Unicorns
Rebecca Coffin, owner of The Quill and Dagger mystery-themed bookstore, and Abigail Cantwell, proprietor of the Bell, Book and Candle New Age shop, were the first two people to cross the threshold of Treasure Hunt Antiques on its opening day.
"Welcome, ladies," Douglas Pemberly, one of the store's owners, greeted them. "It's too early for wine, but we can offer you coffee or tea."
"And treats from Victoria's English Tea Shoppe," Michael Whitby, his partner, added.
"I'll take a cup of coffee," Rebecca answered.
"Me, too," Abigail replied.
Douglas poured four cups of coffee, and Michael passed around a plate of cookies and miniature pastries.
"You have a nice place here," Abigail announced, her eyes scanning the shelves of antiques.
"Thank you," Douglas answered. "A lot of what I have on display I got from my grandfather. He used to have a table at the flea market."
"The one at the old drive-in?" Rebecca asked.
"Yes. He had a spot there for years, but when it closed during the pandemic, he decided to retire. Michael and I were living in Savannah at the time, where I was teaching at the College of Art and Design. When I learned of my grandfather's decision, we decided to buy his stock and open an antique store."
"Was your family from Puritan Falls?"
"Originally, yes, but my father left to attend school in Georgia, met my mother, got married and never came back here."
"And what about you, Michael?" Abigail asked. "Were you a teacher, too?"
"No. I'm a writer."
"Really? What do you write?"
"I have a blog, but I'm also writing a book."
"About what?"
"Collecting."
The front door opened, and Martha Prescott walked into the shop.
"Martha, come meet a fellow blogger," Abigail called.
"You're Belladonna Nightshade!" Douglas exclaimed. "I recognize you even with the blond hair. Michael and I used to watch your show all the time!"
"My husband practically went into mourning when you went off the air," Michael laughed. "So, you blog now?"
"Yes. I review movies, TV shows, video games, books—anything that deals with horror or the macabre. What's your blog about?"
"I was just telling your friends about it. I've always been fascinated by the things people collect, so I blog about collecting."
"He's writing a book, as well," Douglas added.
"I'm interested in people who have massive collections or collect unusual items. For instance, did you know Tom Hanks collects typewriters?"
"I've heard Charles collects toilet seats," Abigail added, referring to the former Prince of Wales.
"I doubt I'll have the opportunity to interview the King of England, but I did visit a couple who collect toilet paper. I'm serious. They've got rolls from all over the world. Speaking of bathrooms, last month I interviewed a woman who has more than five thousand bars of soap, and the month before that it was a man with a collection of fourteen hundred toothbrushes."
"A collection of toilet paper—that sounds fascinating!" Martha exclaimed.
"That's one word for it," Abigail laughed. "I'd call it downright weird!"
Throughout the day, villagers wandered into Treasure Hunt Antiques to see the new shop on Essex Street and to meet its owners. Victoria Broadbent purchased a Limoges teapot to display in her shop. Josiah and Eliza Barnard found an antique bed warmer to hang on the fireplace at the Sons of Liberty Tavern. Shawn and Penny McMurtry bought a vintage movie poster for their family room. Later in the day, Shannon and Liam Devlin from the Green Man Pub were delighted to find a leprechaun to add to their collection of Royal Doulton toby mugs, and newspaperman Ezra Graves bought a music box he would give to Abigail Cantwell for her birthday.
Dr. Sarah Ryerson stopped by after her shift ended at the hospital and immediately saw a framed photograph of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Beneath the late president's face was a well-known quote from his first inaugural speech: "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
"Won't this be perfect for Lionel's office?" she asked her friend Patience Scudder, the town librarian.
"Definitely!" Patience laughed.
"I take it you're a democrat," Douglas said when Sarah brought the picture to the checkout counter.
"I am, but that's not why I'm buying this photo. My fiancé is a psychiatrist and is considered something of an expert on treating people with phobias."
The emergency room doctor was taking her Visa card out of her wallet when another customer entered the antique store.
