“IT MUST BE so cool to, like, call up Forces of Evil when you want something done.” Daniel’s face glowed as he contemplated mastering evil forces.
“‘Forces of Evil?’ Is that a comic book? Besides, if something’s evil, what’d’you think it would do for anybody?” Rachel handed the teenager a scathing look along with a carton of styrofoam pumpkins. He began clumping the pumpkins absentmindedly onto the middle window shelf.
Rachel knocked them back into the box with a sweep of her hand. “That’s no display. That’s a mess.”
Without resentment he began replacing the pumpkins in more attractive groupings, arranging potted plants between them. “Sorry. It’s just that you’re such a—a source. I never realized it before.”
“Source? Of evil forces?”
“Of information. I want to know what witches do.”
Rachel stopped pyramiding pots of bronze chrysanthemums around a tall ceramic black cat, turned to her assistant and scowled. “Like what?”
“Like cast spells, order demons around, dig up freshly buried bodies in cemeteries—”
“Freshly buried bodies?” Distracted, she re-anchored her mop of dark curls with a wide knitted band, then returned to the chore of readying her flower shop for the day’s trade.
“Oh, yeah! To drain their blood for potions! Or, like, would they hold a séance over a really old grave to communicate with spirits?” He shrugged. “I don’t know what they do, that’s why I’m asking you.” His face was bright with expectation. “And by the way, do those stupid Ouija boards really work?”
“And why would I know?” she asked, knowing very well the answer.
“Because you’re like best buds with Mrs. Risk. The Witch.”
Mrs. Risk had been known as the Witch of Wyndham-by-the-Sea long before Rachel had been brought to the Long Island village three years ago as the bride of Ike Elias, the fishmonger. When he’d died under suspicious circumstances a year later, Mrs. Risk had taken Rachel under her wing—uninvited—to teach her ‘better methods of survival than murder.’
The mentorship had flourished, although it wasn’t without its prickly moments between their two forceful personalities. Rachel now occasionally called herself an ‘apprentice witch’, tongue-in-cheek to tease her apprehensive neighbors.
Rachel poked and fluffed at the blossoms she’d banked against the door to block it open. The glorious Indian summer sun entered and gilded everything in the shop. “Do these questions have anything to do with the fact that Halloween is a few days away?”
“Well…” Daniel’s uncharacteristic shyness pulled Rachel’s attention away from her displays.
“What?” she prodded.
“People figure I have connections, you know? They get expectations when they find out that I’m like your right hand man around here. Sometimes they think I’m in on the, uh, witch-stuff.” He ducked his head as if suddenly concerned about the unswept condition of the floor near his feet. He grabbed a broom and started sweeping with virtuous energy.
Rachel studied him through narrowed eyes, hands on hips. Although he was only a high school junior, he’d named himself truly as her right hand man. Since she’d hired him, he’d made himself indispensable. He was smart, enthusiastic, hard working, and incapable of dishonesty. He even loved flowers. And he’d made the varsity football team this year. Short, but quick on his feet. With his tilted hazel eyes and quirky grin, he was growing into a girl magnet.
From her lofty position of five years his elder, she speculated whether some high school princess was responsible for Daniel’s sudden interest in witchcraft.
Just then, Mayor Harold Harper of Wyndham-by-the-Sea stepped into the open doorway, filling it with his short blocky body. Before he could launch his usual ‘I’m-a-square-guy’ politician’s grin, Rachel noticed his tension and hoped she knew its source. Elections loomed in early November and for the first time in two decades, he had a fight on his hands. His opponent, Ms. Audrey Green, former head of Wyndham’s School Board, had mustered strong support among certain of the villagers.
“Sweetheart, how ya doin’!” He stepped inside the door, took one of her hands and stretched to buss the taller Rachel’s cheek. She submitted, but with distaste. Her vote was earmarked for Ms. Green.
“Any roses today?” He dropped her hand and glanced around at the mums, ivy-draped pumpkins, Indian corn, and dried flower wreaths.
“Always,” said Rachel. “What color?”
“Red. How much?”
“Forty a dozen.”
He winced. “Okay. Free delivery to my house?”
“Sure,” put in Daniel. “When?”
“Right now?”
Rachel grinned. “Sounds urgent. Mrs. Harper catch you kissing a babe instead of a baby, Mayor?”
“Never mind. Just give me a card to put in with the flowers.”
She waved a hand at the card rack. He picked one, scribbled something, and sealed the envelope before handing it to Daniel, with two twenties. Rachel noticed he hadn’t included tax, and sighed, nodding to Daniel to go ahead and ring it up. The mayor was accustomed to claiming privileges that weren’t his to claim.
At this moment, Mrs. Risk entered the shop, striding long-legged in the impatient way she had, black skirts swirling at her slim ankles. On her arm was the basket containing her cat, Jezebel, who liked to ride along on Mrs. Risk’s walks.
Rachel giggled. “Lucky you dropped in. Daniel’s got some questions for you.”
Mrs. Risk beamed at Daniel. “Oh, yes? And what are they?”
Mayor Harper twisted to face Mrs. Risk. To Rachel’s surprise, she saw relief wash over his features. “Sweet—I mean, ah, Mrs. Risk! Hoped I’d run into you this morning!”
Mrs. Risk’s eyelids drooped at once over onyx eyes gleaming with suspicion. Rachel and Daniel gaped at the unnatural warmth of Harper’s greeting. Mrs. Risk extended her long fingers to the mayor to ward off his kiss. He shook them awkwardly, then dropped them as if they were too hot.
“I’m having a rally tonight, casual, out on Harrington’s dock. Music, drinks, a few peanuts and chips. Whole village’s invited. I—ah—thought you might consider attending as my guest of honor. Maybe—ah, say a few words.”
“On your behalf?” asked Mrs. Risk. “For the election?”
“Well. Of course. If you—ah—that’s the idea. Yes.” He fidgeted, which looked odd for a man of his age and bulk. He swallowed hard, shook his head as if trying to squeeze out more words, then finally croaked, “I’d really appreciate it.”
Rachel and Daniel stared. His Honor was known for asking favors, but never from Mrs. Risk, about whom he often broadcast nasty speculations. Indeed, Mrs. Risk often directed uncomfortable attention towards His Honor—against which he always took an ‘injured innocence’ stance. Mrs. Risk contemplated Harper. The silence grew.
“Yes, well.” He exhaled through pursed lips. “What say, huh?” This was almost begging.
