have seen this craft in my homeland, Romania. A wise woman made them—most respected.”
Allie liked that.
That woman in the cape walked down the lanes of the market like a queen, pausing briefly to look at things.
I followed her and she stopped at our stand, smiling warmly at the BIDDLE FAMILY ORCHARDS sign, picked up a jar of Nan’s chunky applesauce, and held it to the light like she knew something deep about it.
“How much, dear one?” she asked Elizabeth in a smoky, accented voice.
“Six dollars.”
“Where have you been?” Nan asked me.
“Investigating,” I said.
The caped woman looked at me; her dark eyes bored through me. She took out a beaded coin purse and slowly unfolded the bills. She handed them to Elizabeth and smiled broadly.
Then she moved on.
“Who
is
that woman?” Elizabeth asked me, putting the money in her apron.
“Another weird tourist?”
On Sunday
The Bee
broke the news.
RENOWNED PSYCHIC MADAME ZOBEK TO SETTLE IN BANESVILLE
She was so renowned,
The Bee
proclaimed, that she was considering an offer to appear regularly on the new hit cable show
Hair-Raising Haunts.
People came to her from all over the world to seek her wisdom. She had come to town because of the Ludlow place. “It drew me,” she explained in the article. “I felt the spirits of the dead calling me to come. I cannot tell how long they will ask me to linger, but I must obey.”
“Hopefully, not too long,” Minska said when she read the article.
Tanisha and I were sitting in a window booth at Minska’s. I dipped a deep-fried apple slice into thick caramelsauce, watched the caramel drip slowly onto the plate. Caramel takes its sweet time. It’s my favorite flavor.
Tanisha took out her latest photos of life in Banesville. “It’s getting harder for me to photograph people who don’t seem a little nervous, Hildy. I see it on their faces.”
I looked at the photographs of stern-faced growers in the Red Road orchards, of mothers rushing into cars with their children.
“You see this one?” She held up a shot of Main Street on a Saturday night with not a car in sight. “Since the dead guy was found, people aren’t going out the way they used to.”
It was dinner time and Minska’s wasn’t packed with people, either—that hardly ever happened.
I looked at the photos of Minska’s father on the back wall. He worked in the shipyards in Gdansk, Poland. That’s where the protests began that ultimately led to Poland’s freedom. Minska’s father was jailed and beat up, but he never stopped believing that Poland would be free. “The stirring for freedom was everywhere,” Minska told me in our interview last spring. It was the best article I’ve written. People asked for copies of it long after it ran.
The man in the booth behind us groaned. He’d been groaning for a while now. All I could see was his back. Minska went over to him. She was wearing her billowing black pants, a white shirt, and silver hoop earrings. “Do you need a taxi, sir?”
“You got taxis in the happy apple valley?” he said, slurring his words.
“We’ve got one,” Minska responded.
He moaned again.
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
He waved an arm. “Not sick.”
Minska walked away, but kept her eye on the man as she dusted the photo of the woman who was a leader in the early workers’ strikes in Poland.
“She was a factory worker,” Minska had said to me. “So brave; always ready to expose wrongdoings. Her name was Anna. She was my hero. During the strikes she said, ‘I knew that I could not conquer great wrongs myself, so I started with small things.’”
I ate my apple slice slowly.
Now we heard ripping noises in the booth.
Tanisha turned around and asked the man if she could help.
“Not at the moment,” he snarled.
She turned back. “It’s code purple, Hildy.”
Purple stood for “Proceed with caution.”
I stood and looked. The man was ripping a newspaper up into little shreds. He
Allie liked that.
That woman in the cape walked down the lanes of the market like a queen, pausing briefly to look at things.
I followed her and she stopped at our stand, smiling warmly at the BIDDLE FAMILY ORCHARDS sign, picked up a jar of Nan’s chunky applesauce, and held it to the light like she knew something deep about it.
“How much, dear one?” she asked Elizabeth in a smoky, accented voice.
“Six dollars.”
“Where have you been?” Nan asked me.
“Investigating,” I said.
The caped woman looked at me; her dark eyes bored through me. She took out a beaded coin purse and slowly unfolded the bills. She handed them to Elizabeth and smiled broadly.
Then she moved on.
“Who
is
that woman?” Elizabeth asked me, putting the money in her apron.
“Another weird tourist?”
On Sunday
The Bee
broke the news.
RENOWNED PSYCHIC MADAME ZOBEK TO SETTLE IN BANESVILLE
She was so renowned,
The Bee
proclaimed, that she was considering an offer to appear regularly on the new hit cable show
Hair-Raising Haunts.
People came to her from all over the world to seek her wisdom. She had come to town because of the Ludlow place. “It drew me,” she explained in the article. “I felt the spirits of the dead calling me to come. I cannot tell how long they will ask me to linger, but I must obey.”
“Hopefully, not too long,” Minska said when she read the article.
Tanisha and I were sitting in a window booth at Minska’s. I dipped a deep-fried apple slice into thick caramelsauce, watched the caramel drip slowly onto the plate. Caramel takes its sweet time. It’s my favorite flavor.
Tanisha took out her latest photos of life in Banesville. “It’s getting harder for me to photograph people who don’t seem a little nervous, Hildy. I see it on their faces.”
I looked at the photographs of stern-faced growers in the Red Road orchards, of mothers rushing into cars with their children.
“You see this one?” She held up a shot of Main Street on a Saturday night with not a car in sight. “Since the dead guy was found, people aren’t going out the way they used to.”
It was dinner time and Minska’s wasn’t packed with people, either—that hardly ever happened.
I looked at the photos of Minska’s father on the back wall. He worked in the shipyards in Gdansk, Poland. That’s where the protests began that ultimately led to Poland’s freedom. Minska’s father was jailed and beat up, but he never stopped believing that Poland would be free. “The stirring for freedom was everywhere,” Minska told me in our interview last spring. It was the best article I’ve written. People asked for copies of it long after it ran.
The man in the booth behind us groaned. He’d been groaning for a while now. All I could see was his back. Minska went over to him. She was wearing her billowing black pants, a white shirt, and silver hoop earrings. “Do you need a taxi, sir?”
“You got taxis in the happy apple valley?” he said, slurring his words.
“We’ve got one,” Minska responded.
He moaned again.
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
He waved an arm. “Not sick.”
Minska walked away, but kept her eye on the man as she dusted the photo of the woman who was a leader in the early workers’ strikes in Poland.
“She was a factory worker,” Minska had said to me. “So brave; always ready to expose wrongdoings. Her name was Anna. She was my hero. During the strikes she said, ‘I knew that I could not conquer great wrongs myself, so I started with small things.’”
I ate my apple slice slowly.
Now we heard ripping noises in the booth.
Tanisha turned around and asked the man if she could help.
“Not at the moment,” he snarled.
She turned back. “It’s code purple, Hildy.”
Purple stood for “Proceed with caution.”
I stood and looked. The man was ripping a newspaper up into little shreds. He
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