S2 Chapter 5: Keep Your Enemies Close and Their Timecards Closer

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 5 Keep your enemies close and their time cards closer. I never thought I would one day understand Chef Gagnon. Is that what being mature is like? Having the empathy to look back at past conflicts, to take a fresh look at people who've crossed us and find a fresh angle to them? I don't like it. But supervising Agnes over the course of only two days has given me a new perspective on what it is to try to teach someone stubborn. If this is what it was like instructing me...

Maybe I should be sending Gagnon flowers and an apology. Maybe. The difference is, while I want to stuff Agnes in the oven and let it broil until her skeleton is so brittle I can grind it into bone meal, I'm compassionate enough to bite my lip and remain civil. Gagnon made it his brand to be an asshole, like it made him more credible as a figure of authority.

Meanwhile, I don't need to throw my weight around and belittle Agnes to feel like I'm the boss. I just am. I own the Aquilo and I'll go toe-to-toe with anyone in the province when it comes to cooking. I have nothing to prove to her. Though if she asks me one more time how to unlock the register or how much to charge for a black coffee, 99 cents, I will likely put her head through the display case window.

The way she keeps looking at the food inside like it's the Romeo to her Juliet, I think she'd even welcome the tragic end. So, Olivia murmurs as she takes her usual seat at the counter, and I slide her usual drink for her to enjoy. How's my replacement working out? She can't get the register to work and forgets to separate tips constantly. She doesn't take criticism at all, and I swear, if I didn't have an eye on her the whole time, she'd make a run for it. Also...

I think she's evil. Hmm? Evil? Isn't that a bit much? Is it? Check this out. With my chin, I nudge towards Agnes. She's just taking an order from a customer. It's Dean Robinson, the owner of the hardware store, who also has an extensive assortment of imported teas and spices. Dean's not a complicated man. Drinks what most Canadians would call a double-double, but he's American and didn't get the reference when I brought it up.

Two creams, two sugars. I don't expect Agnes will mess that up. She's not stupid. It's what she does next that's got me suspicious. As I've instructed her, she flips the switch on the coffee machine before getting a mug, takes ground coffee from the antique grinder and pours it into the filter. She checks the water level on the machine, then puts the mug under the spout and pushes the button so that my monstrous contraption will do its dirty work.

A minute later, she's pouring a bit of cream into the mug and stirring in two spoonfuls of raw sugar before handing it back to a satisfied, even mesmerized Dean. I don't see it, Olivia says, shaking her head. if making coffee makes her evil then we're all in hell right now did we just watch the same scene i'm so outraged i can barely whisper the coffee machine didn't so much as hiss at her

It hasn't tried to burn her once. Oh, honey, good old Olivia says, stifling a laugh. It's just a coffee machine. I don't take my eyes off Agnes, making sure she takes Dean's payment and splits the tip. Dean's a generous tipper, but he goes above and beyond, telling Agnes to keep the balance of a $5 bill. Must be his way of welcoming the new girl.

My eyes linger on the coffee machine for a second, and a puff of scalding vapor escapes the spout in a hiss when I do. We both know it's not just a coffee machine. Besides, the dawn agrees with me. Mm-hmm. So you think your new employee is evil because she gets along with a haunted coffee machine and the raccoons in the dumpster don't like her? She's holding back laughter like she's trying to swallow a burp during an interview.

It's there, at the back of her throat, struggling to get out. It sounds stupid when you say it like that. Mm-hmm. I lean back on the counter, letting my elbows support me. This way I can still talk to Olivia while keeping an eye on Agnes. The girl is constantly distracted, always looking over her shoulder. It's not just me she's worried about, but every sudden move or unexpected sound.

It took her half of yesterday before she stopped jumping at the door chimes. I'm not sure if she's behaving like a predator, always looking out for prey. Or the opposite. I guess otherwise she's working out okay. I can't believe the clients are happy with her. Then what's the problem? What problem? Olivia is doing the thing where she pretends to be the insightful, wise lady who can read people's moods like I read a recipe.

I can tell it in her tone because it mixes compassion with just enough condescension to be annoying. The problem you're having. I'm not having any problems. Except... She would be less annoying if she weren't so often on the money. Except I don't have a recipe for our little backyard friend, and I've got maybe five days before that becomes an issue for all of us.

Training Agnes by day and trying to figure out why the hunger demon completely ignored my petite four by night has left me more tired than I was a month ago. Sure, maybe it wanted to snack on some fresh hellhound, but I can't count on that. I can't even count on it being fed for as long. Every morning, I wake up wondering if this is the day we find another dead woman with her abdomen ripped out. Hmm, Olivia seems to muse.

