Page 4 of Witch and Tell

“Buffy, Thor,” I said.

“Yes?” Thor slipped down from the counter and trotted around the corner to Ian’s stall. He now wore Buffy’s homemade eyepatch, which featured a heavily lashed eyeball crayoned on it.

“Would you like to earn some money?”

Buffy joined her brother. “How much?”

“Five big ones. Each,” I said.

Thor nodded vigorously, but Buffy replied, “Ten.”

“Seven fifty.”

Thor and Buffy looked at each other. Buffy said, “Okay. What do we have to do?”

“Find Ian and let me know where he is. I’ll be at the café for dinner at six, ready for your report.” Neither of the kids budged. “What are you waiting for?” Their grandmother Patty ran the cash register. It wasn’t as if they were needed.

“Cash, please,” Buffy said.

I took a five-dollar bill and change from my purse. “Part now, the rest later.”

“Ten-four,” Thor said, and made for the door.

Chapter Three

Summer nights in Wilfred were worth waiting for all year. The day’s heat settled into a soft warmth that encouraged thrown-open windows, and crickets chirped in the meadow. Sundays were especially nice. The aromas of roast beef and fresh pie drifted through screen doors, and kids played outside until porch lights switched on and mothers called them in.

Until lately, my Sunday evenings had been spent at Sam’s. I’d looked forward to them all week. Sam was a wonderful cook, and I was turning into a decent prep chef. We’d take our plates to the small porch off the kitchen and watch the lights in Wilfred, below the river, twinkle on as the sun set. A baby gate across the steps was enough to keep his toddler son Nicky playing at our feet but was no barrier to Rodney, who leapt over it and plopped nearby, flicking his tail.

That was then. Tonight I was at Darla’s Café, awaiting the fried chicken special. Alone. The patio was no substitute for Sam’s kitchen porch, and the neighbors surrounding me—friendly as they were—were no substitute for Sam. Wherever he was. I looked at my phone. Five texts I’d sent him over the past few days, and he hadn’t responded to a single one. Was he still in D.C., testifying on the stolen art case? Or was he simply avoiding me now that I’d confessed I was a witch?

My heart ached. I returned my phone to my pocket.

Darla clearly read the sadness on my face. Wilfred was small enough that no one’s business remained private for long, and she knew something was up between Sam and me. “Here you go, honey,” she said, and slid a platter of chicken and potato salad next to my tumbler of iced tea. “I’ll bring you a slice of Marionberry pie. On the house.”

I managed a weak smile in return. No Sam, and my magic was on the rocks, too. As my mood cratered, voices at the patio’s edge caught my attention.

“Work starts early tomorrow, Cliff,” a man said. The lenses of his sunglasses glinted in the fading sunlight. He slipped them off to reveal surprisingly warm eyes. Darla had pointed him out a few days earlier. He was in charge of the construction crew turning the Empress Theater into a brewpub. “You can’t be out partying all night.”

The man’s chiding tone caused his tablemate, Cliff, to face him head on. Like everyone else on the patio, I stopped eating to listen. I vaguely recognized Cliff from seeing him alight from a dented white van a morning earlier in the week. I’d glimpsed empty beer cans and a rumpled sleeping bag through the door behind him.

The renovations at the Empress, a long-abandoned movie house from when Wilfred was a thriving timber town, had brought in a number of construction workers. Most drove in from nearby Gaston and Forest Grove, but a few camped out locally in vans or RVs.

“I’ll do whatever I want.” Cliff’s tone was chilling. Who was the boss here, anyway?

The man with the sunglasses, now set beside his plate, tipped his head in warning. “I’ll see you tomorrow, on time and ready to work.”

Cliff’s gaze skimmed the diners. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but seemed to think better of it. “All right.” He left the patio and entered the café, likely to pass through to the tavern.

Orson appeared at my side before I could tuck my fork into my potato salad. Besides being the tavern’s bartender, he owned the Empress. “A partier, that one,” he said.

“You’d know, with your job,” I said. “He hasn’t made trouble, has he?”

“Not to speak of.” Orson gazed thoughtfully at the café door through which Cliff had just disappeared. “He’s more bark than bite. The man he was talking to? Construction manager. Drinks vodka martinis. Although….”

Although, what?When it became clear that Orson wouldn’t elaborate, I said, “Hey, who’s watching the tavern?”

“Cutting back my hours. Ned Tohler has been at me for months for a spot behind the bar, so I’m finally giving it to him.” Orson pulled out a chair and sat without asking. I didn’t mind. It made me feel less alone. “You can expect tonier cocktails from now on.”