Maybe All Hallow’s Eve should be called All Hallow’s Evil, Dot Henderson mused as she watched the costumed Bostonians parade by that October night in 1926. A leering Harlequin slid into the shadows. A dark-hooded Death carried a scythe over his shoulder, while a red-forked tail sprang out from behind a statuesque Egyptian queen wearing a grotesque mask.
Beneath Gwen’s feet was an undulating carpet of leaves. Above, a cowardly sun, setting earlier and earlier. She incited an explosion of sparrows as she sprinted down the path between two rows of towering Poplars dressed in flames of Autumn.
I walked into the jewelry store and looked around. I was the only customer. An older man, who I took to be the manager, was arranging watches in the wall case. A young woman standing behind the counter looked up at me. So far, so good, I thought, although I realized I hadn't gotten very far yet.
“This is Chet Armor. I need to dispose of a parrot.”
“Thanks for your call, Chet,” Jake replied. “I’m sorry, but we don’t––”
“You have to take him. I’ve called every bird and animal adoption place within an hour of Sacramento. No one will take a parrot. Snakes, pot-bellied pigs, and rats are welcome, but not parrots.”
Dan O'Leary dropped from Anna Peavey's bedroom window and melted into the darkness of the neighboring alley. He oozed confidence now, was no longer worried about the still form lying on the bedroom floor.
“You really think we’ll find ourselves a couple of rich husbands tonight?”
I laughed. “Just yesterday, you quoted from that book you love so much…something about rich men on the hunt for wives.”
Chief Rollins had waited for weeks to watch his beloved Eagles face off against the Chiefs in Super Bowl LVII, but the call that the mayor’s diamond bracelet was stolen during her 2023 party upended his plans. “At least,” he said to Detective Tabitha Stephens, “We’ll only miss the half-time show. We’ll catch glimpses of the game on her TVs.
These days I take pleasure in the little things. My life, so often pinched by work demands, got some much-needed breathing room after my retirement. Now, it’s wonderful just to discover an unexpected parcel of time during the day. It’s like putting on your jacket and finding money in the pocket that you didn’t know was there.
“One jolly fat man?”
“With a long white beard,” I elaborated. “We’ll supply the Santa suit, the elf, and the reindeer.”
The woman on the other end of the line said, “Our Santas are booked solid through the holiday season—”
The blue sedan brakes at the end of Aunt Ronna’s block. The driver and passenger look like they’re consulting a GPS, but what if they’re onto me? My breath turns ragged. Halfway up the block in the other direction, a FedEx truck veers to the curb, its flashers on. Nobody jumps out with a package. Am I being followed? Do these folks know what’s under the quilted cover of my casserole dish?
