Tales of the Witch (2 page)

Mrs. Risk’s eyebrows rose. “Asking for fish?”

“Yeah. They don’t have any manners, those guys. Grinning at her. And the women are worse, they don’t know what they want, most the time. Keep her waiting while they ‘think’. She’s got better things to do.” He threw up his hands in disgust.

“And for the last month, instead of resting in the evening, she spends her time fiddling with those flowers in the yard. You’d think her whole future was invested in those things, instead of keeping herself for me and the work at the market, here. The way she slaves over ’em, digging and poking and—” He reached behind him, brought out a pail of fish guts. “She even buries this stuff under them, can you beat that?”

Mrs. Risk smiled. “I told her it was good for them. Makes this sandy barren soil better, Ike. Let her play with her flowers if it gives her pleasure.”

Ike shrugged, then smiled. “What can I have the pleasure of getting for you today?”

“Nothing, my dear man. I just wanted to repeat what I told your lovely wife this morning, how grateful I am for the kindness you show my greedy pet. She’s pampered beyond belief by you every single day. And I intend to show you my thanks by bringing you something—”

Ike held out a broad palm. “Not necessary.” He ducked his head and grinned brightly. “Don’t bother yourself, we enjoy Jezebel, just as we enjoy you comin’ in to the shop now and then. In fact,” he reached into a glass case and pulled out a fish fillet as big as a dinner plate. “You take this and have some nice fish for dinner tonight, on us. Our pleasure.”

Mrs. Risk waited while he wrapped the fillet in white paper and tied it with string, then took it from him and tucked it tidily into her basket. “You’re a generous soul, Ike Elias. Many thanks. Well, I must be going. I should rush this fish home as fast as possible, it must be a hundred and one outside.” She smiled archly at Ike. “I wouldn’t want it to spoil.”

He held the shop door open for her and she bustled away, leaving the fickle-hearted Jezebel still at her lunch inside, with Ike.

As she rounded the corner of the market, however, after a swift glance at the baking beach and boardwalk, she stepped off the boardwalk to a concrete path that ran behind the market. After peering through two small windows, she found what she was after—the sight of Mrs. Elias, perspiring heavily and stabbing with a fork into the large plastic container of Ike’s hand-prepared lunch, which she held balanced on her knee.

As the witch watched, she drank deeply from a large glass of iced liquid and sighed. She was sitting on a plywood crate as close to the window as possible as if to pick up the slightest breath of air that might stray into the dark room from outside.

Mrs. Risk pecked at the screen with a long forefinger. Mrs. Elias jumped. “Yes?”

“Dear, aren’t you terribly hot in there? Why don’t you eat out front, where the air conditioning is?”

Mrs. Elias’ mouth twisted wryly. “Because it’s not good business to eat in front of the customers.”

“Who said?”

Mrs. Elias just shrugged.

“Ah, yes. Well, at the very least, don’t eat that stuff if you don’t want it. It can’t be settling on your poor stomach very well in the heat.”

“I, uh,…I have to eat it. Ike gets very angry…” She cast a worried look into the gloom in the direction of the shop.

“What, does he check?”

She shrugged a shoulder, but nodded. Mrs. Risk looked her over for a few moments, took in her pale drawn face, her bowed shoulders, and the deep circles beneath the large black eyes that used to flame and sparkle with temper. She had to remind herself of Mrs. Elias’ age…or lack of it.

“Look. I’m still going to bring your darling husband something to show my gratitude; but for you, my gift to you is to take something away. Let me have that.” With a swift motion, she pushed aside the screen on its hinge and before Mrs. Elias could react, the entire contents of the box were dumped into Mrs. Risk’s basket. “There.” She handed the empty plastic box back to the stunned Mrs. Elias.

“Men can be incredibly impractical at times,” Mrs. Risk announced. “Now, don’t say anything to him about it. He means well and we must consider his feelings. Agreed?”

Mrs. Elias nodded, too stunned to speak. Her eyes were enormous, and glistened almost feverishly.

Mrs. Risk looked her over, then said, “You receive your lunch from him every day around now?”

Mrs. Elias nodded.

“And he always inspects to make sure you finished it all?”

Mrs. Elias nodded again, still speechless.

“I’ll be here every day at this time. You wait for me if I’m late. Don’t eat this heavy mess until the heat wears off the summer, and I’m betting you’ll feel excellent for it.”

