
They made their way down the stairs, Gran descending slowly ahead of her, holding on to the railing and using her cane to help her along. Fear pinched Evangeline’s heart. When had Gran become so old and frail? Hang in there, Gran. Soon the council will declare me an official haunt huntress, and I’ll start taking care of you. Then you can retire and do nothing but take it easy.
When they entered the dining room, Evangeline nearly gasped. She’d never eaten in a room so fancy. A sparkling crystal chandelier dripped from the ceiling. A gleaming silver tea service sat on a tray on top of the antique polished mahogany buffet. The tall windows wore velvet drapes so lengthy that their excess cloth flowed onto the floor.
She and Gran took their seats at the long table, on satin-covered chairs not at all practical for the dusty, muddy bottoms of working-class folk.
Mr. Midsomer entered and set a covered platter on the tabletop.
At the sight of it, Evangeline’s stomach growled. She was so hungry she could’ve eaten an entire pot of red beans along with a loaf of French bread and still had room left for a great big bowl of banana pudding.
“Camille’s taking a much-deserved evening off, so I’ve cooked dinner for us,” Mr. Midsomer announced proudly. “Filet mignon. Fresh from the patio grill.”
Evangeline cast her eyes over the table set with linen place mats, china plates, and crystal goblets. Obviously, Camille had laid everything out beforehand. She couldn’t imagine a man who’d cooked dinner outside would’ve gone to such formal extremes inside. Which also meant poor Camille would be greeted with a stack of dirty dishes when she returned tomorrow morning. Maybe she’d surprise the nice housekeeper and clean things up for her.
Mr. Midsomer removed the cover from the platter, revealing the grilled meat—small, round and brown, nearly three inches high, crisscrossed with black sear marks, and looking suspiciously pink beneath its glistening exterior. He inhaled the fleshy aroma. “Ahh.”
Evangeline’s stomach f
lopped like a fish on dry land. If there was one food she simply couldn’t abide, it was undercooked meat.
Using a set of tongs, he plunked a filet onto Gran’s plate and then one onto Evangeline’s. “I hope you like them bloody.”
Evangeline stared down at the questionable hunk of beef, wishing she were gazing down at a plate of golden fried catfish, hush puppies, and creamy green coleslaw instead. She glanced around the tabletop. “Isn’t there anything else to go with it?”
“Evangeline!” Gran scolded.
Mr. Midsomer gazed at the undercooked steak. “I uh, I would have baked some potatoes, but my son, Julian, used all of them to test one of his new trebuchet models. He uh . . .” Mr. Midsomer paused and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He uh . . . catapulted them over the backyard fence.” He gave a dejected sigh, then added, “I would have prepared a salad too, but he also launched the tomatoes . . . as well as the head of lettuce.”
Evangeline shook her head sadly. That boy had more problems than a math book.
“Julian’s always thinking outside the box, a very beneficial asset to possess.” Mr. Midsomer forced a tight smile, as though trying to reassure himself.
While Gran carved into her filet with her knife and fork, revealing an inside the color of strawberry cake, Mr. Midsomer held up a bottle of wine. “Merlot?”
“Yes, please,” Gran replied.
He filled her crystal goblet with the blood-red beverage. “Evangeline, what can I get you to drink?”
“Just water.” Evangeline frowned down at the undercooked hunk of meat.
Gran cleared her throat meaningfully.
“Just water, please,” Evangeline corrected herself.
Mr. Midsomer excused himself from the table and a moment later returned with a green tear-shaped bottle. He filled the crystal goblet before her. The liquid fizzled and bubbled like clear Coca-Cola.
It was the strangest water Evangeline had ever seen. She took a sip and grimaced. It was also the strangest water she’d ever tasted. She let the sip dribble back into the glass and wiped her mouth on her dress sleeve.