He must need her support desperately, guessed Rachel.
Just before the silence stretched to an unbearable length, Mrs. Risk relented. “Sounds lovely. Thank you for your invitation, Harry.” He hated to be called Harry. “But no.”
“Oh, you’ve other plans,” he said, waving a thick paw through the air as if dismissing any plans she might have as insignificant. “I could—”
“No, I’m not busy this evening. I could be there. However, I support your opponent, Ms. Green. If I attend your event, I will say as much to your other guests, loudly and often. If you can accept those circumstances, I’d be happy to attend.”
Harper ground his teeth together. “What do you have against me being Wyndham’s mayor again?”
“Why, Harry!” Her eyebrows arched as if in surprise at such a question. “I have so little time this morning, but since you ask: your fondness for commercializing any aspect of Wyndham to swell your salary, even if it downgrades the quality of our life, our wildlife, or our environment. Or—care to discuss your greed for payoffs and extravagant perks?”
The glowering Mayor quivered where he stood, his complexion evolving from red to deep purple. Rachel wondered if his head was going to explode.
Then abruptly his color receded. He aimed a stumpy finger at a pile of tiny tagged cellophane-wrapped bags of grassy material that lay next to the cash register. “WHAT,” he bellowed at Rachel, “IS THAT?”
Rachel blinked, disoriented by the sudden change of subject. She looked where he pointed. “The herbs? They’re…they’re herbs,” she finished helplessly.
“You’re promoting witchcraft!” he boomed, an evangelistic note in his pronouncement.
“No I’m not. Besides, what if I did? It’s Halloween,” said Rachel. “I AM in a business that’s heavily into holidays.”
“You’re responsible for this,” he accused Mrs. Risk with a sneer.
“Yes, I supplied the herbs,” she agreed. “What of it?”
Rachel shook her head. “I asked her to bundle up a variety of herbs for me, with explanatory labels. She did it as a favor.”
Mrs. Risk said, “It’s herbology, not witchcraft, if that’s your objection. To offer others an opportunity to sample in a small way the benefits of a natural life as opposed to employing polluting chemicals—”
“Don’t sell me your hokey ‘natural’ shtick,” growled Harper. “Ordinarily I look the other way when you push your UNnatural weeds, or creepy advice on my people, but this season—” and to everyone’s amazement, he shivered ostentatiously.
“It isn’t just me, either,” he continued. “Everyone feels it. They’re all going around looking over their shoulders and jumping if somebody talks too loud.”
“I’ve noticed it, too,” put in Daniel. Mrs. Risk looked skeptically at Daniel.
“But why?” Rachel asked.
Mayor Harper started to answer, but Daniel interrupted, “Guys are saying that strange things’ve been happening ever since that meteor shower we had a few nights back.”
“Meteor shower? What could that do?” asked Rachel.
Mrs. Risk gazed at the Mayor, her black eyes gleaming. With a mischievously taunting voice, she answered, “Any atmospheric disturbance further agitates spirits that, in this case, would already be restless because of the advent of Halloween.”
“Not true,” scoffed Harper in an oddly high voice. Mrs. Risk shrugged. Harper blustered, “I hereby go on record to say I disapprove of your promoting these dangerous ideas.”
Mrs. Risk’s eyebrows rose. “Herbalism?”
“All of your nonsense. My people don’t need this kind of upsetting occult influence.”
“Your people?” Rachel asked in a voice tinged with sarcasm. “Occult influence?”
“Yes. Things have happened already because of you!”
The ‘you,’ Rachel realized with consternation, was aimed at Mrs. Risk.
The mayor resumed, “Like the desecration that occurred in one of our historical cemeteries last night. I don’t know if you read your paper this morning but—”
“I read it,” Rachel stated flatly. Mrs. Risk insisted she read newspapers every morning as part of her ‘education’, but she didn’t tell this to the mayor. “The old Van Schull cemetery. Two old tombstones were shifted around and—” she broke off and gazed suspiciously at Daniel. His face suddenly became angelic with innocence as he gazed back. She suppressed an urge to laugh. There had to be a girl behind this.
Mrs. Risk made an inelegant noise. “A few old tombstones budged mere inches does not amount to desecration, Mayor. A little harmless excitement.” A flicked wink at Daniel spurred him into a flurry of sweeping. “And pray God the quest for thrills precipitates nothing more harmful than THAT.”
Mayor Harper curled his lips into a snarl. “It upsets my people. I intend to put a stop to it and make sure the perpetrator is severely punished. This is a Christian community. Occultism is an abomination!”
With a second abrupt change of mood, Mayor Harper beamed a cheery farewell to Rachel, sidling out past Mrs. Risk without acknowledging her any further.
The moment he was out of earshot, Rachel turned on the witch—who stood deep in thought—in a fury. “That old actor. He’s up to something, and he thought of it the second he spotted those herbs. And YOU! I told you you’d get into trouble with your hammy ‘Witch of Wyndham’ black dresses and the way you butt into people’s business. Few people realize that you’re actually nice. You’ve flim-flammed them too much.”
Mrs. Risk examined her in surprise. “Why Rachel, you’re upset. I’m in no trouble. I live as I please and do as I like, and I always will. If you’re worried on my behalf, don’t be. I’ve done more good for these villagers than even you know, and the mayor less harm than he deserves. I’ve never asked them for gratitude—”
“And they’ve never given you any, either,” hissed Rachel.
“No matter. Surely they’d never side against me for such an obviously self-interested windbag. Public servant, tchah! He obviously considers me an obstruction to his re-election. Since I’ve done nothing up to now, I can’t imagine why he’s so paranoid, except from having to conceal and deny so much of his true nature, which is hardly my fault.” She shrugged.
Rachel frowned. “Just don’t goad him, like you did about that stupid meteor shower. You’re asking for trouble.”
“I ask for nothing,” insisted Mrs. Risk. “Now, Daniel, what are your questions?”
After a nervous glance at Rachel, Daniel launched with reborn enthusiasm his quest for information about witches, which Mrs. Risk greatly enjoyed supplying.
Two days later, Mayor Harper stormed into Rachel’s shop again, this time shouting as he entered, “Where’s that witch? I warned her! Where’s—” He started as he nearly collided with the object of his quest, Mrs. Risk.
Rachel gazed from face to face worriedly. Daniel came rushing in from the back alley where he’d been unloading pumpkins from a truck. He moved close to Rachel’s side, wiping his hands on a towel and staring wide-eyed.
