Death Waxed Over - Tim Myers [5]
I was setting up near the old County Courthouse, now operated as a museum dedicated to the area’s past. The two-hundred-year-old granite building was draped in bunting and decorated with dozens of flags for the festivities. New Conover was the county seat, located twenty minutes from Micah’s Ridge.
“Hey, are you going to daydream all morning, or are you going to help me with my stuff?” I was glad that Heather Bane and I had decided to set up together. I didn’t feel quite so vulnerable with a friendly face nearby. Heather’s long blonde hair was pulled back in its standard pony tail, and she wore a tie-dyed T-shirt with her jeans.
I slid her table off the truck bed and said, “I was just thinking about Belle.”
“She would have loved this, Harrison,” Heather said as we set her table on its folding legs.
“Eve wasn’t sure my presence here would be worth the effort and cost,” I said. “I’m starting to wonder if she was right. Are you worried about making anything more than what you paid for the display fee?”
Heather laughed. “Don’t get cold feet now. We’ll both do fine. I’ve got Mrs. Quimby and Esmeralda watching the store and Eve’s keeping your candleshop open, so we’ll make out all right.” Mrs. Quimby was Heather’s lone part-time employee, while Esmeralda was her cat and erstwhile queen of The New Age.
I finished transferring the boxes in the truck bed to our tables, then said, “Watch our stuff, would you? I’ve got to go park in the vendor lot.”
I had to walk three blocks back to our tables after I moved the truck, but it was a glorious morning, and I didn’t mind the stroll. I love early morning; it’s my favorite time of day, before the whole world’s awake and bustling around. As I passed table after table, I watched the crews set up, most of them obviously seasoned in preparing their displays. I still didn’t know exactly how I was going to arrange my space, but there would be time, since the festivities didn’t officially open until 9 a.m. I was nearly back to my booth when I ran into Gretel Barnett, the femme candlemaker herself.
“Hi, Gretel. I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I said, trying to hide my displeasure at her presence.
In a voice that rang out over the nearby sounds of folks setting up, she proclaimed, “It’s a free country, Harrison. I could hardly stand by and watch you steal all my customers from me, now could I?”
“How in the world can you accuse me of stealing anything? You’re the one encroaching on my territory.” My voice tends to get louder when I’m excited or angry, and I noticed that a few nearby vendors were watching us intently. So be it. I wasn’t sure what had brought out this new belligerent attitude of hers, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
She retorted, “This is the land of democracy, the American way. Surely you’re not against America.” Gretel nearly shouted her last words, and we were getting more and more attention.
Fighting to keep my voice calmer than I felt, I said, “I won’t give you the satisfaction of making me lose my temper in public. This didn’t have to be personal, but you’re making it that way.”
“I’m going to bury you,” she said, not softening her voice at all. “You and your sad little candle store.”
As she stalked off, I felt my face redden. I was still steaming as I approached my table.
Heather asked, “What was that all about?”
“You heard?”
“Everyone here heard you two. Did she just accuse you of being un-American?”
“I thought we were going to have a friendly little competition between candleshops, but I guess I was wrong. Now it’s personal.”
“Harrison, you need to try to get along with her.”
A lecture was the last thing I needed at the moment. “Heather, I don’t need you as my conscience. I wasn’t the one who started this.”
We didn’t share more than half a dozen words after that, each left to our own thoughts. What in the world had brought out that kind of attack from Gretel? She’d been abrupt when she’d come into my shop before, but she hadn’t been insulting.