"I think everyone in Puritan Falls is coming in today," Michael declared.
Patience and Sarah turned to look at the newcomer. Neither one of them recognized her.
"She's not a local," the librarian said.
Douglas could tell the difference between a customer who was looking for something specific and one who was simply browsing just by the look on their faces. The stranger definitely belonged in the former category.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Do you have any unicorns?"
"Are you looking for stuffed animals? Collectible figurines?"
"It doesn't matter. I collect anything and everything with unicorns on it."
Douglas noticed that the woman wore a unicorn sweatshirt, unicorn leggings and Chuck Taylor unicorn high-top sneakers.
"I have a brass unicorn from the 1930s," he said, heading toward the rear of the shop, "and a set of pewter and wood bookends. Oh, and somewhere around here there's a 1984 My Little Pony plush unicorn."
"Did I hear you say you collect unicorns?" Michael asked, stepping out of the stockroom.
"Yes. I have a house full of them!"
"How many, roughly?"
"I really don't know. I never counted them all. Thousands at least."
Michael then told the customer about his blog and the book he was writing.
"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to see your collection and ask you some questions about it."
"It's fine with me. I don't live in the area, though. I'm from Newport, Rhode Island. I'm just driving back from visiting a friend in Bar Harbor."
"Newport is only a two-hour drive from here."
"If you don't mind fighting the traffic on I-95, you're more than welcome to come down and see my collection."
After settling on a day and time for the visit, the customer, who introduced herself as Shelly Jonas, purchased all three unicorn items Douglas had in the shop.
Dylan Osborne was the last customer of the day. His wife, Rebecca Coffin, had told him Treasure Hunt had a collection of Atari video games for sale and he wanted to buy them before they were gone.
"Honestly," Michael admitted when he rang up the sale, "I didn't think we would find a buyer for these."
"It's like your sign says," Dylan explained, pointing to the wooden plaque on the wall, "one man's trash is another man's treasure."
"Do you have the console to play these games?"
"I have an Atari 2600 that belonged to my father, but I don't play games on it. I'm a freelance programmer and game designer, so I love having these classic games on display in my office."
"A freelance programmer? Do you create websites for people?" Donald asked.
"Occasionally. Why? Are you looking for someone to do your website?"
"As a matter of fact, we are. I'd like to avoid paying fees on eBay by selling directly to customers."
"Maybe I'll stop by some day during the week and you can tell me exactly it is what you want."
"That's great!"
All in all, both Douglas and Michael considered their opening day a great success.
* * *
Although Shelly Jonas's home was nowhere near as large or grand as Newport's famous "cottages" such as The Breakers, Marble House, Rosecliff or Chateau-sur-Mer, it was an impressive house nonetheless. Judging by the size and immaculate condition of the three-story Georgian Colonial, Michael assumed it would command a higher resale price than any home in Puritan Falls.
"Hello," he greeted the homeowner when she opened the front door. "I hope I'm not too early. Surprisingly, there was no traffic on 95 today."
"No. Come right in," Shelly said in a warm, inviting manner. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"I'd love one. These are for you," he replied, handing her a box of Victoria Broadbent's macarons.
The first thing he spotted when he crossed the threshold was a unicorn nightlight plugged into the hall's electric outlet. The second was a unicorn umbrella in the stand beside the door. When he followed her into the kitchen, his suspicion that her collection was worthy to be included in his book was confirmed. There were unicorns everywhere! The horned mythical horse appeared on the curtains, tablecloth, potholders and dish towels. On the wall were shelves overflowing with unicorn coffee mugs and salt and pepper shakers. A set of unicorn canisters and spice jars was on the counter, and the refrigerator was covered from top to bottom with unicorn magnets.
"A unicorn toaster?" Michael asked with surprise.
"It was a limited edition produced by a company called Einhorn. It even imprints a unicorn on the bread when it toasts it. I also have a unicorn mini waffle maker in my pantry that I got on Amazon."
"I'm impressed!"
