The Cursed Blood, стр. 29

Chapter Six

The gift and the ghostly Grandmother…

I was sitting outside on the porch a few days later, mind wandering and listening to the distant drilling of a woodpecker, when the girl from the diner unexpectedly wandered up to our gate in a low-cut polka dot dress, denim jacket, and knit hat holding a fancy wicker basket.

She waved at me with a pink knitted gloved hand and put the basket on the ground, running off before I could even get up from my chair. At my feet Manx let out an uneasy growl as he sniffed the air. I ignored it as I was happy to see her again, and I was curious to see what was in the basket.

I know, I know… This sounds awfully fishy, right? Well, it was fishy, and I was too young to see it. I was a kid back then who’d just lost everything he’d known and had no friends his age. So, excuse me for wanting friends (especially such pretty ones). Seriously, try to cut kid me some slack, alright?

Gramps was just coming around the side of the barn workshop with a logger’s axe over his shoulder to start tackling the cords of firewood he’d had delivered (they were quite broad and heavy and needed to be chopped into more manageable pieces) when he noticed her running off.

He paused mid stride and squinted after the girl with a frown. Then his eyes slipped to Manx, who was now standing and watching her vanish into the woods, tail whipping about like mad and then to me who was halfway off the porch. He left the axe leaning against his chopping stone and wearily made for the gate after emphatically gesturing for me to stay put.

He came back with the basket, which was heavily laden with jars of preserves, honey, and baked treats, looking very unhappy. Wordlessly, he stomped into the house, Manx and I at his heels. White Owl arrived in his shiny blue truck about fifteen minutes after he’d gotten off the phone with Gramps.

I was happy to see him, as Gramps was not in a particularly good mood and had sat glaring at the basket in silence. Waving off conversation from the second he’d put the phone back on its receiver on the wall, he walked over to flop into his chair And instructed me to not even go near the “froofy looking” basket until he and White Owl had had a good look at it.

White Owl let himself in, offered me a nod, Manx a scratch, and walked right past Gramps to the kitchen table where he stared down at the basket. He ran his hand over the pink ribbon tied in a big bow about its middle, and read the tiny card attached to the handle by yet more pink ribbon that’s ends had been curled up all fancy like. Then riffled through its contents in his customary silence.

Finally, he shrugged, picked out a cookie, and took a bite as he walked over to the sofa dribbling crumbs on the floor that Manx rushed over to lap up. White Owl flopped down next to me and sank into the cushions with a contented sigh as he took another huge bite.

“That’s it? That’s all?” Gramps demanded tersely.

White Owl took another bite and continued chewing, meeting Gramps’ flustered stare and again shrugging. “Mmmm, marzipan,” he added obligingly as he popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth and sank back into the sofa with a sigh.

“No advice for the boy then?” Gramps prodded.

White Owl sighed and turned about to me. Meeting my eyes with a calm, serious, and solemn expression as he finished chewing. Placing his huge, many silver and turquoise ringed hand on my shoulder and offered this sage advice:

“Don’t let them go stale.”

Gramps threw up his hands in defeat. “Some bloody help you are,” he grumbled with an ear reddening curse as he struggled out of his chair. The day’s chores obviously aching at his back as he stomped over to the table, placed both palms on it, and stared at the basket. He fingered the note thoughtfully, rolling his eyes at the curly, flowery script.

“Can either of you tell me who this Miss M is, and why she’s bringing my grandson treats?” he finally asked in his customary grumble.

“Was it the girl from the diner?” White Owl inquired with a raised eyebrow.

I nodded. He nodded back and again he shrugged. “Who knows how young women’s minds work?” he asked of no one in particular as he petted the Witchound that had plopped its huge head into his lap, masterfully begging for more cookie.

“Which young woman precisely?” Gramps asked, his patience obviously near the danger point (as indicated by the vein throbbing on his forehead and rhythmic finger tapping on the tabletop) as he stared down at the basket. Wisely, I filled him in. He sighed at the story and shook his head at me bewilderedly.

“Could any of it be poisoned, potioned, or enchanted?” he finally asked in a sour tone that made it clear he half expected no answer at all out of his old friend who was at that precise moment indulging Manx with the last remaining nibble of his cookie.

White Owl, thick brows raised incredulously, ever so slowly turned to Gramps. “You think a little girl is trying to slip young Ben something?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but someone could have put her up to it, couldn’t they?” Gramps asked exasperatedly.

“Artur, just because more than one of your former wives has sent you laxative laced cookies over the centuries doesn’t mean every kind gesture by a girl is dangerous. It just means you were a crappy husband.” This was the first time I had ever heard Gramps’ first name,