Poetry in Potion Page 4

  “Come on, Mr. Cronk,” I said. “I’ll take you to Brew-Ha-Ha for a cup of tea.”

  He climbed to his feet.

  “What do we do?” Daniel asked. “Do I have to shut down the whole market?”

  Astrid took a good look around. The stalls were getting busier with most of the owners now arriving to open for business. “I’ll block off the immediate area, but that’s it. I know how important this is to the town.”

  Daniel was visibly relieved. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I leaned closer to Astrid. “You should take the pies from Camilla’s stall and test them for some kind of poison,” I said. “The healer’s clinic was filled with sick patients this morning and they’d all eaten the blackbird pie.”

  Britta grimaced. “Dude. Who eats blackbird pie? That’s disgusting.”

  “Which one is Camilla?” Astrid asked.

  “Next aisle,” I said. “Her stall is called 3.14.”

  Britta snorted loudly. “That’s hilarious.”

  I gaped at her. “You got a math joke?” Britta wasn’t always the sharpest sword in the armory.

  “Math rocks,” Britta replied, somewhat indignantly. “I’m a huge fan of math jokes. Look, I’ve got another one. Six was afraid of seven because seven eight nine, but why did seven eat nine?”

  I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know, Britta. Why?”

  “Because you’re meant to eat three square meals a day.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Get it? Three squared equals nine.”

  “Come on, Pythagoras,” Astrid called. “I need help here.”

  I looped my arm through Bryan’s and guided him away from the scene. Once we reached the end of the market, he disengaged.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I need to go back to the inn. I don’t think I can sit in a public place right now. I feel like I’m going to fall apart.”

  “I totally understand,” I said. At the same time, I was worried about leaving him on his own. He seemed to be in shock. “Where are you staying? I’ll make sure to check on you later.”

  “The Harpy’s Nest,” he said.

  “Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that response. “How’s that going for you?”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Claire loved it there. She’d found kindred spirits in the harpies who run the place.”

  Why didn’t that surprise me? “As it happens, I live next door. If you need anything at all, you come and knock on my door, okay?”

  Bryan nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind. I know my wife didn’t treat you particularly well yesterday, so I appreciate your compassion.”

  “You know what?” I said. “I think I’m going to head home now. Why don’t I drive you?”

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather walk,” he replied. “It might help clear my head. I feel really…wrong right now.”

  “Oh, Mr. Cronk, I’m so sorry.” I embraced him, but couldn’t get too close with my stomach acting as a barrier. “Go back and take a long, hot bath. Just make sure the door is closed and locked,” I added hastily. The last thing he needed were harpies circling now that he was a widower and, more importantly, available. Some of those harpies had no shame.

  He shot me a quizzical look before dragging himself away from the town square. I watched him go, the weight of the moment bearing down on me. I’d just witnessed a man’s life change forever. My arms wrapped around my belly as I mulled over Claire’s…unfortunate fortune.

  No future.

  I stroked my stomach—sad for Claire Cronk, but immensely grateful that Louisa’s prediction hadn’t been intended for us.

  Chapter Five

  I stared at the cans of paint on the floor of the nursery. “Gareth, we’re not painting the nursery Blush and Bashful,” I insisted. I was beginning to regret introducing the vampire ghost to the movie Steel Magnolias. I’d snuck him into the secret lair when the other witches were elsewhere, which meant I then had to endure the Scottish vampire’s version of a Southern accent for the next week. Needless to say, there were regrets.

  “But those are my signature colors,” he objected in a drawl.

  I glanced upward and silently begged for strength. “They are not your signature colors. You are not a Southern belle. And this room is for this child.” I tapped the round edges of my stomach with both hands. “Not your inner child.”

  Gareth motioned to the coffin-cum-crib covered in turquoise glitter. “You’re right. Blush and Bashful aren’t the best shades to coordinate with this.”