"After we finish our coffee, I'll take you on a tour of the house. Because of the size of my collection, I'm not able to put everything on display, but you'll be able to see a good portion of it."
"Do you mind if I photograph some of the items?"
"Not at all. Take as many pictures as you'd like."
"I'll start with that toaster," Michael said, snapping a photo with his phone.
"These macarons are delicious!" Shelly exclaimed. "I've been trying to avoid sweets lately, but I can't pass these up."
"You're on a diet?"
"Yes. I want to fit in my wedding dress."
"Oh, you're getting married soon. Will you have a unicorn-themed wedding?"
"No. Grady, my fiancé, thinks my collection is more suitable for a little girl than a mature woman."
"It's been my experience that friends and loved ones often don't understand a person's passion for collecting. Personally, I don't think you're immature because you like unicorns. To me, it's no different than a man collecting baseball cards or comic books."
Shelly placed the empty coffee cups in the sink and led her guest into what had once been a butler's pantry. Unicorn plates, drinking glasses and more cups were on display. She opened a drawer to reveal unicorn-shaped lollipops and foil-wrapped chocolate unicorns. In one of the cabinets were unopened boxes of unicorn cereal, cookies, toaster pastries and hot cocoa mixes. There was even a box of unicorn Kraft macaroni & cheese.
The curio cabinets in the dining and living rooms displayed carved wood, crystal, porcelain, plaster and metal unicorns. The bronze unicorn she had purchased on her recent trip to Puritan Falls was placed on the coffee table, unicorn pillows were strewn on the sofas and chairs, and busts of the one-horned animal were on the end tables. The library contained children's books and coloring books, all featuring unicorns. There were also boxes of unicorn stationery and greeting cards. Michael snapped several pictures and then followed Shelly up the stairs to the second floor.
"This is one of three bathrooms in the house," the homeowner announced as she opened a door. "All of them are decorated in a similar manner."
Nearly everything in the room had a unicorn on it, from the shower and window curtains to the soap dish and tumbler. Everywhere he looked—towels, tissue box, toothbrush, wastebasket, hairbrush, rug and lotion dispenser—there were unicorns!
"You really do have an incredible collection!"
All four bedrooms had unicorn bedding: sheets, bedspreads or comforters, shams, throw pillows and window treatments. The lamps were unicorns, and there were figurines on the dressers and nightstands. Two of the bedroom closets were filled with unicorn clothing, which included dozens of unicorn T-shirts.
"And this is my unicorn bling," Shelly announced, opening a five-foot-tall jewelry cabinet. "Many of the pieces were meant for children, but I do have some good jewelry here as well."
The entire third floor of the home was devoted to toys. There were Play-Doh sets, Barbie dolls, board games, jigsaw puzzles and craft kits of all kinds as well as a unicorn tricycle, skateboard, scooter and a Little Tikes magical unicorn carriage.
"A kid could get lost up here," Michael laughed.
When the tour finally ended, he asked if she would answer a few questions. He was not surprised when she agreed since most people he met loved to talk about their collections.
"Would you like another cup of coffee?" the hostess inquired as he took a pen and folded sheet of paper out of his pocket.
"No, thanks. I've got to drive back to Massachusetts, and I don't want to have to hit every rest stop along the way."
He unfolded the paper, which was a printout of the questions he asked every collector he interviewed.
"Do I have to fill that form out?"
"No. I'll jot down the answers myself. I just like to have the questions in front of me so that I don't forget them," he explained and then asked his first question. "When did you start collecting unicorns?"
"Back when I was in high school, which would be fifteen years ago."
"What inspired you to collect them?"
"I was somewhat of a child prodigy when it came to art. After I won a contest in my sophomore year, I was asked to illustrate a children's book entitled The Curious Unicorn. The author gave me a stuffed unicorn to use as inspiration. That became the first piece in my collection."
"That answers two of my questions," Michael said as he wrote down her responses.
"Do you have a favorite piece? If so, what is it?"
"Oh, God! I love them all. If I were forced to choose one, I'd have to pick the lighted snow globe that my mother bought me on my twenty-first birthday. I keep it on the night table beside my bed."
