“Are you okay?”
The guy looks like he wants to help. I kind of want that too, but I throw out a hand to keep him at bay while I replace the wreath on the tomb. “Yeah, ahem,agh-s it happens, I plan lots of weddings. It’s like that showChopped, but for events: give me four weird ingredients, and I can pull off anything. That’s me, that’s my brand.”
Why am I talking about wedding planning? I thought I was a florist. Oh well, doesn’t matter. Amazingly, the guy doesn’t notice my slipup or hear the bag rustling again behind me.
“I knew our meeting was lucky!” He snaps his fingers. “I have some friends getting married next weekend.”
I feel like I missed something. “Umm… okay?”
“And they’re in a real bind,” he continues. “They’re looking for last-minute help. But none of the planners in town have the unique vibe they’re going for, you know?”
Oh no. No. This cannot be happening. I cannot be actually kneelingsix feet above my dead grandmother’s body, in the process of covering up a murder in the middle of the night, getting recruited to help some random guy’s friends’ wedding. Except itishappening, obviously. This good-looking, late-night lumberjack wasn’t flirting with me; he was interviewing me for a job.
Well done, Sabby. You let your lumber-lust lead you into a weirdly embellished cover-up story. And now you’ve tied yourself to an anchor that’s sinking you into a nightmare.
“Cool,” I manage out loud.
The guy seems pleased. “I think they’ll like your style. I’ll be in touch soon. See you!”
Whoa, wait. Absolutely not.
“Hey!” I interrupt his attempted exit. “You can’t do that. You don’t even know my name.”
“You’re Samantha Spük,” he answers. I follow his gaze to my duffel—where my name is monogrammed, courtesy of EFG’s HR department. Before I can make a snappy comeback, the guy shoots me one last sensitively eyebrowed smile.
“See you soon,” he says.
“But,” I try in vain. He’s already sauntering off to the entry gates, as chill and hot as ever. Well, I’m not. Chill, at least. Listening to the callously enthusiastic graveyard crickets, I realize:
Someone has seen me in the middle of the night messing with Grandma’s grave. And,
Said someone knows my name.
Shit. There’s no way I can bury the head here now.
With a groan, I toss the wire cutters back into the bag and zip it up. Then I slip the duffel back over my shoulder far too easily.
My breath stutters in my chest. When I drop the bag again, there’s no bounciness or muffled protests. The fabric merely sags emptily, horrifically, in front of my feet.
“Hey!” I whisper-shout. “Head! I mean Bulan! Where’d you go?”
A wind tickles the ash tree over Grandma’s grave, and its dead leaves seem to giggle. At me, at my predicament. I have no idea how this is possible, but Bulan the head is gone. Could he have rolled away, maybe, while I was talking with that guy? Is this why there’d been so much grunting? But how could a head unzip a duffel and escape on its own?
I search the grave mound, kicking up flowers. It’s no good. I can’t find the head anywhere.
Maybe it’s just me—or maybe it’s Grandma’s frozen pesto lasagna, threatening to climb back up my esophagus—but I’m pretty sure having a severed head go missing is even worse than walking around with a severed talking head on your person.
Cool cool cool cool cooooool.
3LATE-NIGHT DECISIONS ARE ALWAYS REGRETTABLE
PER THE PARCHMENT SIGN GRANDMAaffixed to the door with egg yolk and horse hair, the Spük Apothecary of downtown Salem opens at noon. Per a new sheet of cheap printer paper I’ve affixed with Scotch tape—a significantly less noxious adhesive than Grandma’s favorite multipurpose potion—Spük Apothecary now opens never.
Ideally, I wouldn’t have to attend to the shuttered place at all. But in case the chaotic contents of the shop harbor another “surprise” on the scale of a talking head, I’m taking on the task of organization myself. I’ve also asked Grandma’s lawyer to meet me one last time before I head back to New York, to discuss what’s left in settling the estate. For better or for worse, he agreed, and here he is: the day after Grandma’s funeral, at exactly 7:59 a.m., Baldy the probate attorney rolls up to the shop.
I try not to be impressed by his slick black Tesla or his punctuality. It’s early October, and a Saturday, so the holiday traffic is already threatening to stack vertically. Car exhaust battles the scents of spilled pumpkin spice lattes and moldering leaves crunched into Salem’s bloodred brick sidewalks. It isn’t easy to navigate this witchy town, is what I’m getting at. But I refuse to acknowledge that Grandma’s lawyer does it well, because even the impressive things about him are off-putting and lumpy.
Case in point? He double-parks.