  “No color on earth is going to coordinate with that. We’ll just have to do our best.” I glanced upward. “Cute addition to the ceiling, though.” He’d hung a smaller version of disco ball above the crib in lieu of a mobile.

  “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  “Maybe we should wait until the baby is born to choose paint colors, so we know the gender,” I suggested.

  Gareth narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting that color needs to be gender specific?” He clucked his tongue. “My dear Emma, I expect better from you. I would’ve adored a coffin like this.” He pointed to the ceiling. “And that wee shiny ball.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “So I guess we know who this room is really for.”

  It wasn’t as though the baby would recognize colors from birth anyway. And spell’s bells, we were using a coffin as a crib and a vampire ghost as a nanny. This child would have ample distractions from the color of the walls.

  As I turned to investigate the other cans of paint, Magpie raced into the room and jumped into the middle of the crib. The hellbeast stood on his hind legs and stretched his body as far as it would go in order to bat at the disco ball.

  “Magpie, get down,” Gareth scolded him.

  “No fire,” I added. “Ooh, that reminds me.” I shuffled into my room and retrieved the treats I’d bought from the market. I returned to the room with one treat in the palm of my hand. “I got you something special, Magpie.” I wasn’t foolish enough to let the cat eat out of my hand. I’d seen the way he attacked his food. Instead, I dropped the white treat into the crib and backed away.

  “What is that?” Gareth asked.

  “Hopefully, something good,” I said. “Because I don’t want to be on his bad side.”

  “Not to worry,” Gareth said. “He’d never hurt you while you were pregnant. He’d wait until afterward. The cat can really hold a grudge.”

  “Not helping,” I said.

  Magpie inhaled the treat and I was fairly certain I heard a soft purr.

  “He seems to have enjoyed it,” Gareth said.

  I clapped my hands. “Let’s test it.”

  Gareth raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Test what?”

  “It’s supposed to have a special effect.”

  “That’s worrisome.”

  I surveyed the room for something disposable and settled on the curtains. “I’m going to replace those anyway, so if the treat doesn’t work, no big deal.” I tapped my chin. “Maybe we should have a fire extinguisher on hand.”

  “What kind of treat is this?” Gareth asked.

  “You’ll see.” I snapped my fingers. “Magpie, I need you to breathe fire at those curtains. They’re so ugly that they might damage the baby’s eyesight.”

  Magpie leaped from the crib and landed in front of the curtains. He opened his enormous mouth and—

  “Wait!” Gareth yelled. He moved to place himself between the hellspawn and the curtains, but it was too late. Small puffs of white floated into the air. Gareth and Magpie seemed equally confused.

  Magpie batted at the nearest cloud and it dissipated.

  “What did you do to him?” Gareth demanded.

  “It’s only temporary,” I said. “I thought it would be fun.”

  Gareth started to say more but seemed to think better of it as he watched Magpie jump into the air in an effort to smack the other cloud.

  “This is the most cat-like I’ve ever seen him,” Gareth mused.

  Magpie jumped and twirled around the room, spewing clouds and then chasing them.

  “It’s sweet.” I showed Gareth the bag. “I’ll store them in the kitchen. We can use them as rewards.”

  “Rewards for what?”

  I thought for a moment. “Not killing us in our sleep?”

  Gareth nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

  I noticed the closet door for the first time. “Oh, it’s not too bad. It’s slightly out of joint is all.”

  “Daniel hoped you wouldn’t notice,” Gareth said. “He was in here last night muttering to himself after you went to sleep.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him from bringing up the crib?” I asked. “You knew we had to paint. Now we need to throw a tarp over it.”

  “What was I meant to do?” Gareth asked. “He can’t hear me.”

  “You could have written a note and held it in front of him.”

  Gareth contemplated the closet. “I might be able to have a go.”

  “Really? That’s not too hard for you?”

