Chapter 7

Not many people cared for Roman Ouellette because he was a ribald cantankerous middle-aged man, who ran the town’s sanitation department. The ongoing theory about his quirky personality was that he spent most his time cleaning up everyone’s crap that it had rubbed off on him, producing a difficult man who didn’t put up with anyone’s crap.

What pissed him off today was the crowd in front of the McHenry house—they were making a mess in the street with their cigarette butts, empty soda bottles and other debris that was carelessly tossed aside. No one thought of who kept the streets clean or who picked up their garbage. He was a misunderstood and under appreciated man. If only the town realized how much of their garbage was now his treasures, they might fear him just a tad. Who thinks about what they’re tossing into their garbage cans? He found many interesting items, such as receipts to motel rooms where a dalliance with a neighbor’s wife can cost up to $40 for a few hours, empty liquor bottles that discredit the chairperson of the local MADD chapter and his favorite, discarded poetic attempts from the high school principal to a sweet little thing that works at Bucko’s diner. Yes, Roman Ouellette with his balding hair and permanent sneer knew plenty about the sleepy town.

It was no surprise to him to hear that there had been some witchy hoodooing in the abandoned McHenry house. If anyone used their brains, they would find that the front door to the place pointed straight at the perpetrators, the hippy woman and her snotty know-it-all daughter who lived across the street.

Roman was in the heart of a heated battle with the daughter when the sheriff interrupted. “What’s going on here, Roman?”

“Ask the witch’s daughter, Sheriff. She knows what went on in the McHenry house.” Roman spat on the ground close to where Cinnamon stood, adding his touch to the littered area.

“I’m not a witch’s daughter. If you continue to slander my mother and me, we will see an attorney, Mr. Ouellette.” Cinnamon ignored the sheriff. She had heard stories of his inept bumbling of local crimes. From what she had heard, he was nowhere near the investigator that Sheriff Brown had been “That’s enough. Both of you.” Sheriff Eckle gave both parties a hard look. “What makes you think that…what’s your name, honey?”

“Cinnamon Lambert. There’s no honey attached to it.” Next to people who didn’t use dictionaries, she hated people who used endearments loosely.

The Sheriff groaned inwardly. He disliked frigid women. This girl gave off more ice than his last ex-wife. He doubted the girl had anything to do with witchcraft. If she did he had the feeling he have been turned into a toad after calling her honey. “What makes you think that Miss Lambert is a witch’s daughter, Roman?”

“I see what goes on at their house. Her mother dances in the back yard at night. They always have strange smells coming from their house.” His face was tomato red as he worked himself up, littering the air with his loathing.

“Now Roman. That’s all hearsay. You can’t pin a label on the house without proper proof. I don’t want to hear you say that this young lady or her mother is a witch. It stops right here.”

“ I’m just a concerned citizen, expressing my opinion. There is such a thing as free speech. Why if Sheriff Br…”

“Roman, that’s enough. You heard the Sheriff.” Deputy Hunter had stood by quietly, watching the uneasy crowd. All it took was someone as irrational as Roman Ouellette to make a suggestion into an issue. They had enough on their hands right now trying to figure out what the hell went on in that house. Roman walked back to his garbage truck, tossing a scoff at Cinnamon over his shoulder. He would get that bitch one day.

(WC= 4,418)