“What are you howling about?” Mrs. Risk asked calmly. “Are you referring to the events that occurred last night in the cemetery again? That’s certainly no—”
“You’ll promote no more witchcraft shenanigans, or we’ll be having an event occur,” he sneered the words in sarcastic mockery, “in the District Attorney’s office. Or maybe in the lock-up, if you don’t feel like cooperating.”
Rachel was shocked.
Mrs. Risk looked incredulous. “It’s only youngsters. Didn’t you ever cavort in a graveyard on Halloween with a pretty girl when you were young, Harry?”
Harper seethed with anger. “Cavort? This is no cavorting, although maybe you’d think so. This is disgusting.”
“What did they do?” asked Rachel.
“Devil worship,” he spat out in a rage. “Drawing diagrams on the ground, disturbing graves, crazy music, girls doing—God only knows. Under the influence of hallucinatory drugs, probably.”
“Meaning you don’t know, you’re only guessing,” insisted Rachel furiously. “No, you’re hoping. You’re trying to smear Mrs. Risk because without her support, you’re losing your campaign. She’s done nothing at all but tell people she’s going to vote for Ms. Green and people respect her opinion. I’m voting for Ms. Green. We need less scum on our waterfront.”
Mayor Harper turned to Rachel. “You’d better re-read your lease before you start talking to me like that.”
Rachel paled. What did her lease have to do with Mayor Harper? “Get out of my shop!” She started towards him, but he gave her a look which somehow stopped her.
He glanced around the flower-crammed store with exaggerated care. “I always thought this place would make a great liquor store. These plants, too damp. Probably rotting the floor with all your watering. And bugs. Unhealthy. I’ll bet a good inspection could reveal this place of business to be dangerous to customers.
“And that picture of you—open to an obscenity charge.” He contemplated Rachel’s large nude portrait of her reclining among strategically placed colorful blossoms. A famous local artist had painted it, and she’d hung it on the wall behind the counter and used it as her logo. Daniel often could be caught mooning over that painting, to Mrs. Risk’s distress.
Harper tore his gaze away from the painting. He gave her lush figure a lascivious inspection. “Well, it could just be that you’re too much under the influence of this woman, here. You’re young, you could reform. After she’s gone.”
A growl begin in Daniel’s throat. Rachel elbowed him in the stomach.
Harper returned his attention to Mrs. Risk, evidently considering Rachel dealt with. “We find out who’s doing these outrages, they’re going to jail. And you with ’em—as instigator. The villagers are terrified, so I’m here on their behalf to stop you. Halloween is in two days—”
“Two nights,” corrected Mrs. Risk in a droll tone.
Mayor Harper’s face deepened in color. He pointed a stubby finger at her. “No one but me has the guts to confront you, you’ve intimidated the entire village!”
“Uh, Mayor,” began Daniel hesitantly, his face pale. “Mrs. Risk didn’t have anything—”
Rachel elbowed him harder.
Mrs. Risk looked amused. “Is this a new plank in your sagging platform?” And giving a startlingly good imitation of the mayor’s speech-making voice, she boomed, “‘After I inflate this ordinary situation into a problem, watch me solve it by running the evil witch out of town—never mind the truth is that she’s only a threat to my reelection! I’m your man to get things done!’” She laughed. “I suppose it has as much merit as the rest of your rhetoric.”
This enraged the Mayor into speechlessness, but as soon as he recovered his breath, he said in a menacing voice, “We don’t like creepy things happening in our village. Get out. Leave town now, today, before you’re made to go in a veeerrry uncomfortable way.” He turned on his heel and left.
Daniel turned to Mrs. Risk with an agonized expression. “I’ve got to tell you. You don’t understand, I’m—”
“Daniel,” said Rachel through clenched teeth. “We understand very well. Don’t worry about it. You’re not the problem.” He stopped talking, but his eyes looked bruised.
Rachel’s breath came in gasps as she paced, alternately tossing empty baskets about and ripping fingers through her long curly hair. “Throwing you out of town! It’s our village, too. I knew he was a snake, but this—” She stopped. “What’s that about my lease?”
Mrs. Risk grimaced. “He obviously thinks he has the power to get you evicted, dear. I’ll call Bob Blume, the attorney. He’ll look into it for you.”
“All of a sudden now I need a lawyer?” Rachel sank down onto a stool behind the counter. “I can’t afford a lawyer.”
“Bob is a dear, he’d never charge you.”
In the ensuing silence Daniel returned to his unloading job, pausing on the way to give Rachel’s shoulder a companionable bump with his fist. He looked miserable.
After he left, Rachel’s and Mrs. Risk’s eyes met.
Mrs. Risk said, “It’s not like Daniel to pull pranks, but these are thoroughly harmless, regardless of what Mayor Harper has stimulated the more gullible villagers into believing. It’s Halloween, dear. He’s young, his hormones are in a constant uproar.” She flicked a dismayed glance at Rachel’s portrait and sighed. “He’s an admirable young man, and daily withstands formidable pressures. We can’t allow Daniel to become a victim of Harper’s re-election campaign.”
“I’ll warn him,” said Rachel.
Mrs. Risk shook her head. “I think you may consider him warned. He needs no further embarrassment.”
Rachel looked around her shop, suddenly exhausted. Then she frowned at Mrs. Risk. “Are you going to let Harper get away with this?”
“With what?”
“With making you the—the scapegoat. Like you’re a bad influence or something, making people want to get rid of you. You’re going to defend yourself, aren’t you?”
Mrs. Risk flipped a hand negligently. “Ignore his ravings. He’s trying to nullify the effect of my support for Ms. Green. I have no intention of paying him the compliment of taking him seriously.”
“Your nasty remarks made everything worse, you know. You deliberately made him madder.”
“It would be more precise to say that my stating of my opinion aggravated him beyond what tiny reason he possesses…but so what?”
“So what? He ordered you to leave Wyndham!” Rachel cried in frustration, which brought Daniel running in again from the alley.
“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Risk soothingly to Daniel. “She’s fine, although a bit flustered at the moment. I must run.” And she left.
Early the next morning, Mrs. Risk and Rachel were sharing herbal tea and the New York Times and other newspapers in Mrs. Risk’s cottage—a morning ritual—when two visitors arrived unexpectedly at her door. Mrs. Risk admitted them out of the drizzling rain and offered them tea.
Mayor Harper curtly refused, and held out his umbrella to drip on her stone floor.
