The Biscuit Witch

  When I caught up with her in The Lubritorium’s yard, I noticed two crumbling concrete pads out front. When we cupped our hands around our faces and peeked through cracks in the boarded windows, we saw stained concrete floors, piles of undecipherable metal junk, but on a wall dimly lit by a ray of sunshine, a hand-painted sign:

  Restorative Services for Wheeled Conveyances

  Bicycle Tubes Repaired, Automotive Needs Resolved

  If It Rolls and Is In Need of Assistance, We can Return It To Its Original Glory.

  A garage! “This is an old-fashioned gas station,” I told Eve.

  She kept peeking through the window boards. “Where’s the Freezie machine and the video games?”

  “Those weren’t around, then. This was built when women were just starting to drive cars. So the gas stations were made to look like . . . like pretty little houses that girls would enjoy.”

  “I like it!”

  “Me, too.” My mind began to churn. I held up the jangling key chain from Doug’s free-range antler hooks. “Let’s go inside the biggest building and explore!”

  She grabbed my hand, and we headed for The Hub.

  The Spinning Rose

  A SQUIRREL chattered furiously at us from a perch on one of The Hub’s granite window caps. I filched a pinch of muffin from my hoodie’s pocket. When Doug returned from his rounds, he’d find a plate of fresh-baked blueberry and oatmeal-raisin treats waiting for him. Also a cheese quiche, yeast rolls, and fresh, whole-wheat bread. I don’t know how to flirt very well, but I know how to cook. Mama said cooking is love.

  “Here, sweetie.” I handed the tidbit to Eve then picked her up.

  She reached above us and tucked it in a crevice in the bricks. “Happy breakfast, Mr. Squirrel!”

  The squirrel rushed down, took the crumb in his mouth, then hustled back up to the door cap. Eve laughed. He then scurried up the bricks to a small vent with a hole gnawed in it. He disappeared into the bricks.

  What else lives inside these buildings? I eased up to The Hub’s weathered double doors. First I fitted a small key into a padlock to release the chain that latched their matching bronze door pulls, and when that was open, I stuck a long, antique door key into the lock. I set Eve down. Turning it required both hands. Finally the lock gave way with a rusty, scraping clack.

  My breath caught in my throat as I turned a screeching bronze door knob and shoved hard. The heavy door swung inward. Eve and I peered into a large, long world of high ceilings and musty woodwork. Not that I could see much of it since bicycle parts filled every available square foot around the entrance area. They even dangled from the ceiling like strange birds. “They’re flying!” Eve whispered.

  Dust motes sifted through beams of sunlight pouring through several windows on the far side of the building.

  Good. I hated the dark. Even the dim gave me jitters. I had memories from some frightening incidents in foster care. I slowly stepped over the sill, holding Eve by the hand.

  “Look at the floor,” she whispered, as if we were in church.

  On its pale marble background was a large mural of colorful marble chips. The scene depicted Free Wheeler—the buildings, the Ten Sister mountains behind them. Happy adults and children rode bicycles down the avenue. Dogs galloped alongside them, bluebirds flew overhead, and a crowd of happy onlookers waved from the sidewalk.

  “That must be Mr. Claptraddle,” I said, pointing to a tall, smiling man who stood directly in front of the Hub’s main doors. He wore a snazzy blue suit, sported a handlebar mustache, and on his head were goggles like the drivers of the earliest cars once used. Beside him, waving was a woman with red hair, a green dress, and a white apron. “What’s she got in her hand?” I said aloud, bending down in the uneven light.

  Eve hunkered on the dusty marble and peered along with me. “It’s a flower, Mommy.”

  “Looks like a rose.”

  “She’s so pretty.”

  Enthralled, we spent a long time studying the ornately detailed and vaguely sad mosaic. Like a pretty gravestone, it marked a life that had passed on.

  “What’s this, Mommy?” Eve drew her fingers over four numbers etched in one corner. “One. Nine. Three. Nine. What’s that mean?”

  “Nineteen thirty-nine. This picture was set in the floor in the year nineteen thirty-nine.”

