The Patsy's Patsy

by Brooke Shelby

  Nevertheless, Maggie did what she always did and tried to ignore all the ignorance that drowned her in suspicion and vexation. Her business did decline somewhat, but not enough to be a problem. If anything, she had more peace and quiet at her shop during the day with only senior citizens and mature tourists coming in.

  It was her day off on Saturday, she decided, and she took the day to concentrate on her new recipes and some lessons Bramble offered. After a few days of gossip and disdainful glances, she had had enough of the townspeople. She reckoned that she would be used to it by now, but social sanction never evolves into acceptance and soon she found that she was public enemy number-one again. Fed up with narrow-minded people and their miserable need for bland enthusiasm, Maggie felt her dark side beckon once more and she never enjoyed feeling like that. It was not some sort of piety she entertained, but rather a genuine dislike for carrying a load of resentment.

  With a chick flick on her laptop, Maggie was busy in her kitchen by midday. She had slept in and treated herself to a long morning bath before commencing her new brews for the day. Wearing the first apron she ever bought—a yellow number featuring a family of three red dancing tomatoes upon it—Maggie busied herself with chopping garlic. It was something Bramble loved and he coiled around her legs as she chopped in a rhythmic cadence.

  “Hurry up!” he purred. “I can’t wait to taste this one.”

  “It is just a variation of garlic bread, actually, drizzled with olive oil …” she started.

  “I honestly don’t care, my dear,” he interrupted. “Just get it on my tongue.”

  Maggie laughed at his adorable gluttony. A knock at the door stopped her knife’s blade and she looked at Bramble in mild bewilderment.

  “Please tell me I didn’t sign up for babysitting today,” she told him.

  “I cannot remember anything of the sort, love,” he replied to her confusion.

  Maggie hastily slipped the baking tray into the oven and wiped her hands on her giddy apron before heading for the door. She could not remember making plans with Carl to watch Nellie, but some days she was so scatterbrained that she would not be surprised. Still wiping her left hand, she peeked through the peephole.

  “What’s the time, Bramble?” she asked softly.

  “You are jesting, right?” he mumbled from the kitchen.

  “It is pitch-dark outside,” she mentioned, convinced that there was some error in her perception. However, there was nothing but darkness outside the front door, but she knew by her windows that the sun was shining. Briskly she opened the door and found the reason for the darkness that graced her on so many levels.

  “Ah, that explains a lot.” She winced when she looked right into the cassock of the tall sinister priest. “Reverend Mason.”

  “Margaret,” he greeted rather cordially in his gentle tone of voice. He stood solemnly, his hands, as always, locked in front of him in some pose of propriety. His glassy-gray eyes pierced her, but Maggie found it impossible to read his mood.

  “To what do I owe … this visit?” she asked sarcastically, but he seemed unperturbed by her snide comment.

  “May I have a word?” he asked politely.

  “I suppose so,” she sighed, making no secret of how much she did not want him in her house. She stepped aside and allowed the thin, tall priest to glide in under his black robes. “Please, sit. Would you like some tea?”

  “No thank you,” he answered almost too soon. His eyes rolled back as he tilted his head back. “Hmm, I smell garlic.”

  She sat down opposite him on her sofa. “Does garlic bother you?” she insinuated with a tinge of mischief. After all the hell he had put her through before, Maggie did not even care to be nice to him anymore, but she maintained her boundaries and stayed relatively civil. At least then he could not fault her on her behavior, even if she cared.

  “I like garlic, Margaret. No need for vampire analogies. I am not that sort,” he attempted a lighthearted retort, but it was still fraught with malice.

  They were both aware of their immense dislike for one another, but it hardly affected the conversation. Like two old foes, they met once more on the battlefield, each utterly familiar with the other’s abilities.

  “Look, Margaret, I have been privy to some nasty rumors that have been infecting this town,” he started in a most sincere way, “so I thought I should at least, as leader of this community, …”

  You wish, Orlok, her thoughts lashed out at his self-righteous, self-proclaimed authority.

