17. Bud

An adventure.

A decades old mystery.

A treasure hunt.

I could barely contain my excitement.

But first… I would need to put a shirt on.

As Pascal went upstairs to dress properly, I raced back to my place and put on a shirt and jacket and some sturdy boots. A minute later we met back outside the patisserie. It was almost four in the morning and the town was sound asleep.

Together we hurried under the streetlamps that lined the bridge on Main Street, crossing the babbling river below and dashing into the town park where the owls in the trees hooted with curiosity at the sight of us.

In the middle of the park sat Winnie's wishing well, an old stone well with a quaint, A-frame shingled roof over it.

We ran toward it and leaned over its side, looking down into the pitch dark.

Pascal pulled out his phone and shone the flashlight into the well.

The beam lit up the first few feet before the blackness swallowed it up completely.

"You say a ghost lives down there?" he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

"I don't think ghosts actually ‘live' anywhere."

"You know what I mean."

I shrugged. "Who knows? It's not like I've ever seen her."

There was a thick rope dangling from the old hand-winch built into the roof. At the end of the rope we assumed there was a bucket, but there was no way of telling how far down in the dark it was.

Pascal looked from the rope to me and asked, "Do you think it's strong enough to hold my weight?"

"You're not going down there," I told him firmly. "Let me do it."

"No, I won't let you. What if you fall and break your neck?"

"What if you fall and break your neck? I'm going down."

"No, you're not. This is my silly wild goose chase. I'll go."

He lifted one leg over the side of the low stone wall of the well, but I placed one hand firmly on his thigh. "Pascal, listen to me. I'm stronger than you. If anything happens and I end up down the bottom of that well, I've got a much better chance of trying to climb my way out than you do."

He knew my reasoning made sense, but his eyes only grew more concerned. "What if you see the ghost down there?"

I grinned and rummaged through the pocket of my jeans where I found a nickel and pulled it out to show him. "Then I'll give her this…" I leaned forward and kissed him. "And make a wish for love."

He smiled. "And they say we French are romantic. Just listen to you talk."

I threw one leg then another over the stone wall of the well and gave the rope a yank to see how strong it was. "If this rope snaps and I do fall and break my neck, just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't let Maggie pick the flowers for my funeral."

"Don't worry, there's not going to be a funeral." Pascal tucked his phone into the breast pocket of my jacket, the flashlight shining outward, then kissed me. "Good luck."

I lifted my ass off the side wall and let the rope take my weight.

It swayed and creaked, and hand over hand I began to slowly lower myself into the well.

Far below me there came a loud clanging in the pitch dark.

"Oh shit!" I gasped. I was only a few feet below the top of the well as I glanced up to Pascal. "Did you hear that? Do you think it was the ghost?"

"I don't think so. Aren't ghosts supposed to rattle chains? That was a clang, not a rattle."

The clanging and banging continued, echoing up the shaft.

"Definitely not a rattle," Pascal deduced.

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

Pascal pointed to the rope swaying. "I think it might be the bucket at the bottom of the rope. It's swinging against the wall."

Clang.

Bang.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Unless of course the ghost is whacking it against the wall to try and warn you to go away," Pascal added.

"Seriously? You had to throw that in?"

"I'm just trying to cover all the possibilities. It's better to be prepared for anything, don't you think?"

"No. I think it's better to find the recipe and get the fuck out of here."

"Then stop talking and keep going."

I paused another wary moment, the bucket clanging below me, then inched my way lower and lower.

The flashlight illuminated the stones directly in front of me.

I tried to turn myself in a circle as I descended, so I could see the walls all around me.

The stones down there were shadowy and dark, hidden from the light of day for so long.

Suddenly, from out of a crevice, something moved.

I gasped, and without warning a rat appeared, screeching at the flashlight shining in its face.

Startled, I screamed.

I lost my grip on the rope.

And before I knew it, I was falling.

I tried to grab the rope but missed.

A second later my ass hit the bucket and the handle snapped off.

Together, the bucket and I fell the few remaining feet into the bottom of the well, landing with a splash and a grunt.

Thankfully I quickly discovered that the water in the bottom of the well was only shallow, enough to save my fall but not enough to drown me.

From above, Pascal called down in a panic. "Bud! Bud! Are you okay? What happened?"

