The Kitchen Charmer Read online

  Or so she thought.

  I pressed hard on my bleeding fingertip, trying to squeeze the guilty truth back into my veins.

  She was the adoptive mother of Chief Deputy Sheriff Kern Burkett. A handsome sociopath.

  No one in the quilting society wanted to pry open the lid of Cleo’s Pandora Box. At least, not during Christmas.

  She is burning with confusion and sorrow; I smell the stink of wet and destroyed fleece.

  Tal carefully set a wrapped quilt in front of her. “Dr. Firth is Scottish and an atheist. Everybody knows that. Does that mean he can’t live in this country anymore?”

  Since Tal was newly engaged to Doug Firth, our veterinarian, everyone took an extra sip of mulled blueberry wine and waited for the fireworks to start.

  Cleo drew herself up to small tank mode. “If I confronted him and said ‘You are a Godless man,’ he’d try to convince me he’s a deacon in the Jefferson County First Baptist. He only tells the truth when he’s prescribing medicines for kittens and hogs.”

  “Oh, mierda,” Mabel said.

  Tal’s face slowly turned the color of her hair. Her freckled skin had merged into dangerous freckle storm clouds. “He rescued me and my daughter from a dangerous situation, last month.”

  Yes, with the help of Fluffy McFainty, there.” Cleo nodded toward me. Then she cut her eyes toward Tal. “I’ll say this much for Dr. Firth. He does his job well, and he loves animals. And . . . at least you’re not consorting with a Wakefield, like your sister.”

  Fingers stopped tying bows. More sips of wine were taken from sturdy pottery mugs.

  Tal swiveled toward Cleo. “You want to say that to Gabby’s face? I can arrange a meeting.”

  “I’ll say it to her face, you bet. Taking up with a Wakefield. After what his people did to your family and this county. After what his uncle tried to do to you and her and that dangerous brother of yours.”

  Gus MacBride. My skin tingled. Dangerous?

  “Tissue,” Cleo shouted at me. “You’re dripping again.”

  “Sorry.” I dug into my knitted tote. I was a traveling drug store—psych meds, tissues, affirmation pamphlets, dream journals, worry stones, yarn, crochet hooks, knitting needles, pepper spray . . . tissues. I wrapped my finger then hid it beneath the table.

  “Bring some bandages next time,” Cleo snapped. “I was about to say a prayer that the Lord not think we were holding an Old Testament sacrifice here. Tal, quit being so thin-skinned. You’re engaged to an atheist and your sister is tangled with a Wakefield. Your brother hasn’t been home in almost twenty years. And your little pet—” she stared at me, “—is causing nothing but trouble. Ever since she wrecked Howard Monzell’s marriage. She brought down his wrath on everyone who stood up for her.”

  “She offered his third wife a refuge from abuse.”

  “No. She meddled in their marriage and used her peculiar influence. No wonder you took her under wing. She’s a practitioner of the dark side. Just like you and your sister and brother. You put weeds in your biscuits—”

  “Herbs.”

  “—and chili peppers in your cornbread. Your apple pies are . . . ”

  “You leave my pies out of this. That’s my mother’s recipe.” Tal stood, towering over Cleo. “Something in your heart is in pain. I smell the scent of burned grains; I feel the dried-up flour with no leavening to bring it up. What’s tormenting you?”

  Cleo leapt to her feet. “Don’t try that voodoo on me.” She held up a hand. “But I forgive you. ‘Bless those who persecute me; bless and do not curse them.’ Romans 12:14.”

  As a minister’s daughter, I knew Bible verses. I was practically the iPhone Siri of Bible trivia. “‘The Lord will fight for you,’” I said quietly. “‘And you have only to be silent.’ Exodus 14:14.” I stared at Cleo. “I think you should be silent, now.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Well, hallelujah. The little bleeding lamb has grown a backbone.”

  Tal put a hand on my shoulder to hold me down. Her bodacious, denimed butt cheeks blocked my view of Cleo. “I don’t like how you speak to my friend.”

  Cleo snorted. “I have my sympathy for Lucy’s peculiarities, but I deserve some sympathy, too. I’ve got a son I haven’t seen in two years since he came home crippled from the wars.” She glared at me. “And people around here are talking trash about my other son.”

