Page 6 of Nice to Meet Boo
The doorbell jingles and a bird screeches in response.
“Hey, Stacey,” the clerk says. “Holy chic. You look amazing. You’re going to the Halloween party, I take it?”
“Exactly. We’re on a scavenger hunt. Can I buy one feather?”
She produces a cat wand with a fluffy plume. “Two bucks. And you can take it home to your cat later.”
I pay. Stacey plus one of the feathers from the wand and tucks it into the V at her neckline, where it does an excellent job of stealing my attention.
Once we’re outside, she looks at the next item on the list.
“Ribbon.” She’s all business again, steering us into Buttons & Bows. A teenager with purple hair waves. “For you, Stace? Minute to close, but I’ll make it two.”
Stacey picks a red satin and matte black. “A foot of each.”
I pay again. She loops the ribbons around her wrist like bangles, checks the list, then scans the sidewalk.
“Matchbook and shot glass are Cyrus specials. That leaves… the confession.”
“You sound enthusiastic about blackmail.”
“It’s Halloween. People are exhibitionists with boundaries.” She squeezes my forearm. “Ooh. Targets acquired.”
Under the bookstore awning, a couple in their sixties shares a box of popcorn. He’s in a real letterman jacket. She’s wearing a witch hat with a crow.
Stacey approaches like she’s selling sunlight. “Mrs. Porter, you look fabulous.”
“Stacey! Are those real feathers?”
“Hand-plucked by the archangels.” She produces a napkin and pen. “We need a signed confession, if you’ll please. Don’t worry it’s anonymous. And we promise not to turn you in for any outstanding warrants.”
Mrs. Porter’s grin is wicked. She scribbles neatly and presses a hand to her chest. “I skipped church once to kiss him—” she gestures to the older man beside her “—behind the bleachers. Don’t tell Pastor Jim.”
Her husband laughs. “You loved every minute of it.”
Stacey gets a flourish of a signature and tucks the napkin—our sin—carefully into her bodice. “Perfect. Thank you.”
We head back, passing the brick hulk of the feed store with its faded carved sign and a crooked ghost in the window.
“Are you keeping the original sign?” she asks.
“If the owner lets me.”
“Good,” she says. “Places should remember who they were.”
“I agree.” I’m surprised by how much I do. “Old bones deserve honor. New work deserves care.”
A pack of toddlers in dinosaur onesies stampedes by. One points at my horns. “Oh scary! It’s the DEVIL!”
“Evenin’,” I say, tipping my horns. Stacey snorts.
We make it back to the bar as the emcee yells, “Eight minutes!” The room is a tide of costumes and laughter.
Stacey snags a matchbook from a fishbowl, and Cyrus slides a shot glass over without being asked. “On the house.”
She lines up our haul: feather, matchbook, shot glass, ribbons, napkin folded small.
“We did it,” she says, breathless.