There were several more questions before the interview came to an end.
"That's the last of them," Michael announced. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about your collection before I go?"
"I don't think I mentioned that I have unicorn holiday decorations stored in my garage," Shelly answered.
"No, you didn't. Do you put them on display?"
"Yes. For most of the holidays like St. Patrick's Day, Easter, Halloween and Thanksgiving, I use them to decorate the living and dining rooms. However, Christmas is another story. I squeeze an eight-foot tree into my foyer and cram it full of unicorn ornaments. I also hang unicorn stockings on my fireplace and string unicorn garland and lights on the windows. And my front lawn looks like a unicorn farm."
After promising to email Michael photographs of her Christmas display, Shelly showed him out.
"Thanks so much. It's been delightful," he said. "I'll be sure to send you a copy of the book when it's published."
* * *
Despite heavy rush-hour traffic on the interstate, Michael made it back to Puritan Falls in time to join Douglas at the Green Man Pub where Rebecca Coffin had arranged a little get-together in their honor. In addition to the villagers the couple had already met at their antique shop, they were introduced to several new faces including psychiatrist Lionel Penn who was there with his fiancée, Sarah Ryerson.
"How was the trip to Newport?" Victoria Broadbent asked as Shannon Devlin brought the co-owner of Treasure Hunt Antiques a glass of wine.
"I never saw so many unicorns in my life!"
"Sarah told me about the book you're writing. Do you have any idea when it will go to the publisher?"
"Not really. I've written more than three hundred typed pages already, but there are so many fascinating collections I want to include in it."
"You can always write a second book," Ezra Graves suggested.
"I'm curious," Penny McMurtry said. "Do you collect anything yourself?"
"I have items that are dear to me," Michael replied, "but nothing that constitutes an actual collection."
"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm famished," Douglas announced. "I'm going to order something to eat."
The diners left the bar and headed for a group of tables where Michael managed to sit near Lionel and Sarah.
"There's something I'd like to discuss with you, Dr. Penn," he said.
The psychiatrist cringed, immediately assuming the antique dealer was going to ask for his professional advice about a phobia.
"I would like to include an introduction to my book about what it is that makes people want to collect things. Nothing too long, just two or three pages. I'd pay you, of course."
"No payment is necessary," Lionel answered, smiling with relief that his meal would not be ruined by having to listen to someone describe his pet fear. "I'd be happy to write it."
"I can understand people wanting to collect things," Martha Prescott said, "but some overdo it."
"What motivates people to have these massive collections?" Dr. Noah Prestwick, Martha's date, wondered. "What's your opinion on that, Lionel?"
"That's not exactly my area of expertise, but I would imagine many people just want to relive their childhoods. That's why they collect dolls, Star Wars toys, Pez dispensers and things of that nature. Others have an interest in a specific historical period, say the Civil War or the Victorian Era."
"Lots of people in this town, me included, like the Colonial period," Sarah added. "I have a butter churn and a spinning wheel—not that I use either of them."
"There are also people who like the prestige of owning classic cars or paintings by famous artists."
"You're talking about normal collections, though," Martha said. "What about a person who has amassed a collection of, say, thousands of empty beer bottles?"
"I imagine such people suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder or possibly depression or severe anxiety. They collect things in an attempt to fill an emotional need. And, as is the case with drug addiction, the need grows and they buy more and more things."
"So, these people are basically hoarders?" Douglas asked.
"Not necessarily. I've had patients who were hoarders. I wouldn't call them collectors. Even the most avid collectors are discriminating. Their collections are cohesive and usually quite organized. Hoarders, on the other hand, keep everything—even garbage."
"I watched a few episodes of Hoarders on television," Martha announced. "You wouldn't believe the things those people keep! Everything from moldy pumpkins to chicken bones."
"Thank goodness I haven't come across any of those people yet!" Michael declared. "The collectors I've interviewed have all been neat people."
"That's a good thing," Sarah said. "Hoarders face all kinds of health issues, from various molds to rodent and insect infestation."