I clambered to my feet, the water lapping around my thighs, the beam from the phone's flashlight bouncing off the walls.

Quickly I glanced around, turning left and right, my boots slipping on the loose mounds of coins that had been tossed into the well over the decades.

I was half expecting to catch sight of Winnie Wexley's ghost.

I was relieved to see that I was alone.

Well, not quite alone.

Several rats jumped out of the broken bucket and swam to the walls, disappearing into the cracks between the stones.

I screamed again.

"Bud! Talk to me! Is it the ghost? Whack her with the bucket!"

"There's no ghost. Just a bunch of rats."

"Oh my God, that's even worse. I hate rats, they're every chef's worst nightmare. Quick! Whack them with the bucket!"

"They're gone now. Well mostly. There's still one swimming around in circles down here." I shone the flashlight on it and took a closer look. "Wait a minute."

"What is it?" Pascal shouted down.

"It's not a rat. It's a…" I picked up the object bobbing in the bottom of the well and held it up to the light. "It's a bottle with a cork in it. And there's a piece of paper rolled up inside it."

I began to laugh.

Above me, Pascal's excited voice echoed down the shaft. "The recipe! It must be the recipe inside! Quick, come back up."

I looked up to realize that the rope was several feet above my head, the broken handle of the bucket still attached to it. I jumped to try and reach it, but I couldn't. "I don't think I can come back up."

"What do you mean?"

"The rope's too high. I can't reach it. Can you turn the winch? Maybe you can lower it a bit."

"I'll try." I heard Pascal above, groaning as he tried to move the winch handle, clearly straining as hard as he could. "It's all rusted. It won't budge an inch. Can you climb up to the rope?"

"I can try," I mumbled to myself. I didn't really have much choice.

I shoved the bottle in my jacket pocket and looked at the stony wall in the beam of the flashlight. There seemed to be enough crevices to dig my fingers into and plenty of jutting stones to get a foot up. Pulling myself upward, I fumbled for one handhold after another, digging my nails into clay and clinging to the rock as I slowly made my way higher and higher, edging toward the dangling rope.

I was almost there when I felt something tickle my fingers.

I looked up to see a rat stick his head out of the groove that my hand had found, his whiskers twitching and brushing against my knuckles.

"Oh shit," I gasped. "Good little mousy. Shoo now. Go away. Shoo shoo."

Pascal heard me from above. "Who are you talking to? It's not the ghost again, is it?"

"I wish it was. Maybe she'd be able to scare this rat away."

"Kill it! Whack it! Smash it!"

"I can't, I'll slip. Besides, if I stay still for a moment, it might just go away."

The rat sniffed my hand.

Then stepped onto it.

Then scampered down my sleeve toward my shoulder as I watched in wide-eyed horror.

"Did it go away?" Pascal called down.

"Not exactly."

I tried to wriggle my arm to shake it off without losing my grip on the wall.

The rat clung to me and kept crawling toward the collar of my jacket.

"What do you mean ‘not exactly'?" Pascal pestered. "Just get rid of it."

The rat scampered onto my collar.

"I think that's easier said than done."

I felt its wriggly little nose sniff my neck as the shivers ran down my spine.

It crept around the back of my jacket collar.

I could feel it begin to nuzzle its way between the jacket collar and my shirt.

I couldn't take it any longer.

I glanced at the dangling rope and launched myself off the wall, making a desperate grab for the broken bucket handle.

My fingers latched onto it.

The rope swung with the momentum of my frantic leap.

I hit the opposite wall, and I could only hope the rat lost its grip and fell out from under my jacket.

In a panic I pulled myself up the rope as fast as I could, yanking myself up hand over fist. In the opening above I could see the silhouette of Pascal leaning over the edge of the well. I scrambled higher and higher up. My hands burned on the rope, but I didn't care, all I wanted was to be out of there, until—

I reached the top of the rope.

Pascal grabbed my jacket and pulled me over to the edge.

I slung one leg over the stone wall of the well, then the other, then practically threw myself onto terra firma.

"Are you okay?" Pascal asked urgently. "Are you hurt? Did you break anything?"

I shook my head, smiled and pulled the bottle out of my pocket. "Thankfully no."