What would Doris do? I've been doing exactly what Doris would do, following her recipe, using her ingredients, her kitchen, her goddamn spoon. But it's not enough. Then maybe it's time to start thinking about what Miriam would do. I thought I had this nailed, and I did for a while. I touched the grain of the new countertop. running my fingers over the tiny grooves left by Agnes's fork the other day. I picked the counter out myself for its modern yet rustic look.

The raw bark edges and the dark knots on the surface feel rich to the touch and warm to the eyes. I've made so much of the Aquilo mine over the last ten months that I thought I'd put my great-grandaunt's spirit to rest. But that's been little more than a lie I've been telling myself. Satisfied with the initial success of deciphering how to feed an unfeedable monster, I may have been resting on my laurels.

I don't know what Miriam would do because I've never bothered to figure it out. I have my ancestor's recipe book and somehow assumed that I would always find what I needed in there. I have five days, Olivia. At best. I don't know if I have time to reinvent the wheel. There's a table behind me, and I turn around to look at it. I know it's going to be empty. It's too late for morning coffee and too early for lunch.

It's empty because no one sits there but the two usual occupants. Both women take the exact same seat and no one would dare challenge their authority and write to those chairs. What if I ask Mayor Byrne? You want to ask a woman who's still recovering from whatever it is she's endured to help you with your demon problem? Why not? I'm not asking that she pick up a sword and come do some slaying.

But she and Mayor Lagasse obviously know something about demons. A little knowledge can go a long way. I don't know, Olivia starts, her words thick with doubt. last time you asked someone else to take care of your problem like that you ended up with a lot more bullet holes in your coffee shop than you bargained for who said this demon had to be my problem i'm just trying to run a coffee shop

You know what this town needs? A proper demon hunter. The door chimes sing their song, and I peek at my new employee to gauge her reaction. Her head sinks into her shoulders, but she manages to hide how startled she is fairly well.

Eventually, maybe we won't even notice she's afraid of new customers. Olivia, on the other hand, perks up like a meerkat. She seems almost surprised by the man at the door. Henry Figg walks in like he's in the wrong place. Red plaid shirt with denim overalls, he might as well have been plucked from a farm a century ago. Yet he doesn't stand out that much. There are plenty of farms around Aquilo, and people come to town in their work clothes all the time.

But Henry doesn't leave Fig's orchard very often, and everything in his demeanor is a reminder of that. His face is cramped into a tight frown, like he's already angry at everyone here. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, just in case they might accidentally touch someone. He walks up to the counter where Agnes waits. Welcome to the Aquilo Cafe. How can I help you today?

She does an acceptable job of greeting him, just like I taught her. It's not exactly sincere, but I've set my expectations low enough on that front. No, Henry says with a gruff voice of someone who hasn't talked all day. Where's Miriam? I've seen Agnes angry, and I've seen her annoyed, but I've never seen her insulted. Not that the expression isn't familiar to me. I've worn it often enough myself, and by that virtue I knew what was coming next.

miriam is busy she says her voice soaked in vitriol if you want anything i'd be happy to take your order the way she hisses out the word happy i can understand what the coffee machine sees in her Henry takes his hands out of his pockets while every line in his face digs itself deeper. I don't know what that means, but it can't be good. I'll take care of it. I step in front of her, barely fitting between Agnes and the register. What can I get you, Henry?

I take his order, coffee, black, and one of those fancy cheese croissants. I allow Agnes to brew the coffee while I put the croissant on a plate with a square of butter and a knife. Who's that? He asks when I put the plate and mug in front of him. The disdain is obvious, and I want to attribute it to the style of dress Agnes prefers. Henry seems like the traditional type. Goths with facial piercings are probably not his thing.

New employee. Now that you've got Olivia working at the orchard again, I had to find someone. Henry looks around, makes sure that Agnes is out of earshot, clearing tables at the other end of the cafe. Then he leans in, and with his best grumpy old man voice, he whispers, I don't like her.

I choked back a laugh and turned to Olivia. See? Evil. I've done some weird things in my time. When I was twelve, I couldn't figure out how Souma Reinegard made such succulent subs. Mind you, this isn't a five-star restaurant in downtown Montreal. This place is one step above a truck stop, and it's tucked into the corner of Auchelaga. To get to Edgar, I either had to make a 15-block walk or take the bus for 10 minutes.

Usually, I'd go with Dad and Eric. Most of the time, it was because one of us did something good, like Eric getting an A in a subject he was struggling with, or Eric getting his driver's license. That sort of thing. Once in a while, though. When I had enough money, I'd get a 7-inch Edgar special. All the subplaces have a special, and they're all the same. Steak, pepperoni and cheese, with the house dressing and some mushrooms and green peppers. They all taste the same, too.

