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And in fact, sold good luck charms to ward off bad juju.
August 21, Wednesday
WHEN BRUCE texted me raving over sales from the signing at Blakemore’s, my guilt got the better of me. I rode the bike to town and walked into the bookstore with wet palms.
Wayne Blakemore lit up. “Josephine, how nice to see you. Everyone is still talking about your signing, and we’ve sold almost two dozen more books since the event.”
“That is just… great,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, but failing.
He squinted. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” I blurted. “My goat ate your manuscript. Please tell me you have another copy.”
His eyes bulged and he didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then he grinned. “Of course I have another copy, what century are we in?”
I went weak with relief. “Thank goodness. Will you print one for me? I promise to take better care of it this time.”
“I keep a copy behind the counter,” he said, leading the way. He leaned over to pull out a manuscript box, then handed it to me with a wink. “Just in case an editor or a famous author like you comes in.”
The box was beautifully embossed with the title War of the Witches and “written by Wayne Blakemore,” along with his phone number. “That’s very… shrewd.”
“I have big dreams,” he said. Then he wet his lips. “After you read it, maybe we can have dinner to discuss it. Someplace nice in Birmingham.”
I recalled Kelly’s comment that Wayne had a crush on me. And he wasn’t bad-looking, but I didn’t need another complication. Giving him feedback on his book would already be sticky enough.
“We’ll see,” I said, nodding as I backed away. “Sorry again for the… um, goat… issue. Goodbye.”
“I hope you like my book!” he called after me.
“So do I,” I muttered to myself.
August 22, Thursday
I WAS sitting on the porch writing in my notebook when I heard a vehicle approaching, I looked up and was relieved to see the orange El Camino rambling to a stop.
Apparently Kelly had changed her mind.
She climbed out of the car and looked all around, then closed the door and approached me.
“Are you back?” I asked.
“Only because I need the money,” she groused.
“It makes the world go around,” I agreed. “The chickens and Satan will be glad you’re back.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Has there been any more funny business at the graveyard?”
I decided not to mention the lunar gatherings, occasional inhuman screeches, and the fact that Satan still refused to eat the grass around Nell Benson’s grave.
Instead I donned an innocent expression. “No.”
She frowned. “I know the electric went off again.”
“It’s back on. But do you know anything about stoves or air conditioners?”
“I’ll take a look at them,” she intoned.
From her pockets she began to pull chunky necklaces of crystals and stacked them around her neck.
