Wickedly Dangerous (Baba Yaga, #1)(38)
“I didn’t do it at all,” she growled, more to herself than to him. “Something is seriously wrong with this scenario.” She bit her lip, thinking madly as she jammed the jar back into her pocket. “Look, Bob, I need to find out what the devil is going on here. Can you tell me the names of some of the people who had problems with my medicines and where they live?”
He looked doubtful, and she added quickly, “If the herbs didn’t work, I need to collect them to see why. And give everyone their money back, of course.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, that would be good. Folks around here don’t have much extra. If you gave them their money back, then they could go to the drugstore and buy something else for whatever ails them.” He grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and starting writing down names and addresses. “Are you going to be able to find these places? I know you’re not that familiar with the area.”
Steely determination caused tiny sparks to arc off the tips of her fingers, singeing the paper slightly as she slid it into her pants with the rejected ointment. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’ll find them.” The words and find out what the hell is going on here were added only inside her own head.
TWELVE
THE FIRST PLACE she stopped was only about a mile down the road from Bob’s, on a rough gravel street that dipped into a gulley off the main route that ran through town. The place she was looking for perched precariously on a hillside overlooking a stream that looked like it flooded every spring. The house had faded, peeling white paint, and the roof was patched with mismatched shingles. A few chickens wandered lazily through the front yard, pecking at the dirt and clucking at Baba when she got out of the truck.
“Hello, girls,” she said, magically producing a few handfuls of corn to toss in their direction. Baba liked chickens; they were cheerful, useful, and entertaining. If she ever settled down in one place, she was going to get herself some chickens. Of course, if she did, Chudo-Yudo would probably just eat them.
“Are your people home?” she asked the nearest hen, a black and white beauty with fluffy feathers that covered her feet. “I need to talk to them.”
The door to the house opened a crack and a skinny man of around thirty stuck out his head, gazing at her with a pleasant but slightly befuddled expression.
“Are you talking to my chickens?” he asked, opening the door wide enough for her to see two small children peeking out from behind his gangly legs. “I wouldn’t bother, if I were you. They’re not very bright.”
“That one’s Esmeralda,” the little boy added. “She lays a lot of eggs, so we’re not going to cook her for dinner.”
Baba glanced down at the hen at her feet. “Do you hear that, Esmeralda? That’s good news, isn’t it?” Esmeralda squawked loudly and both kids giggled. The boy looked to be around five and his sister maybe a year or two younger.
Baba took a few steps closer to the house and said, “Hi, my name is Barbara Yager, and I’m looking for a woman named Lily. Does she live here?” She aimed a small smile at the children, which made the girl duck her head shyly and stick her thumb into her rosebud pink mouth.
“Lily is my wife,” the man said and looked more closely at Baba. “You’re that herbalist who sold her the cream for her tendonitis.” He shook his head ruefully, catching the boy by the back of his overalls when he tried to make a break for the yard. “I’m not so sure she’s going to want to talk to you. Her arm swelled up like a balloon when she put that stuff on it.”
“Like a balloon,” the boy said in his high-pitched voice, giggling some more and spreading his arms out to show how big the arm had gotten. “Whoosh!”
Baba winced. “That doesn’t sound good. I heard from Bob O’Shaunnessy that there was a problem with some of my remedies, and I’ve never had that happen before. So I came to give Lily her money back and see if I could figure out what went wrong.” The knot in her stomach pulled itself tighter, making her suck in her breath.
“Oh,” the man said. “Well, we could use the money, although I know she said it wasn’t much.” The threadbare shirt he wore seemed to prove his point. “If Bob sent you, I’m sure it’s okay. He’s good people. Fixed my old Toyota for next to nothing.” He held the door open wider. “Come on in. I’m Jesse, and these little monkeys are Trudy and Timmy.”
Baba thought it wouldn’t hurt to have these folks on her side. Besides, she liked Jesse and his little ones. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got a double-your-money-back guarantee on all my herbal medicines. So you’ll be getting back twice what Lily paid me.” She looked down at the chicken and added, “Isn’t that right, Esmeralda?” which made the children giggle again.
Jesse’s smile grew a little wider. “Well, that’s pretty fair,” he said. “Though I suspect Lily would be happier if her arm didn’t look like a giant sausage.”
Baba winced again, dismay rattling her bones. Jesse and the kids led her down a short passageway into a small rectangular living room with pale blue walls and homemade denim curtains pulled shut against the afternoon sun. Children’s toys were everywhere; three dolls and a stuffed bear sat in mid–tea party, and a pile of colorful plastic interlocking blocks seemed to have exploded over half of the worn wooden planks. An equally worn-looking woman was stretched out on a battered sofa, one arm encased in an ice pack that was slowly dripping onto a few red and yellow blocks on the floor underneath it.