Witcher Upper

by Amy Boyles

  Witcher Upper

  A Magical Renovation Mystery Book One

  Amy Boyles

  Ladybugbooks, LLC

  Contents

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  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Extra Stuff

  Also by Amy Boyles

  About the Author

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  Chapter 1

  Some nights don’t turn out the way you plan, know what I mean? You have the best intentions, think everything’s going to be just fine and then bam, bad things happen. Tonight happened to be one of those. And it was such a pain in the tush because today had been smooth as chocolate silk pie—which was what I’d had for breakfast, by the way.

  This morning I’d ordered kitchen cabinets for a barn being renovated into a house, found the perfect countertops to complement them and had picked the most beautiful vanilla-colored tile for the backsplash. So I deserved a treat.

  I sat on my favorite stool at Shane’s Place, a local joint, enjoying my favorite afterwork cocktail—a red appletini, which happened to be built by my favorite bartender, Shane.

  My furry little dachshund, Lady, sat beside me, lapping up water that had been brought out for her.

  After serving us, Shane stepped away from the bar to bring in a keg. That was when the trouble started.

  Two young truckers (I could tell by their wrinkled clothing and hats, and also the fact that they talked about their rigs—dead giveaway) left their booth and started bothering a pretty young thing with porcelain skin and strawberry-blonde hair.

  One of the two losers leaned over the table, breathing heavily in her face. I’m sure his breath stank—probably from dip and sour beer. “Come on. Don’t you want to see my truck?” He laughed and jeered at his buddy, who sneered.

  I cocked an ear toward them. Sadie, my best friend, sat beside me. “Clem, you’re not going to get involved, are you?”

  I stared into Sadie’s big blue eyes. “They’re asking for trouble. They’re drunk.”

  In that sweet way of hers, that real Southern-belle way that Sadie had where every movement was delicate and purposeful, she placed a hand on my arm and gave me an earnest glance. “Wait for Shane.”

  “I’ll show you my truck, and you can show me yours,” the second truck-driving jerk said to the poor girl. She looked frightened, unsure of what to do. Her gaze darted around before locking on mine.

  My heart clenched. Now I really felt responsible, like it was my duty to help her. It became hard to remind myself not to get involved—which was my motto. Don’t get involved. That had been my slogan ever since that night, ever since it happened to me years ago.

  The way that trucker leaned over her, the way he dominated the conversation, reminded me of a scene from my own past, one I worked hard to forget. Suddenly, I was that girl, and fright raced all the way to my heart.

  Come with me, he had said. Come with me and we’ll have fun.

  I’d believed him, and believing had cost me dearly.

  I gritted my teeth and took another sip from my appletini. Dang, was it good—just the right combination of sweet and sour. Shane seriously knew how to make a perfect drink. I wondered if he could teach me; then I wouldn’t have to come into the bar and listen to drunk guys hitting on solitary women. It would also help me avoid roaming town in work boots and plaids shirts, looking like I’d just come from a construction site.

  Whenever I complained about it, Sadie said, “But you do come from a construction site.”

  I would shrug and nod. “So do you, but you’re wearing a dress and heels.”

  Her lips would then tip into a pert smile, and she’d give a little innocent shrug of her shoulder. “But you’re more hands-on than me. You like the demo stuff. It’s not my thing.”

  I always scoffed. “I like picking finishes, too. But demo is fun. Besides, it keeps me on track if I know where the team is in terms of construction.”

  Sadie and I run a house renovation business called Magical Renovations. No, there’s nothing magical about it. So before you get all excited and think that Sadie’s a witch or that I’m a witch—guess again. This isn’t that type of book.

  Okay, maybe it is.

  Okay, it sort of is.

  I am a witch, but I sure as shootin’ don’t use my powers.

  Anyway, tonight was a rare occasion on the clothing front. For once I wasn’t wearing work boots. Instead I wore heels and a dusty-rose-colored sheath dress.

  But that was neither here nor there. I turned away from the girl, hackles up, hands clenched tight and my foot tapping the air a mile a minute. Don’t get involved, Clementine; don’t do it.

  Sadie was right. It was best not to get involved. And how were there no other men in this bar right now? Usually the place was packed with folks. Then I remembered—it was Wednesday, and everyone was congregating not at the bar but at church services.

  Sadie’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and jumped off her stool. “Oh, this is about the antique mantle I’m wanting for the barn. I saw it online and called the seller.”

  “This late?” I said, surprised. “Most businesses are done at six.”

  “Um. I guess they’re just now checking voice mails.” She shot me an exasperated look. “I swear, this barn renovation is going to kill me.”

  I scoffed. “Kill you? We haven’t even poured the foundation and the Dooleys are already all over my back about reinforcing the poles.”

  Sadie shot me a sympathetic look. “That’s what Liam’s for.”