  Gareth pretended to crack his apparitional knuckles. “If I don’t do it, the baby will be in college by the time the Winged Wonder gets around to it.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “Daniel has a lot on his plate right now. Ever since we got back from our babymoon in Starry Hollow, he’s been working on the World Market.” And now he’d be working even harder to keep it from falling apart in light of Claire Cronk’s murder and the blackbird pies. Talk about pressure.

  “I have a lot on my plate, too,” Gareth said.

  I stifled a laugh. “Like what? You’ve already organized every jar and bottle in the entire house. There are more onesies in that closet than any infant will ever be able to wear.”
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  “Not if he has wardrobe changes throughout the day.”

  “This is a baby, not Elton John.”

  “I’ve also organized the bookcase downstairs,” Gareth said. “For some reason, Daniel had left out two poetry books.”

  “Oh, because of the poetry slam.” I laughed. “I didn’t think he intended to enter the competition, but maybe he does.”

  “I’m not sure Dr. Seuss qualifies as actual poetry,” Gareth griped.

  I shot him a warning look. “Are you insulting my husband? Because we’ve discussed this.” I folded my arms across my chest. It was a little tougher than it used to be because my boobs were like two giant marshmallows.

  “No, one of the books was actually by Dr. Seuss.”

  “Then he was probably choosing books for the baby. Sometimes he reads to my stomach at night.” Sometimes he even did it while I was sleeping and I’d wake up to hear his velvety voice reciting rhymes. I couldn’t love that angel more if I tried.

  Gareth floated to the other side of the room, looking mournful. “I’m rather fond of poetry. I wish I could partake.”

  “Why does that not surprise me that you write poetry? Let me guess. Lord Byron is your spirit animal.”

  “Byron was a hack,” he said.

  “Okay, so someone more tortured and dreary.” I tried to come up with a reasonable suggestion. “Edgar Allen Poe?” No, Poe was just creepy.

  “If only there was a way I could participate,” Gareth continued, ignoring me. “Do you think Kassandra could interpret for me?” The local psychic was able to channel Gareth, though not without maximum effort and a lot of theatrics.

  “If it means that much to you,” I began, “I’d be happy to read something that you wrote.” I didn’t relish the idea of reading poetry in front of a live audience, but considering all that Gareth had done for me, it seemed selfish to deny him.

  “Are you sure?” His eyes were filled with hope.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, that would be lovely.” He drifted closer to me. “I wouldn’t simply want you to recite it from a page, though. That would be too impersonal. I think it would work best if I was there beside you. That way it would feel as though I were actually the one performing it for the crowd.”

  My brow wrinkled. “So basically you want me to be like the lady who does sign language in the corner of the television screen?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I propose that I stand on the platform with you and recite my poem, while you repeat each line for the audience’s listening pleasure.”

  I rested my hands on the edge of the crib. “I guess that’s not too much to ask.” I squared my shoulders. “I would be happy to help you recite your poem for the masses, Gareth. I’m sure it will be a masterpiece.”

  “History in the making, in fact,” he declared, appearing pleased. I felt a rush of warmth that I’d be able to do something nice for him. Gareth had gone out of his way for me more times than I could count. It was time to repay the favor.

  “Are you certain you’ll be able to perform without your anti-anxiety potion?” Gareth asked.

  “You know, I think this baby has injected me with some kind of courage hormone.” If I said that often enough, maybe I’d believe it in time for the poetry slam.

  Gareth seemed to buy it. “Excellent,” he said. “I can compose while I paint.”

  I glanced at him with alarm. “Out loud?”

  “Is there any other way?” He scrutinized the other paint cans. “I propose…” He gasped. “I don’t believe it. This is truly kismet.”

  “What is it?”

  He motioned to the light gray sample on top of the can. “Look at the name.”

  “Steel magnolia,” I read aloud and a chill traveled down my spine. “Congratulations, Gareth. I think we found our color.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sedgwick hovering outside the nursery window. “You’re still on my naughty list.”