"Sweetheart, please! I'm trying to eat here," Lionel laughed.
"Seriously? I've never known any subject that could spoil your appetite," she quipped.
* * *
Victoria Broadbent put a loaf of banana nut bread in the oven and began making the pâte à choux dough for her profiteroles. She had just put the water and butter in a saucepan when she heard a car pull into the parking lot. She peeked out the window and saw a young woman get out of a Mercedes with Rhode Island plates.
Shelly Jonas entered Victoria's English Tea Shoppe and inhaled the enticing aroma of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg.
"Good morning," the white-haired proprietor called as she stepped out of the kitchen. "Would you like a table for one?"
"Actually, I just came in to buy some macarons."
Shelly looked into the woman's cornflower-blue eyes and immediately changed her mind.
"Maybe I'll have a cup of tea while I'm here."
Victoria led her to a table and handed her a list of teas.
"I'm not too familiar with teas," the customer apologized. "Which flavor do you recommend?"
"I was always partial to Earl Grey."
"That's fine."
"I've also got pumpkin spice scones that are still warm."
"I really shouldn't, but ...."
The shopkeeper disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a pot of tea, a plate of scones and serving bowls with jam and clotted cream.
"If you're not too busy, why don't you sit down and join me?" the customer asked.
Victoria was always amenable to getting to know her patrons even ones from out of the area who might never stop in again.
"Don't mind if I do," she replied and took a flowered bone china teacup off the shelf. "I could use a break. I've been baking all morning."
As the young woman reached for the bottle of agave nectar to sweeten her tea, Victoria noticed both the engagement ring on her finger and the bruise around her wrist.
"This is a nice place you have. The décor is so feminine. It reminds me of a Laura Ashley dress my mother had."
"I'm glad you like it. Some people think I've overdone it with the color pink, but it's my favorite."
"I never worry about what people think," Shelly said. "Visitors to my house think I'm insane."
"Why is that?"
"Because I collect unicorns."
The shopkeeper's cornflower-blue eyes twinkled.
"Are you the woman Michael interviewed for his book?"
"You know about that?"
"He mentioned it when he came to the shop for the macarons."
"They were out of this world! That's why I stopped here today. I'm driving up to Maine to visit my friend, and I wanted her to try them."
"Your fiancé isn't going with you?" Victoria asked and pointed to the ring.
"No."
Shelly took a sip of her tea, but the older woman could see the tears welling in her eyes.
"What does Grady think of your collection?"
"He hates it!" she replied, wiping her eyes with the pink napkin; she was so upset that she did not wonder how the shopkeeper knew her fiancé's name. "He said if I don't get rid of all my unicorns, he would."
"It seems as though he's forcing you to choose between him and your collection."
"Yes. We had a terrible fight. That's why I'm going to visit my friend. I need to get away from him until he calms down. I don't suppose I should be telling you this, but I'm having second thoughts about the marriage. He has a bad temper, and sometimes I'm afraid of him."
Victoria, who had an uncanny knack for ferreting out people's motives, knew that Grady Fitzpatrick was not about to let Shelly go. She was a wealthy woman, and he was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life but could not afford them on his own.
* * *
Grady Fitzpatrick signed the check for his rent, tore it out of his checkbook and stuck it inside an envelope. The balance on his bank account was dangerously low. He had barely enough to cover his expenses. But all he had to do was stick to a tight budget until the wedding day, at which time he would move into Shelly's house and his money problems would be over.
If it weren't for those damned unicorns, I could move in right now, he thought as he addressed the envelope to his landlord.
For the past two months, he had pressured his fiancée to get rid of her collection, but she stubbornly refused to part with it. The least she could do, he felt, was to put everything in boxes and stick them in a self-storage unit.
It isn't fair! She's got a three-story home filled with junk, and meanwhile, I'm struggling to afford the rent on this crummy studio apartment!
Getting those damned unicorns out of the house was but the first problem he faced. Keeping Shelly from wasting her money on buying more was the second. Yes, she made a lot of money as an artist and invested it wisely, but she also spent a small fortune on her ridiculous collection.