Pascal's eyes lit up. "You found it. You really found it." He took the bottle cautiously in his grip, like an archaeologist laying his hands on a long lost vase from the Ming Dynasty for the very first time. He became teary as he gazed upon the little scroll rolled up inside the bottle. "At last, the recipe is back where it belongs in the hands of a Dupont."

Holding the bottle tightly, he leaned in and kissed me.

He kissed me long.

He kissed me hard.

I didn't want the moment to end.

I reached up and took his cheeks in my hands, kissing him even more passionately until he began to squirm out of my grasp and pull out of my kiss.

"What's that?"

"What's what?" I asked.

His horrified eyes were on one of my hands—no, one of my jacket sleeves—as something furry appeared.

In the next moment, Pascal let out a high-pitched squeal as the rat that had crawled under my jacket collar suddenly launched itself out of my jacket sleeve and latched straight onto the side of his head, dangling from one ear.

Screaming, he threw the bottle into the air.

It flew in an arc before coming down straight over the well.

Pascal jumped around in terror, the rat scrambling up into his hair.

I saw the bottle about to fall down the shaft.

I reached as far as I could to try and save it.

Pascal thrashed his head about like a heavy metal rocker.

He finally catapulted the rat into the air.

The bottle came down and my fingers snagged the neck of it just before it plummeted back down the well.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the rat who went screeching all the way down the shaft before landing with a splash. I heard it squeak and hiss and paddle through the water as though it was cursing us for the interruption to its otherwise peaceful existence down the well.

Panting in fright, Pascal tugged at his hair. "Is it gone? Is it dead?"

"It's okay. The rat is back in the well where he belongs."

"Oh, thank God. And the recipe?"

I held up the bottle I had caught in the nick of time. "You didn't really think I was climbing down there again, did you?"

"Oh, I could kiss you… but I'm terrified you have another rat hiding up your sleeve."

"Fuck I hope not." Quickly I flapped my arms and shook and shuddered, shedding my jacket onto the ground. Nothing scampered out of it. "Looks like the coast is clear."

"Good." Pascal laid his lips on mine. "I have no intention of sharing you with anyone, especially not something with whiskers and a tail. Now come on, let's get back to the patisserie and start baking. We've got all day to bake before Giselle arrives tomorrow morning. Nothing will stop us now."

Dawn was beginning to break across the sky as we hurried into the patisserie. I rushed after Pascal through the café, around the chairs stacked on tables, and into the kitchen. He was hard to keep up with, his determination to get that recipe out was almost manic. He raced up to the kitchen sink, set the bottle down, then grabbed a rolling pin from the kitchen counter nearby and raised it high.

"Stop! What are you doing?"

"I'm about to break this bottle open. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"But it could be an antique. It could be valuable. I thought the French loved fine art."

"Not today we don't."

With all his might he brought it down on the bottle.

The glass shattered.

Shards tinkled against the stainless-steel sink.

He brushed the broken pieces away and picked up the small scroll of paper.

"This is it," he said. "The moment I've been waiting for."

I bunched up my hands with excitement.

Pascal unraveled the scroll and I thought nothing would wipe the smile off his face…

Until what he read did exactly that.

First, I saw confusion set in…

Then annoyance…

Then defeat.

"What?" I asked. "What's the matter?"

He looked at me and shook his head. "It's not the recipe. It's another fucking riddle. What the fuck?"

"Pascal, it's okay. Don't panic. I can help. We solved the last one, didn't we? We can solve this one too."

Pascal was already pacing in anger. "We'll never find the recipe in time now. Monsieur Flannery is messing with me. That motherfucker!"

"Let me help. Give me the riddle."

"Here. Take it!"

I took the piece of paper from him and read it aloud—"South forever went his love, a shrine he built for his wayward dove."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Um… actually… I have no idea. Yep, I got nothin'."

Pascal threw up his hands. "Great. Wonderful. That's just brilliant."

"Hey, hey, hey, don't lose hope just yet."

"You have an idea?"

I shrugged. "Just because I don't know the answer, that doesn't mean somebody else doesn't. Give me your phone."

He handed his phone over and asked, "Who are you calling?"

"Maggie."

Pascal rolled his eyes. "And you're asking me not to give up hope? Maggie doesn't know her ass from her elbow."

"You'd be surprised. Maggie is smarter than people think."