  Sedgwick tapped his beak on the glass.

  “I’m coming, Mr. Impatient.” I opened the window and gestured with a flourish. “Come on in, Peter Pan. Your shadow is tucked in the top drawer.”

  Sedgwick observed me with his unamused owl eyes. And I see your shadow is right beside you, as usual.

  I glanced at Gareth. He’s a ghost, not a shadow.

  He follows you everywhere and looks like a mini black hole. Sounds like a shadow to me. Now if you would be so kind as to use your keen powers of observation, there is a note for you in my beak.

  I peered at the owl’s beak. Sure enough, I noticed a neatly folded square of paper. When I reached to retrieve it, Sedgwick opened his beak and the note dropped to the floor.

  Oops, he said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry.

  I stared at the note over the top of my belly. “That is not funny, Sedgwick. You know I can’t bend over anymore.” I was lucky I could even see any part of the floor at this point.

  Gareth slid forward and swooped the note off the floor, handing it to me.

  “Thank you, Gareth,” I said. “This is why you’re my favorite.” I stuck out my tongue at my so-called familiar. I unfolded the note and recognized Astrid’s chicken scratch. “Uh oh.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you alone for the painting and poetry, Gareth.”

  Egads, I don’t need to stay, do I? Sedgwick interrupted.

  No, you can go aggravate woodland creatures to your heart’s content, I replied.

  “Why can’t you stay?” Gareth asked. He seemed more disappointed than I expected.

  “Because I’m still the defense attorney in town and, thanks to the murder of Claire Cronk, there’s someone in need of defending.”

  “Who?”

  I glanced back at the familiar name scrawled across the paper. “Louisa Loomis. The World Market potion teller.”

  Chapter Six

  I arrived at the sheriff’s office, trying desperately not to let my flip-flops catch on the uneven cobblestone as I walked. As lovely as it was to look at, the cobblestone became treacherous terrain during pregnancy. Basically, anything that impacted my balance was an issue.

  I pushed open the door to see Deputy Britta sharing a bowl of noodles at the counter with her girlfriend, Paisley. I squinted at them as they slurped opposite ends of the same noodle. “Someone clearly introduced you two to Lady and the Tramp.”

  Britta sucked in her side of the noodle, dragging it from the witch’s mouth. “Awesome movie. I gave it five swords.”

  “I’m sure this goes without saying, but don’t feel the need to copy everything you see,” I said. “Pop culture can take things a little too far sometimes.”

  Britta waved a fork at me. “Drop the patriarchal attitude, Hart. We can handle your precious pop culture.”

  “Can you also handle taking me to see Louisa Loomis?” I asked. “I understand she’s in custody here.”

  “Well, I'm on my break, but I suppose I can help with that.” She winked at Paisley before grabbing a set of keys from the counter. “This way, Cruella de Bossy.”

  “Her name is Cruella de Vil and she’s the villain from One Hundred and One Dalmatians, not Lady and the Tramp.”

  Britta scratched her chin. “Wait. She was the baddie? But that coat was awesome and don’t get me started on her car.”

  I followed Britta through another door and down the corridor. “Where's Astrid?”

  “Back at the market, checking for witnesses,” Britta said.

  “I guess she ruled out the blackbird pies if she arrested Louisa,” I said.

  “Yeah, we had them tested. Turns out the pie was undercooked. Anyway, it wasn’t in the victim’s system.”

  “So what’s the evidence against Louisa then? Can I see the report?”

  “Not ready yet.”

  “It isn’t like Astrid to make an arrest so quickly without the paperwork in order,” I said.

  “It’s pressure from the town council,” Britta said in a low voice. “As soon as word spread about the murder, everything had to be done at lightning speed. I’ve never seen test results generated so fast.”

  “What were the results?” And how could they possibly point the finger at Louisa?

  “I can tell you there was a potion found in the victim’s system. That’s what killed her.”