  “… that I should intervene,” he spoke in his sermon voice that made her sick. It was that same manner and voice that led so many astray in her opinion.

  “And what do you suggest I do?” she asked. “I am literally doing nothing. I am keeping my nose clean and going about my business. If you wish to intervene, perhaps you are at the wrong house.”

  “My child, I am simply here to advise you, to give you guidance,” he explained patiently.

  “I don’t need advice or guidance, Reverend Mason. I am not the one who has gone astray. People are gossiping about me. People are accusing me of things I have no part in. Perhaps you should start looking under your own black wings at which of your congregation is at fault here. How am I the one who needs to be counseled? Do explain,” she sneered.

  “You know, Margaret, for the life of me I cannot fathom your insistence on remaining here in Hope’s Crossing. Can you not see that you are unwelcome here, that people here do not accept you? If you left Hope’s Crossing, you would flourish, unperturbed, yet you are adamant on staying here and making everyone uncomfortable,” he lectured with a tone of condescension she had never heard before.

  Maggie rose from her seat, fuming.

  “Let me shed some light on the matters at hand here, Reverend, because you obviously lack so much logic in your relentless blind hunt that you don’t seem to realize the common denominator,” she hissed at him. “Every time I have been accused of something bad—the poisoning spree, the murderer who killed my aunt, among others—were they not both avid worshipers at your pulpit? Do you really think people here and in the outside world are as thick as you want to assume?”

  “I never said anything of the sort!” he started, raising his voice, but Maggie was on a roll.

  “Oh, but your actions show it, Reverend. Oroville the killer and Bettina, the woman who tried to kill her own daughter, were both under your ‘guidance,’ were they not? Part of your flock, were they not? And you know what? People are beginning to notice.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that? A man of God!” he spat.

  Once again, Reverend Mason could not stomach Maggie Corey’s insolence one moment longer. He had underestimated her intelligence and sense of logic again. She was not as easy to fool or control as his parishioners were and it irked him beyond words. With a red face and eyes like daggers, he stood up and headed for the door.

  “You know where the door is,” she cackled, sounding just a tad mad.

  As he left, he attempted to threaten her one more time, but he was clearly defeated.

  “Just you watch, missy,” he sneered. “You can’t run from the law forever!”

  “The law is in place to punish criminals. Perhaps you should take some of my garlic. You’re going to need it!” she laughed in anger and slammed the door behind him, not even bothering to watch him go.

  The spat with the black cur left Maggie feeling genuinely sick to her stomach. Even more so than Gareth, Reverend Mason had an uncanny ability to drive her to physical illness. Of all the people she had met in her life, only those two men could move her to feel physically affected by hatred, moved to ugly thoughts she dared not entertain. Both men were like a cancer to her soul, yet they represented two different kinds of malady in her.

  Bramble did his best to talk her up, to console his darling witch, to remind her who she was and what she could withstand.

  “You are a Corey. Think of Giles. Whenever you think they are getting you down, Maggie
, you just think of Giles Corey and all he withstood at the hands of his detractors,” he advised her, pawing at her cheek when she lay crying in rage.

  12

  “I have not seen you in church of late, Sheriff. Is everything all right?” the somber Reverend Mason inquired of Carl Walden. The two men had run into each other in the supermarket just after 7 p.m., a meeting that was unavoidable but which left Carl frustrated. He hated being at the receiving end of the minister’s patronizing, but what infuriated Carl even more was being chastised for his own choices.

  “I have had other matters to attend to, Reverend, as I am sure you will understand,” Carl replied abruptly.

  Since the preacher had proven that he constantly involved himself in investigations, Carl grew weary of his guidance. Weary and wary, as it were. The sheriff had realized that Reverend Mason had been involved, though indirectly, in several cases of past serious criminal activity and it vexed him no end that he could not put his finger on the reason.

