On Saturday,
I drove Joyce to Herbal Haven and then returned to her house. I planned to cook
dinner. As I drove, the uniformity of the small town struck me as interesting.
Streets lined with white clapboard houses and a village commons gave a serene
feeling. This was not like the polyglot assortment of homes found in my Hudson River village. There, the houses range from those
built by the early Dutch settlers to ultramodern structures. The variety suits
me.
I sat at the
kitchen table sipping mint tea and planning a menu. After studying the spice
rack I jotted several I needed and didn’t find. Convinced they were available
at Herbal Haven, I drove there. A half dozen cars lined the parking lot.
Inside, the place buzzed with energy. Joyce and Brenda stood at the counter
ringing sales.
I paused. The
shop was in a converted farmhouse. Joyce had removed many of the walls dividing
the lower floor into rooms to create an open space. Behind the counter a door
opened into the kitchen. A smaller parlor was now the office. Today, the area
seemed cluttered with the multiple shelves forming precise rows, Brenda’s
doing.
After
selecting the things I needed and a new spice grinder, I walked to the counter
to pay. Hearing Brenda chastise a customer, I turned and stared.
“Do not touch
the displays. Ask for assistance.”
I sucked in a
breath and observed Brenda scurry from the counter to confront one of the woman
shoppers.
“I wanted to
see this clever teapot.” The customer pointed to one of the pottery ones.
“You do not
want that ugly thing,” Brenda said. “We plan to remove them from the store.”
The woman
grasped her purse. “Don’t tell me what I want. Did you ever hear the customer’s
always right?” She strode to the door. The bell clanged. One lost customer.
Brenda
spotted me. “Katherine, take my place. I must check the computer. There hasn’t
been a moment since we opened, especially since Joyce insists on holding the
tea brewing sessions. I’ve told her a dozen times they’re a waste.”
Though I had
no desire to act as a sale’s clerk, a glance at Joyce’s slumped shoulders told
me she needed help. “I can give you an hour. I’ve a dinner to prepare.”
The hour
stretched to nearly three. The steady tide of customers ebbed. I left the shop,
drove to the store and revised my dinner menu. With filled canvas bags, I drove
to Joyce’s house, determined not to return to Herbal House today. Anger at
Brenda would make me snap and say things the women wouldn’t like. Joyce didn’t
need more stress.
At six thirty
Joyce arrived. Anger flashed in her eyes.
“What did she
do now?” I asked.
“Decided to
halt the Saturday morning demos. They interrupt her routine.”
I pulled the
prepared ingredients from the fridge and started the rice. “You need to buy her
out. She refused to sell a customer a teapot. All because Brenda doesn’t like
the piece.”
“I know. When
I mentioned that, she said we needed to elevate our stock.”
“Why?”
Joyce
shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Buy her
out.”
Dana strode
into the room. “Mrs. M is right. Get rid of her. She takes half the profits and
she lives rent free.”
I gasped.
“Rent free. That’s crazy.”
“She paid for
the changes in the apartment.” Joyce sank on a chair. “This afternoon I offered
to sell my share to her. She refused but with sixty thousand she would sell to
me. She only put in thirty. I offered thirty-five or forty.”
What did she say?”
I dropped the garlic and ginger into the wok and added the chicken.
“She wanted
to think about it but she felt she should make a profit.” Joyce moved to the
stove and turned the heat under the rice to simmer and put a lid on the pot.
“She won’t be at the shop tomorrow. She and her friend will be away until
Monday.”
Dana picked a
snow pea from the bowl. “Who is he?”
“No idea.”
“Looks like
she hasn’t changed,” I said.
“Never will,”
Joyce grinned.
The peal of
the doorbell broke the conversation. “What time is it?” Dana asked.
“Six thirty
or so,” I said.
“Good thing
he knows where I hang out.” Dana ran to the door.
I added the
scallions, bok choy, snow peas and cashews and stirred.
Dana returned
with a handsome young man. His hair was dark and his eyes blue. “Mrs. M, this
is Zach.”
I smiled. “Are
you joining us for dinner?”
He turned to
Dana. “We planned to grab a bite before heading to the movies.”
“Stay,” Joyce
said. “Kate cooked for an army.”
“Smells
great. Dana?”
“We’ll stay.
Mrs. M is a fabulous cook.”
I turned the
burner off and transferred the mixture into a large bowl. Joyce put the rice in
another while Dana added two place settings.
Conversation
flowed easily. Zach was a local police detective. He’d met Dana when he’d taken
one of her classes. No one mentioned my crime-solving attempts and I relaxed.
* * *
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