  She tried counting on her fingertips while chewing her lower lip. For a five-year-old, she did a good job of ciphering simple addition and subtraction, but this was too much for her. “That was so long ago there aren’t any numbers for it.”

  I smiled. “Come on. Let’s explore some more.”

  Taking her hand again, we sidled between rows of wheel-less bicycle bodies, piles of handlebars, and other assorted parts. Ideas tumbled through my mind. Charming, unique, historic, sturdy. Lots of space. A good vibe. Arlo Claptraddle had successfully manufactured and sold bicycles from this “village” hidden in the mountains. He hadn’t had the benefit of online mail order, websites, email, or express shipping companies. He’d trucked his bicycles over the mountains to Asheville and shipped them from the railroad at Biltmore Village, built by the Vanderbilts at the turn of the last century. If Arlo could run a successful business from here . . .

  I heard growls behind us.

  Big, deep, throaty growls. No, not growls, snarls. And then came the click-clack of feet. No, not feet. Paws. Huge, running paw-feet with enormous claws, coming up the weedy sidewalk beside the weedy side street that had, once upon a time, led down the hill to many lovely Free Wheeler bungalows with gardens, family milk cows, and chicken coops, now all forest and brambles and unfound murdered bodies and cupcake-craving bears and monsters for all I knew. I hoisted Eve into my arms.

  Peaches and Bebe charged past us.

  I backed away, bumping into bicycle skeletons, cold dust motes poofing around Eve and me in the gray, dim air, me feeling like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doomed Bikers.

  The pit bulls, their heads covered in scars—Doug had gotten them from a rescue organization that rehabilitated ring fighters—stopped at a tiny hole in the wide plank floor. They snuffled the hole loudly. When they looked away, a mouse popped up. When they looked back, the mouse dropped out of sight. Look away, mouse popped up. Look back, no mouse. This happened a half-dozen times.

  “They’re not very bright,” I said. “Or else that mouse is a genius.”

  Eve giggled.

  I looked around warily. My eyes rose to the sturdy wooden ceiling. Eve went “Oh!” on a long sigh of delight. There, as if separated in a lonely castle tower to protect her from invaders, hung the most beautiful old bicycle I’d ever seen. I say ‘her’ because she had a downward-swooping central bar to accommodate a woman rider’s skirt. Her wheels were intact, but the tire tubes were missing. Layers of dust could not hide how pretty her glossy red paint must have been. She was slender but sturdy, with graceful metal mud shields curving over the backs of her tires. Her wide handlebars curled gently, ending in crackled, dried-out remnants of what must have been beautiful leather handgrips. Behind her white leather seat was a pretty wicker basket.

  “Toto?” Eve called softly. “Are you in there?”

  The crowning touch? The head of an umbrella protruded from the top of a long metal tube attached to the column of the front wheel. The handle appeared to be carved from fine wood. It was topped by a carved flower, stained a deep red shade that even decades of dust couldn’t obscure.

  A rose.

  “This must be a Spinning Rose bicycle,” I whispered. “Isn’t she special?”

  Eve clutched my hand hard. “I want a bicycle. I want to live here, Mommy. With you. And Doug. And Teasel and all the other animals.” When I looked down at her in startled silence, she sniffed back tears, and her mouth quivered. “You told me we’d have a real house one day with a yard a
nd a swing. There’s plenty of room for a swing in Doug’s yard.”

  “Sweetie, we’re just visiting here, and . . .” Peaches and Bebe charged past us again, barking but wagging their tails. They bounded out the open front doors. “Stay right here while I go look.”

  I hurried to the door and craned my head to peek out. Doug’s big veterinary truck rolled up the avenue. When he saw me, he tapped the horn. I called to Eve to follow me and stepped outside. My heart kicked up a notch, a big notch, as he swung down from the cab and walked toward us. He had tasted so good last night.

  His expression was guarded. “What do you think? Odd old place, isn’t she? A bit spooky.”

  “We love it.”

  I watched his face brighten instantly. “You wouldn’t be kidding me, would you?”

  “Not kidding.”

  “’Tis a wistful little world. Some say haunted. Useless. What can be done with it out here in the midst of the woods?”

