CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Interview with a Grocery Clerk

I glance around, checking out the empty street before edging closer to the well and stepping onto Mrs. Teasedale’s lawn. Beneath my sneakers the grass is spongy and soft, the ground still wet from being watered that morning. Despite that, I kneel down, wincing as damp seeps through my jeans at the knees.

I bend close to the well, tracing a finger over Mary’s halo. The lines are darker at the edges; a myriad of browns blending together. The image seems to rise up from the wood, a natural part of it. I touch each line, tracing my fingers over the rough wood, searching for some hint of how the image was made. A tiny nick in the wood drags against my skin. There, at the bottom, a breath from the lines that form the roses resting on the tops of Mary’s feet, is a thin scratch. A magnifying glass would come in handy right now.

My wet jeans press against my shins as I bend low, nose almost touching the wood. I squint, trying to see that one detail closer. It’s a mirror of the line beside it. A guide. Someone lightly scratched the image in place using something sharp beforehand. Below, under the deeper brown, there’s another small mark, like a tiny burn. My breath catches. As clues go, it’s pretty crap, but it’s the first real proof that the miracles aren’t real. I pull back and fumble in my backpack for my camera, check there are still a few snapshots left, and then hold the camera as close to the image as I can without risking the focus. I’m prepared to admit, in this moment only, that a Polaroid isn’t the perfect photo in every instance. I could use a high-res digital camera in addition to that magnifying glass.

I snap the picture and wait as the camera spits out its tiny white-framed square. It’s only as I’m waiting for the picture to finish developing that it occurs to me I might be stalking Mel’s lawn art for nothing. She could have paid someone to come decorate her wishing well. No implied miracles at all.

The photo is marginally helpful; you can sorta make out the scratched line against the wood grain. My extreme close-up of Mary’s feet looks like an abstract painting. I step back and snap another picture, this one of the entire image. If this is more than just a home improvement project, I want plenty of photographic evidence.

I look up and down the street again. It’s still quiet. Peaceful. We’re far enough from Main Street that you can’t hear the traffic, and no out-of-towners are tramping around. Such a contrast to the noise and rush of school. To the tension at home. I think of Claire and the graveyard, of Emmet and his long silences. I think of Mom, hiding at work, and Dad hiding in another state.

The burning is back in my chest and I focus on the wishing well instead. I need this mystery. These miracles are fake. I know it and I’m going to prove it. Whether this town likes it or not. Whether it costs me my job. Screw Mayor Thompson. This could be the clue Gabe and I need to crack the case. I just have to figure out how.

I debate knocking on Mel’s door to ask about the wishing well. Better not. Mrs. Teasedale might brain me with a frying pan. Besides, one-ish on a Wednesday? Mel’s at the grocery for sure. My stomach growls, reminding me I ran out during lunch hour and all I’ve had today is a candy bar and some coffee. The sugar crash is probably contributing to my bad mood.

I search my pockets, finding a crumpled five-dollar bill. The remains of my last paycheck. But it’s enough to get a sandwich and soda from the grocery deli. And the perfect excuse for chatting up Mel. Maybe she’s the miracle mastermind and all of the other miracles were leading up to this one, conveniently sitting in her front yard.

When I walk into Bryer’s Grocery fifteen minutes later, the place is hopping. There are at least twenty people milling around that I can see, and five already standing in line at the lone cash register. Mel is swiping items across the scanner and having a cheerful one-sided conversation with a woman in a purple jogging suit who keeps checking her watch.

“I don’t understand how you can be out of milk,” the woman interrupts.

Mel gives a small shrug. “It’s been busy.”

Understatement of the year. I eye the other customers and re-evaluate my lunch plans. The damn out-of-towners are like locusts, gobbling up everything in their path.

I turn my attention back to Mel. Her brown hair is bleached light blonde, the roots dark. She’s stuck between skinny and overweight, with a solid body frame that could never be called anything except big-boned.

Mel catches sight of me and her eyes widen, darting to the clock above the employee break room door. “Did something happen at the school?” she asks, suddenly ignoring the customer in front of her.

The woman taps the counter. “Excuse me? I’d appreciate if you could finish checking me out, please.”

I give Mel a reassuring smile and stop at the end of the lane. I begin bagging groceries and that shuts the snotty woman up. Apparently if I work for the privilege, I’m allowed to talk to Mel.

