Wax by Gina Damico Page B

“They’ve nicknamed it Potion, and it’s one of the newest advances in waxen technology. By mixing a person’s individually secreted oils with Potion​—​a proprietary mix of wax, pheromones, and scentographic sensors​—​we’ll be able to create an innovative, one-of-a-kind fragrance. Personalized scents are going to revolutionize the industry!”
    This was followed by a polite round of applause from most, and a drowned-out “I don’t think ‘scentographic sensors’ are a thing,” from Poppy.
    â€œIn fact, our new line of BiScentennial candles​—​which releases tomorrow​—​will be made with this technology, using data from volunteers found right here in Paraffin,” the tour guide continued, wheeling the table with the bowls out of the way. “We are not overexaggerating when we tell you that this is a
total candle game changer.
”
    â€œThat must be true,” Jill muttered to Poppy, “as the Grosholtz Candle Factory is not prone to overexaggeration.”
    The tour guide clasped her hands together, beaming. “Yes, here at the Grosholtz Candle Factory, it truly is​—​say it with me​—​
one fire, many flames.
And with that, there’s only one thing left to do!” she finished with a menacing smile. And of course,
of course,
from the wings of the stage moseyed Vermonty, that destroyer of worlds, as the melody of “These Green Mountains” filled the room.
    The elderly contingent happily formed an impromptu, tuneless chorus while Poppy and Jill scanned the room for exits. “I’ll push them,” Jill told Poppy. “Trampling senior citizens is not beneath me.”
    â€œIt might be the one thing you were put on this earth to do.”
    The music got louder. Arthritic hands clapped along with the rhythm. Poppy whipped her head around the room and spotted a door toward the back, labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY.
    She swallowed, a rush of blood pulsing in her head. Once she was sure no one was watching her, she crept up to the door and put her ear to its surface​—​but the song had gotten so loud, it was impossible to hear anything.
    Jill saw what Poppy was doing and joined her. “Have you decided to sneak into the back and set the Chandlers on fire?” she asked. “Good idea. If only we had access to anything combustible . . .”
    â€œLook,” Poppy said, focusing on the door. “What if Blake snuck in here, found and trapped a couple of employees, and held them hostage until they agreed to fashion a statue of me?”
    â€œWell, the simplest explanation
is
usually the right one.”
    â€œI’m serious! What if​—”
    â€œOur illustrious state needs a dance partner!” the tour guide crowed while Vermonty do-si-doed with himself. “Have we any volunteers? How about you, in the back there?”
    The fickle finger of forced audience participation landed squarely on Jill, whose face went whiter than a jar of New-Fallen Snow. “Oh, no,” she whispered, clutching at the door. “No no no.
No.
”
    Poppy saw her opportunity, and it would cost exactly one decade-old friendship. “Do it,” she commanded Jill. “Be a diversion. I’ll slip in here, investigate, and find you afterward. Jill.
Please.
”
    Jill’s jaw went hard. She drew in a long breath, the resigned inhalation of a battle-worn soldier heading into certain death. “If I do this for you,” she said stoically, “you will purchase me
ten pounds
of fudge.”
    â€œDone.”
    Jill gave an imperceptible nod and began the long walk to the stage, where Vermonty enveloped her in a suffocating green-felted hug. The last thing Poppy saw as she slipped through the door was Jill being twirled around like a ballerina, and by the look of homicidal rage on her face, Vermonty was not long for this