As I passed by his post, I saw Sammy sniffing the air and frowning.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Do you smell anything?” he asked.
I sniffed.
“Mainly charcoal-grilled hamburger,” I said. “I could fetch you one if you’re hungry.”
“No, something … funny.”
I sniffed again. This time, I caught a whiff of what I suspected was bothering Sammy.
“Oh, that,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Rose Noir is doing her household cleansing ceremony.”
Sammy looked puzzled.
“Smudging the area to clear away the bad energy,” I clarified, and looked around to see if I could spot the source of the odor. “Ah, there.”
I pointed to the edge of the yard. Apparently Rose Noir had decided to make a wide circle, taking in the house, the yard sale, and all the assorted outbuildings. She was marching at a stately pace, waving her smudging stick to create elegant arcs and crescents of smoke. Her mouth was moving, so I gathered she was either singing or chanting, but I couldn’t tell at this distance.
“What’s that she’s burning?” Sammy asked.
“Probably sage, cedar, sweetgrass—various herbs,” I said. “Legal herbs,” I added, remembering the time Mother had invited Rose Noir over to smudge the family house after the visit of a particularly unpleasant cousin. Rob had mistaken the odor of the smudging herbs for marijuana. I still wasn’t quite sure if he’d been relieved or disappointed when he found out that his parents hadn’t become potheads. I suspected Sammy had made the same mistake. He was still frowning suspiciously at Rose Noir.
Well, if he tried to report her, odds were the chief would set him straight, and if not, an unsuccessful drug raid probably wouldn’t daunt this crowd. And maybe it was just my imagination, but the aroma of the smudging herbs seemed to lift my spirits. I strolled on, invigorated.
But I had no luck spotting Professor Schmidt. Apparently, apart from his lust for the phantom Pruitt papers, he was immune to the call of the yard sale. I revised my opinion of him sharply upward, even as I fretted over how much trouble I’d have finding him.
I did run into Dad, who gazed at me reproachfully.
“Your cousin Rosemary says she’s disappointed in you, trying to sneak behind her back and use a scent that clashes with your personality,” he said. His tone of voice made it sound as if he shared her disappointment.
“You didn’t have to tell her it was for me,” I said. “In fact, didn’t I warn you not on any account to let her find out?”
“I didn’t tell her, but she suspected you were trying to pull a fast one.”
“Good grief, Dad,” I said. “It’s not as if I was disobeying doctor’s orders, or faking a prescription. It’s only her opinion.”
“She feels very strongly about it, though,” he said. “I don’t think you can change her mind.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Sometimes I think this family has cornered the market on pigheadedness, and she certainly has her full share.”
“Hmmm,” Dad said. I suspected he was thinking that Rosemary wasn’t the only one with a good share of the family pigheadedness.
“I’ll just tell her that the cosmetic and soap shop in the mall carries plenty of lavender- and rose-scented stuff,” I said. “And they don’t have any qualms about selling it to me.”
“But Rosemary is so proud of her bath oils, and she uses only the best-quality, all-natural materials!” he exclaimed. “Here. She gave me this. She says it’s you.”
He handed me a small brown bottle. I opened it and took a whiff. Mistake; the intense smell of eucalyptus and menthol made my eyes water so badly that I had to fumble blindly to replace the cap, but even so they couldn’t disguise the strong undertone of heavy musk.
“Yuck,” I said. “What does she think I am? A civet with a bad head cold?”
But Dad had disappeared. I made sure the bottle was screwed tightly shut and stuck it in my pocket. I’d deal with Rose Noir later.
Some of my younger cousins, while taking rides over the crowd in the boom lift, were amusing themselves by pouring their lemonades into their popcorn buckets, and then dumping the resulting soggy mess down on the crowd while making barfing noises. I told them to cut it out, and when they didn’t listen to me, I had Rob deposit them at the feet of an irritated state police officer who still had patches of soggy popcorn clinging to his uniform and perched on the wide brim of his Smokey the Bear hat.
And I still hadn’t found Schmidt.
“Bother,” I said.