He’d brought with him a Trustee of the Village Board, Dr. Villas, who glowered, but mostly at the mayor, it seemed to Rachel. Knowing him, she guessed he resented having been dragged away from his patients at St. Boniface Hospital.
“Come sit by the fire, dry off,” Rachel invited.
Dr. Villas waved a hand. “Thank you, no. Last night two corpses were found—”
“I read it in this morning’s paper,” interrupted Mrs. Risk. “Any identification made?”
Mayor Harper cleared his throat loudly and at great length, disliking the way matters had leaped forward without his control. He intoned sonorously, “They had been slit up the middle, drained of all blood, and then crudely sewn back up.”
Mrs. Risk gave him a cool glance. “Yes. I found that aspect fascinating.”
“You would,” Mayor Harper sneered. “You go too far, Mrs. Risk.”
Her expression said she found this statement incomprehensible.
He continued. “You know what the villagers fear?”
“What now?”
“Vampirism!”
Dr. Villas closed his eyes and turned away.
Rachel said scathingly, “Vampires are a fairy tale, Mayor. Do you believe in leprechauns, too?”
“This is no fiction, young lady. If you’d seen the two unfortunate beings, as I did, their bodies—”
Dr. Villas interrupted sharply. “That’s enough. No one forced you to view the bodies, Harold. So don’t shove the image down their throats.”
The Mayor gave him an impatient glance, then added, “They say you’re not only a witch, but a blood drinker.”
“That’s ridiculous!” exclaimed Rachel. She turned angrily to Mrs. Risk. “Can’t we sue or something? Isn’t this libel or—or slander? Call Bob Blume!”
“Calm yourself, Rachel. No one would possibly believe such a flagrant—”
The mayor cut in loudly. “The villagers cower in their beds, fearing who you’ll choose next as victim!”
Dr. Villas winced. “Harold,” he began, but was cut off.
Mrs. Risk said, smiling sweetly, “You should cower in your bed, Harry, afraid the villagers might realize your contempt for their intelligence. If you leave my house swiftly, I’ll consider not telling them. Otherwise,” she shrugged. “I can’t be held responsible.”
Mayor Harper took a deep, contented breath that confounded Rachel. “You’ll see.” He chuckled. “C’mon, Doc.”
Dr. Villas glanced uncertainly at Mrs. Risk, then followed him out.
After she shut the door on them, Rachel turned to Mrs. Risk and said, “He’s too happy to suit me. You must see now, you have to do something.”
“Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Risk laughed. “The villagers might be foolishly going along with this outrageous theory, but not in their hearts. They’ll soon recall that in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve done them only good. They’ll throw this idiot out on his ear at the election.” She walked calmly back to her chair, sat, and picked up her tea cup.
Rachel watched her sadly. “In the last two years, you have opened my eyes to so much. Why are your eyes now closed?”
“He’s stirring up a false crisis, Rachel. Then ‘solving’ it to make himself look effective.”
“Yes!” said Rachel. “But the villagers—maybe they don’t really think you drink blood or anything stupid like that, but some are jealous of you. See, most work hard for a living, but still only just hang on. It’s expensive to live on Long Island. And here you sit on your fanny, doing whatever you feel like—as you keep telling me—not working a day in your life as far as any of us can see. Nobody, not even me, knows how you can afford it.”
“That’s no one’s business but my own,” said the witch distinctly.
“I’m not denying it. And I’m not denying jealousy is petty and wrong, too, but people feel it. And most are scared of you. You’re an intimidating person. You’ve gotten some out of scrapes, sure, but some of them you’ve caught doing wrong.”
Mrs. Risk said softly, “Rachel, some people are content to merely live. I am one of those who needs something to live for. A mission, you might call it. And since my peculiar bent of mind has been found to be of use to others, that’s what I live for—to be of use. Life is hard. I have much to give, so I give it.”
After a long silence, Rachel said, “But that doesn’t change the fact that Harper’s harvesting all those old resentments, offended egos, and fears. And you’re letting him.”
Mrs. Risk stared into the fire.
Rachel took a deep, ragged breath. “Maybe this meteor shower has done a lot worse than stir up imaginary spirits. Maybe it’s robbed you of your common sense. I’ve got to go.” Fighting back tears, she grabbed up her jacket and fled.
Later that morning, when the rain stopped and the sun again lit the colorful fall landscape, Mrs. Risk took up her basket. Her cat, Jezebel, hopped inside, and they went for a stroll through the village. Through Mayor Harper’s village—his possessive words returned to her mind, but she shook the thought away. Her village.
Instead of choosing the short route along the strip of beach that edged Wyndham Bay, she took the longer way, the road that fronted her neighbors’ houses, so she could greet them, and gossip. Be friendly.
The first person she saw was Vinnie the mailman. As she approached, she noticed his expression becoming anxious. Before she could arrive within speaking distance, he baffled her by hopping into his truck and rapidly driving away, the small engine straining to navigate the hill.
Nearer the village proper, the road became edged with boardwalks. She strolled down the boardwalk, and as she progressed, people crossed to the opposite side of the road when she came into sight. Jezebel poked her head through the flap opening of the basket and yowled, almost as if she could feel the tension mounting around her. When Mrs. Risk crossed the road to the side opposite the bay, people disappeared into this shop doorway or that, melting out of her path.
Abruptly, Mrs. Risk stopped and stared down the oddly empty boardwalk. She stood for a moment, stroking Jezebel’s sleek head, then whirled and returned home, this time taking the shortcut, the more deserted beach path. When she finally arrived at her cottage, she phoned a few friends. “It’s Halloween Eve. I have a Bordeaux that wants sampling,” she invited. She tried not to be, but was still surprised when only two would come. Aisa Garret and Ernie Block.
After dinner, having sampled and judged two Burgundies of varying pedigree and vintage, along with the star Bordeaux, the three friends gathered in front of her fireplace with coffee. The evening had passed uneasily.
A smile creased old Aisa’s thin face as he rocked back in his chair. “Excellent dinner. Two of those wines are real finds, I compliment you. Now. What’re you going to do about this mess Harper has created around you, my dear?” He asked the question offhandedly, and seemed preoccupied with the label of a bottle of cognac twice his age and almost too bulky for his small hands to grasp. From his perch on a large padded stool, Ernie fiddled restlessly with his coffee cup which he had balanced on the apex of his pot belly. He nodded his approval of Aisa’s question and watched Mrs. Risk sharply out of the corner of his eye.