  “That’s not Lucy’s fault.”

  “She’s luring him.”

  Mabel snorted. “No, she isn’t. Kern’s a hound dog. Everybody knows it. He’s trying to push Pike out of office and take over. God help us all if that happens. He does what his daddy-in-law tells him. Monzell wants to own us all. My husband’s cousin was fired at the Daw Ridge plant for passing out union pamphlets.”

  Cleo’s short, dark hair, going lighter with every hair salon visit to hide the silver, glowed with a halo of fury. I saw colors and yarns around people, sometimes. “All I ask is that Kern gets fair treatment. He’s a war hero, and he’s doing a great job cleaning up this county. I won’t have him accused of flirting with women who aren’t his wife.” She pointed at me. “You’re not right in the head. Your imagination gets the best of you.”

  Lucy Parmenter encouraged my clients, Your Honor.

  My skin crawled. Tal’s broad hand still clamped me into my chair. I craned my head around her hip. “That’s a lie.” Small voice. Then, gathering the storm inside my chest, I said it again, louder. “A lie.”

  Cleo lit up. Radiant static floated the finest small hairs under the brim of a Crossroads Café baseball cap. On the front of her Proud Military Mom sweatshirt, her gold cross and two American flag pendants shimmered on their necklaces. Two sons. One, mysterious and adopted. One, born of her body. Both veterans.

  She shouted, “I don’t fiddle-faddle around when there’s work to be done, I don’t mince words, I don’t suffer fools lightly, and—” her voice rose and her finger pointed at Tal—“I don’t cast my pearls before swine. You MacBrides were nothing but moonshiners and thieves. Now what’s left of you has come back here to cause nothing but trouble. But you’re weak. Your brother’s a coward who won’t come home.”

  Big swirls of coarse red wool shot out of Tal’s hair. I stared as the Medusa of tangled yarn reached the ceiling and began to form a cloud of deadly intent over Cleo’s head.

  I struggled to my feet, having to wedge myself between Tal’s butt and the table. “‘For she that will love life, and see good days, let her refrain her tongue from evil, and her lips that they speak no guile.’ 1 Peter 3:10.”

  Cleo shot back, “Proverbs 15:28: ‘The heart of the righteous studieth to answer: but the mouth of the wicked poureth out evil things.’”

  “Exodus 20,” I shouted. “‘Honor thy father and mother.’ What did you do to drive Trey away from home?”

  Cleo stepped back as if shoved. Her mouth gaped. Three shocked blinks and tears poured from her eyes, even as she screwed up her face in a tourniquet of rage. She pivoted on squeaky jogging shoes and hurried out the front doors, slamming one so hard the Christmas wreath fell off.

  I winced. “I shouldn’t have . . . how could I . . . ”

  “A toast to Lucy,” Mabel said. The others grabbed their mugs.

  I stood with head down as they gleefully clinked the crockery.

  Tal put an arm around me. Wool twined around us. The heat of baking ovens surrounded us. Handwoven towels cushioned crockery pie plates. Bread cooled on neatly knitted cotton runners. “Good job, Yarn Witch. You’re ready for your close-up.” She pulled me down a hallway to the kitchen.

  Since she was putting together a Christmas shipment of her home baked cookies, Gabby’s gourmet pickles, and other gifts for Gus, I had contributed one of my scarves. Hand-spun and hand-dyed.

  “Hold it up,” Tal ordered, as she
positioned her phone and peered through the camera app. “No. Not in front of your face.”

  “I don’t want to send a picture.”

  “Show your face. Eyes, mouth, nose, chin. The whole thing.”

  I used to be pretty. Very pretty. But that pretty young school teacher and minister’s daughter didn’t want to be noticed, anymore.

  Tal shook the phone at me. “Either cooperate or I’ll follow you around until I get the picture I want.”

  I slowly lowered the scarf.

  Tal took the picture. “Terrific.”

  I looked at it and winced. A rat’s nest of long, white-blonde hair, multiple shawls over a large sweater, no makeup on solemn eyes, and a flat, unsmiling mouth. If she’d sneaked a full-length portrait, Gus would see an ankle-length work skirt over thick tights and muddy boots.

