Page 103 of Blue Moon Mistress

He shrugs. “Just some chores before work. And it’s Monday, so I’ll have to go in early.”

“Are Monday’s overly busy?”

“No, but it’s when I do clean up from the weekend. Sometimes, that means I’ve got furniture to repair. I never really know until I get there.”

“I feel like a bar is a high stress environment. Did you pick it on purpose?”

“I didn’t choose the liquor life, the liquor life chose me.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “It was one of those ‘path of least resistance’ things. I started working there and then… it was just easier to take control of the place when the old man decided to sell than it was to start looking for a new job. There aren’t a ton of those around here for someone like me. And the other buyer was a guy who wanted to turn the place into a coffee klatch. I had regulars begging me to buy it.”

“They aren’t a fan of the Pourhouse?”

“I take it you’ve never been to the Liberty?” He smiles when I shake my head. “Our bar is kind of designed for the guys who’ve never made it past the seventies. They’re old, they’re set in their ways. The come in for the cheap whiskey and complain every time I have to raise the price on Bud.

“The Pourhouse has too many options—craft cocktails are a sin—and the lights are too bright, the music too loud and the songs are all from the wrong era.”

“Eventually they’re going to die out and you’ll have to adapt.”

“Eventually, but not for a while.” He finishes his coffee and goes to pour another cup from the pot. “What about you? What’s on your to do list for the day?”

“Oh, I thought I’d finish breakfast and then commit some light criminal trespass.”

He cocks a brow and I clarify. “If Mrs. Miller is out of the house for a while this morning, I’d like to slip in and take a quick look around. Nothing nefarious… just looking to have some questions answered.”

“You’re in luck. She just left for the grocery store.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Do you need to run and get dressed?”

I do, and I do.

Gloves on, I whisper “Deschi”, a simplespell to open the door and let myself into the dim interior of her home.

Mrs. Miller’s house looks like it hasn’t changed since the early sixties.

The carpet is a pristine green and brown shag. Her couch—a brown floral with yellow piping and yellow roses stashed in the pattern here and there—is covered in plastic and there’s even a rain lamp beside the couch, but instead of the Grecian statue in its center, there’s a brass depiction of Jesus.

But there’s nothing in here that feels like she’s been influenced by outside forces… other than maybe by her pastor.

In the quiet, I’m surprised she doesn’t have a cat.

But there’s no sign of life in this house right now.

If something’s affecting the old woman, she’s wearing it.

I creep further into the house. I should have turned around and left, but that warnaway bothers me. And I can’t leave it in her window, not intact, anyway.

Creeping through the silent house, I half expect to find a mummified Mr. Miller in one of the chairs.

But it was just a simple old lady’s home with a little too much lace and one more picture of Jesus than I’d expect.

If there had ever been a Mr. Miller, I couldn’t find any trace of him.

The warnaway still sat in the front window, between the layers of gauzy white curtains.

The street out front is empty. Most people have already left for their jobs, so I’m not worried about being seen when I brush the filmy white fabric to the side.

The warnaway sits on the sill as if it faces inward, watching the goings on of the house.

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