The more Grady contemplated his financial woes, the angrier he became. By the time he arrived at the Ford dealership where he worked as a mechanic, he was already in a foul mood. When Ernesto Carew, a coworker, gave his two-week notice after getting another job at Subaru—making an additional eight dollars an hour—he was furious.
"I applied for a job there last month and was told they weren't hiring," Grady grumbled.
"I was lucky. Someone quit the day before I showed up."
"Oh, and I suppose your skin color had nothing to do with it!"
"Are you saying I got the job because I'm biracial?"
"It wouldn't be the first time that a white man lost out to a minority."
Ernesto always suspected that Grady was a racist, and now he had no doubts.
Keep your cool, he told himself. You've only got to put up with him for another two weeks.
Willing to overlook his fellow mechanic's comments, he smiled and said, "Soon you'll be married and living on Easy Street. Then you won't have to worry about that extra eight bucks an hour."
Rather than take those words as Ernesto had meant them, as a lighthearted reminder that better days lay ahead of him, Grady believed they were a veiled insult that suggested he was only marrying Shelly for her money—which he was. He was not about to take such an accusation from anyone, least of all someone he considered a product of two inferior races. Proving the point that violence was the tool of the ignorant, he curled his fingers into a fist and punched his goodhearted coworker in the mouth. Shortly thereafter, he was called into his supervisor's office.
"Did you get that out of your system?" Ivan Ledyard, the head of the service department, asked.
"Yeah. It felt good."
"I'm glad to hear it. I hope it was worth losing your job over."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're fired," Ivan announced. "Get your stuff and get out of here."
"You can't fire me!" Grady argued. "You're already going to be down one mechanic when Ernesto leaves."
"It doesn't matter. I simply won't condone fighting."
"Come on. Give me a second chance, will you? I need the money."
"You should have thought of that before you threw a punch."
* * *
Grady was a man who never took responsibility for his actions. Although he had thrown the punch that cost him his job, he blamed Shelly for the consequences that resulted from his loss of temper.
"If she had just let me move into her house in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess!" he cried as he headed back to his apartment. "But no! She insisted we keep separate residences until the wedding, not because of any prudish, outdated moral code but because she isn't willing to make room for me yet. It's those damned unicorns!"
The traffic light on the corner turned yellow, and he saw the brake lights of the Toyota in front of him.
"What the hell are you stopping for?" he shouted, tooting his horn. "You had plenty of time to make it!"
Grady sat in his twelve-year-old Mustang, fuming and silently cursing women drivers, Ernesto Carew, Ivan Ledyard and, most of all, his fiancée and her unicorns.
"It's all so unfair!" he cried for the umpteenth time. "Why can't I ...?"
His eyes went to the Shell sign above the service station on the next block. Although he had never been an imaginative fellow, he was suddenly inspired by an idea that might solve his problems. As he waited for the light to turn green, he formulated a plan.
If I set Shelly's house on fire, it will destroy her collection. The loss of it may upset her so much that she won't be able to look at a unicorn anymore. Naturally, she'll need to buy a new house or rebuild that one. Either way, she'll need a place to stay temporarily. She can afford any hotel in Newport, and there won't be any damned unicorns to prevent me from living with her.
The traffic light turned green, the Toyota continued on its way and Grady turned into the Shell station.
Despite an awful start, he thought, smiling, it's turning out to be a great day!
He pulled up to the pumps, got out of the car, removed the empty five-gallon gasoline can from his trunk and filled it with the cheapest grade of gasoline.
"Cash or charge?" the pretty blonde at the checkout counter asked.
"Charge," he replied and took out his nearly maxed-out credit card.
"You planning on doing some yard work?" the girl asked, looking up at Grady's handsome face.
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because most people with cans fill them up with gas to use in their lawnmowers and weedwhackers."
"Yeah. I've got some work to do around the house."
