I almost bumped into my sister Ernestine who had also come out to trace the source of the terrifying noise.
“Is that Strel singing?” she asked as she pushed her glasses further up her nose. Stien is the brainy one in our family. She’s also the legal beagle.
“Yup. She’s found a partner in crime, apparently.”
Stien frowned, her default expression. “A partner in crime? I didn’t know Strel was into crime these days.”
“It’s an expression, Stien. She’s doing a duet with Helmut.”
“Oh,” said Stien, understanding dawning. “I thought I heard a second, even more awful voice dueling with Strel’s.”
I nodded somberly. “We’re doomed. He’s encouraging her, Stien. After everything we did to discourage her, he’s simply adding fuel to the fire.”
Stien shrugged. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he can finally teach her how to sing properly.”
We both listened to the dueling caterwauling for a moment. It sounded like two cats fighting in a back alley for possession of the same white mouse.
We both shook our heads. “No, he can’t,” I said. “No one can.”
Chapter Three
Cassandra Beadsmore—Cassie to her friends and Gran to the triplets—was busily enjoying the early morning in her precious garden. Ever since she’d retired from running a national chain of flower shops to take care of her granddaughters, she’d transferred her love of flowers to her own garden, and had managed to turn it into a feast of floral delight.
She had a greenhouse, where she kept her most precious blooms, and the garden itself was now crisscrossed by small cobblestone pathways that took visitors past every flower, shrub, perennial and tree that would grow in the New York climate and even some that wouldn’t. But such was the power of Cassie’s green thumb that she managed to make even those grow abundantly.
Neighbors up and down Nightingale Street often wondered how she did it, and regularly sought her advice on how to deal with some tricky issue like aphids chomping on their flowers, or weeds threatening to break down the fragile eco-structure of their backyards. She was always happy to help, and had become the go-to person for Gardening First Aid.
She was now knee-deep into yanking out some pesky weeds that were threatening to choke the life out of her rhododendrons, and as she worked, her knees on one of those colorful memory foam kneeling pads, she hummed a pleasant tune.
If she could spend her every waking hour in her beloved garden, she would. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to resist the siren song of creating another business, and had recently turned her home into an Airbnb, taking in paying guests. And since paying guests also like to pay to enjoy a meal at regular intervals, she’d become an innkeeper in these, her golden years.
This week her guests included a moderately famous Belgian singer, who seemed adamant to teach Strel the finer points of his chosen profession. Then there was the Middle Eastern prince, who was in town to learn all he could about America. And of course Jerome Cursons, who was in New York for more prosaic reasons, as he was preparing to go to trial against a large pharmaceutical company.
And Cassie was still humming a happy tune, drowning out the loud ‘singing’ Helmut and Strel were engaged in inside the house, when suddenly a slithery creature appeared in the undergrowth, and reared up to attack her!
She quickly retracted her hand and stared down at the small green-brown snake. “Now what are you doing here?” she asked a little sternly.
The snake stared up at her with its yellow eyes, its forked tongue stealing out of its mouth, then hissed, “I’m coming for you, Cassandra Beadsmore. I’m coming for you and your family.”
She smiled. “You’ve said that before, and yet all you can do is send snakes into my garden. As threats go, not very convincing, wouldn’t you say?”
“This is only the beginning. Just you wait and see,” the serpent hissed.
Cassie couldn’t help but shake her head in abject bewilderment. “If this is the best you can do, permit me to have a good laugh, oh sneaky one.”
“Laugh all you want, Cassie, but I’m here to tell you that your days of lording it over the rest of us are finally over.”
Her smile disappeared. “What do you really want?” she asked.
The snake seemed to grin. “I want to put you down a peg or two. For far too long the Fallon Safflower strand has dominated this town, but no longer. I’m taking my rightful place again.”
“You forfeited your rightful place when you tried to murder Fallon, remember? So please remove yourself from my house before I do it for you.”
She’d gotten up and was now towering over the small snake.
“Oh, feeling all high and mighty, are we? Well, not for much longer. Your days are over, Cassandra Beadsmore. Yours and those of your filthy brood.”
“Oh, just go away,” said Cassie, and flicked her fingers just so.
A thin stream of sparks emanated from her fingertips and flashed down in the direction of the snake.
“Mark my words, Cassie. I’m coming for you!” the snake whistled, then jumped when enveloped with the sparks, and vanished without a trace.
“What was that?” suddenly a voice sounded behind Cassie. She turned, and found herself gazing into Edie’s green eyes. As usual, her granddaughter was dressed in black from head to toe: black T-shirt, black jeans and black combat boots. Even her eyes were gunked up with too much black eyeliner.
“Nothing,” she assured Edie. “Just some pesky weeds.”
But Edie wasn’t fooled. Her expression darkened. “Was that a snake?”
Cassie waved an airy hand. “Of course not. Like I said, a nasty little creeper. I took care of it.”
“Oh, Gran,” said Edie with a sigh. “It’s Tisha again, isn’t it? What’s with her and snakes?”
Cassie was back to pulling out weeds. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, honey. Now can you start breakfast? I’m sure our guests would like to eat.”
But it was obvious Edie wasn’t ready to let this go, for she gave her one of her trademark grave looks. “Gran,” she insisted. “We have to talk about this.”
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About Nic
Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned 70+ novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political science and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).
When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.
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