Page 87 of Hungry As Her Python

They liked their conversations like they liked their quilt squares—meandering, mismatched, and occasionally sewn together with curse words.

“Now, my Great-Grandfather used to be the Deputy here,” she went on, oblivious to my inner monologue.

“How nice,” I murmured.

“Full of stories, he was. Anytime the town was under attack, the residents would band together under a Castor and run the troublemakers right out! Those were the good old days. When we had leaders with backbone and we knew who wore the pants around here,” she said in a surprisingly misogynistic turn of events.

I scoffed.

She ignored me and continued.

“And then, of course, they’d string up the trespassers. Why, you can still find the purse and book bound in the human skins of those who dared enter our town with ill purposes on their evil little minds?—”

“Dear Goddess,” I murmured. “Does she have to keep saying skins and bowels in the same breath?”

My stomach did a little somersault.

I was a Witch who loved sugar, not gore.

You wanted a triple-chocolate mousse cake?

I was your girl.

You wanted tales of flayed invaders?

No, thank you. Please see Evie or Donny.

“Mrs. Gennaro,” I tried, “there haven’t been any trespassers?—”

“No trespassers?” she screeched. “Then who do you think has been messing up lawns? Raiding garbage cans and dumpsters all over town? Not to mention, setting fire to your shop on a few separate occasions! Why, my very own Mr. Snugglesby won’t leave my purse!”

She hoisted said purse, inside of which sat a scraggly lapdog wearing two pink bows and the judgmental stare of a thousand ancestors.

Okay, I might have been just a little concerned before, but her list of weirdness made my pulse kick.

Because, messed up lawns? Dumpster raids? That sounded like a problem for the Sheriff, Parks & Recreation, and possibly the Sanitation Department.

But arson? Setting fires to businesses where anyone could have gotten hurt?

Now that was something else. And it was starting to sound suspiciously like my recent bakery mishaps weren’t just bad luck or prankster teens.

What if someone really was targeting me?

“Okay,” I said, pasting on my responsible business owner smile. “Come with me to my office. Mr. Snugglesby can have a treat while you, um, explain.”

She puffed up like I’d just announced her as guest of honor at the Winter Solstice Ball.

“It’s about time I be treated in a manner befitting my station.”

Behind her, Mira caught my eye. The poor girl was trying to ring up a latte for a customer while silently mouthing, Save me.

I mouthed back, Call Evie and Donny.

A quick nod, and I ushered Mrs. G and her geriatric fluff ball toward my office.

I conjured a peanut-butter biscuit for Snugglesby (note to self: launch a pet-treat line) and settled in to hear her out.

She didn’t disappoint.