Page 57 of Mourner for Hire
“Martha’s booth is in the corner with the yellow tablecloth and white sign.”
I jump at the sound of Annabelle’s voice behind me and then immediately shake off the trill of fear.
“I thought you were going to keep your distance when I’m with other people,” I grit out through my teeth.
I glance at Mr. Thomas—whom I met last night—to make sure he’s still displaying his jars of homemade pickles and not listening to me talk to a ghost. He’s examining a jar of spicy pickles, scratching at the label. Clearly, I’m not even on his radar.
“Oh, I will, but the farmers market has always beenmy favorite. Every Saturday morning, I’d grab a paper cup of coffee and wander around to every booth and look at how creative my friends are.” She laughs, rocking back on her heels. “I can bake, but I wasn’t ever very creative. Dominic didn’t get it from me.”
I cock an eyebrow. The only thing creative about her son is how he chooses to insult me. “Right,” I say instead so as not to break a poor dead woman’s heart.
“Oh, there’s Jan!” she exclaims with a quick hop. “She sells homemade olive oil. She makes different flavors. Garlicand Herb is her best seller, but her brown sugar sriracha olive oil is hands down her best one. You’d think it wouldn’t work because it’s sugar and olive oil, but it tastes like magic. She also brings homemade sourdough for tastings.”
I blink at her. She talks so fast.
“I wonder if I’ll be able to taste her flavored olive oil…”
Her voice wanders with her ghost down the aisle of booths, and I turn, setting my sights on the white sign that says Martha’s Treasures.
Shells and rocks litter her tables like breadcrumbs inHansel and Gretel, and quite honestly, this woman’s stature is exactly how I pictured the witch with the candy house in the fable, except she’s dressed in a colorful, oversized dress.
“Hello,” I say softly, and Martha whirls around, bracelets jingling.
“Oh, hello! Aren’t you just here bright and early, ready for some seashells?” Her high-pitched voice borders singing, and something eerily familiar hits me.
“I-I-I am,” I stammer, collecting myself. “I actually am looking for something in particular. A seashell necklace. Do you have any of those?” My gaze drifts over the table.
“Oh, yes, dear. Several.” Her weathered hands touch the display in the corner. There are several necklaces with a small conch shell in the center. I choose the one with the mixture of white and gold beads.
“You always did love gold,” she says.
My head snaps in her direction, the ground suddenly unsteady under my feet. Concern and confusion race through the wiring of my brain. I study her features and clench the necklace in my hand. The soft lines of her face. Her thin lips covered in red lipstick. Her bright blue eyes, rimmed in thick black glasses. She reminds me of no one I know, and yet, her gray, wiry hair has hints of strawberry, making me realize her hair was probably once red.
“Mrs. Nettles?” I ask cautiously. “It’s me. Vada Daughtry. I had you in second grade a very long time ago.”
“Hi, honey.” Her smile tells me she was waiting for me to recognize her.
She takes me in her arms, and I’m immediately transported to when I was just eight years old, practicing subtraction facts and wishing I would grow up to be a marine biologist.
My second-grade teacher.
“You look the same,” I say, my voice muffled in her hair.
A laugh escapes her. “And you are still too polite for your own good.”
“I remember you,” I say, though it feels partially untrue. “Well, I never forgot you, I guess.”
Her expression morphs into one of concern, cluing me in on the fact she must have seen my departure from this town in a different light. “How has life been treating you?”
“Good. I’m in town, remodeling Annabelle’s cottage.”
She raises a knowing brow and nods—her smile confirming unspoken secrets. Sometimes, it feels like everyone knows something about me. She squeezes my hands between her soft fingers. “Make sure you make that place feel like home.”
I smile. “I will.”
She nods once and wraps the necklace I’ve chosen in blue tissue paper and places it in a white paper bag. She stops me as I reach for my wallet.
“I wouldn’t dare,” she says.
