Page 54 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

I find the distinction matters, mostly because he’s right. Part of me has been wondering the same thing since the museum yesterday.

Dupree’s roadside stand sits twenty minutes outside town, along the marsh highway beneath a faded blue tarp stretched crooked between wooden poles. Folding tables overflow with peaches, tomatoes, jars of tupelo honey, river stones, swamp herbs, and little mesh bundles tied with ribbon and labeled Protection Kits in black marker. Citronella candles burn inside rusted coffee tins near the cash box.

Earl Dupree rocks slowly in a chair beside the produce crates when we pull in. Suspenders. Straw hat. Permanent expression of somebody deeply unimpressed by modern civilization.

“Well,” he drawls as we approach, “either the town finally formed a committee to arrest witches, or Scarlet brought company.”

I snort. “Morning, Earl.”

Roman steps out and gets distracted by a crate of peaches the size of softballs. “This place is incredible.”

Earl eyes him sideways. “You one of them federal boys?”

“Sort of,” Roman says.

Earl makes a deep throaty sound full of censure. “That sounds suspicious.”

“It usually does.” Roman shrugs.

I laugh before I can stop myself.

Roman grins at me like he won a prize.

This beta is dangerous to my control.

Wes circles around the truck toward us while Earl starts bagging peaches without being asked.

“Town’s gone half-crazy since the stone disappeared,” Earl mutters. “Folks buying protection charms like a cat-five hurricane’s coming.”

I lean against the folding table. “People are scared.”

“They outa be.”

The words settle heavily between us.

“You sell swamp lilies recently?” Wes folds his arms.

Earl pauses briefly. “Can’t say I have.”

Roman picks up one of the chalk bundles from the table. “People still use this?”

“Not for years, till this last week or so.” Earl spits into the grass. “Sold plenty of protective bundles lately. It makes people feel safer when they think the apocalypse is coming.”

“Any ritual herbs, besides these premade bundles?” I ask.

“Somebody asked for old rite materials a couple days ago,” Earl replies. “Didn’t browse. Knew exactly what they wanted. White ribbon. Cypress ash. Spring chalk.”

Roman exchanges a quick glance with Wes.

“Did you recognize them?” Wes asks.

Earl scratches his jaw slowly. “Couldn’t tell much. Hat low. Gloves on.”

“Gloves on? Is that typical?”

“When it’s a biker stopping.”

Wes and Roman exchange another look.