He signed the receipt, shoved his copy into his pocket and walked out the door, unaware that the pretty blonde's cornflower-blue eyes glared at him as he headed back to his car.
* * *
Although Shelly had never given him a key to her house, Grady had no difficulty getting inside. There were two large planters on either side of her front door. She kept a spare key beneath the one on the right.
"Home sweet home," he said as he stepped inside.
He felt a sense of triumph as he sprinkled a trail of gasoline from the foyer, through the kitchen and dining room and into the living room. The gas can was half empty when he began to worry that the police might connect him to the fire.
Any inspector worth his weight will know it's a case of arson. They can always tell when an accelerant is used. Damn it! I should have paid cash for the gas.
Even without a paper trail, Grady would be the most likely culprit. He was a cash-strapped young man who lost his job and was desperate enough to burn down a house.
It's not too late. I can still change my mind. And then what? Confess to Shelly that I'm in debt and out of work?
The very idea of asking a woman for help made him feel sick. Marrying for money was one thing, begging for a handout was another.
There's no turning back now, he decided, reaching into his pocket for the pack of matches he had taken out of the Mustang's glovebox.
As he ripped off a match from the book, he glimpsed movement in his peripheral vision. He turned to look at the coffee table where Shelly had placed the 1930s brass unicorn she purchased at Treasure Hunt Antiques. Was it his imagination or had it moved?
Don't be ridiculous! he told himself. That thing is made of solid brass. It's not likely to ....
Grady stared in horror as the unicorn grew in size. In a matter of moments, the eighteen-inch-high statuette was more than three feet tall. And it continued to grow. Soon its weight broke the table.
"What the ...!"
Four feet ... five ... six.
Psychologists say people and animals when placed in a dangerous or extremely stressful situation, react with a fight-or-flight response. Grady could neither fight nor flee. Instead, he stood still, dumbfounded by what he was witnessing.
Once it reached its full height, the brass unicorn lowered its head and pointed its horn at the center of the terrified man's chest. Just before it lunged forward and impaled its victim, the animal's brass eyes turned a familiar shade of cornflower blue.
* * *
"That's odd!" Shelly thought when she returned from Maine and found her front door unlocked.
She opened it and immediately noticed the smell of gasoline. Rather than enter her house, she returned to her Mercedes and called 911. The police car and firetruck arrived less than ten minutes later.
"That's not a gas leak," Val Merrion, the fireman, announced when he walked into the foyer. "It's gasoline. Natural gas doesn't smell like that."
"Do you keep a gas can in your house or in the garage?" asked Patrolman Manus Shanley, who remained outside with the homeowner.
"No."
"There's a trail of gas going into the kitchen," Val said and followed it into the dining room.
He stopped when he saw the corpse on the living room floor.
"Manus, you better get in here," the fireman called. "I found a dead body."
* * *
Grady Fitzpatrick's death was ruled an accident. He had gone into the house, police determined, with the intent of setting it on fire, but tripped and fell onto the coffee table with enough force to break it.
"If it hadn't been for that brass unicorn," the detective claimed, "he probably would have got only a broken rib or two, but he fell in such a way that the horn pierced his heart. Poor bastard!"
Despite his failed attempt to destroy her home, Shelly Jonas paid for his funeral. Well-meaning friends and neighbors sent flowers, offered their condolences and brought casseroles to her house. Although she wore a black dress and behaved with appropriate funereal decorum, she felt no grief at her loss.
He tried to burn my house down for Christ's sake!
And she knew the reason why. He wanted to get rid of her unicorns. He had threatened to do so before she left for Maine, but she had not taken the threat seriously.
It was poetic justice, she thought wryly. He deserved what he got: death by unicorn.
As though to add insult to injury, Shelly then ordered a custom headstone to be placed above her fiancé's final resting place. Above the granite stone that bore his name was a four-foot-tall marble sculpture of a unicorn.
This story is dedicated to my daughter, Kelly, who collects unicorns. But doesn't have near as many as the character in this story has!
Salem tried to turn himself into a unicorn, but something went wrong with the spell. The result was a caticorn.
