A perfect opportunity for Kheelan to meet Kyle at the shop, Skye thought in excitement. If she could get rid of Glenna awhile.
“While we’re gone, I want you to go through the stock book and place an order for several dozen more of those gorgeous lavender soaps everyone is buying. Also, reorder all the essential oils we’re running low on and more of those astrology posters on display in the coffeehouse. Several students expressed an interest in purchasing one.”
“No problem.” Skye found a blank piece of paper and a pen and made notes.
“You’re doing a wonderful job with your additional duties. Delia and I really appreciate it. I hope none of the other employees gave you a hard time about it.”
Skye shrugged. “Not too bad.” She didn’t want to rat on Glenna who had ranted about it for over an hour. She changed the subject. “Why don’t you two go ahead and leave the store now? I can close up for you.”
Claribel clapped her hands. “That’s a great idea, if you don’t mind. Our bags are packed and if we leave now we’ll miss the rush hour traffic.”
In a surprising feat of organization, Claribel and Delia left the store within thirty minutes, leaving Skye alone with Glenna, Kyle and two other employees. While they handled the remaining customers, Skye sat in Claribel’s chair to look over the paperwork for the stock reorders. She eyed the other books and papers on the desk curiously. There were a handful of bills, bank deposits and a payroll ledger.
She picked up the ledger and rifled through it. Something wrong was going on here at the store. Maybe there was a paper trail of some sort. Her finger edged down the columns and stopped on the name ‘Glenna Joy Harris.’ She snickered in disbelief at the irony. She didn’t know anyone more unjoyful than Glenna.
“What are you doing in here?”
Skye shut the ledger guiltily and confronted Glenna’s scowling face in the doorway.
“Working. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Snooping.”
“I’m ordering supplies, not that it’s any of your business.” Skye hoped Glenna didn’t notice the hot flush creeping up her neck.
“It’s six o’clock, time to go.”
“You go ahead. I’m going to finish this paperwork. Just lock the door behind you.”
Glenna leaned against the doorway and crossed her arms. “I don’t know why they chose you.” She frowned, eyes ablaze with indignation. “I’m the one who should have been promoted.”
Skye shrugged. “Take it up with them.”
“Maybe I will.” Glenna abruptly stormed out and Skye rolled her eyes.
“Brown Noser.” Glenna stuck her head in the door and spat out the words before taking off again for good. The entry door slammed shut as she left with the others, the bells above the door ringing dizzily.
Finally, alone.
Skye listened to the silence, thinking of Kheelan. Would he call her tonight? Her fingers tap-danced on Claribel’s landline phone, itching to hear his voice. She could call him. Never chase a man, you’ll look desperate. Skye heard her mother’s admonition as clearly as if she was standing in the room. But if she had a good reason . . .
She took in the mounds of haphazard paperwork on the desk and sighed. Going through all this would take time and seriously interfere with her schoolwork schedule.
“But how often do you have a chance to balance the scales of justice and save the good guys?” she wondered aloud. Not to mention having a legit reason to call a gorgeous guy whose kisses left her reeling. Resolutely, she dug in, not even sure what she was looking for, but hopeful there was a clue somewhere as to why pixies were being trapped and murdered at The Green Fairy.
Forty minutes later, she held up a paper in excitement.
***
Five days until Samhain, and the blood moon was ever closer to its zenith. The earthly plane filled with all shapes and sizes of the Unseelie fairies roaming unseen by most human eyes. Kheelan ignored them, his mind focused on finding the house of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Jeffries, his not-so-dead parents. He drove through the upscale neighborhood conscious of the loud noise his motorcycle made in the quiet, oak-lined subdivision with driveways full of BMW, Lexus and Mercedes vehicles. He and his beat up Honda Shadow didn’t belong—on so many levels. He turned onto Pinewood Street and slowed to read the mailbox numbers. 320, 319, his heart raced the closer he got. 318, 317 . . . mailbox number 316—The Jeffries.
He took a quick glance around and saw no one. Just him and the hobgoblins. He let down the kickstand and turned off the engine.