The slogan on the fan and the button was “Go Green with Green.” There was a QR code on the button that you could scan for more information about her campaign. I smelled the same cologne that had been on the shirt that a group of ladies had brought into the shop for me to sniff. “You don’t by chance know a Jackie and a Loretta, do you?”
He jerked his chin, surprised by my question. “Why?”
I shook my head. “Not important.”
He rejoined his group, and I got a short reprieve. The next round of customers were all tourists who didn’t know me from Adam, thank heavens, but several of our earlier guests kept walking by and giving me the stink eye. Ugh.
The popcorn stand next to us had a line that trailed down the street. The rhythmic mix of sharp cracks and softer puffs of popping corn against the inside of a metal kettle added to the air of excitement and celebration. The buttery scent grew stronger, mingling with the scent of my soaps. There were other aromas, like sweet cotton candy, savory hot dogs, and the faint smokiness of grilled Polish sausages, but it was the popcorn that held my focus.
A shadowy figure, the head obscured by a black hoodie pulled down over his or her forehead, sits on a chair in front of an unfinished coffee table. Even if I could see faces in my visions, which I can’t, this one is covered with a matching black balaclava. There are four large stainless-steel bowls on the table surface spilling over with buttery-perfumed popcorn as the figure, wearing gloves, plucks up a puffy piece and lifts it to his or her nose. The inhalation is deep, followed by a distorted chuckle.
The memory is strangely staged, like nothing I’ve experienced before.
“Hickory, dickory, pop,” the person says in a voice that I instantly recognized as Christopher Walken. “If you can’t catch me, I won’t stop.”
A chuckle ensues before the mysterious person sets the piece of popcorn down on the rough wood surface next to two 9mm bullets.
The popping had slowed as the vision faded, each remaining pop a little louder, more deliberate, until finally, the symphony faded into a gentle crackle.
“Aunt Nora,” Ari’s hand rested on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I shook off the strange memory, pressed my temples and forced a smile. “I’m fine,” I assured her as I gave the displays on the tables a once-over. “You guys do great work.”
“So, we can expect a bonus?” Mason teased.
“They’re in the mail,” I replied.
He looked confused.
“You know,” I explained. “The checks in the mail.”
“Why would you mail it?” he asked, clearly confused by the reference.
Ari sighed dramatically. “It’s what old people used to say when they were past due on paying a bill.”
“Ahhh,” he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “A dinosaur reference. Gotcha.”
Ari nudged him with an elbow to the ribs, and he doubled over as if she knocked the wind out of him.
I shook my head and chuckled. Their friendship reminded me so much of mine and Gilly’s. It had been a slow morning, but we’d had a few visitors wander past our booth, drawn in by the vibrant colors and enticing scents of our aromatherapy products. Then the buses started to arrive. And the street was flooded with tourists ready to spend their money.
We’d nearly sold out of our lotions and scent balms by noon.
“I’ll go get more,” Ari volunteered.
A loud pop, like a firecracker hitting a bell, cut through the noise of the crowd, and a woman shouted, “Shooter!” It hadn’t sounded like any gun that I’d heard, but a throng of tourists started running, pushing, and shoving each other on the street in front of us as they desperately tried to get away from what was happening.
I grabbed Ari and Mason by the shoulders, urging them to the ground. My only concern was their safety. Our booth was situated near the alley between an empty building that used to be Dolly’s Doll Emporium and Barker’s Antiques.
“Stay low and get down that alley until you are on the next street, then go into the nearest building and hide,” I told them, my voice steady but urgent. “Once you’re safe, call Ezra.”
“What about you, Aunt Nora?” Ari’s eyes were wide with fear, her voice trembling.
“I’ll be right behind you,” I assured her, giving her a quick nod and a firm push.
Edgar Jones, the Garden Cove Central Bank manager, staggered into our booth, his face pale and eyes wild with fear. He collapsed onto the ground, stretching out a bloody arm toward me. “Help me,” he rasped, his voice weak with shock. “I’ve been shot.”
Another loud pop sent a jolt of adrenaline through me.