"Is she though? I spoke to her when she came into the café. She thinks France was discovered by the Canadians. She thinks the Eiffel Tower is made of Lego. She thinks lemon curd is what happens when a lemon takes a poop."

"Okay, so she's not very worldly. But Maggie knows almost everything there is to know about Mulligan's Mill."

I dialed Maggie's number, and the phone rang twice before Maggie picked up, sounding surprisingly awake. "Who dat?"

"Maggie, it's me, Bud."

"Whose number are you calling from?"

"Pascal's."

Maggie gasped excitedly. "Oh, you dirty dog! You did it, you nailed that French baguette! Tell me all the juicy details. Did he talk nasty to you in French? Did he cover your nipples in whipped cream and put a glazed cherry on top? Did he dress you up in a French maid's outfit and tell you to clean out all the cobwebs?"

"No! But now I kinda wish he did. But that's not why I'm calling. This is gonna sound weird, but I need your help with a riddle."

"A riddle! I love riddles! Ask me why the chicken crossed the road."

I hesitated, knowing the look that Pascal was going to give me when I asked, "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Because it… um… oh shit, I forgot. Dammit, why did that stupid chicken cross the road. Fuck, it's the best punchline, I swear. Don't worry, it'll come to me. You'll laugh your ass off once I remember it." She started laughing to herself. "Oh man, it's so fucking funny. If only I could remember what it was."

As Maggie laughed to herself, I heard a ka-ching in the background. "What was that sound?"

"Oh, that's the cash register."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the flower shop. I couldn't sleep so I got in super early to try and figure out how this damn register works. I think I've finally got it figured out."

"Stay there. We're coming straight over… and we're bringing the riddle with us."

The sun appeared over the treetops as Pascal and I raced into the flower shop.

Before leaving the patisserie, we put a sign in the window—Temporarily Closed, Sorry for any Inconvenience—in case our quest to find the missing recipe took longer than we wanted it to.

Inside the flower shop, Maggie was standing at the counter, tapping away at the cash register. "Oh, hey there boss. Hey Frenchie. Did you realize that this machine is like a computer that does all the thinking for you? All you have to do is press the right buttons."

"Well, it wasn't exactly invented for its decorative purposes," said Pascal.

Maggie cast a suspicious look my way. "Is he making fun of me?"

"No! He's definitely not making fun of you, Maggie. Are you, Pascal?" I shot him a glare and gestured toward her with a tilt of my head, urging him to play nice.

"Of course not, Maggie," Pascal muttered reluctantly. "I couldn't agree with you more."

She squinted at him, not convinced but willing to go along with it. "Good. Because if you want my help solving a riddle, you're gonna have to lose the attitude. And maybe throw in one of those Pop-Tarts of yours as a ‘thank you' gesture too."

Pascal crossed his arms. "Fine. But just so we're clear, I do not make Pop-Tarts. I make petite French pastries."

"Whatevs."

"Va te faire foutre!"

"What did you just say to me?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

Maggie rolled up her sleeves. "Why you damn fancy little frog! Come here and let me wipe that smug look off your handsome face."

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" I exclaimed, jumping in between Pascal and Maggie as they both started to charge at one another. I held them back and tried desperately to put out their fiery tempers. "Guys, stop! Please. If this is gonna work out, I need for you two to be friends. You both mean something to me… and if I mean something to you, then you'll figure out how to put your differences aside and learn to like each other. Or at least not kill each other. Do you think you can do that? For me? Please?"

Neither Maggie nor Pascal looked happy with my request, but at least they both took a step back.

"As you wish," said Pascal reluctantly.

"Only because you asked nicely," said Maggie in a huff.

"Thank you. Now can we please get back to solving this riddle? Remember, Pascal, we're doing this for you, and we're running out of time."

"Okay, okay," he said defensively. "Just show her the riddle. If she can solve it she can have all the ‘Pop-Tarts' she wants."

Maggie's entire demeanor changed. "I can? You're on! Bud, gimme that riddle."

I handed the piece of paper to Maggie. "I know you can figure it out, Maggie-Pie. I have faith in you."

"Thanks Bud." She looked at the riddle and read aloud—"South forever went his love, a shrine he built for his wayward dove." Immediately she chuckled and handed the paper back to me. "Sheesh, that's easy. They're talking about Sven."

