“Good morning, Gwendolyn.” The melodic reply drifted to me from the petite woman pruning her giant sunflowers. Her white hair was barely visible between the thick stalks. “How are you today?”
“Can’t complain.” I moved down the steps, onto my front walk. “Your sunflowers are looking great.”
“Stop by and see me in a few days, I’ll give you some of the seeds to plant next year.” She paused pointedly. “They’re easy to grow. Not much maintenance, even for a beginner gardener like yourself.”
I eyed my own flower beds with a grimace. All my mums were dead as doornails. I wasn’t a beginner gardener, I was a plant serial-killer. My thumb wasn’t green, it was black. “Uh… thanks, Mrs. Proctor. That’s sweet.”
“You know, if you’d put half as much effort into your yard maintenance as you do your daily outfit selection, you’d have a thriving garden.”
Okay, that was somewhat less sweet. In fact, it was borderline rude.
I glanced down at myself, taking in my attire. I was wearing my favorite wool skirt — knee-length with a front slit that stopped an inch short of scandalous. I’d layered it with my killer French-silk semi-sheer tights, the ones with seams down the back, and a pair of low heeled boots that elevated me from my usual 5’4” to 5’7”. My top was gorgeous — single-sleeved with an asymmetrical neckline, it left one arm and shoulder completely bare and was constructed of the butteriest ivory cashmere on earth. I’d stacked six chunky silver bangles around my bare wrist, looped slim hoops through my ears, smoothed my metric ton of auburn waves back into a sleek twist, and spritzed perfume as a finishing touch.
Not too shabby, if I did say so myself.
Judging by her thinly-veiled disapproval, Mrs. Proctor evidently thought I was some self-obsessed shopaholic. I didn’t really care. My wardrobe was the one thing I didn’t ever feel guilty splurging on. After growing up in hand-me-downs and Goodwill castoffs, I had a special sort of appreciation for well-made, fashionable clothing. A good outfit was as vital as a suit of armor in the battle that was life. I hadn’t forgotten the sidelong glances I used to get — from snickering kids in the classroom, from well-meaning strangers in checkout lines, from coaches and teachers and principals and peers’ parents. Like I was something to be mocked, manipulated, or worse — pitied.
Those glances didn’t happen when you walked into a room looking polished and poised. People treated you like a player, not a pawn to move around the board at their own frivolous whims. These days, I rarely went anywhere without my outfit armor in place.
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” I forced myself to say, pulling open my wrought-iron gate and stepping out onto the sidewalk. “Enjoy the weather.”
“Have a lovely day, dear.”
I made my way across the Common — the 8-acre public park that separated me from the downtown district — in record time, cutting down one of the many criss-crossed paths by the bandstand. Only two sets of tourists stopped me to ask for directions to the Witch Museum. (A slow day!)
I dodged around a cluster of people snapping photos with their heads in the stocks, speed-walked past a man drawing caricature portraits, and cut straight through the middle of a walking-tour gathered outside the Hawthorne Hotel, which was reputedly haunted by several poltergeists. By the time I reached The Gallows, I’d worked up both a sweat and an appetite.
Hetti, already inside and setting up for the day, said nothing as I walked in. She did, however, slide a pumpkin-cheesecake muffin from Broomsticks Bakery across the counter at me as I walked past the espresso bar.
“Someone’s angling for a raise,” I murmured.
“Bad morning?” she asked, arching one silver-studded brow.
I took a bite of the muffin. It was divine. “It’s improving rapidly,” I told her, chewing as I made my way deeper into the shop, making mental notes of depleted stock on the shelves as I went. Both the candles and the crystals were running low again. We’d also had a run on sage and an unanticipated demand for vials of Sacred Gaia Tears — better known as tap water blessed by the goddess of my kitchen faucet beneath the light of a flickering candle. (Fall scented — authenticity was paramount.)
I heard the chime of the door bells behind me, announcing the arrival of our first customers as I made my way toward the back. Our resident psychic was still not in attendance. Her thick velvet curtains were drawn wide, the space beyond dark and vacant. I pulled out my phone as I stepped into storage room, scrolling one-handed until I reached the bottom of my contact list. But Zelda’s phone didn’t even ring — the call went straight to her voicemail box, which a robotic voice informed me was currently full.
Hmm.
The morning slipped by in a rush. I did inventory in the back until we were inundated with a flood of shoppers. Hetti manned the espresso bar at the front, glaring at everyone who dared place an order, while I manned the mystical curiosities section, ringing in sales at the antique brass cash register that had been around for longer than I’d been alive. We sold a considerable amount of books and baubles. We wouldn’t be forming an IPO anytime soon, but it was enough to keep the lights on for another few months.
Hell, if it kept up like this, I might actually be able to hire on a part-timer to give Hetti an occasional day off. Not that she seemed to want any. In the six months she’d been working for me, she’d never once been late, never once called out sick, never once asked for a vacation. Ornery goth she may act, but the girl was dependable as a Girl Scout when push came to shove.
There wasn’t a lull in the action until well into the afternoon, by which point I was hungry, Hetti was borderline homicidal, and the trash bin was overflowing with discarded coffee cups.
“I’ll go grab lunch from Gulu-Gulu Cafe,” I called to Hetti as I passed by the espresso bar. “You want your usual?”
She nodded without looking up from the milk fridge beneath the counter where she was crouched, restocking her supplies. Grabbing my clutch from below the cash register, I headed for the front door, lugging the overflowing trash with me as I went. It weighed a metric ton, filled to bursting. Throwing out the garbage was never my favorite task, but it was even less convenient today. With our dumpster still roped off with police tape, I’d be forced to carry it a block down to the alley behind the neighboring shops.
A pair of arriving Salem State kids held the door open for me as I struggled through it. I recognized both of them. Xander and Gus, two rail-thin, sun-deprived film students who never bought anything, but occasionally brought me donuts in exchange for permission to film their amateur B-roll in the shop after business hours. Apparently, The Gallows had the right ambiance for gothic noir. I didn’t even like donuts, but they were good kids, and I didn’t have the heart to charge them actual money.
“Hi Gwen.”
“Hey guys,” I said, hauling the bag across the threshold. It seemed to be getting heavier with each passing moment. “How’s it hanging?”
They both cracked grins at my subpar gallows humor. “Do you need help with that?”
“No, no, I’ve got it. Get on inside, Hetti is just dying for company. You know what a people person she is. Make sure to ask her lots of questions about her day, her feelings, her every given thought.”