  Not interested, stay away.

  THAT NIGHT, AS usual, I sat outside in the cold. The security sirens began to shriek. Half past two a.m. forty degrees with icy winds coming down off the Ten Sisters. The dogs were already barking. I sat in the broad pastures behind the sheep barn. They dipped and curved into the forest next door, leading to the haunted forest of Free Wheeler, where Claptraddle bicycles made with fine woods, studded with Appalachian gemstones had whirled along the trails between the factory village and the workers’ cottages.

  A huge barn owl soared across the dark sky.

  Miss Lucy, Opal said. You are either the hunter or the prey. Decide.

  Gunshots exploded from the front field. The goddess statue was under attack, again. Angry men always dishonored her on their way to the main buildings. She was now missing fingers, nipples, toes, and tendrils of her concrete hair. They spray-painted her with swastikas, penis drawings, and KKK symbols. We glued her parts back on, and repainted her.

  Spotlights sprang on, bathing the barns, the cabins and communal dorms in stark light. At the main house, a rambling old farmsteader with multiple chimneys and porches, the Christmas lights went dark.

  I tried not to lose my shawls or my knitting tote as I ran. I heard voices. They floated through the sky, settled on the ice frost on the fields, boomed like bass drums from under the forest floor below Rainbow Goddess. Ancient voices. Spirits. My yarn angel was among them.

  You gonna handle more than usual tonight, Miss Lucy. You gonna learn how.

  Opal, I can’t. I can’t.

  Yes, Lucy, you can. You were meant to lead this fight. You’re meant to find me. Avenge me.

  Behind me, heavy hooves crunched on the frosted grass.

  “I’m okay, Brim.” I stopped to stroke her nose. She was a big, gray-brown mule, with a sneer on her yellow teeth for anyone but me.

  My phone beeped. Alberta barked, “Four armed men in the front pasture. Lockdown Level One. You take the storage cellar.”

  Ten minutes later I shut and locked the cellar’s heavy door then clambered down its concrete steps. More than forty women and children huddled in the chill under fluorescent lights, crouching around tables and chairs scattered among bins full of last autumn’s harvest. Potatoes, winter squash, pumpkins, radishes, giving off their good earthy scents. Tall shelves glistened with thousands of canning jars. The farm had a commercial kitchen where we produced jellies, pickles, and soups to sell.

  “What do we do now?” a woman called out. “You’re some kind of witch, they say. Cast a spell. Wave a wand or something.”

  My hands shook. A panic attack crawled up my spine and seeped into my lungs.

  It doesn’t work that way. I hear voices. I get intuitions.

  I fumbled in my skirt, patting the plastic container that held my medications. I’d already swallowed too many pills. A fog began to settle over the terror. Not in a good way.

  “Who wants to learn to knit?” I called out. I dragged my tote bag off one shoulder; dug out a pair of needles and a skein of yarn. This is a special blend I make, here at the farm. Merino wool spun with the longer fibers of bluefaced leicester . . . ”

  Someone pounded on the cellar door.

  I jumped. I was now shaking uncontrollably. I felt disconnected from reality; trapped in an invisible coffin.

  The door lock rattled, and the bolt slid aside. Women screamed. I, however, was frozen in place, feeling two pairs of male hands all over me, inside me, hitting me, tearing me apart again and again.

  I reached inside the waistband of my skirt. My fingers edged into the holster that nestled between my thighs. Alberta had been giving me lessons, despite Macy’s disapproval.

  Click off the safety, pull the pistol out of the holster, curl a finger around the trigger . . .

  Keys rattled. The lock turned. Sheriff Pike Whittlespoon shoved the door open. Picture a graying John Wayne in the khaki and leather jacket and baseball cap of a Southern sheriff. A good one.

  “All clear, ladies,” he boomed.

  The women flooded past me. “Quit diddling yourself,” one snapped.

  I pulled my hand out of my nethers. Other than that show of dignity, I couldn’t move. It was like having seizures in public. Helpless and humiliating.

  I’m a loser. I’ll always be this way. I’m weak.

  “Lucy, are you all right?” Pike’s deep, fatherly drawl was muffled by the roar in my ears.