"Sven?" Pascal and I asked at the same time.

"Sven Johansen. He's long gone now, but he once lived on the west side of town."

"I've never heard of him," I said.

"That's because his is something of an unspoken chapter in the history of Mulligan's Mill."

"Why? What did he do?"

"He fell in love with the wrong person. Although, when I say ‘person', it wasn't actually a person at all. It was a duck. A duck named Percy. Sven spent every summer out by the pond with his beloved duck."

"Oh my God. That's how Percy's Pond got its name?"

"A-ha. Every summer Sven and Percy would swim together, go for strolls around the pond, Sven even surprised Percy with a picnic-for-two on special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries and the end of duck hunting season. When winter came, Percy would fly south with the other ducks then return again in the spring. Until one year… Percy never came back, leaving Sven heartbroken. Year after year, he'd wait in hope that Percy might fly home. He even built a gazebo by the pond, a place for him and Percy to call home if his duck ever came back. He sat in that gazebo watching for Percy night and day. But Percy never returned. Then one day, Sven himself wandered off into the woods in search of his duck… never to be seen again."

I heard a sniff and glanced around to see Pascal wiping away a tear. "Pascal? Are you okay?"

He nodded. "I think so. It's just that… that's the saddest story I've ever heard."

"Oh, dude. Don't be sad," said Maggie. "It's supposed to be one of those Circle of Life kinda moments."

Maggie quickly grabbed a bucket of sunflowers off the floor, raised it high like a lion cub and began chanting some made-up African song.

"Maggie, that's beautiful, really it is," I said, easing the bucket out of her hands. "But we need to figure out what the shrine is in the riddle."

"Isn't it obvious? It's the gazebo. The one that Sven built out by Percy's Pond."

Pascal rushed up to Maggie so fast that I thought I was going to have to break up another fight. But instead of starting a brawl, Pascal planted a big wet kiss on her cheek.

"Oh Maggie, I'm so happy I could kiss you!" he declared.

"You just did," she replied, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

"So, I did. Thank you. I'm sorry I ever doubted you. Now if you'll excuse us, Bud and I have a recipe to find."

Pascal grabbed my hand and hauled me toward the door.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Maggie asked.

"To the pond."

"What about the store?"

"You're gonna have to run it by yourself, Maggie. Do you think you can do that?"

Maggie beamed. "Hell yeah! Now that I know how to use the subtotal button on the cash register, there's no stopping me."

Pascal pulled open the door, but before we could make our getaway, Maggie called after us. "Ooh, ooh, ooh! I remember why the chicken crossed the road."

"Why?" Pascal and I both asked, more to humor her than to find out the answer.

Maggie burst into laughter and answered, "Who gives a cluck! Get it? Cluck!"

We could still hear her laughing all the way down the street as we raced toward Percy's Pond.

The sun crept higher into the sky as I hurriedly led Pascal along the river and toward the woods on the outskirts of town, until soon we arrived at Percy's Pond, its surface rippling as a dozen ducks paddled and played and quacked happily on the shimmering water.

On the far side of the pond we saw the white gazebo, bright and beautiful in the morning light.

"I've lived in Mulligan's Mill my whole life, and I never, ever knew who built that gazebo or why. Now I know, it's like the Taj Mahal for a duck."

Pascal took my hand. "Maybe one day you and I can see the real Taj Mahal together."

"You mean, travel the world?"

He kissed me and nodded. "What do you think?"

I grinned like a kid. "I'd love that."

"Me too. In the meantime, let's find that recipe."

Hand in hand we raced around the pond to the gazebo. When we reached it, we stepped inside, glancing all around us with no idea what we were looking for.

"If Winnie's wishing well was anything to go by, then the recipe is going to be tucked away somewhere out of sight."

Pascal looked left and right. "There's nowhere to hide anything in here. It's just a gazebo."

"Maybe there's a loose board somewhere."

We began pushing on the railings, stomping on the boards beneath our feet, listening for a creak that might indicate a secret panel or a hidey-hole built into the floor or a post or perhaps even—

"The roof," I said, looking above our heads. "Maybe there's something up on the roof."

The pair of us raced out of the gazebo to get a better view of the metal weathervane in the shape of a duck at the pinnacle of the roof, twirling lazily in the breeze.