Mrs. Elias started to say something, but Mrs. Risk held up her hand and said, “Hup! Never mind. See you here tomorrow. Not a word to Ike, remember.”

For a week this continued, Mrs. Elias meekly handing over the contents of her large plastic container and Mrs. Risk depositing it inelegantly into her basket, the whole process taking seconds. Mrs. Risk would return to the boardwalk and continue on her way before anyone had a chance to notice that she’d been standing at the back window of the fish market.

And daily, in the early hours, Mrs. Risk would glance up at the roof of the fishmonger’s house to observe the color gradually returning to Mrs. Elias’ cheeks, and a lessening of the circles beneath her eyes. Always, before passing on, Mrs. Risk would inquire pointedly about Ike’s blood pressure and how well he was taking his medicine.

One day, as Mrs. Risk disposed of Ike’s well-intentioned lunch for his wife, Mrs. Elias, after hesitating for a moment, leaned close to the screen and whispered faintly, “I feel I owe you…Ike feeds your cat only because when you come into the shop, it impresses the other villagers and brings him business. It isn’t…it isn’t…”

“It isn’t because he just loves cats? I know, dear. But don’t you think your loyalty should be to your husband? Like these horrendous lunches, he means well. I know it’s difficult to be a wife, dear.”

Flushing at the rebuke, Mrs. Elias drew away from the window and took her empty container back from Mrs. Risk with only a faint ‘thank you.’

Another week passed. Mrs. Elias’ garden bloomed as if in sympathetic delight with the increasing well-being of its caretaker. The witch had gone home and consulted a manual of herbal lore the day she’d first disposed of Mrs. Elias’ lunch, and never failed to consider the garden thoughtfully thereafter as she passed it on her walks. As Mrs. Elias’ color, health, and garden continued to flourish, so did the worried look in Mrs. Risk’s eyes when she was home and unobserved by anybody but Jezebel.

After yet another week had gone by, as Mrs. Risk observed the milkman again sneaking furtively back to his truck from Mrs. Elias’ house, she signaled to him that she wanted to see him. After making an appointment with him at her home at dusk of that same day, she went on about her business.

That evening, the milkman parked in a lane that stopped about a hundred yards from the witch’s house. The air was much more comfortable here than in the village because of all the surrounding trees. He waited as he’d been instructed.

“Hello, Charlie.”

He jumped, nearly falling because of the foot he’d left propped on the running board of his ancient panel truck. “Oh, hi, there, uh, Mrs. Risk. I came like you asked me to.”

She smiled, eyes widening in surprised appreciation. “You remember my name. Few do.” She studied him as he stood there in front of her, and while she did so, he leaned lightly against his truck. He had thick auburn hair and light hazel eyes that crinkled pleasantly in the corners, giving him a good natured look. His mouth widened into a broad smile now, and his eyes twinkled intelligently at her as he watched her look him over. She admired the restraint he held on the curiosity he must have felt.

“Well. At least it’s understandable,” the witch finally said.

“What is?”

“This attraction you seem to hold for half the village housewives.”

He relaxed a little more. “That might be a compliment. It depends. Unless you mean what I think you mean.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs. Risk studied him with increased interest. “And what do you think that is?”

“Oh, the old cliché. I’ll bet that you, like most of the husbands in this place, think that just because I see their precious better-halves in their nighties at the crack of dawn, I’m itching to jump their bones while hubby’s at work. How’m I doin’, as a certain ex-mayor used to ask?” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Not bad. Are you implying that the truth of the situation is something different?”

“Truth is, most women look like coyote bait at that hour of the morning. Their husbands are welcome to ’em, with my heartfelt sympathy. Only about two women in this whole burg hold any attraction for me whatsoever, and they both have husbands who could chew new artwork out of Mount Rushmore before breakfast.”

“So I take it you resist temptation.”

“And will continue to do so until I feel suicidal.”

She studied him thoughtfully for some more minutes while he waited patiently. His face betrayed his bafflement, but he seemed in no hurry to push for explanations.

“So all this running from the back door of Mrs. Elias’ house each morning is merely to avoid personal injury at the hands of a husband who really has no reason to worry?”

He whistled softly. “In that one case, I’m in danger just for daring to sell her milk. When it comes to his wife, that is one mean ba—person.”

