Read Online Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars - Free Book Online

danger to you. It’s not like you’re
gettin’ paid for this.”
    “I’m in danger whether I help with the
investigation or not, Ben.”
    “How do ya’ figure that?”
    “I’m a Witch and I’m open about it.
‘Out of the broom closet’ so to speak. My picture has been in the
paper and all over the news. Not to mention the article we were
just talking about this morning. If he’s hunting Witches, then I’m
a prime target who’s already publicly confessed to the crime .”
    “Sonofabitch... Mutherfuck...” He muttered
the expletives as he shook his head. “Damn…I just can’t win for
losin’.”
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    The interior of the Happy Wok Express was
just as small as the outside of the building had professed it would
be. Ben told me that it was once a carryout fried chicken franchise
that had been shut down due to several health code violations. The
building had apparently remained vacant until just a few years ago
when the current owners had taken it over. Of the few tables, we
had selected the one in the farthest corner of the establishment.
We were the only patrons at the moment, but there was no guarantee
it would remain that way. What we would be discussing was
definitely not meant to be overheard by the general populace.
    “You shoulda had the doc look at your arm
when we were at the morgue.” Ben gestured at my incessant
preoccupation with the itch. “Maybe ya’ touched somethin’ in there
that you were allergic to, ya’know?”
    “I can’t ask her for treatment every time I
see her, Ben. She’s already stitched me up once.” I asserted,
referring to the first time she and I had met. I had been bleeding
from a minor scalp wound received in the course of an
investigation, and she had tended to it without hesitation.
    “Yeah, well,” he retorted between mouthfuls,
“she’s a doctor, right?”
    “Right. But she’s getting paid to be a
medical examiner, not a general practitioner.”
    It was painfully obvious that the present
management had ruled out the entire concept of remodeling, as the
interior motif still contained blatant references to the goodness
of deep fried poultry. Dark brown ceramic tiles on the walls and
floor, sporting more than their share of chips and cracks, married
with replacements of carelessly unmatched colors. A flickering soft
drink sign hung above the worn Formica counter, balancing a painted
menu on either side. Cardboard rectangles with handwritten
additions were taped over a number of the original selections
announcing price changes in bold strokes from a wide-tipped marker.
Low on a nearby wall, where most likely there had once stood a
drinking fountain, a copper pipe jutted out; the stem of its
shutoff valve was clamped with a small pair of vise-grips. I
couldn’t speak for the decorating and maintenance of the place, but
at least it appeared to be clean.
    We continued our meal through the momentary
lull in our conversation. The sounds of metal utensils rattling
against heavy pans echoed from the kitchen area, occasionally
punctuated by a rapid string of speech in an Asian language. Their
phone was still ringing off and on, though the mid-day rush should
theoretically have ended. I assumed that since the weather had
forced a later start to the workday, lunch breaks had been pushed
back as well. Who better to call on a day like this than someone
who would deliver?
    The food was edible but nothing that was
going to make the Riverfront Times annual restaurant guide. For
some reason, they had found it necessary to blanch my vegetables
beyond doneness, turning them into a limp pile covered with
something resembling a slightly thickened beef stock. The rice was
cold and dry, which led me to believe it had been steamed far in
advance of today. Ben sang the praises of his selection between
enormous forkfuls of deep fried chicken nuggets in a thickly
sweetened hot pepper sauce; of course, Ben wasn’t the pickiest
diner I had ever met. I simply pushed