  “Arlo was able to sell bikes from here. That couldn’t have been easy back in the day. All it takes is passion and a plan.”

  He smiled widely. Eve ran up to him. “We saw a Spinning Rose!”

  “Did you now? She’s the most beautiful bike he made, I say. She’s named for Rose, his wife.” When he said ‘wife’ he used careful emphasis and gave me a meaningful glance. Wife in name only? Interesting.

  “Is she the redhead in the mural?” I asked.

  “Hmmm uh.”

  I pointed toward the Spinning Rose bakery shop. “And a baker?”

  “That’s what they say. Delta believes she was kin to Mary Eve Nettie, like about half of everyone in Jefferson County. I see she’s caught your fancy.”

  “A redhead who baked? You bet! You and Jay Wakefield and Tom Mitternich have to come up with a plan for this village. It’s got—” I sifted the air with my hands, searching for the right words—“a deep heart.”

  He studied me in a way that made my knees weak. Eve patted his hand, breaking the spell. “Doug?”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Have you ever thought of putting a swing in your front yard?”

  “No, but I think that’s a fine idea!”

  Oh, no, this was getting so involved. I cleared my throat. “Is anything wrong? I mean, you’re coming here during the middle of a work day.”

  He arched a brow at my brusque attitude. “As a matter of fact, I dropped by to fetch you and Eve, if you want to go. Jay Wakefield’s flying in for lunch at the café, and he wants to meet you.”

  “You . . . told him about Eve and me?”

  “No, Cleo did.”

  I’ll shove her head in an oven.

  “You’re turning fire-red. Delta told her to do it.”

  I was stunned. “Cleo called Delta? Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Delta’s always scheming to bring folks together. Also, she says everything’s gone frantic in New York, and Cathy’s ordered her to get more rest. No more long-distance baking. You’re to be given full run of the kitchen, and she’ll be forever grateful if you’d do her the honor of making the daily biscuits until she comes home in a week or two. Full pay. Will you accept?”

  “We really should move on. My sister in California would be happy to see us.” Yes, make our way west to Gabby’s condo in California. Allow Eve the time to forget about Doug, Teasel, and front yard swings and magical vintage bicycles. Let me forget, too.

  “Mommy,” Eve said wistfully. Her eyes were wide and hopeful. “Santa can’t find us if we’re driving in the car. There’s no chimney to come down.”

  “Stay here through the holidays,” Doug urged. “We’ll go over to a Christmas tree farm near Turtleville and pick out whatever tree you like best. Can you make some decorations? I have not a one. Unless you’d like to hang bicycle parts and horseshoes.”

  “Mommy makes gingerbread people to hang on Christmas trees!”

  This was quicksand. I felt myself sinking. He added quietly, “Stay, and give me a chance to help you work things out.”

  I grasped one remaining lifeline. A thorny one. “What about Cleo? She can’t be happy about me getting Delta’s blessing.”

  “Delta’s the boss. Someone’s got to make the biscuits. Cleo knows that.” He paused. “Besides, she only shoots ceiling fans, not cousins.”

  Done. I was sunk.

  And strangely elated about that fact.

  The dark wizard of Wakefield arrives

  DOUG WAS not kidding. Jay Wakefield flew in from Asheville via his own two-seater helicopter. He set it down in the pasture by the café, just far enough from two inflated snowmen to make them bob wildly but not lift off like unleashed balloons. Several angus beef cows shook their black heads at him as he strode across the field toward Doug and me. He whipped off dark sunglasses and tucked them into a brown leather bomber jacket. Jay had played tight end for the UNC Tar Heels, where Wakefields funded several scholarships in the school of business; now, in his mid-thirties, he still had the beefy shoulders and lean hips. His face was roughly handsome, the jaw too thick, the nose crooked, with a high forehead and deep gray eyes. His black hair was cut crisply and short. He looked like a hit man, not the heir to one of the state’s most powerful dynasties. The snowmen bowed and straightened, bowed and straightened.

  Gabby would eat him up with a drizzle of balsamic vinaigrette and a side of her secret-recipe hot jalapeno relish. He had all the right spices for her tastes: a jock’s swagger, a gangster’s attitude, and a GQ model’s haircut.

