Carol Cox by Trouble in Store

me those cans one at a time so I don’t have to keep going up and down this ladder? That would be a big help.” He smiled at the way his son’s chest puffed out. Maybe that was all the boy needed—a little more responsibility.
    The bell jingled as he set the last can in place. Putting one hand on the shelf to maintain his balance, he turned to see Benton Woodbridge step inside. Caleb never called him by his given name, though. From their first meeting, he had picked up on the locals’ habit of calling him the Professor. As far as Caleb knew, the man had never been a teacher of any kind, but his air of culture and his store of knowledge had earned him the nickname.
    The Professor walked across the store, dressed as always in neat black trousers and matching coat, a dark gray vest over his gleaming white shirt, and a jeweled stickpin in his cravat. Caleb smothered a grin. Definitely not typical westerngarb. Caleb still didn’t know why the Professor had chosen to live in Cedar Ridge, but having learned early on that prying into someone else’s background wasn’t tolerated in the West, he’d never tried to find out. Whatever the reason Woodbridge had for being there, Caleb was glad to have him around, and he was gratified that the Professor counted him as a friend.
    He descended the ladder, picked up the empty crate, and set it on the end of the counter. “What can I do for you today?”
    The Professor brushed an imaginary bit of lint from his sleeve. “I’m in need of a pound of sugar, if you please . . . and a bit of conversation.”
    Caleb grinned. “It’ll be a pleasure to oblige you . . . on both counts.”
    The door burst open, and a wild-eyed woman stormed inside the mercantile. Caleb recognized her as Ava Morgan, one of the town matrons who swarmed around Ophelia Pike like flies drawn to honey.
    She skidded to a halt as the door swung closed behind her and peered around the store’s interior with a frantic expression.
    Concerned, Caleb stepped forward. “May I help you?”
    Mrs. Morgan pinched her lips together and looked askance at him and the Professor. “I wish to speak to Miss Ross.”
    “I’m afraid she isn’t in at the moment. Is there some way I can assist you?”
    His customer wavered, then reached into her reticule and produced a dark brown bottle. Holding it aloft, she advanced on Caleb. “I purchased this tonic from Miss Ross three days ago.”
    Caleb nodded, eyeing her warily.
    “It’s supposed to calm the nerves and help the digestion. It says so right here on the label.” She waved the bottle in front of his nose.
    Caleb resisted the urge to back away. If this tonic was guaranteed to soothe the nerves, it obviously hadn’t lived up to its promise. He gave her his most reassuring smile. “The effects may not be immediate. Sometimes it takes a little while to work.”
    “Oh, it worked, all right.” The irate woman shook the bottle, sloshing the liquid inside.
    Caleb tilted his head and spread his hands wide. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
    “It started working right after I swallowed the second spoonful. It’s worse than castor oil. I couldn’t get ten steps away from—” A crimson wave suffused Mrs. Morgan’s cheeks. “I honestly thought I was going to die. I would have come in yesterday, but I could hardly hold myself erect.”
    Caleb took the bottle from her hand and frowned. The label was for Mrs. Bickham’s Nerve Tonic. But Mrs. Bickham’s remedy came in a green glass bottle. That dark brown bottle looked more like . . . Oh, no. He moved to the shelves that held the vet supplies.
    “Mr. Nelson, I am not finished.” His red-faced customer trailed behind him.
    Without answering, Caleb pulled a bottle of Peterson’s Drenching Solution off the shelf and weighed it in his hand. Sure enough, it was the same shape and color as the one Mrs. Morgan had returned.
    “Mr. Nelson, are you listening to me? I demand that you take this dangerous substance off the