“I couldn’t take the cafeteria food,” I say. Mel attended Shrenk High years ago. She knows it’s a closed campus and I’m not supposed to be here.

She frowns for a moment but then her expression melts into a compassionate grimace. “Tough day today? I’m sure Principal Candlewhite would understand if you need to take the day off and spend it with your family.”

She scans the last item and gives the woman her total in an extra cheerful voice, shifting her focus for a moment.

Great. Even the grocery clerk has a mental calendar with a big red star slapped on today. Maybe next year they’ll make it a town-wide holiday honoring Saint Claire.

I hand two sacks of groceries to jogging suit lady and she gives me a blank look. “Aren’t you going to walk them out to my car?”

“It’s self serve, lady. Grab a cart if they’re too heavy.”

“Delaney!” Mel says in a quiet voice, then turns to the woman. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t have any extra clerks right now.”

The woman hmphs and storms off with her groceries. There’s a guy in line next and he nudges his bag of potato chips toward the scanner meaningfully. Mel bites her lip and fumbles the bag across the scanner.

“I’m sorry, Del. I can’t talk right now.”

“I understand,” I say. Maybe a new tactic is called for. I move to the deli counter and discover there are still a few sandwich supplies left. Blake, one of Bryer’s other perennial employees, throws a sandwich together for me and passes it over without comment. I appreciate his lack of conversational skill. He’s in his late twenties, gaunt and pallid with a hoop earring in one ear. A scrub of reddish-brown hair clings to his chin but his head is completely bald. He looks like Mr. Clean’s younger, skinnier brother.

“Thanks,” I say. Blake merely nods. Maybe he’s taken a vow of silence. Or maybe years of working with Mel and her near-constant chatter have seized up his vocal cords.

I get in line to pay for my sandwich and grab an IBC root beer as well. When I finally get to the register, there’s no one in line behind me, thank goodness. This is my chance.

“I passed by your place earlier,” I say.

Mel tenses. “Was Mom out in the yard again?”

“No, but I—uh—like what you’ve done with the wishing well.” I try to look casual but every cell in my body is on high alert.

“The new mums are gorgeous, aren’t they? I drove all the way to Ashby for them.” Mel beams, taking my money and handing back change.

“No, I mean the decorative panel you added to the front.”

Mel frowns. “It’s a wooden well, there aren’t any decorations. Other than my flowers, of course.”

“There’s definitely something on there now,” I say. “An image.”

Mel’s frown morphs into a little oh of surprise and her eyes widen. “Did someone deface my well?” She throws a look at the handful of people still browsing the aisles closest to us and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Do you think it was gangs?”

“I think gangs normally use spray paint, and it definitely wasn’t.” I suppress a laugh. Yeah, roving gang bangers drove all the way from the city to graffiti our town. Not.

Mel chews her bottom lip. “Is it bad? Something obscene? Maybe I should call the police station.”

I hold up a hand, placating. We only have three cops for the entire county and at least one of them is on permanent duty outside the McDonald’s these days. If the other two rush to Mel’s looking for phantom gangs, I’ll probably get a ticket for inciting a false report. “It’s fine. It’s a religious symbol, not a gang sign.”

Mel’s eyes widen. Suddenly she breaks into a huge grin. “It’s another miracle!”

It’s a sign of how crazy things have gotten that she’s made the leap from graffiti to miracle in mere seconds. And unless Mel has insane acting skills she’s never displayed before, I’m pretty sure she didn’t know about Wishing Well Mary until I told her. Damn.

I mentally kick myself. I could have ripped the panel off the well and had the latest miracle to study for as long as I need to figure out who’s dicking with our town. Now it’s way too late for that. A few of the people in the store are already looking at Mel curiously.

Mel whirls and faces Blake. “Did you hear?” Her face is shining and there are tears in her eyes. Her hands knot together and then release over and over. She looks like she might bounce right out of her shoes at any moment. “A real, live miracle on my front lawn. Maybe God has healed my mom!” She glances at the clock again and bites her lip. “I have to go, Blake. You understand, right? I have to check.”

He nods, frowning in confusion. Mel yanks off her grocery apron and bolts for the door. I can see at least one guy pulling out his cell phone and I hightail it out of there. The latest miracle is about to become big news.