Aisa, the widowed and childless retired owner of North Shore Industries Corporation, was one of Mrs. Risk’s oldest and closest friends and knew more about her than anyone else in Wyndham, although he wasn’t telling.
Ernie, a large man with well-padded bones, was a local building contractor in his late fifties and a devoted admirer. His amiable personality concealed a shrewd intelligence under his Giants cap. Mrs. Risk and Aisa were teaching Ernie about wine, so they often invited him to share wine tasting opportunities.
“What mess?” she answered negligently.
“Oh, don’t sidestep me, there’s trouble all right. Rachel told me all about it. And if she hadn’t, I still would’ve known. Who could avoid the hysteria the mayor is dispensing as fast as he can round the village? So don’t give her any grief for snitching,” Aisa said firmly, forestalling her rising protests. “Blood-sucking. Vampirism. Theatrical idiocy.” He snorted in disgust.
“This isn’t my doing. All I did was—”
Aisa finished smoothly, “All you’ve done is exist, which has always irritated Harry. In the first place, without lifting a finger you’ve power and authority he must win in elections. In the second place, that authority has made you perversely vital to re-election. Murky situation.”
“Murky’s a good word for it,” put in Ernie suddenly, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
She mused, “I keep wondering who those two poor souls were. It’s odd the police haven’t been able to discover anything about them.”
“Now there you’ve put your nose on it,” said Ernie. “If you’d figure out the story behind those two bodies…”
“He’s right,” said Aisa. “You’d not only earn the poor ah—gentlemen—a decent resting place, you’d expose the Mayor’s foolishness.”
“The foolishness of the whole village,” corrected Ernie. He poured himself more coffee.
“I challenge you my dear. Expose this inflammatory, self-serving hogwash for what it is,” finished Aisa. “I believe I’ll have a drop of this cognac after all. Ernie?” Aisa held up the bottle. Ernie shook his head no, so Aisa served himself.
Mrs. Risk said, “This is too ridiculous. The police are more than competent to trace identities, with their databases and…” she waved a hand in the air, signifying vast resources. “They’ll figure out how those two men died, and why, and how they ended up here. So let them do their jobs. The mayor is NOT going to manipulate me into lifting a finger that I personally don’t wish to lift.”
Aisa swirled his cognac in the big-bellied snifter and scowled. “Pride, eh? Can’t stoop to fight back?”
“Tchah!” spat Mrs. Risk. “Give me a decent foe! He’s the worst sort of cheap clown.”
“Decent foe?” Ernie looked puzzled. “I think Harper’s about as mean a foe as you could get. He doesn’t care whose life he ruins, long’s he gets his way. And he just might ruin yours if you don’t stand up for yourself.”
“If you won’t do battle for yourself, then think of Rachel and Daniel,” added Aisa quietly.
“They don’t need me. They’ve got Bob Blume,” she said.
“And who’ve those two poor dead guys got?” asked Ernie, but Mrs. Risk refused to answer.
“So, as this is a battle not of your own picking, you’ll go down in flames, but noble flames. Is that it?” asked Aisa.
“You make me sound silly,” she said sullenly.
Ernie added, leaning towards her, “If we could take care of it for you, we would. But Aisa and me, we got no clue what to do. It’s like fighting a marshmallow man, when you fight people’s opinions. Hate to tell you, but you’re the only one equipped for a thing like this.”
“You’re making too much of this,” said Mrs. Risk, rising. “I don’t wish to discuss it any further.” And with Aisa’s and Ernie’s anxiety-filled gazes on her, she began clearing away the glasses.
Halloween dawned grey and chill. Rachel called, declaring herself unable to come for the morning tea and newspapers, making an excuse so transparently false that it left Mrs. Risk feeling unanchored. She fretted and paced, fiddled with her bird feeders and tramped among her trees, inspecting their health and well-being for the coming winter with a total inability to remember from one second to the next what she’d just observed. “Soon I’ll be squatting in some corner, picking my toenails and screaming,” she growled at a bluejay. The jay gave a bone shivering shriek and fled.
A mist was gathering over the Sound, blanketing the grey still water. She clutched her thick shawl tighter and let the air cool her strangely hot cheeks. A moment later, she sighed and returned to her cottage. She picked up her basket, called to Jezebel, who daintily sprang into its wool-lined depths, and together they set off for the village.
She entered St. Boniface Hospital and descended to the morgue by way of the fire stairs. With the pathologist’s permission, she asked the attendant to show her the two unidentified bodies. In seconds, she was gazing at two waxen faces. Both were male, one heartbreakingly young, the other of advanced middle age. After a brief inspection, she stared off into space, her expression thoughtful.
Using the wall phone, she dialed the hospital operator and asked for Dr. Villas to be paged to come to the morgue. After some time, he arrived, as always looking harried and annoyed. She uncovered the two bodies.
“Yes, yes, I’ve seen them,” he said testily.
“Look again, Dr. Villas.”
To please her, he looked, but only an impatient glance. “I must get back—”
“Doesn’t something about them seem familiar?”
“If I knew them I would have said so when they were found,” he said, seething. “Of what are you accusing me? Maybe Harper’s right. Our village doesn’t need a busybody like you.” He stomped away, smacking the open door with his fist.
When the pathologist ventured in to see what had upset Dr. Villas, Mrs. Risk, ignoring his nervous inquiry, asked, gesturing towards the two bodies, “Tell me, doctor, don’t these two seem oddly familiar to you?”
He stared at her with widening eyes, then turned and fled.
Mrs. Risk gazed after him in perplexity. After some moments, she realized the attendant was hovering outside, unwilling to enter while she was still there, so she left him to his peaceful charges.
A few blocks away, she visited another morgue, this time the village newspaper’s. She muttered as she searched, complaining to Jezebel (for lack of human listeners—the newspaper staff of three had taken an early lunch break upon her arrival) about the lack of space in her cottage, otherwise she’d keep her own files of news cuttings, for she did find them immensely useful.
After finding what she wanted, she began walking home. Now people openly fled the boardwalk at her approach. One teenaged boy shouted at her retreating back in mock bravery, “Get outa Wyndham! Leave us alone!”
Her steps faltered for only a second. She pressed her lips firmly together and, looking inadvertently even more formidable, walked faster. “This Halloween is proving evil, indeed, my Jezebel,” she murmured. Jezebel kept her head inside the basket and made no sound.
