Free Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell Page A

still in my mouth. My heart fluttered just a tad, and I was glad I had bypassed my comfy jeans this morning.
    Finally able to swallow, I slid off my tall stool and stood.
    â€œGood morning. May I help you?”
    â€œI hope so.” He took a notepad out of the back pocket of his faded jeans, leaned one elbow on the counter, and flipped it open. “I guess I need mugwort, something called Dead Men’s Bells, and . . . what’s that say? I can’t read my own writing.”
    He held the dog-eared notebook out to me, showing a scratchy, intense script that tilted to the left.
    â€œElderberry shoots?” I ventured.
    â€œRight. Elderberry shoots.” He flipped the notebook closed and shoved it back in his pocket.
    â€œI’m afraid Bronwyn’s not in at the moment, but let’s see what she’s got on her shelves.” I came out from behind the counter and headed toward Bronwyn’s corner. I don’t share my own potent herbal stash with anyone.
    â€œCute pig,” the man commented as he trailed me across the store, squeezing his broad shoulders through racks of lacy negligees and poodle skirts. In his potbellied-pig guise, Oscar lay snoring on the purple silk pillow Bronwyn had given him for a bed. “You’re not the resident witch, then?”
    â€œ Me , a witch?” I laughed, hoping my voice didn’t ring false. “I repair and sell vintage clothing.”
    â€œGood. You’re far too pretty to be a witch.”
    â€œThank you, I guess.” I slipped behind Bronwyn’s counter and pulled a couple of neatly labeled mason jars down off a wooden shelf. A painted sign hung prominently on the wall with the amiable golden rule from the Wiccan Rede: AN IT HARM NONE, DO WHAT YE WILL.
    â€œReal witches don’t have green faces and warts, you know,” I felt compelled to point out. “They’re perfectly normal.”
    â€œExcept for the fact that they think they’re witches.” He smiled and his face was transformed. The sadness was still there, but muted. His light eyes held mine, and for a moment I had a strong, inappropriate desire to try to control him. I forced myself to look away and started wrapping his purchases in a plain brown wrapper.
    â€œYou’re looking for protection?” I asked.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œMugwort, Dead Men’s Bells, and elderberry shoots. They’re used in protective spells.”
    â€œI thought you specialized in clothing.”
    â€œI overhear things.” I shrugged. “That’ll be fourteen dollars and fifty-two cents.”
    He let out a little whistle. “They don’t come cheap.”
    â€œThese are very special herbs. You’re not exactly making vinaigrette.”
    He chuckled. “If you want to know the truth, I’m going on a ghost hunt, and the ghost hunter, Gosnold, told me I needed this stuff. He told me I could get it here.”
    â€œCharles Gosnold?” I asked. I called him Charles the charlatan.
    He nodded. “You know him?”
    â€œA little. He’s a friend of Bronwyn’s.”
    â€œThat would explain the recommendation. Anyway, that’s what the magic herbs are for. Crazy, right?”
    I returned the man’s smile. Charles would no doubt take him to some rickety old building, figuring that age was the equivalent of ghostly goings-on. Ultimately they wouldn’t see anything beyond figments of their own imaginations. What could it hurt?
    â€œWhere are you hunting these ghosts?” I asked.
    â€œOut on the bay. Supposedly there’s ‘spectral activity’ over the water lately.”
    Uh-oh.
    â€œYou shouldn’t go out there with Gosnold.”
    â€œI’ve got to. I have a whole film crew lined up.”
    â€œI’m serious; it’s not safe. Charles is all hat and no cattle.”
    â€œHe’s what?” the man asked with a quizzical half smile.
    â€œHe’s a phony. He