  “Well, Carl, I am sure I don’t need to tell you that nothing is more important than tending to one’s spiritual health and staying away is exactly what the devil wants you to do,” the preacher warned in his usual holier-than-thou tone.

  “The devil?” Carl scoffed with a humorless smile. “Is that the new word for common sense, Reverend?”

  The preacher’s eyes widened in mild disgust at the faintly antagonistic tone coming from one of his usually loyal congregants, but he kept his surprise hidden well behind his skin mask.

  “Anyway, I shall be expecting you—and Nellie, of course—this Sunday. Having doubts in one’s own faith should not be detrimental to one’s children. They are innocent, and should not pay for the inaptitude of their parents,” the snide preacher sneered gently before gliding away past Carl Walden towards the back of the store.

  Carl was insulted and exasperated by Reverend Mason’s audacity, another lash to his back that further removed his loyalty from the local church. He calmed his thundering heartbeat, brought on by the condescending confrontation, if only to hide it from his adorable daughter. The reverend was right about one thing, Carl reckoned. His daughter did not need to be exposed to Carl’s own doubts and grievances, so he did what any parent would do and bore the yoke of his own emotions without display.

  According to Carl’s deduction, the reverend’s interference in past cases was no coincidence, even though the reasons were still obscured. Reverend Mason’s persistent meddling in matters only proved to the sheriff that there was some sort of pattern to the preacher’s behavior. It extended well beyond the stroking of ego or brainwashing the townspeople, though. As Carl strolled along the aisle, his mind was racing so much that he overlooked several products he had on his shopping list.

  His eyes wandered over the merchandise, but his thoughts still raced. In Carl’s opinion, and he was not alone, the patriarch of the church did little to benefit any of his followers, save for the odd judgment masked as guidance. In fact, the sheriff’s keen observation skills appeared to be far superior to that of the more brainwashed lot, since he was one of the few who noticed that Reverend Mason was milking his congregation for money and favors. However, they did not seem to realize, nor did they seem to care, as they were led to believe firmly that the tall, deceitful preacher had their best interests at heart; that he acted on behalf of God.

  Carl scoffed at the latter thought. That very sentiment was the basis of all indoctrination, it seemed. Whether it was politics, religion, or social status, whenever power was at stake, invoking authority in the name of God was the rule of thumb. The sheriff felt slightly embarrassed that he had never noticed this before, being too devoted to his religion to see that most doctrines functioned on the subjugation of will—the antithesis of free thinking. It alarmed him that he had been part of this for so long, but he was not quite ready to abandon his faith just because of a bad seed on the pulpit.

  On the other hand, Carl felt that he owed it to his daughter to keep her from growing up similarly blindly trusting, but he also knew that it would be foolish to subject her to radical changes at her age. For now, he would tolerate the church, avoid Reverend Mason as far as possible, and concentrate on keeping an even keel.

  As if she could read his mind, Carl received a call from Maggie Corey the following day.

  “I know your shift is almost finished,” she started on the phone. “But I was hoping I could swing by your office.”

  “What for, Maggie?” Carl asked politely.

  “I just need some information. Nothing big. Nothing serious, just some input from someone who knows the town’s history and doesn’t hate me,” she chuckled.

  Carl smiled. “How do you know I don’t hate you?”

  Maggie was quick with an answer. “I don’t, but your actions say that you think I am the bomb.”

  Carl winced through his amused expression. “The bomb? Are you calling from the nineties?”

  “Oh shut up,” she giggled. “I have other terms, but they are not as wholesome. Be grateful I don’t subject you to my more vile terminology.”

  Carl’s smile broadened on his lips, enjoying bantering with his pretty friend. Apart from Maggie’s occasional unreasonable outbursts and feisty attitude, she was genuinely pleasant to hear from. Maggie had a way of prompting Carl’s true persona without fear of judgment or ridicule.

  “Come by then,” he concluded. “I’ll be here for the next hour.”