  Liam was Sadie’s boyfriend and our construction manager. Without his help, our little company never would have made it as far as it has.

  “Hello?” Sadie said, answering her phone. “Oh, hey!” She mouthed to me that she’d see me tomorrow and left, leaving me alone with the truckers and the girl. There was still no sign of Shane. Had the keg of beer attacked him? Eaten him? Where the heck was he?

  I heard the girl whimper. One of the truckers had his hand wrapped around her arm and was trying to tug her out of the chair.

  I’d had enough. I couldn’t sit by one minute longer and watch the scene. For lack of a better cliché to use, somebody needed to teach those boys some manners.

  “Get your hands off her.” I rose, doing my best to look like a butt-kicking woman in a dress and heels. In reality my nerves were frazzled. Sweat stuck to my skin in all the wrong places—under my bra line, ringing my panty line. Hopefully my appearance didn’t mirror the grossness that I felt.

  “Mind your own business,” one trucker said.

  I stepped forward. “The lady doesn’t want to be bothered, and I think y’all need to leave.”

  The first trucker was a real gnarly dude who looked like he hadn’t showered in days. Scratch that. The air-conditioning picked up his scent and sent it straight to my nose—he definitely
hadn’t showered in days. He smelled of dirty clothes and grime.

  That charmer gave me a toothy grin. “Well now, why don’t you join the fun?”

  My gaze darted down to Lady, who peered at me with curiosity. There were some things I wished to keep from my dog—like all the badness in the world. This situation had the markings of badness written all over it—the man standing in front of me just didn’t know it yet.

  “Y’all need to back down,” I said. “Leave the girl alone and get out. You’re drunk and about to do something stupid.”

  The stinky trucker thumbed at me while laughing at his fellow trucker. “Lady here thinks we need to get out. I’m happy to get out.” He placed a meaty paw on the girl’s shoulder. She jumped at his touch. “But not without her. She said she wants to come with us for some fun. You can come, too.”

  The look of fright on her face took me back again, reminded me of a place from my past that I didn’t want to visit. I folded my arms and shrugged. “If she wanted to go, wouldn’t she be getting up? She wants to stay where she is.”

  He dropped his hand from her and dragged his feet over to me. All the booze he’d drunk made his eyes glassy. “You know what,” he said, his words slurring, “I bet you want to come with me, too. Buddy,” he said to his friend, “let’s take ’em both out for fun.”

  What an original name—Buddy. Like, did his mama give him that or had Loser Number One crowned him Buddy because it was easier to remember than, say, Reginald?

  I’d say the chances were fifty-fifty in both directions.

  But Buddy, being the good sidekick, did exactly as his friend said. He picked up the girl, who squealed.

  “It’ll be okay,” I called as Buddy started to walk her toward the door.

  Don’t worry, Buddy would not make it outside. Loser Number One jeered. “Now come on, pretty girl. Let’s go have some fun.”

  My body coiled with tension as I waited. The moment was about to arrive, and for once I couldn’t wait for it to happen.

  I tipped my face toward his, noting the enlarged pores, the red nose, the watery eyes—all repulsive—and whispered, “Aren’t you going to touch me?”

  He jeered. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to touch you.”

  His hand coiled around my arm, and that’s when all the pent-up anger that had been stored inside me released. Watching that woman get manhandled had ticked me off. That frustration had built up, and now it exploded outward—literally.

  The trucker blew backward, hitting the wall with a force so hard that he slumped to the floor. Buddy’s jaw fell. His eyes filled with surprise and then anger when he realized that I must have been the cause of the explosion.

  He strode forward. “What’d you do to him?” It was easy to turn his instinct to reach for me against him. Another wave of anger flowed through me right as he pressed a palm to my shoulder.

  Light exploded from me, and Buddy suffered the same fate as his friend, slamming against the wall, unconscious.

  Lady whimpered from her spot behind my stool. I turned to her. “It’s okay, girl. The bad guys won’t be bothering us.”

  The girl stared at the unconscious men before slowly lifting her gaze to me. “How did you…?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything.” It wouldn’t be good if folks talked about things that they didn’t understand. “Are you okay?”

  She shivered, rubbing her shoulders. “I’m okay. I think.” A timid smile quirked on her lips. “Thank you for whatever you did.” The woman crossed to me and extended her arms for a hug, but then shrank back.

  “It’s okay,” I said encouragingly. “You can hug me.”

  She started to open her arms and stopped. “Um, I just remembered I have to be someplace. Thank you, though.”

  “Next time,” I said, “don’t go to a bar alone.”

  She stared at the men. “Don’t worry.”

  She disappeared out the door before I could catch her name. Lady shuffled up beside me, her tail wagging. “Same old story, Lady. We save the day and folks run scared from us.”

  The door to the back opened, and Shane appeared, lugging in a keg. He smoothed dark hair away from his face while his piercing green eyes took in the scene. “Clem, what happened?”