"The points of the compass below the weathervane," said Pascal, pointing upward. "North, south, east, west… The riddle starts with the word ‘south'."

The thrill of trying to figure out the puzzle brought a grin to my face. "Help me up."

We hurried back inside the gazebo where I pulled myself up onto the railing. I hooked my fingers around the edge of the roof and Pascal supported my feet, clasping his hands under my boots to help push me up until I was clambering onto the roof toward the weathervane.

While the metal duck turned in the breeze above, I took hold of the south-pointing arrow on the compass below.

I tried to wriggle it but it didn't budge.

I pulled at it but nothing happened.

I twisted it… and with a rusty squeak it began to unscrew.

"Holy shit! I think I found something!"

Below, Pascal ran out of the gazebo and stepped farther back so he could see me on the roof. "What is it?"

I kept twisting the arrow, unscrewing it more and more until soon it came off in my hand.

Unfortunately, as soon as I pulled it free, I completely lost my balance.

I began to topple.

I started to tumble.

And with an "Oh!" and a "Shit!" and a "Woah, fuck!" I fell straight off the edge of the gazebo roof, still clutching the arrow.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Pascal in a blur, running toward me.

Before he could reach me I hit the ground with a grunt, the air knocked clean out of my lungs.

I wheezed and gasped.

Pascal dropped to his knees beside me. "Fuck! Bud! Oh my God! Are you alright?"

Faintly I nodded. "I think so. Although my arm feels kinda numb."

I saw Pascal's eyes scan up my right arm… then widen in horror… right before he started to dry wretch in front of me.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

He pointed toward my shoulder with a wobbly finger, then somehow managed to keep the sick in his mouth as he said, "Your shoulder."

"What about it?"

"Well… it's not exactly where it's supposed to be."

Quickly I glanced down and saw the bone that should have been sitting in its socket was now jutting out on a sickening angle under the flesh, my right arm dangling limp by my side.

The ‘eeep!' that came out of me was barely audible and quickly replaced by my panicked breathing.

"It's okay," Pascal said unconvincingly, trying to keep me calm as he tried to keep his stomach down. "You're going to be okay. Everything is okay."

"Pascal, everything is not okay! Can you not see my fucking shoulder? That is not where shoulders should be!"

"I know, I know. It's like one of Grace Jones's shoulder pads decided to go rogue. But don't worry, we'll call an ambulance and everything will be okay."

"Stop saying everything's going to be okay! And we're not calling an ambulance. It'll take an hour to get here from Eau Claire."

"You don't have a hospital in Mulligan's Mill?"

"No. All we have is Doc Morgan, who's probably still sound asleep in bed right now with his beagle, Dudley." I took a deep breath. "You're going to have to pop my shoulder back into place by yourself."

"What?"

"You heard me. Just get a good hold of my shoulder and push."

"You mean the one sticking up in the air?"

"Yes, that one! Get a good hold of it and ram it back into the socket with all your might. It's gonna feel brutal, but you have to do it."

"Brutal! I'm a pastry chef! The most brutal thing I do in a day is crack an egg!"

"Pascal, I need you to do this!" I laid myself flat on the ground and took a few quick breaths to prepare myself. "Okay, now straddle me."

"Oh, I wish we were doing this under happier circumstances." He threw one leg over me and sat on top of my chest. "Now what?"

"Now take my shoulder in both hands, then shove it back into the socket using all your weight."

"Can't we just bandage it and hope for the best?"

"Pascal! Pull yourself together and grab my shoulder!"

"Okay, okay!" Daintily he took my shoulder in his hands then squealed and let go again. "It moved! It's not attached to anything!"

"I know! That's what dislocated means. Just push it back in."

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!"

"Do it on the count of three. Are you ready? One."

He took hold of my shoulder.

"Two."

He tightened his grip and held his breath.

"Three!"

Pascal rammed the bone into the socket as hard as he could.

My shoulder clicked and I let out a "Fuuuuuuuuck!" so loud that the ducks on the pond all took to the sky in a feathery fluster.

Once my scream turned to panting, Pascal asked urgently, "Did it work? Are you in pain? Are you even more broken than before?"

As my breathing settled and the pain subsided a little, I raised my arm and moved it around. "I think it worked."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah, a little. There's a kinda dull ache all the way down my arm. But I think I'll live." I smiled at him. "Good job. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Just never ask me to do anything like that again."

