There were two pumpkins in the window of Uncle Kaye’s Antiques. The third was submerged in a crate beside mason jars, purses, and a box of costume jewelry. Juniper stood in the break room, chewing the inside of her lip and spinning the antique globe.
“Be careful,” Uncle Kaye said. “That’s a beautiful piece.” Juniper sat down, resting her elbows on the table. She scrolled through her phone, gnawing her left index finger where the chipped purple polish faded into ragged cuticle.
“If you want me to be careful, why don’t you put it out front?” she said.
“I’m not selling that to anyone.”
“You would if they gave you a thousand dollars,” Juniper said.
“Nope, it stays here. And keep your hands off it. That’s what the world looked like when it made sense.”
“Whatever, Uncle Kaye.” Juniper said, pausing on a headline.
“Break time is over. Go work on the display window,” Uncle Kaye said. Juniper didn’t move. “Hey, did you hear me? Get the tin robot and put it in the window. He’s the last one we’ve got and he’ll get them in the door. Don’t forget the soda crates and put all the cards by the register. Not the baseball cards, the greeting cards. The baseball cards stay in the case until I open it up.” He walked behind her chair and snapped his fingers. “Junie, come on. The Tour’s on Friday. Let’s go.”
“They caught the guy,” Juniper said.
“What guy?”
“The guy who killed his wife.”
“Which one?” Uncle Kaye said. “I mean, we all want to kill people when they won’t shut up.”
“He killed her across the street, in the parking lot.”
“Oh.”
“Right in front of her friends.”
“Is it one of those girls from the nail salon?” Uncle Kaye said.
“What does that matter?” Juniper said.
“We’ll talk about this later.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Who knows what happened? It’s out of our hands,” he said. Juniper stared at him, queasiness rising from her stomach to her throat; a metallic taste on her tongue, an impulse to fight numbness. She inhaled, sharply. Uncle Kaye crossed his arms. “Oh, here we go with the attitude,” he said.
“A woman got murdered,” Juniper said. “Three days ago.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” he said.
“Seriously?”
“You already got kicked out of school. Don’t mess this up, too,” he said. Juniper grabbed her phone and walked to the front. Uncle Kaye cursed and followed her to the floor.
Juniper chewed her lip and moved a soda crate to the center of the shop. Uncle Kaye pointed to a spot by the display window.
“Put it over there,” he said. “And don’t forget the cards by the register.” Juniper was silent. Uncle Kaye ran his hand over his receding hairline. “So…are you dressing up this year? For Halloween?”
“I don’t dress up anymore,” Juniper said.
“All my employees dress for Halloween,” Uncle Kaye said. “Gotta be ready when the tall guy shows up with his top hat and his stick and the skull that lights up. You know what comes with him? A long line of potential customers.”
Juniper dusted an Art Deco clock, then arranged perfume bottles next to a purple scarf. Uncle Kaye retrieved the box of vintage cards and rested them on the check-out counter.
“Hey, Junie,” he called. “You dressed like a bumblebee one time. You were five, I think. You probably don’t remember. You went trick-or-treating with your cousins and got more candy than anybody.”
“Where do you want these?” Juniper said, holding up a glass ornament.
“Be careful with that,” Uncle Kaye said, walking across the floor and cupping his hands. “Can you just work on the window, please?”
“Okay,” Juniper said. “I’ll put out the robot and forget that a woman got murdered.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. What is your goddam problem?”
“You’re my problem,” she said. “I should just quit.”
“You don’t get to quit,” Uncle Kaye said. “You leave when I tell you, and if you leave—you’re fired. Those are the rules.”
“Rules?” Juniper said. She glared at him, then headed for the back. Uncle Kaye’s shoulders slumped as he followed her into the break room.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s the matter? Quit crying.”
“Why does everyone act like nothing happened?” Juniper said, gripping her phone.
“Everyone? Or, just me?”
“Everyone,” she said.
“You’re young, Junie. You’re young.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she said, wiping her face.
“You can’t get upset every time something happens.”
“I bet you don’t even know her name,” she said.
“How can I know her goddam name when I have this much work to do and I don’t have time to read the paper?”
“The paper? Read it online.”
“What do you want me to do, Junie?”
“I want you to stop pretending that nothing—”
“You don’t know what happened. You don’t know what she was up to. It was probably a custody battle.”
“And that justifies him—” Juniper stopped. Uncle Kaye shook his head.
“You gotta stop biting your lip, I’ve been meaning to tell you. ”
“Why don’t you just shoot me? No one would notice.”
“This is why you get smacked in the mouth, little girl,” Uncle Kaye said. Juniper stiffened. She held the phone at her hip; queasiness returning. She hit the speed dial.
“Gina, come get me,” she said into the phone. “I’m done.” She grabbed a Sharpie from the table. Uncle Kaye held up his hands.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, June bug. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Come on.”
Juniper rushed to the front, snatching a card from the counter and heading for the entrance.
“Oh, you’re stealing now?” Uncle Kaye yelled after her. “Come back here.”
Juniper flung open the glass door—the bell clinking the glass and grazing the skeleton stenciled on the door. Cold air hit her face as she ran across the street to the parking lot littered with coupons from Discount Cleaners, liquor store receipts, and bags from Gerry’s Donuts. She walked past the cars to a small circle of flowers. She sat on the asphalt, opened the card, and wrote G-R-A-C-E in large letters; filling each letter with blossoms, trees, an abundance of angels. Filling all the white space around the letters. She rested the card between two candles, wondering if Grace could see it, and wondering how she would feel when a tall man in a top hat led people down the street looking for ghosts.
Darlene Eliot was born in Canada and grew up in Southern California. After working as a social worker, a teacher, and an acquisitions library clerk, she moved to Northern California and began writing short fiction about the dark side of suburbia.