  He stopped on the other side of the fence, his western boots sinking into mushy brown grass. The sky had gone from bright blue to a low ceiling of slate-gray snow clouds. So had Wakefield’s day, apparently. “Late,” he grunted as he grabbed Doug’s hand in a hearty shake. “Sorry. Three-hour planning session on the Land of the Sky project. Biggest mixed-use development in the history of the state. Community watchdog groups are up in arms. Zoning issues. Fussy old hippies and tree-hugging save-the-wildflower activists.”

  Instantly I disliked him. Gus and Gabby told me how Mama had led a community group against developers who wanted to raze some of Asheville’s wonderful old buildings. Without people like her, the city would be modern and generic now.

  As Doug made introductions, Jay palmed my hand in a surprisingly gentle squeeze. “So you’re the biscuit witch. Do you specialize in black magic or white magic?”

  “Depends on what the spell calls for. Angel Food or Devil’s Food.”

  “What do you call your sister? I’ve seen the footage of her threatening reporters with pickle brine.”

  “Her name’s Gabby, for the record.”

  “No. I mean, her ‘nom de cuisine.’ If you’re the biscuit witch, then what is she?”

  “Our mother called her ‘the Pickle Queen.’”

  He tilted his head and looked upward, as if imprinting Gabby’s whimsical title on his deepest memories. “I like it. Good branding potential. The Pickle Queen.”

  “Her name is Gabby,” I repeated through gritted teeth.

  “I’ve got her stats. Greta Garbo MacBride. Thirty-one. Six-feet tall. Black belt in karate. Interned in the kitchen at the French Laundry in Napa Valley before hooking up with John Michael Michael to open a restaurant . . .”

  “She didn’t ‘hook up’ with him. It was a business partnership. He liked her pickles.”

  “I’m not trying to insult you or your siblings. Just being blunt. Doug warned you about that, didn’t he?”

  Doug looked angry. “I told her you’re an arrogant bastard at first glance.”

  Jay nodded to him and smiled. “And at a second glance, too.” Then, turning to me, he said, “Your brother’s a career military officer. Right?”

  “Fifteen years.” He’s researched us. Why?

  “What’s his thing?
His culinary thing. You’re the baker, your sister’s the pickler. What did your mother nickname him?”

  “The Kitchen Charmer.”

  “Hmmm. Won’t work. Doesn’t pop. Doesn’t he have a specialty?”

  “Beer. He makes great beer.”

  “Good. We’ll have to think of a better brand persona for him. The Brew Master. The Suds Sultan. We’ll work on it.”

  Doug cut the air with a sharp gesture. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m almost done, my friend. Tal, trust me, I respect your family. You’ve run a respected little bakery. Gabby’s got what it takes to run a top-dollar restaurant if she weren’t saddled with the wrong partner. And I’ve seen Gus’s army records. He makes friends with tribal leaders by cooking them dinner. Amazing. Together, the three of you could be worth my investment. I want to hire you to set up a restaurant in Free Wheeler. What would it take? I know you’re barely making a living in New York and Gabby’s just lost everything, plus Gus makes squat as an army officer. What have you got to lose?”

  I clenched my fists. “You put it such a charming way.”

  Doug stepped slightly in front of me. His jaw flexed. “You’re my friend, Jay, and I know you’ve not got much diplomacy about you, but you’re about to find yourself arse backwards on the grass with an angus heifer trying to have her way with you.”

  “I apologize, Doc. You’re right.” To me he said, vaguely sincere and completely unfazed by our darkening mood, “My bedside manner went to hell a lot of years ago. I used it all up sitting by bedsides. I apologize. Really.”

  “What makes you suddenly decide to offer three strangers a business to run?” I asked.

  “Did I say you were strangers? Ask Gus if he remembers me. He and I are the same age. I used to escape from my grandfather’s offices in Asheville every afternoon and go to your parents’ diner on Lexington. I was pals with Gus. Your parents made me feel at home. I liked it.” He delivered that startling news with a cast-off nonchalance that hid any deeper emotions. He paused. “And Gabs remembers me, I feel sure.”