A biotech firm that messes with nature having disastrous results. An inept salesman compounding the firm's errors. A guy who works at a garden nursery and collects cacti. A gal who has a new business selling spices, and a super wealthy woman with a...
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He read the address and realized that she was just past the corner where he first saw her and that she had taken over the old laundromat location. Why hadn't she mentioned her business the other night, he wondered? He thought back to the spice on his dinner and wondered if she had a fire extinguisher on her counter in the shop.
Mickey finished the rest of the paper and thought about what he might do, considering it wouldn't be much in his condition. His first priority was a doctor's note for work, and whether he liked it or not, he would have to go down to the clinic and beg for it from one of the gargoyles.
He hobbled to the bedroom and spent twenty minutes dressing, getting one sock on upside down.
The day was crisp and bright with a temperature wavering barely over fifty in the sun. In the shade, a layer of snow glistened almost too white, and he breathed in the fresh air as he carefully descended the front steps. Christmas was coming along with the colder weather. A few people were walking dogs and a couple of young mothers pushed strollers down the street, headed for the park.
With his leg was twanging like a banjo and his pills forgotten on the counter at home, he stayed close to the buildings in case of needed support. A teenager roared by on a skateboard and Mickey cringed against the wall, his trek to the clinic looking less appealing by the minute.
The sign for White's Spices was a shield shaped wooden board painted in cobalt blue and the name in mustard yellow cursive script. Very apothecary, he thought. Peering in the window he could see Carly at the counter with an older woman. Her hands were flitting about as she presented various packages and bottles to the seemingly interested customer.
He decided to go in and extend his welcome. The door chime played the opening bars of Simon and Garfunkel's, Scarborough Fair, and Mickey tilted his head in approval as she looked up in surprise. Finding a place to lean, he let his eyes wander about the shop examining the little bottles and bins containing the spices. Vases of cut flowers and pots of African Violets decorated the cloth covered tables and shelves about the walls.
A section in one corner was given over to cookbooks and a few kitchen utensils that might be used for grinding and measuring spices. The floor was real wood, stained and covered with colourful scatter rugs of various sizes and shapes. All in all, very cosy, very colonial, very appealing.
He made his way to the counter, as the customer was gathering her purse and purchases and saying goodbye, careful not to smash anything with his cane. An old brass coloured cash register stood at the end of the counter, white cards with the amounts on them appearing in the glass window on top. Mickey ran a finger over the cast scrollwork and made an appreciative gurgle.
"Very nice. Very cosy."
"How did you find out?"
"You're a celebrity in the community news section of the paper, Carly. Don't tell me you didn't know you were being interviewed by that reporter."