"I'll try my best not to." I suddenly remembered the south arrow from the weathervane, and saw it lying on the grass beside me. We both instantly noticed that a small scroll of paper had slid halfway out of the hollow metal arrow in the fall. "The recipe!"

I let Pascal pull the scroll out and unravel it, then saw his excitement fade. "It's another fucking riddle."

"Shit. What does it say?"

Pascal read aloud—"Are you a pastry chef, or a flash in the pan? Turn the wheel back to where it all began." He shook his head. "What the fuck does that mean?"

I'm not sure whether the dislocation of my shoulder had shocked me into a state of clarity or not, but the answer came to me like a vision. "The old mill. He's talking about going back to where Mulligan's Mill began, which was the old mill. The wheel we have to turn back is the water wheel on the old mill! That's where the recipe must be!"

Pascal was already up and helping me to my feet. "How do we get there?"

"Through the woods, down by Bea's bar then across the old bridge." I pointed with my good arm. "That-a-way!"

The wind whistled through the trees. The river lapped at the submerged curve of the old water wheel which groaned and creaked, moving an inch one way or the other and that was it, as though any motion beyond that was too much these days.

Our feet thudded on the boards of the old bridge as we raced toward the abandoned mill while the river swirled around the rocks beneath us on its way to Rainbow Falls.

"How old is this place?" asked Pascal as we reached the door to the mill.

"Old," was my simple answer. "It was the first thing ever built in Mulligan's Mill. When Huckleberry Mulligan arrived in the area, he decided to build this mill on the river and ended up staying here. From there, the town grew into a thriving metropolis."

Pascal gave me a dubious look.

"Okay, so that's a slight exaggeration. But hey, it was enough to lure you here, right?"

"The missing recipe was enough to lure me here."

"What? You mean to tell me it wasn't me and my trilby hat?" I joked.

"Trust me, when all this is over you can lure me anywhere."

"Like into my bed?"

He kissed me and smirked. "Yes, into your bed. And onto the kitchen counter. And in the shower. And on the stairs. Even under that fountain of yours with all those cute little cherubs."

I kissed him back, my lips hard against his and my dick coming to life in my jeans. "That's a date." I tried the handle on the door and it turned easily. "Now let's find this recipe."

I pushed open the door and we heard a frenzy of flapping wings. I stepped warily inside and looked up through the shadows to see a dozen or so pigeons startled into flight, taking off into the sky through a hole in the roof. Throughout the interior of the mill were ladders and rafters, steps and wooden walkways, some of which had collapsed over the years, others rotten in places and speckled with pigeon poop. At the heart of the structure was a set of gears and cogs that were connected to the wheel outside the mill by several cranks and a long wooden axis beam.

"Where on earth do we start looking?" Pascal asked.

"I have no idea. But those cogs up there used to be the beating heart of the whole mill. I say we start there."

I led Pascal into the mill, watching every step we took in case the creaky flooring gave way. Underneath us we could hear the gurgle and babble of the river as it coursed beneath the mill, splashing over the rocky foundations under the floorboards.

We reached a ladder and climbed it, testing the strength of each rung before putting our weight on it. I had to pull myself up mainly with my left arm, the pain still rippling through my right shoulder.

I reached a narrow walkway, then leaned down to help Pascal up the last few steps.

As he put his hand on the final rung, he screwed up his face in disgust and looked at the palm of his hand. "Ew! Pigeon shit! Revolting creatures!"

"Hey, at least they're not rats."

"They carry just as many diseases. In some ways they're worse. They're like rats with wings." He wiped his hand furiously on his jeans.

"Careful," I told him, catching his forearm as one of his feet almost slipped off the gnarled old beams of the walkway.

Making our way to the network of cogs and gears was almost like walking a tightrope. I held Pascal's hand as we reached the interlocking wheels at the heart of the mill. They were motionless and dusty, having not been used for decades. I noticed a large brake lever to one side of the cogs, a few feet behind where Pascal stood.

"Whatever you do," I told him. "Don't touch that lever behind you. Otherwise, we'll have more than just pigeon shit to deal with."

"How do you know?"

"I used to be a mechanic. I know an emergency brake when I see one."

"You used to be a mechanic?"