It's a great sub. Not for the most delicate palate, but if you were to ask me my favorite Montreal food, I'd say it's a special sub. And Edgar's was a step above. Which is weird, because they're all the same, right? All these places get their ingredients from the same suppliers. They all cook them on the same appliances. There's no reason, apart from nostalgia, why Edgar's would be so tasty. But at 12, you don't have much to be nostalgic about. So.

One day, I took whatever money I had and walked all the way to Edgar's and sat myself at a table with a good view of the kitchen. I ordered a seven-inch Edgar special and watched the old man himself make it. On the first go, I didn't notice anything different. He put the veggies on the hot plate, let them soften, added the meats and let those sit. Finally, he delicately put two slices of white cheese to melt before covering the whole thing with a bun.

When it was finished cooking, Edgar added shredded lettuce and tomato and squirted house dressing on the whole thing. No extra ingredients. No secret seasoning. And it was as delicious as any other Edgar special I'd had in my life. So I waited for someone else to order the same thing. I drank soda after soda and nibbled on some fries for an hour.

I spent an entire afternoon waiting to see what Edgar did to his subs to make them the best my 12-year-old taste buds had ever experienced. The whole time, I expected a waitress to kick me out, or for Edgar to ask what the hell I was doing there. I felt like a voyeur, and maybe, if I hadn't been averting my eyes every time someone looked in my direction, I might have discovered the secret to those subs.

I never did, and as far as I know, the mystery died with Edgar a few years later. Today, I'm playing voyeur again, even though I'm looking down at my own café, observing my own display, kitchen, and register. It was Detective Wilson's idea to put the cameras in. And when I say that, I don't mean he made a casual suggestion. He slipped the idea by Helen Edna, notary public, and she added them to the list of things to add in the renovated Akewillow Cafe.

It lowers insurance costs, and it's not really that big a deal. What business doesn't have cameras for security? It's the most basic of tools. But this has the taste of surveillance, and I feel like a peeping Tom watching the recordings of the day. It's a fancy system, off-site archives that I can watch online from any computer through a web client, all protected by two-factor authentication, which makes sitting on Doris's bed...

My bed, and going over all of Agnes' activities for the day feel dirty and weird. Starting tomorrow, I'll be leaving her to take care of the Aquilo for the entire afternoon, completely unsupervised. Call me paranoid, but I do not want to take off those training wheels without one final check of her behavior. Imagine if I'd hired someone who's going to use the store earnings like their own private piggy bank. Not to mention...

If I can't trust my own memory around Peter and Agnes, then maybe I can rely on a little bit of electronic wizardry instead. How's that for witchcraft? The soft blue glow of my laptop monitor is the only thing lighting up the night right now. The beast hums on my lap like it's a geriatric cat.

I've managed to banish most of the viruses from its aging hard drive, and I've reinstalled all I could, limiting the number of pop-ups and warnings I have to deal with, but it still operates slower than dripping syrup. Agnes, when watched without her knowledge, is exactly what I expected her to be. She's unpleasant to customers and does everything with the particular reluctance specific to teenagers.

It bites to see her sneer at clients when they leave and mope around behind the counter when she thinks there's nothing to do. Was I like that at her age? It was just three years ago, and yet it feels like there's a generation separating us. I vividly remember the shocking contempt I felt for my job as a barista. Two things do stand out in her behavior. While she has no respect for my patrons, they seem to love her nonetheless.

Men or women, they stare at her like a work of art, and the more stricken they act, the more abrasive Agnes gets. Invariably, they all leave her with generous, ridiculous tips. which she proceeds to put in the register instead of the tip jar. Then, when no one's looking, she'll grab a pastry from the display or a cookie from under the glass bell. At one point, she even squirts a few shots of chocolate syrup in an espresso cup and swallows it in a single gag-inducing gulp.

I suppose that the money more than makes up for the goods she's taking, but this is going to make calculating what my patrons bought a pain in the ass. How am I supposed to know what to make if my staff is going through the inventory? And being gross about it, too. I might as well have hired one of the raccoons. I muse on that absurd concept for a moment when I notice it. A few of the clients seem somehow drained.

Two of them are outright sleeping at their table, and I can see Ian, his robes and hair a-blinding white on camera, nodding off in a corner, looking borderline nauseous. The Aquilo sells caffeine and sugar. People who frequent my establishment don't get sleepy. They get jittery, talkative, and hopefully productive. Not to mention, this is my cooking they're eating.

