11Bane Witch
Ed reaches for a glass speckled with sick, and Myrtle grabs his wrist. “Go on, Ed,” she tells him. “Get some rest. Acacia and I can handle this.”
It’s after ten o’clock, but we finally get to work cleaning up. I quietly collect a trash bag, reach for the same glass, notice Myrtle doesn’t stop me.
“Throw anything he touched away,” Myrtle says to me. “Anything he threw up on.”
Ed stands, puzzled. “You sure, Myrtle?”
She nods. “Absolutely. I don’t need anybody else keeling over in here. You already got a bad back.”
He gives her an irritated look. “Never stopped you from bossing me around before.”
She only chuckles at that.
“You’re older than I am,” he reminds her as he scoots to the front door, but he bends to rub at his dog’s ears when Bart runs over to greet him, and I know he’s glad to get away for the night.
We stack the remaining chairs against the far walls and scoot the tables over, righting the overturned one together. I pick up dishes from the floor that aren’t tainted, taking them to the sink. Once we’ve collected everything to throw away, Myrtle has me double bag it and take it to the trash cans outside. When I return, she’s shaking a spray bottle of water mixed with bleach, a mop in one hand.
“Get the bucket. Fill it extra hot. And bring a roll of paper towels,” she tells me.
I’m not looking forward to cleaning this up, but it’s the least I can do after killing a man in her establishment. At least it’s not blood. But as I lean over the floor with paper towels a moment later, I decide blood would be better.
Myrtle props the front door open, and we work in silence until the floor and furniture have been thoroughly sanitized many times over. When we’re done, we take turns scrubbing our hands and arms from the elbows down at the kitchen sink. It’s practically midnight when we finish up.
“I think that’s it,” I say, exhausted and ready to take a scalding hot shower and collapse into bed.
But Myrtle frowns. “No, not quite.” She starts for the staircase. “There’s one last thing we have to take care of. Get the door.”
I walk over and close the front door.
“Lock it,” she tells me, and I do as she asks, then follow her into the storeroom.
She pulls a small hiking backpack from one of the lower cabinets and drags it over to the salt bin. “Retrieve the jars.”
“I thought you wanted them hidden,” I tell her as I stand over the bin, uncertain.
“That’s what we’re doing,” she says, reaching down into the salt herself and coming up with a jar that might have once contained pimentos but now holds a bevy of tiny, dried white flowers. She sets it in the backpack. “This was only temporary. We need a more permanent solution until this whole investigation blows over.”
I follow her lead, reaching down and pulling out jar after jar until we’re sure we haven’t left a single one behind. Myrtle zips up the pack and shrugs her shoulders into the straps. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I ask. “It’s late.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she says, grinning at me. “On a hike.”
I keep just a few steps behind as Myrtle leads us deeper into theforest than I’ve ever been. I get a sense we may be headed to one of her nightly stops. I have so many questions coursing through my mind that I’ve no idea where to start. My tongue sticks to the bottom of my mouth, useless.
Finally, Myrtle asks me a question. “So, what did you say to Sheriff Brooks? He looked… intrigued.”
“Nothing,” I’m quick to tell her. “I mean, nothing unusual. I saw what everyone else did. I told him that. But…”
She stops and looks at me, her eyes indecipherable in the darkness. “But?”
“I mentioned the woman who came in with the guy who died,” I confess. “Was that wrong?”
Myrtle laughs then shrugs. “Of all the wrongs committed tonight, that one is the least of our worries.” She starts walking again. “He seemed real familiar with you.”
“He gave me a ride from Saranac Lake.” I duck around a branch sticking out into the path, leaving out the bit about my overnight stay. “I ran into him at a market. Didn’t know he was a sheriff, or I wouldn’t have accepted.”
