Besoms & Buttercream (Wicked Witches of Brookdale Book 2) by Sara Bourgeois

Author:Sara Bourgeois [Bourgeois, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-10-16T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Beyond our regular agreement to provide pastries for the school, and that brief conversation over lemon water, I had to admit that I didn’t know too much about Arthur Waterwhistle.

Our relationship was purely professional. I don’t think I ever met the guy before a day ago, and I only knew him from the man who was signing the invoices for our orders.

“That will be eleven dollars,” I said as I exchanged pastries for money with a woman who had bought some for herself and her young teenage son.

An idea hit me.

“Hey, miss?”

“Hmm?” Her eyes lit up.

“Pardon me if this strikes me as weird, but what’s your opinion on your son’s school principal?”

“You mean Principal Waterwhistle?”

“Him, yeah.”

She tapped her chin in thought. “He’s nice enough, I guess. Never had any complaints about him. Sent me well wishes when Greggie had to miss a week for getting his tonsils removed.”

“Mom…” The kid painfully shook his head. “You don’t have to tell people about that.”

“Oh, he’s just embarrassed because he didn’t have to get them removed until he was in eighth grade.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” I smiled. “You just had tougher tonsils that hung in there longer.”

He averted his eyes, me failing to make tonsillitis suddenly cool.

“How about you? Any thoughts on your principal?”

“Why, you want to date him?”

“Oh, no, perish that thought. I’m just trying to get a vibe check on what people think of him.” Is that the word kids used these days? Vibing?

Did I just think about kids these days? Was I really that old?

“Principal Waterwhistle is fine, I guess. He’s a lot nicer than the vice principal. Now that guy has serious anger issues.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

They walked off, and I noticed my silent alarm for one in the afternoon hit. That meant I could close up shop for thirty minutes for my lunch break.

Never mind that my usual lunch break was a muffin from my own shop anyway.

I went to the hot dog vendor who was now trying to sell more rustic-looking sausages instead of simple frankfurters.

“Those look really, really beefy now.”

Mark nodded. “Had someone complain that at least I should try to be historically accurate and be in theme with the festival. So I figured I’d get some old-style bratwurst, and some old-style bread loaves of about the right size.”

“So, old-times hot dogs?”

“Hey, we know they sold sausages. We know they sold the bread. We can’t conclusively prove that back in 1832, no one got the idea of putting the sausage in the bread, and then slathering some mustard on top of all of it. Just because something didn’t get popular until later didn’t mean it never happened before then.”

“So you’re going with historically accurate on a technicality?”

“It’s the best I’ve got, Fern.”

I giggled, and handed him the money for one of these makeshift hot dogs. “Have you seen Arthur Waterwhistle around town?” I asked, trying to seamlessly transition to my ulterior agenda.

“Arthur? Yeah, he’s playing one of the farmers, ain’t he? What’s wrong? Is he in trouble or something?”

“No, no.

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