  He looks tired and pale. What’s happening in our community—our mountains, our nation—is tearing him apart. He’s been their Andy Griffith for thirty years. But he can’t handle the tidal wave of darkness coming at us, now.

  He tried again. “Can you hear me? You want me to call Delta?”

  Delta, the maternal force that fought this evil. The kitchen charmer at the center of the legendary Crossroads Café. My surrogate sister-mother. I would not have survived except for her and her magical biscuits.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just leave me here to catch my breath. Thank you.”

  “You know, I get these calls, but by the time I make it to the scene, the trouble’s been scared off. It’s almost like you’ve got folks in the woods around here, watching out for the place.” He cleared his throat and said nothing else.

  He knew about the Knights. Delta knew, also. As long as he was in charge they wouldn’t be harassed, even though most of them were wanted for petty crimes.

  He held out a hand. “Let me help you up the stairs.”

  I drew back.

  No man touched me. Ever.

  That night, I texted Tal not to send Gus my scarf or my photo.

  “Too late,” she texted back. With a Grin symbol beside it.

  3

  I SAT ON MY cot in the glorified shipping container that served as my home on the base.

  A pistol was always beside me, then. Always daring me.

  My phone chimed. A text from Tal.

  She’s a charmer, like us. Wool is her thing. I’m sending you a scarf she made.

  I’d heard that before. My sisters were a kitchen charms dating service. Always trying to lure me home.

  I clicked.

  A photo filled my phone. Gorgeous white-blonde fairytale. Wrapped to the chin in scarves, burrowed inside shawls, blue eyes above blue shadows, not wanting to know me, afraid of me, haunting me.

  This is Lucy Parmenter.

  The scent of blueberries and honey surrounded me. I drank an old, rich wine, peppered with the broken hulls of sugared muscadines. Only the ashes saved it from curling my tongue. Charcoal. Fire and burnt dregs. Pain and fear and the sour dust of memories. We’re alike.

  Deep inside me, she found what was broken.

  And I found her.

  I set the pistol aside, but not too far.

  CHRISTMAS EVE WAS the most depressing day of the year at the farm—women who felt hopeless, with no place else to go, some of them as young as eighteen, some with small children. Seve
ral hid bruises still healing under makeup; one or two wore splints or slings. The recent attack had frightened them even more.

  The large den at the community house was full of light and music, with a giant, decorated fir tree. The logs of the wall were chestnut, a foot thick and two hundred years old, salvaged from an old grist mill up on Walking Dog Creek. Even an assault rifle couldn’t penetrate them.

  Presents were piled in mountains of colorful wrapping and large bows. Cathy, Delta, and wealthy patrons like Gabby and Jay Wakefield made sure there were gifts for all.

  Macy, dressed in shimmering robes with pointy ears, her long gold hair plaited with gold Christmas garland, handed out stockings stuffed with gift cards from local shops. Alberta played Santa Claus. Most of the youngest children had not caught on that Santa was Miss Al, the female Marine veteran with the longish butch haircut who dressed like a lumberjack and taught them kickboxing.

  I was in charge of face painting, given my arts background as a teacher. Armed with a kit of small brushes, non-toxic body paints, glitter and hair decorations, I’d transformed every child in the room into something resembling a deranged Whoville kid in The Grinch.

  My last project was Tim, a quiet three-year-old with soft brown eyes, caramel skin, and curly black hair.

  This so-called farm is taking in the runts and the mutts. Giving welfare to lazy baby mamas. Teaching them to hate men and God.

  Howard Monzell’s words.

  Tim wore red pants and a Rudolph t-shirt. He sat in a chair facing me, gazing solemnly at the mirror beside me as I followed his instructions to give him Christmas soldier paint—red-and-green camo splotches with patriotic glitter stars.

  As I painted big stars on his cheeks, I pulled a small, red-and-white scarf from a bag by my feet. Each child got one. The soft wool shimmied against my fingertips as I tied it around his neck.

  Suddenly Opal spoke to me.

  You gotta talk to him on that phone of yours. You gotta.

  My phone played Jingle Bells. Tim pointed toward the sound in my skirt. “Santa.”

  I shook my head. Only a few people had my number. “Santa’s over there showing everyone how to kickbox the tree.”