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Odd Ducks—but it didn’t mean they had to like the verdict.
    Marjie obviously objected.
    One would think that at sixty-five one of them would break the pact at some point, but so far I hadn’t seen it happen and wondered if it ever would. The Odd Ducks were pretty set in their ways.
    I noticed a note taped to the door of the Old Buzzard. Probably another No Trespassing sign aimed at keeping solicitors, possible guests, and just about anyone who was breathing away.
    Marjie took eccentric to extremes.
    Auntie Eulalie (also known to some as the “normal” sister) spotted me, smiled, and paused in her hanging of a washcloth to wave at me like she was fixing to take flight, her bejeweled pastel turban nearly slipping off. She was theatrical, to say the least, mostly because when she was younger someone had mentioned she had an uncanny likeness to Meryl Streep. It was true—she did, even now. Eulalie, however, had taken the compliment to heart and spent her life being as dramatic as possible.
    Meryl had nothing to fear—there was no competition, except in my aunt Eulalie’s head.
    Blue jays cried overhead as I looked across the street at the Crazy Loon. Auntie Hazel with her frizzy, flaming red hair was engaging in the same task as Eulalie, except on her line amid the towels were pinned brightly hued undergarments for all the town (and her guests) to see. Flashy bras and tiny G-strings.
    Lord help me.
    “Now that I think on it, there was a bit of gossip going on about Nelson the other day at the library,” Mr. Dunwoody said, leaning forward. Sunbeams caught the silver streaks in his dark hair, making them sparkle.
    The library automatically made me think of my daddy, who’d been working there since he was a little boy running errands. Now he was the director—and openly admitted there were times he wished he could simply shelve books all day. Although he technically should be the one running the Little Shop of Potions, he knew early on that he wanted to stay with the library and abdicated the potion making to me, at Grammy Adelaide’s okay.
    “Oh? What’s that?”
    “Nelson had been talking about taking a highfalutin job in Birmingham.”
    “A lawyerly job?”
    “I heard tell.”
    “From whom?”
    He scratched his chin. “Can’t recall. If I do, I’ll let you know.”
    As I pondered why Nelson was thinking about a new job, I heard a shrill voice echo down the street.
    “Carleeeee! Caaarleee! Yoo-hoo! Yooooo-hoooo!”
    Dang, I should have kept the wig on.
    I glanced at Mr. Dunwoody, who was wincing at the noise—much as I was. “Do you think I can pretend I don’t hear her?” I asked.
    “Miss Carly, I do believe my half-deaf brother in Mobile can hear Emmylou Pritcherd.”
    Mr. Dunwoody made a good point, despite Mobile being a good six hours to the south.
    “Carleee! Yoo-hoo!”
    Daring a peek, I saw a flash of bright purple bearing down on me. As I braced for impact, I looked back at Mr. Dunwoody, who had scurried into his house so fast his chair was still rocking violently in his wake. Chicken.
    “Whoo-eee,” Emmylou exclaimed as she bustled up. “Didn’t think you heard me!”
    Her restaurant, Emmylou’s Café, was three doors down from my shop, and she’d been a frequent customer since moving to town two years before from California, on a quest to immerse herself in Southern culture because she’d loved the movie
Steel Magnolias
.
    I often wondered why Emmylou hadn’t moved to Louisiana, where the film had been set, but had never dared asked. Once Emmylou got to talking, one rarely snuck in a word edgewise, and rare was the conversation with her that didn’t include a Southern expression she’d memorized . . . or twenty. Only her sincerity made Emmylou the least bit tolerable.
    “Good morning, Emmylou. You feeling well?”
    She looked a bit red in the cheeks, and there was a controlled wildness in her bright blue eyes. In her early forties, she was tall and trim, with bottle