Once home, she found that intruders had visited in her absence. Her beloved ancient oaks, the ones sheltering the path to her cottage, had been hacked and gouged. She groaned involuntarily as she touched gaping wounds with trembling fingers. Jezebel, feeling the anguish of her mistress, leaped from the basket and padded towards the house.
In a second, Mrs. Risk heard yowling, followed by a hiss. She rushed up the path, only to stop in front of a white cardboard box placed on the ground about five yards from her house. In addition, she saw that her doorstep was coated in a glutinous mass of smashed rotted pumpkin. Its stink filled the glade. Jezebel, however, faced a large shrub. She hissed and spat, her back arched.
Mrs. Risk crouched in a martial arts fighting stance and commanded, “Come out!” Jezebel yowled again.
Ernie’s bulky form rose sheepishly, a spade in hand. She relaxed her posture with a sigh.
“Do you really know how to do that stuff?” he asked as he crawled out from the prickly branches, his fascination at this new aspect of her distracting him in spite of himself.
“You’d better hope you never find out.”
She inspected the cardboard box as if expecting cobras to slither out. Instead, she found a pot of chili, some bread, and a pie. A note pleaded with Mrs. Risk to regard the Frazier family kindly, promising similar offerings weekly from now on in return for not cursing them. She dropped the note as if scalded. With ashen complexion, she backed away.
Ernie was horrified to see tears well in her eyes as she looked up at him. “They think I might hurt them.”
He followed her and Jezebel into the cottage. She dropped limply into a chair. He built a sturdy fire, then pulled curtains across each window. After washing the foul pumpkin mess from the doorstep and disposing of the food offerings, he dug around noisily in the kitchen, and returned with a pot of hot tea and cups. He poured, but although she quietly thanked him, she didn’t move to take it. Jezebel huddled close to the fire and shivered.
They sat for an hour before she spoke, and then she spoke, startling him. The tea lay cold and untouched on the stone hearth.
“I’ll leave Wyndham,” she said in a lifeless voice.
“You can’t leave.” He tried to sound firm, only managing to sound desperate. “I’ll stay by you. Nobody’ll bother you with me around.”
She looked at him. “And how did these—these—things get to my cottage, then?”
“I came after. I saw some strange cars coming out of your lane, got worried. When I saw what they’d done, I got a spade from my truck—”
“Where is your truck? I didn’t see it.”
“Hid it across the road in the other lane. Nobody home to care, gone for the winter already.”
She nodded, having already lost interest. She looked down at her lap broodily and patted her skirt. Jezebel twitched to attention, then leaped up. Mrs. Risk stroked Jezebel’s fur.
She leaned back in her chair and left her hand motionless on Jezebel’s tiny powerful shoulders. “Maybe I’ve been here too long.”
Ernie picked up the pot and untouched cups, took it all back to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and two wineglasses.
“Don’t often drink in the middle of the afternoon, but maybe this’s better’n tea right now.” He uncorked it inexpertly, then sloshed it into the glasses. “The trouble with you is, you’re too smart,” he said.
Mrs. Risk flicked him a glance from beneath her lowered lids. She smiled faintly as she took her glass. She breathed in the aroma, then took a sip.
“You watch out for others so daggoned much, maybe you don’t see yourself enough. If you had, you’da noticed that you’re not near so independent as you pretend to be.”
Mrs. Risk looked startled, but she listened as she drank more wine. Some color seeped back into her cheeks.
“Ma’am, you’re sort of a phony, lookin’ at it this way. I mean—” He stopped in frustration. “Hang in there, give me a minute.”
She smiled at him affectionately and began stroking Jezebel again. Jezebel purred, her eyes closed.
“Well, it’s that…you don’t know it, but you love us.”
Mrs. Risk blinked at him in astonishment.
He continued doggedly. “You got a thing for people, that’s why you butt into our affairs, help anybody who asks for it, and do the wackiest things I ever seen. But smart. Really smart. I’d never think of half the stuff you do. And the world needs people like you. Wyndham needs you. And you belong here, to us.”
“They don’t want me,” she said bitterly. “Whether or not I stay, this lesson will not pass unlearned. I will never again interfere, or try to change events for the better. That’s been a joke. On me. A sick, sad, sour joke.”
Ernie frowned. “I guess I’m lousy at explaining things. You’re not getting it.”
They sat in a tense, unhappy silence. After a long while, Ernie sighed, said, “Well, you gonna let Harper get away with this one last thing before you quit?”
“What difference would it make?”
He shrugged, but glanced at her with narrowed eyes. “I could mention that Wyndham sure could use a new mayor. But…it also might keep your trees alive.”
Tears sprang into her eyes. “Human beings are capable of the most incredible stupidities.”
“God’s truth, ma’am.”
The fire, untended, began to go out. After watching it for some minutes, Mrs. Risk sighed. “I feel so tired, Ernie. May I ask you a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Would you drive me somewhere?”
“When?”
“After I make some phone calls.”
Ernie stood up. “I’ll get us a snack.”
She turned and picked up the phone. In about forty minutes, between bites of sandwich, she elicited the information she wanted. She hung up.
“Now,” she said.
At the Berg University School of Medicine in Queens, Mrs. Risk and Ernie found the maintenance garage. Here was stored the vans, lawn equipment, and other practical detritus of the school. Ernie, who’d been primed by Mrs. Risk, called out to the only person they found in residence, “Insurance adjuster. Got some questions.” He held up a clipboard and clicked his ballpoint pen. “’Bout the missing truck.”
The man wore a khaki one piece uniform with the name of the school embroidered over one pocket. His workbench was littered with pieces of greasy metal. “The van? No insurance company’s involved, far’s I know,” he answered, gazing at them with suspicion.
Ernie looked nonplussed. Mrs. Risk said rapidly, “Administration changed their minds on that. Now we have claim forms to fill out.”
The man rolled his eyes as if disgusted with such vacillation. “I turned in my report to the Provost yesterday.”
“Yeah, but we have to ask other stuff,” insisted Ernie.
The man shrugged. “Ask.” He picked up a greasy chunk of metal and began wiping it with a rag.
“Theft occurred on October 29th, right? After dark?”
The man nodded.
“Where was the driver when the van was stolen?”
“At that diner in Suffolk County. Didn’t you read the report?”
“Yeah, but we couldn’t tell if he was at the diner when the van was stolen, or if that’s just where he used the phone to report it.”
“Both. They’d stopped to eat supper. There was two drivers,” the man said.
“What was the name of the diner again?”
The man looked annoyed, so Ernie pleaded, “I don’t have your report with me, for cryin’ out loud. I gotta fill this out now.”
