“‘Necromancer’s Nectar’ is what we call the concoction. Our patented elixir would allow you to talk to him this very night.”
“‘Screwy Ladies’ Moonshine’ is more like it.” I trekked onward, toward Fleur’s. “I’m not buying any of your whiskey water and giving Sheriff Rink another reason to ask me what I’m up to. It’s bad enough I tried your disgusting hair-straightening tonic that turned my curls carrot-orange.”
“I wouldn’t even charge you for the elixir. You can have it for free.”
I stopped and swung my face toward her.
Mildred never offered anything for free.
“If you don’t speak with him,” she said, “he’ll just keep searching for you, every single night. I wonder if . . .” She closed her mouth and squeezed her fingers around the bicycle’s black handle grips.
“Go on,” I said. “What do you wonder?”
“If his frantic state . . . has anything to do with . . .” She averted her eyes from mine. “With . . . J-J-Joe. Joe Adder.”
I stared at her and tried not to appear fazed, but gooseflesh rose across my arms. “My father isn’t a ghost, Mildred. Please don’t ever make such a claim again.” I turned and broke into a trot.
“If I see him again, Hanalee,” she called after me, “I’m coming to your house and forcing that elixir upon you. I’d normally charge three dollars for it, but I don’t want him haunting me.”
“Good-bye, Mildred.”
“Hanalee . . .”
“Good-bye!”
In the distance behind me, Mildred’s bicycle slowly squeaked away.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
POLICE OFFICER WITH WRECKED CAR AND CASES OF ILLEGAL LIQUOR, 1922.
CHAPTER 3
DESPERATE WITH IMAGINATION
MR. PAULISSEN’S FORD TRUCK SAT IN the gravel drive in front of Fleur’s house, a pretty white structure with forest-green shutters and geraniums blasting bright red fireworks of color from boxes in front of each window. Laurence Paulissen—almost eighteen years old, close to two years older than his sister and I—stood next to the hood of the truck, raking his hand through his short blond hair. He nudged the toe of his shoe against a front tire and spat as though he hadn’t noticed a female wandering into his company. Behind him, the Witten twins, Robbie and Gil, took off their coats and slung them over the slats of the truck’s wooden siding.
I walked through the shade of an apple tree that Fleur, Laurence, and I used to call “Jack’s beanstalk” when we climbed into its branches as little kids. I slowed my pace the closer I got to the boys, for I didn’t completely trust those twins, with their slick, tawny hair, their teasing green eyes, and the comfortable way they chatted with me, as though we were old chums who’d shared years of laughs, even though we hadn’t. Their faces were identical, with broad foreheads and square chins—a really rugged sort of appearance. Their father had come to Elston to fill our pharmacist vacancy in 1921, and they dressed a little nicer than the rest of us.
“Hanalee!” said Robbie, the louder of the twins, with a clap of his hands. He removed his cap and swaggered my way with a grin that stretched to his ears. “I see you have a bag all packed, darling. Are we eloping tonight?”
His brother, Gil, brayed a laugh that made his chewing gum fall out of his mouth and splat against his left shoe. Laurence frowned and turned his attention back to the truck’s tires, testing out a back one with a solid kick of his foot.
I stepped past Robbie, smelling cigarette smoke from his clothing. “I’m just here to visit Fleur.”
“Here”—Robbie grabbed the valise from my hands—“I’ll carry that for you.”
“All right. Thank you.” I proceeded up to the porch with Robbie close to my side.
At the top of the steps, he shot me a sidelong glance and said, “You seem tense tonight, Hanalee. What’s wrong?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, we need to get going, Robbie,” said Laurence. He bent down in front of the truck’s grille and turned the starter crank. The congested old vehicle coughed and shuddered to life, and Laurence circled around to the driver’s side of the cab. “Quit chatting with Hanalee.”
“Quit flirting with her is more like it,” said Gil with a laugh that carried a bite, and he climbed over the back slats of the rumbling truck.
Robbie set my bag on the steps by my feet. “Is it Joe’s return that’s bothering you?”
I picked up the valise without answering.
“Joe Adder’s not right in the head, Hanalee.” Robbie leaned his left hand against the wall beside the Paulissens’ screen door, above the brass doorbell. “He’s dangerous.”
“H-h-how . . .” I swallowed. “How do you mean, ‘not right in the head’?”
“He’s immoral. Depraved. Disgusting.” Robbie sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “If you see him, telephone Sheriff Rink immediately.”