I shrugged. "Sure. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. It's just so… macho. What else don't I know about you?"

I gave him a wink. "Stick around and maybe you'll find out."

"I intend to."

I gave him another kiss, then leaned down to look more closely at the cogs, with wooden teeth old and worn but still capable of crushing bones should a hand or foot get caught in the machinery.

Cautiously I stepped up onto one of the large flat cogs, then took another step up onto the teeth of a vertical cog, then up onto a smaller, higher, horizontal wheel, as though I was climbing the tiers of a giant cake.

"What are you doing?" Pascal asked, his voice filled with fear. "You'll fall."

"Not if I'm careful I won't."

Stepping warily into the center of the highest wheel, I noticed the hub of it was made up of smaller sprockets and gears. In between them were tiny crevices, enough to fit a stick or a pencil or—

"A cylinder! There's a small metal cylinder up here. It doesn't look like it's supposed to be part of the machinery."

I crouched quickly, carefully poking my finger into the small space and trying to jiggle the cylinder out of its hiding spot.

My finger touched the teeth of the gears surrounding the cylinder.

I managed to coax it out an inch.

Another inch.

Then, snagging it between my fingertips, I was able to snatch the cylinder up.

"I've got it!"

"Open it!" Pascal said, almost unable to contain his excitement. "Open it! Quickly! Tell me what's inside."

I unscrewed the cap off the cylinder and pulled out a small scroll.

I unraveled the piece of paper.

The writing on it was not the same as the other notes. This was not Mr. Flannery's handwriting. And this was not another riddle.

I saw ingredients.

I saw words like melt, blend, mix and sift.

I lit up with sheer joy.

"It's the recipe! It's your uncle's recipe!"

"It is?" Pascal shouted with excitement and relief. "Oh mon Dieu! Merci! Merci! Merci!"

He threw his hands up in happiness, but as he did so he completely lost his balance on the beam.

He began to fall.

"Pascal!" I shouted in vain, unable to help him.

He spun about, his hands reached wide, trying to grab hold of anything he could to stop him from falling.

His fingers latched onto the lever.

The lever dropped with a rattle of gears, releasing the brake.

Pascal let go of the lever and dropped to the floor below, but it was too late.

Suddenly the entire mill came to life.

Wheels turned.

Cogs churned.

Outside I heard the waterwheel groan and begin to thrash and splash into motion.

I shoved the recipe into my pocket as I began spinning like a music box ballerina, only this was no time for dancing.

I tried to keep my balance as I revolved in circles, knowing that with one slip I'd be crunched up in the gears.

I was going to have to jump from cog to wheel to beam if I had any hope of getting out of there. I tried to lock my focus onto the wheel spinning beneath the one I was standing on, but they were moving in opposite directions.

From far below, I could hear Pascal groan in pain.

I knew I had to get to him.

I knew I had to get the hell off that machine before I lost my balance and it chewed me up and spat me out in pieces.

"Fuck!" I uttered to myself, knowing I was just going to have to jump and take my chances.

I shut my eyes and leapt.

My feet hit the spinning wheel below.

I launched myself straight off it, ricocheting into the air and landing on the biggest cog at the base of the machine.

I opened my eyes.

I was about to hit the now-spinning axis beam.

I ducked.

Jumped.

Hit the walkway beam.

Lost my balance again.

And fell.

With a grunt I landed on the floorboards below, right beside Pascal, thankfully crashing onto my left side this time… with no dislocated shoulders.

"Bud! Bud, are you alright?" Pascal was already sitting up, nursing his left hand.

I coughed and spluttered, getting my breath back as I sat up beside him. "I think so. Are you? What's wrong with your hand?"

"I tried to break my fall. I twisted my wrist when I hit the ground. I think it's broken."

"Give me a look."

He held up his hand and the swelling and bruising in his wrist had already begun. "Yeah, I reckon that's broken alright. We need to get you to Doc Morgan."

"First… please tell me you have the recipe. Please don't tell me it got eaten by the mill."

I reached into my pocket and with a big stupid grin on my face I pulled out the piece of paper. "Here you go. Is it what you're looking for?"

Pascal took it with his right hand and looked at his uncle's handwriting, his face aglow and a tear in his eye.

"Oh yes," he nodded. "This is it alright. This is what I've been searching for."