“The Porthole Diner. In Elmdale. On Highway 14.”
“And they were coming back from where?”
The man exhaled in exasperation. “East End Hospital. Good thing you don’t work here. Efficiency is everything. Do it right the first time, or that’s it.”
“Tight ship, huh?” asked Ernie companionably.
“Fired both guys that same night. Expensive van, just like that one.” He gestured at a new van parked thirty feet away. It was a pale cream color, unmarked with any logo.
“And the two drivers’ names?”
“Frank Ivers and Julio Gravez.”
Ernie laboriously spelled out their names on his form. “Where they now?”
“Got me. Collecting unemployment somewhere.” The man grinned. “Left the keys in the ignition while they were in the diner. Tried to deny it, but no keys on ’em when they were picked up.”
“Picked up by the cops, you mean?”
“Cops? No, somebody from the school drove out to pick ’em up. Told you. No insurance claim, no cops, they wanted it kept—hey, let me see your credentials.”
Mrs. Risk said crisply, “Just direct us to the Provost’s office. He can furnish the rest of the information himself.”
He looked abashed, and led them to the Administration Building.
With her hand on the Provost’s office doorknob, Mrs. Risk thanked the maintenance man for his help and said they would continue by themselves. He left. Seconds later, she and Ernie left, also.
At the nearest phone booth, she called her friend Homicide Detective Michael Hahn of Suffolk County’s Sixth Precinct. After conducting a computer search to answer her question, he connected her with NYC Police Detective Klinger, the officer from a Brooklyn precinct in charge of the case about which she desired information. After a three-way conversation, complete with reassurances from Detective Hahn to Detective Klinger about Mrs. Risk’s peculiar but reliable habits, they agreed to meet in the parking lot of the Porthole Diner as soon as possible. Detective Michael Hahn came out of curiosity.
When all had arrived, Michael hailed Ernie, whom he knew from evenings at Mrs. Risk’s. After the introductions were completed, Mrs. Risk directed Detective Klinger to go into the diner and to ask a certain question.
Minutes later, Klinger returned. “Just like she said,” he told Detective Hahn, wonder in his voice. “That blue Pontiac’s been here since the night the van disappeared.”
Michael grinned.
Klinger paused to radio someone in his office. When he was through, he commented, “Manhattan plate. Not reported stolen. Yet.”
“Oh, I doubt it’s stolen,” said Mrs. Risk.
Klinger continued, “Since it’s a fairly nice car, the diner management figured they’d give the owner a couple days. If he didn’t come for it by then, they’d have it towed. Happens occasionally, they said. Someone leaves a car overnight or whatever. They’re open 24 hours a day, seems safe, they guess.”
He turned to Mrs. Risk. “Okay. I’ve played along, now what’s the connection to my fur robbery?”
Mrs. Risk nodded. “The fur shipment in question was hi-jacked by two men in a van early this morning, correct?”
Klinger nodded.
“So let’s reconstruct events. On the 29th, the would-be thieves, after learning about a fur shipment that would be trucked through Brooklyn on the 31st—today—left Manhattan to find a truck or van in which to transport the furs once they were stolen. Their own car wouldn’t hold enough furs, and besides, it was theirs and could be traced. They gave themselves a full day to find just the right vehicle. Beginning as far away from Manhattan as they could conveniently get—Long Island’s East End, as we see—they scouted the various mall and diner parking lots, which are wonderful places to find a vehicle to steal.
“The med school van was perfect: good condition, expensive enough to be fast, unmarked, and best of all—keys left in the ignition. They parked their own car for later retrieval in the busiest section of the diner’s lot. It’s safer here than left unattended in Manhattan, certainly.
“Unfortunately, the van already had a cargo, but they resolved to ditch it on the first stretch of dark road they encountered—which definitely describes Highway 14 as it passes through the south edge of Wyndham. Not a street lamp anywhere, and no open businesses after six. It must’ve seemed the ideal spot.”
She smiled. “Imagine their shock, however, when they found that the unwanted baggage was not a ‘what’ but a ‘who’. Two of them, in fact.”
“The two dead men?” ventured Ernie.
“Two cadavers being transported to the medical school from East End Hospital for use by students in dissection,” she said. “That possibility should’ve occurred to any observant medical man as soon as he spotted the condition of the autopsied corpses.”
Ernie shuddered, and young Klinger wrinkled his nose in distaste. Only Michael looked unbothered. Homicide had hardened him to much worse.
“So they pitched them out,” said Michael cheerfully.
“Well, yes, after they took care of a small problem.”
“What?” asked Michael.
“Body bags. The van was unmarked, which was one reason why they took it, but the black zippered body bags customarily used in these instances were stamped with the school’s name. They couldn’t leave the bags behind to point out the direction in which they were traveling…from Elmdale to Wyndham is a straight line towards Brooklyn. The theft wasn’t slated for another 36 hours and it would be a nuisance to be picked up for car theft before scoring the robbery. They hoped two dead men would never be connected with a van theft—at least, not right away.”
“So they had to take the bodies out of their bags? I hope it gave ’em nightmares,” said Klinger, laughing.
“Yeah, well, their nightmares became Mayor Harper’s dream,” said Ernie in a voice rumbling with anger. “He used the weird condition of the bodies to push Mrs. Risk out of Wyndham.”
Michael looked shocked. “What’s this?”
Ernie explained. Michael’s normally soft blue eyes acquired a chilling hardness.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we wait,” said Mrs. Risk. She seemed unexcited. “They should be returning soon. The van is too dangerous to keep longer than necessary,” she commented to Klinger. “They probably left it in the parking lot of the nearest public transportation—the safest and easiest way to travel back to their own car. I’d search the bus or railway stations nearest the Port Authority in Elizabeth, New Jersey, if I were you. As you know, a veritable river of stolen goods change hands in that area.”
She glanced at Ernie’s watch. “After this morning’s theft, they needed time to get to New Jersey. Time to sell the furs and ditch the van, and a little more time to catch some type of public transportation. It’s a three hour journey by train from Elizabeth to here, and longer by bus. They should be arriving soon.” She settled back to wait, leaning tiredly against the side of Ernie’s truck.
Klinger immediately flicked the switch on his portable radio unit and gave instructions to the dispatcher about Elizabeth.
After a few moments of puzzled shuffling, Detective Klinger cleared his throat. “Mind if I clear up a few points while we wait?”
She shrugged.