  When Maggie arrived at the sheriff’s office in tight jeans and a light tank top, she was the center of attention. By now, Carl’s deputies were used to her presence in town and like him, they had accepted her as a very amicable and friendly person. Most of his team liked Maggie and treated her like everyone else, which was a great relief for the pretty woman with the ruby- sheened braid dancing down her back.

  “So?” he sighed with a smile, leaning back in his chair. “What is it you need to know from those of us who don’t hate you?”

  Maggie slapped his hand and chuckled. “Just some background information on Reverend Mason.”

  “What did he do now?” he asked.

  The sound of the clergyman’s name alone drained them both of their smiles and draped an aura of tension over the office. Outside, the sharp yellow of the afternoon sun was piercing the windows, cutting through the stripes of their drawn blinds. From the side, the sunrays illuminated the sheriff’s brown eyes, turning his irises into a pristine yellow that reminded Maggie of a lion. For a moment, Maggie was bewitched by Carl’s powerful presence. He was big, robust, and formidable, while his face was ruggedly handsome. She had never seen this in him before, save for his personality that had always proved strong. Carl was a clear and strong leader, that she knew, but right now, he resembled a threatening leonine deity of sorts.

  “Maggie!” he repeated loudly, snapping her from her momentary reverie.

  Maggie gasped like a schoolgirl suddenly confronted by a question from her teacher.

  “Yes? Yeah, um, what?” she stammered to his amusement.

  “What did the old black crow do?” he asked again.

  “Oh nothing, really. Nothing worth complaining about, apart from the usual crappy attempt at sending me on my way with some passive aggression,” she sighed. “I just have to find some sort of excuse for his constant badgering whenever I think I can live my life here, you see.”

  “I get it, yes,” Carl admitted. “He seems to think he can pull that on me too.”

  “Really?” she gasped.

  Carl only shrugged. Unlike Maggie, he did not care for relaying such insignificant annoyances. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where do you think his relentless bitching roots itself, Carl?” she asked seriously. “It is obvious the old man has a problem with me and anyone associating with me and I want to know where it comes from. He sure puts a lot of effort into hating me and orchestrating these ridiculous rallies against me to leave town. There has to be more to it. Something underlying.”

 
Carl took a moment, pausing to formulate his response. He arched his fingers into a steeple on the desk in front of him.

  “I am going to be frank with you, Maggie. No use in sugarcoating anything. You are an intelligent and perceptive person, so I have no intention of patronizing you,” he started, reading her face for approval.

  “That is precisely why I came to you with this,” she affirmed, favoring him with her trust.

  “Plain and simple, he hated Clara with a passion,” Carl brutally broke the ice.

  Maggie was clearly shocked for a second, probably more at Carl’s blunt statement than the actual content of his meaning. He gave her a second to process it and continued. “From what I have learned through the years, his disdain for Clara came from an old feud between the two families.”

  “What families?” she asked. “Mine and his?”

  Carl nodded and answered, “The Corey family and the Mason clan come from the old Salem tribulations, you see. Reverend Mason is the latest in a long line of malicious and vindictive Bible bashers … remnants of the Spanish Inquisition, if you catch my drift.”

  Maggie did think that she caught his drift, but she was not sure to what extent the Mason clan was guilty of religious persecution. It made a lot of sense, though, that Reverend Mason had a problem with her aunt Clara and with her as well, regardless of the fact that she was a different person.

  “Makes sense,” she muttered in thought.

  Carl nodded vigorously. “Not all of those old Salem families got along, as I am sure you know. I reckon the Coreys are still a threat to the Masons even after all these years, for some unintelligible reason. Nothing else explains his almost irrational contempt. I think Mason has a problem with you because his family founded Hope’s Crossing, but between the official records and some historical journals, there are a lot of discrepancies. Some say it was the Corey family, others recount that the Mason family founded this town. Either way, it seems the competition is still in full swing.”