Graves and Golf Carts by Annabel Chase

Author:Annabel Chase [Chase, Annabel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Palm Press LLC
Published: 2020-05-07T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

On our way to Helen-Mary’s house, Cole and I stopped by True Brew to confirm the address with Mitzi. The young witch then decided to tag along in order to avoid senior hour at the shop. Apparently, there was a weekly hour where the elderly supernaturals flocked to True Brew for free potion samples and it was a real circus.

“How do you decide which supernaturals count as elderly?” I asked. I nudged Cole. “You might qualify in years but certainly not in physical appearance.”

“It’s more for Zone 2 types who aged before they died,” Mitzi said.

“Like Harold,” I said.

“He doesn’t come to senior hour,” she said. “That would involve mingling with the public.” She bit her lip, looking at me.

My fingers flew to touch the side of my mouth. “Do I have mustard on my face? Wait, that would be especially weird because I didn’t eat anything with mustard today.”

“No, your face is fine. I feel like there was something I wanted to tell you, but I can’t remember now.” Mitzi shrugged and started walking.

“I would’ve told you if you had mustard on your face,” Cole said.

I glanced up at him. “Really? You wouldn’t let me walk all around the village with a yellow face for your own amusement? Because I can’t promise that I’d do the same for you.”

“You seem to have me confused with Jules,” he said.

As we turned the corner, I caught sight of an older man with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Hey there,” Mitzi said. “Senior hour is about to start if you want to get a good spot.”

He nodded appreciatively. “You’re not staying?”

“I’m more needed for the investigation,” Mitzi said. “The shop has plenty of coverage though.”

He looked blank. “What investigation?”

Mitzi told him about Helen-Mary and his crying intensified until it became a wail. Mitzi fished a tissue out of her pocket and handed it to him. He blew his nose like a trumpet.

“This is the worst stroke of luck this village has ever experienced,” he said. “We’re all doomed.”

“Don’t worry, sir. My deputy and I are working to get to the bottom of this,” I said.

“I promise you we’re far from doomed,” Cole added.

The man wiped his nose and stuffed the tissue into his pocket. “I sure hope so. I can’t endure these uncertain times. It’s too stressful.”

“Take care of yourself,” Mitzi said. “Go home after senior hour and brew yourself a nice cup of lavender tea.”

The older man wandered away, sniffling.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Kokytos,” Mitzi said. “He’s the god of the underworld river of tears and wailing. He’s always depressed and crying.”

“I’ll have to remember to keep him off any party invite lists.” What a downer.

“Helen-Mary’s house is only two blocks this way,” she said. The street was lined with palm trees and squat pastel-colored houses like the ones in Zone 1. Many of them had covered front porches with swings and whirling ceiling fans.

The witch’s house wasn’t at all what I imagined. Helen-Mary looked like a traditional witch, and so I expected some kind of woodland cottage with a cauldron and jars filled with eyes of newts.

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