Mistleton and Other Men

“C’est vraiment incroyable!” one of them exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Et scandaleux en plus!” another chimed in, her voice barely above a whisper, but rich with the thrill of discussing something forbidden.

“Ah oui, évidemment!” the third agreed, her eyes wide, darting around to ensure no one else was listening.

“Comment cela s’est-il passé, exactement? Est-ce qu’on sait même?” No one knew exactly.

They exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of shock, sadness, and something else—a subtle spark of curiosity. The tragedy had woven itself into a mystery, and they each seemed eager to understand just what had led to Stella’s abrupt end.

The news of Stella’s death, to borrow her own phrase, spread like Virginia creeper through town and dominated the conversation at the next meeting of her French club. It was all that the three ladies could talk about. Thanks to Stella herself, who liked to brag about having a thousand followers, nearly everyone in town bought into the story of a fatal thorn as the cause, even though no one other than Noah, Sharon, and the deceased had seen a thorn or a poppet. In her excitement to reveal the source of her good luck, Stella posted about the thorn without including an image, figuring she could repost with images of the thorn and her miniature likeness later.

Dismissing the notion of death by a poisonous thorn as pure nonsense, the county medical examiner determined that Stella Stiles died from a heart attack—a conclusion that should have surprised no one since Stella was diabetic and had a family history of heart disease. The fresh puncture mark on Stella’s left index fingertip resembled the many marks from years of checking her blood glucose levels, a routine her clients had witnessed at least once. Yet the townsfolk ignored the medical explanation, choosing instead to latch onto the thorn’s dark mystery, turning it into gossip and speculation.

But it wasn’t only Stella’s death that captivated everyone—it was the speed at which the Tangled Vine rushed to exploit it. Soon after seeing Stella’s post and then hearing the news, Woody ran the story of her demise through his AI app, adding a contemporary twist to the tour—

In a quaint salon, where beauty thrived,
A tranquil haven where dreams arrived,
She worked her magic with a gentle hand,
The beauty salon owner, beloved and grand.
 
Amidst the perfumes and the soft-spun light,
A sinister shadow crept into the night,
A hawthorn needle, dark and keen,
Lay in wait, a deadly sheen.
 
With a trusting smile, she picked it up,
Unknowing of the bitter cup,
Poisoned whispers on the thorny tip,
A fatal secret on her lip.
 
As twilight fell, her breath grew thin,
A quiet pallor kissed her skin,
The lively spark within her eyes,
Dimmed beneath the poisoned skies.
 
Her hands, once skilled in artful grace,
Now faltered in their gentle trace,
The laughter, music, and the gleam,
Faded into a distant dream.
 
In that sacred space of beauty’s bloom,
Silence settled, a haunting gloom,
The hawthorn’s kiss, both cruel and sweet,
Wove her end in shadows deep.
 
Yet in the stillness of her final sigh,
A beauty lingered, soft and nigh,
A life that touched with tender care,
Now whispered in the evening air.
 
The salon, a monument to her name,
Held the echoes of her gentle flame,
In every mirror, a glint of grace,
A timeless beauty in a fleeting space.

Tour sales went through the roof, and the Tangled Vine, busier than ever, went reservation-only for dinner and weekend brunch. Now—suddenly—the décor and overall vibe of the renovated tavern made even more sense.

Dimly lit and painted in deep, muted dark reds and maroons, the tavern’s interior set a somber and introspective tone, with framed old photographs of the area and abstract artwork hanging askew, depicting tangled vines and shadowy figures. The soft, flickering candlelight on the four darkened and slightly worn wood tables in the middle of the main room cast moving shadows, arousing seemingly contradictory feelings of unease and intimacy. Overhead, two low-hanging vintage chandeliers created a cozy yet charged atmosphere. Mirrors along the upper walls and on the ceiling created an illusion of depth and reflection.

Against one wall and in line with the tables, four plush velvet booths with deep cushions offered a sense of privacy while still being open enough to preserve a sense of communion with the tavern’s other patrons. Scattered throughout the space were subtle touches that echoed the themes of the tour: hawthorn branches and dried mistletoe bouquets in vases on the tables or between the booths, a broken clock, polished stone spheres of different sizes, some weathered and rusted farm implements and winemaking equipment.

Behind the polished dark wood bar, shelves flanking and stretching beneath a blurred antique mirror featured an array of bottles, including ones placed for display only with labels such as “Heartbreak” and “Bittersweet.” A chalkboard announced the monthly drink specials in an elegant yet chaotic script, capturing the tumultuous spirit of the bar.

While the ladies took turns expressing their disbelief in French in one of the booths, Sharon and Noah exchanged theirs in English in another.

“It’s unbelievable, Sharon!” Noah leaned in, eyes wide, his tone a mix of shock and excitement as he glanced around to ensure no one else was listening.

“No, Noah, it’s lucky is what it is.” Sharon’s voice was low, almost resentful, and she took a slow sip from her coffee mug, glancing at him over the rim.

Noah and Sharon couldn’t have reacted more differently to Stella’s death and its aftermath. For the tour coordinator, her demise was storytelling gold. Noah had intended to use the thorn in the poppet as a playful explanation for Stella’s streak of good luck, a current event they could use to boost ticket sales. Instead, they were presented with something far more unresolved and boundless, allowing the Tangled Vine’s eerie con to evolve in real time. Where visitors once chuckled when Noah pointed to the Mistleton house and hinted at witchcraft, he now had a rumored thorn as evidence and an actual death as proof.

As for Sharon, she was relieved that the sheriff opted not to open an investigation. Though she was certain no one had seen her in the shop that day—other than for Stella, it was empty, and Stella didn’t have security cameras—she came forward as a person of interest in a dream she had about a crime involving ten thousand gallons of copper hair dye and the town’s water supply system. One day while in front of a mirror, she even caught herself staring at her reflection and mouthing the words, “primary suspect,” as if questioning her own innocence.

Despite the sheriff’s decision, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought that a toxicology report ruling out poisoning by thorn would ease her anxiety about the possibility of her boyfriend being a murderer. And what happened to the thorn-pierced poppet anyway? 

That afternoon, she and Noah, along with Stella’s French club ladies and some of her most loyal clients, convened at the cemetery on the edge of town. Wild hedges and hawthorn trees stood stark against the gray sky, their gnarled branches bare and menacing, a reminder of the deadly thorn that had brought them together at this place. A chill settled over them as they stood beside Stella’s grave, watching the slow, mechanical lowering of her coffin into the ground.