“How’d you connect the bodies with the medical school?”
“The newspapers.”
“But no one reported any bodies missing, just found.”
“Exactly. No men were reported missing, dead or even alive, who fit their description. Who would lose two bodies without giving out a report or alarm of some kind? Only those who would want to conceal the loss. And these men had obviously been dead long enough to be autopsied, which directed my attention to the medical profession. A medical school, which receives bodies donated by grieving relatives, would cringe to receive the kind of publicity engendered by having the dearly departed callously dumped by the side of a road. Donations would cease.”
Klinger nodded. “And when you questioned the medical schools, looking for one who misplaced some cadavers?”
“There are not that many medical schools on Long Island. Some ridiculous lies exposed the guilty party.”
“So you deduced the van’s existence?”
“Well, the bodies weren’t wanted. Something was. It must have been the transport. And why that particular vehicle? Maybe because it was of a certain size or type, useful for transport of goods that would fill it. Stolen van, stolen goods.”
“And since time would necessarily be kept short to reduce chances of discovery,” began Detective Hahn.
Mrs. Risk nodded. “The theft must have been imminent. I called you to research the latest thefts in the New York area, probably on or near Long Island, and this fur theft fit perfectly—timing, size of booty, location.”
Detective Klinger sighed happily. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Risk.”
She gave him a sad smile.
Ernie and Michael exchanged worried frowns.
In less than forty minutes, a taxi pulled into the lot and disgorged two young men.
“How many people visit a diner by taxi?” murmured Mrs. Risk.
One man paid the driver, while the other sauntered towards the Pontiac under observation. He rummaged in his pocket for the key.
The arrest took seconds.
Detective Klinger, after effusive thanks to Mrs. Risk, took matters into his own hands. Ernie drove Mrs. Risk back to her cottage. Michael followed in his own car.
When she stepped down from the high seat of Ernie’s truck, she paused and clung to the door, scanning the cottage front. As if Ernie read her mind, he swiftly said, “Nobody’s been here since we left. See?”
Upon entering her cottage, she immediately sank into her chair by the unlit fireplace as if oblivious of the dark. Ernie bustled around, lighting lamps, candles, and the fire, tending it until it became huge and hot.
Michael pulled up a chair next to Mrs. Risk’s. Ernie whispered to Michael, “Wouldn’t talk all the way home.” Michael grimaced.
“Some wine?” Ernie asked her. She shook her head. His eyes grew wide as he glanced with significance at Michael.
“So you’re leaving town,” said Michael mildly.
She nodded.
“Giving up all the friendships you’ve made, all the nurturing you’ve done to make this village a good place to live.”
She sat motionless.
Michael cleared his throat. “You know, Ernie, I’m thirsty. I’ll take some of that Silver Oak ’82 cabernet I see in the rack. Want some?”
“Sure,” said Ernie.
“Bring just two glasses,” said Michael with a wink. Ernie found the bottle, opened it, and brought back two brimming glasses. He put a third empty one on the floor beside him as he sat down.
Michael sipped. “Mmmm. How’re you going to move that wine cellar of yours? Ernie just doubled its size for you, too. You haven’t filled it yet, have you?”
“Think you’re clever, do you?” she asked sourly.
Unperturbed, he went on. “Jezebel’ll probably stay. Live with the new owners. Cats hate change.”
She looked startled. “New owners of what?”
“Of your cottage.” He smiled brightly, took a swig of wine practically in her face.
After a small humph, she turned her attention to the fire.
“Hope the new owners aren’t the kind who use pesticides and chemical lawn food, stuff like that. It’ll run off into the water. Sicken the fish. Birds’ll all die. Butterflies’ll vanish. Your herbs’ll be poisonous. Can’t make dandelion tea—”
She turned her back to him. “Would you shut up?”
“Hey, just reality. Pour me more of that Silver Oak, Ernie. She can’t take it with her.” He held out his glass.
She shifted, glanced at him. “Don’t be such a pig. Pour me some, too.”
Ernie poured and handed her the glass.
She sipped, then drew a heavy breath. “I can’t let those things influence me. Wyndham hates me.”
Michael said, “I thought ‘the witch’ ignored public opinion.”
“Nah,” said Ernie. “She just never lets on. But they hurt her feelings, this time. Bad.”
“Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t here,” she said tartly.
Michael shrugged. “I might as well get used to you not being here.”
Ernie continued, “If she could only figure it out that she wouldn’t be happy anywhere else, that she belongs here no matter what a few yoyos say, and that—”
She stood up, anger gathering on her face. “I am HERE. Talk directly to ME.”
Ernie forged ahead, “And that she’s gonna have to face the fact that it’s more important to be herself than it is to change so that bunch of yoyos’ll accept her.”
Michael nodded. “…‘I’m one of those who needs something to live for. And since my peculiar bent of mind has been found to be of use to others, that’s what I live for—to be of use. Life is hard. I have much to give, so I give it.’ Didn’t she tell somebody that lately?”
“You’ve been talking to Rachel,” she said accusingly. “You knew about this situation before hearing it in the diner parking lot.”
“Rachel called today, right before you did. In fact, your call interrupted hers, that’s why Ernie had to fill in the blanks for me.”
“A bunch of busybodies!” she exclaimed.
Ernie lifted a hand. “Guess what she told Rachel was just hot air,” he said to Michael.
Mrs. Risk whirled to face Ernie, furious.
He continued, “Poor thing hit a bump in her comfortable road. She forgot all that good advice she dishes out to everybody else—” he grinned broadly into her rage, “—with a shovel.”
He stood up, stepped around her, started to hum under his breath as he went into the kitchen. “I’ll fix us some dinner. Not good to drink wine on an empty stomach.”
Michael also stood. He went to the phone. “Great idea. I’m going to call the radio station and the newspapers. They’ll want to broadcast the news about Mrs. Risk solving the riddle of the bloodless bodies and capturing fur thieves.” He chuckled. “A New York Times reporter owes me some favors. I’ll allow him to pay me back. And Ms. Green just might like holding a big press conference explaining how indispensable Mrs. Risk’s presence is to Long Island. And His Honor’s smear campaign. Can’t let his part go unmentioned, can we? A vampire witch—he’s gonna look a damn fool.”
Mrs. Risk stamped her feet. “What do you two think you’re doing!”
Ernie popped his head out through the kitchen door. “It’s Halloween, want garlic on your chicken? Great for scarin’ away vampires.”
Mrs. Risk laughed.