Maybe I'm not Doris, and I don't lace every muffin with whatever metaphysical ingredients she had at her disposal, but I know the sigils and symbols of intent that she mastered. I have her recipe book, her spoon, and her name. I've baked an anniversary cake that mended a marriage, a story for a later time, and I've saved more than my share of school bake sales with my lemon bars. Hell, I didn't even get bullied that much in high school because, let's face it,

No one wants to make an enemy of Miriam Dufour once they've had a taste of what she made in Home Ec. To make a long yet accurate story short, my food doesn't make people nauseous. I've seen the occasional tears, but never nausea. So what the hell is going on here? I go back over the recordings to see if Agnes is slipping anything in the food or drinks, but she barely puts in the energy to serve slices of pie and wrap cakes in boxes.

If she's doing anything illicit, she's better at hiding it than I am at seeing it. It's getting late, and I'm about to chalk all of this up to the weather or seasonal allergies. Maybe everyone in town is just dosed up on antihistamines. Then...

I notice something else. One last disturbing detail. I can see myself back turned to the register, talking to Olivia and Henry Figg. One of my regulars, Michael, comes in and orders something to go. Nothing strange about that. He'll often grab a coffee while on break from a painting job. Sometimes he'll take a few cookies if I have anything special.

He and Agnes seem to have some idle chit-chat, which is a refreshing change from how she usually interacts with the customers. Meanwhile, I move out of frame. I remember that exact moment. I had to go to the kitchen to pull brownies out of the oven and take out the trash. I watch Michael pay and leave a tip that Agnes puts in the register before he walks out. And just at the edge of the shop, almost out of line of sight of the camera,

He collapses face first onto the pavement. No one tells me anything. The blue light of my monitor is gone, replaced by the warm orange glow of the porch light at the back of the Aquilo. There's a tray of stale cookies at my feet and my ass is planted firmly on one of the metal stairs by the door. One of my best customers collapses in front of my cafe and no one says a thing.

A second demon leaks out of some hell gate and it's mentioned with less fanfare than the local Apple Festival. I just don't understand how they expect me to take care of one demon, but then they keep me in the dark about everything else. The only reply I get is the sound of open-mouthed chewing. It's intense, and I decide to interpret it as an indication that I should keep going. I don't know if you realize, but I'm risking my life going out there week after week giving cake to a demon.

Where did I go wrong? I was supposed to be out of school this summer and on my way to building my career as a chef. A hiss of protest tells me that I'm complaining too much. And it's true. I've got my own kitchen with my first employee. I get to cook whatever I want, as long as it appeals to the small-town weirdos who hang out in cafes. What do I even know about these people, anyway? Even Olivia is a mystery to me.

She's always telling me just shy of enough. I could always use a little bit more than what she shares. All this time, and I don't even know what your deal is. There are three raccoons gathered around my cookie tray. The fat one we call the Don, his mean-spirited buddy with the red tag, and of course, my favorite little brioche. Three more of these vermin live in my dumpster, but they must be off somewhere else.

doing whatever it is that semi-sentient raccoons do at three in the morning on a Sunday night. The six critters have earned something of a reputation and some measure of respect from the locals. I have scars from the Don biting and scratching at my arm, and I'm not the only one. Yet, no one bothers to call animal control. No one's tried to kill, capture, or chase them away.

Some can pick locks, and they know how to draw protective circles in salt. I have no idea what they actually are. They're just raccoons, a calm voice speaks from the other end of the alley.

It's dark outside my orange halo of light, but I recognize that voice. It's not anyone I thought I would hear at this time of night, but there she is. Helen Edna, Notary Public. They just happen to be immortal, or really long-lived. No one knows, she explains, getting closer. Odd time and place for a walk. Helen stops just at the edge of the light.

hands in the pockets of pressed jeans, and looks down at the raccoons. There's a clinical attitude in her stare, like the animals are test subjects and she's evaluating the results of recent experiments. I've never seen Helen dressed so casual. Even on the weekend, she wears a blouse and the cleanest denim I've ever seen. Her jewelry is sparse but looks expensive, and her shoes are the latest summer fashion. All that for a midnight walk.

i was out and i'm making my way home and my alley is a standard detour i try to sound playful but dammit woman what are you doing here the woods i like to walk through the woods The dark and quiet helps me think. I had an appointment. I make no effort to contain the sigh that escapes from my lungs. This is exactly what I'm talking about.