“Have you had any actual confrontations with Mr. Elias over…Mrs. Elias?”

“Ohhh, yes. I certainly have. Please. You don’t want descriptions. I’m the only milkman in the area and he insists on having everything delivered—from me, the grocer, the druggist… Otherwise, I’d never be allowed within blocks of that back door. Neither would the others. Just ask them. He tells us to come around, but he doesn’t like it, so I’m in and out like a bolt of lightning. I never saw a guy go so nuts for absolutely no reason. Unless he could read my mind.”

“Your mind in this case is not exactly classifying Mrs. Elias as…coyote bait?”

“Not even at ninety could that female be anything other than a wow. But besides being gorgeous, she’s still married.” He shrugged. “I admire, maybe, but she’s not available, to my mind.”

“Scruples? Or self-preservation?”

He grinned. “Possibly a healthy dose of both.”

“Well.” She considered him thoughtfully. “I hope you’ll consider a favor I’m about to ask you. It’s going to involve you compromising your survival tactics a bit, I regret to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“Someone is in imminent danger of being murdered, and as distasteful as it is to me to get involved in others’ difficulties, someone very dear to me will suffer if I don’t. I thought of you immediately as a person who is in a unique position to help. You finish your work early and so you’re available. You’re young, and you seem able bodied. Your passable appearance is a bonus, but not necessary.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. He waited, but she added nothing to her request. “And you’re not telling why, wherefore, or whereas?”

She laughed softly. He rubbed his forehead where for the first time she noticed faint freckles. “You’ve got a certain reputation, you know,” he said. His frown contained a small element of alarm.

She shrugged.

He sighed. “I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty woman.”

“Oh, my word,” she said with a snort, but she’d plainly enjoyed the compliment.

“Okay,” he said. “Dare I mention that you will then owe me one?”

“I owe nothing. I ask for this favor with no strings, depending merely on the measure of altruism present in a fair number of human beings. But I will take care of any necessary hospitalization.”

He paled slightly. “Heh, heh. Funny you should mention that, but that’s not funny.”

She laid her long graceful fingers across his wrist. “It isn’t meant to be funny. And you’re a fine man. A trifle shallow, but goodhearted.”

“Never mind that stuff, just tell me the details before I chicken out.”

“Well, to begin with, did you know that henbane, foxglove, lily-of-the-valley, and monkshood are all deadly poisons?”

He didn’t, so she explained.

Two days later, the witch, bearing a napkin covered tray before her like jewels of state, entered Ike’s Fishmarket at the exact moment that the lunchtime crowd was at its peak. She sailed across the damp floor and, as she presented him with the dish, she lifted the napkin away with a flourish. Revealed was a wide bowl filled with the stew that contains—with several varieties of fish and shellfish—chicken, sausage, spices, and a sauce on rice. A paella. And such a paella that it filled the already odiferous air with a rich, mouth-watering aroma.

The fishmonger, bursting with self-importance at this unheard-of attention paid him by the village’s most fearsome resident, was beside himself with pleasure and called to his customers and to his wife to come see.

Mrs. Elias came running. When she saw what her husband held in his hands, she immediately understood that here at last was the witch’s gift she’d said she was bringing. So she added her thanks to his, although she was extremely relieved when Mrs. Risk insisted that this dish was only for Ike, that no one else was to have so much as a taste. Ike’s chest swelled at this added honor. Mrs. Elias smiled graciously and modestly stepped away from her husband, leaving it to him to be the center of the commotion. His voice vibrated with excitement and pride.

At the witch’s urging, he picked up one of his own serving spoons and shoveled a great mound of paella into his mouth, swearing with his mouth full that it was his favorite dish.

Ike then demanded that everyone join him on the house with drinks from his cooler and things to eat from his deli case. His customers responded with cheers and the atmosphere in the shop became like a party. Mrs. Elias handed out dishes and opened the cases up to everyone. The noise level rose and rose in the small market as Ike plowed his way through the bowl of paella to please Mrs. Risk.

When he’d nearly disposed of it all, he wondered out loud where she’d gotten all the fish and shellfish it contained. He didn’t remember selling her any yesterday, or even the day before that. He stoked his mouth with the last spoonful. She murmured in reply that he had himself to thank for it, after all.