  Shane left the keg behind the bar and rushed over. He surveyed me, his gaze raking over my body as if searching for broken bones. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He crossed to the men and dropped to one knee. “What about them?” Shane pressed his fingers to Buddy’s throat, checking for a pulse.

  “Oh, they were bothering some woman. She knocked them out with a killer right hook.”

  Shane rose and studied me. “Well, as long as no one was hurt badly.”

  I smiled widely. “The only thing that got hurt was their pride.”

  With that, I downed the rest of my appletini and left, leaving Shane to wonder exactly how a young woman had managed to knock out two grown men.

  Nobody in town knew my secret, not even Sadie, and I planned on keeping things that way.

  Chapter 2

  I awoke the next morning to the sound of gunshots. No, gunshots were not the normal thing to hear in Peachwood, Alabama, the small town I live in. Normally I awoke every morning to the calls of mockingbirds and blue jays, not to what sounded like a wad of buckshot being scattered down the street.

  After what happened last night, I worried that the two men I’d knocked out had found me and were coming in, guns blazing.

  I jumped out of bed, nearly whacking Lady off her pillow. “Sorry, girl.”

  She followed me, barking. Lady was ready to take on the invaders, too. I threw on my robe and cast a quick glance in the mirror. Sleep had done my red hair good—it hung in ringlets over my shoulders. Though my skin looked fresh and rested, my brown eyes stared back at me accusingly.

  I shrugged. “I am not apologizing to myself for what I did last night. Those two guys deserved it.”

  Shane had been worried about me, but I left before he could ask too many questions. It wasn’t good to have folks asking a lot of questions or wondering things that they shouldn’t.

  Another blast of a gunshot made me hightail it down the stairs of my old Craftsman cottage and out the front door. My street, Apple Orchard Way, is lined with apple trees, hence the name. Actually I don’t know which came first—the trees or the street, but just about everything in Peachwood is named after some kind of fruit. Makes you wonder if the founding fathers and mothers of the town were fruity themselves—in the head, I mean.

  As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I saw the culprit.

  Old Mrs. Malene Fredricks stood outside her house, shotgun in hand, shooting buckshot into the trees.

  Lady barked at Mrs. Fredricks. I scooped my dog into my arms and rushed across the street.

  Malene, with curlers in her hair and wearing her floral housecoat, shouted up into a tree. “You get out of here, you pigeons! You and your poop can go on next door to Willard’s house.”

  She fired again. Leaves and blossoms fell in a great heap to the ground.

  “Malene,” I yelled. “What in the world is going on?”

  Malene, which was pronounced with both a strong a and strong e sounds, whirled in my direction. “You stay out of this, Clementine. You are not gonna stop me from getting these darned birds out of my trees. They poop on my car every second they get.”

  Before I could say another word, she unloaded a wad of buckshot into another tree. About a thousand birds flew off, heading into the air.

  “It’s old Willard’s fault,” she explained, exasperated. Malene wiped a line of sweat from her forehead. If I had to guess—and I did not like to guess a woman’s age because it was a very sensitive topic—I would say that Malene was around seventy. She wore her blue hair in a bun, lines crisscrossed her face and her wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on the end of her nose.

  “How is it Willar
d’s fault?” I asked, cuddling a shaking Lady to my chest.

  “’Cause he feeds ’em,” she snarled.

  “Malene,” a new voice called, “just what in tarnation are you doing out here?”

  “Oh, here he is now,” Malene said spitefully. “Trying to stop the commotion when he’s the one who made it. Just like a man, isn’t it? They stir the pot and then wonder why it’s bubbling.”

  “Um, I don’t think that makes sense.”

  Malene ignored me, and with a smile of satisfaction plastered across her face, she turned in Willard’s direction.

  Willard Gandy strode down the sidewalk. He was as much a character as Malene with his gray hair sticking up all over the place. He was tall, gangly, and every time I saw him outside of the pharmacy he owned, Willard wore Dickies short-sleeved coveralls colored in military khaki.

  Y’all, every time.

  “Malene, what in the world is going on?” Willard chastised. “You’re gonna kill somebody with stray buckshot.”

  She shook her shotgun at him. “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? It’s because of you that I’m doing this. You and your stupid need to feed the birds. You feed them, and then they poop all over my car.”

  Willard gestured in frustration toward the street. “Look around, Malene; there’s an entire street to park on! Last time I checked, your legs weren’t broken. You can park wherever you want. You could even park in your own carport, which sits empty most of the time.”

  “I keep it empty for visitors, you know that.” Malene’s face turned bright crimson. “Oh, you’d love to make me park half a mile away, wouldn’t you? Get a kick out of that, I’m sure. Listen, buster. If you’d stop feeding the birds, I wouldn’t have to come out here and shoot the trees.”