I don't know how aware Helen is of the thing that lurks in those woods. She used to be good friends with Doris, so I suppose she must know. Yet there she is. I won't bother asking, I say, resentful. It wouldn't be any of your business anyway, Miriam. Brioche and her two cohorts have moved to the furthest side of the tray, as far from Helen as they can get without forfeiting their place at the table. You feed them.

she says, a rare effort to dispel the cold between us. We have an understanding. Sometimes I feel like they're the only ones I can talk to about the stuff going on here. They do have the benefit of not talking back. Helen finally closes the distance between us, tugs on her pants, and crouches down to sit on her heels. Her motions are precise and graceful. I can imagine she might have been a dancer once, thin of limb and coordinated to a fault.

Slender fingers extend into an open palm that she offers the raccoons. I expect Brioche to be the one to walk up to her for an inspection. I've gotten close enough to that raccoon that she feels like the most domesticated to me. Instead, the one with the red tag on his ear, Crimson, they call him, creeps up and sniffs at her manicured nails. After a moment, he hisses. You don't know them very well, do you? I ask.

Forgetting the vermin as quickly as she took interest, Helen stands and faces me. She smiles the smile of a notary that found a particularly clever loophole or a brilliant clause. Not directly, but I know about them. You said they were immortal? I ask, skeptical. I guess demons are one thing, but immortal sentient raccoons are a bridge too far? Indeed.

The story goes, Philemon tried to make longevity cookies or brownies, but the recipe was a failure, so she tossed them out back in the woods. What was meant to add a few years to her life made these little guys live forever. Makes sense. In the grand scheme of how Aquilo functions, at the very least. But they're so smart. Well, you get to learn a lot when you're over 125 years old. Whoa.

That's a lot longer than I had thought. I assumed they were old, that Doris had cast some spell and made them smart and increased their longevity. I knew they were unusual, but I didn't know that all this had started with Philomen, Doris's predecessor. Now, to be fair, this is Helen telling me this, and I assume she got it from Doris, which would make this third-hand information not exactly the most accurate source. But if even only half of it is true…

That means my little brioche is damn near eight times my age. I didn't know, I mumble, staring at the vermin through a new lens of understanding. Of course not. No one told you, and no one's going to tell you anything unless you ask. Olivia told me she could brief me on everything she knew in a night. Helen laughs. Have I ever heard Helen Edna laugh?

I've heard her yell, and I've heard her scold. Many times, but the sound she emits would be better suited to someone living in the woods and stirring a giant black cauldron. I thought I was the witch in these parts. Oh, Olivia could go on every summer night until the first fall leaf hits the ground and she'd still have a handful of secrets tucked away. That woman would dish on every single one of her neighbors, but she'd never let slip about who the figs really are.

Great. Now I'm supposed to start worrying about Olivia too? Does anyone have my back? What about the figs? I ask on impulse. Miriam. Helen sits next to me, pushing me aside a little with her hips in the process. How many people have you told about why you ended up in the hospital last fall? It takes me a moment to think about it.

I never told Helen, but she somehow already knew. Olivia and Julia knew, as well as Gulliver. The Inquisition, for whatever good that did. All told, maybe seven people know about the hunger demon in Aquilo. A handful? Why not more? You faced down the notorious serial killer that was terrorizing the city. Don't you want to brag a little? If only to drum up more business. My head shakes.

I see where she's going with this. This is different. No one else needs to know, and besides, how do I tell who would believe me and who would chalk me up as insane? No one's going to order a latte at the coffee shop run by the town lunatic. We stare at the raccoons a little longer in silence. Crimson gives us one final suspicious look before calling it a night. There's hardly any more food left anyways.

If all goes as it usually does during these therapy sessions, the Don will be next to get sick of my voice and he'll leave me alone with brioche. It's the best, most peaceful way I've found of giving her a treat. The pastry of her namesake, which I keep hidden in a box on the porch behind me. Almost everyone in Aquilo knows about these raccoons, Helen explains.

Some of us even have a favorite, but there's stuff we just don't talk about. We're normal people here, Miriam. At least, most of us try to be. She puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder before pushing herself back to her feet. Brioche, startled, takes a few steps back, balancing in the spot between the empty cookie tray and the dumpster she calls home. So, how do I find out why Michael collapsed in front of the Aquila this afternoon? My ex-husband has a saying for that.

You want to know what happened at a crime scene? Start with the victim. She takes a few steps away while I still reel from discovering that Helen Edna, notary public, used to be married. Your ex sounds like a cop. I call out, not knowing what to say next or how to say goodnight this early in the morning. Yes. Yes, he does. Helen answers, stepping out of the light.

Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee. Visit ko-fi.com slash Akewillow to donate a cup. Questions, comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.