That Old Witch!: The Coffee Coven's Cozy Capers: Book 1

by M. Z. Andrews

  “They better be serving lunch,” said Hazel, instead of commenting on the decor.

  “Why don’t you go sit down, Mom? I’ll go check the kitchen.”

  “I want French fries,” Hazel called out after Gwyn had walked away.

  “I know, Mom. You always have French fries. I’ll see what they have. Save me a seat.”

  Hazel laughed. “I don’t know, Gwynnie. That’s asking a lot. How will I ever find a spot for both of us with all of these people?”

  Gwyn sighed and walked around the partial wall that separated the dining room from a serving area. There was a buffet line, but only a few partial tins of lasagna and some green Jell-O remained. Gwyn could hear the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen, so someone had to be nearby. “Hello?” she called out.

  The clanging stopped, and a short round woman walked out of the kitchen. She wore a white apron, a hairnet, and yellow rubber gloves. “Lunch service ends at two,” she said in an orotund voice.

  Gwyn looked down at her watch. “You don’t serve food past two? Darn it. It’s two fifteen. We just got here. I’ve been driving all day, and my mother is starving.”

  “From eleven to two, we have a full-service dining room. After two you serve yourself. We put the leftovers on the serving line,” she said and pointed at the small bits of food left over in front of her.

  Gwyn grimaced. There weren’t any French fries. “I don’t suppose you have any French fries back there?”

  The woman shook her head. “Those are always the first to go.”

  Gwyn sighed. Then she held her hand up over the glass sneeze guard. “I’m Gwyndolin Prescott. I’m the new activities director.”

  The woman looked put out to have to remove her glove, but she did and shook Gwyn’s hand. “Georgia Lange. Folks around here call me Miss Georgia.”

  Gwyn smiled at the first coworker she’d met, besides the facilities director, who had met her briefly to give her the key to their new room. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Georgia. You can just call me Gwyn.”

  Georgia gave her a half-smile. “You start tomorrow?”

  Gwyn nodded. “Yes. Is it always this quiet on Sundays?”

  “Around here it is. Most folks go to chapel on Sunday mornings and then read in their rooms in the afternoon. It might pick up a little at suppertime.”

  Gwyn smiled with relief. She was glad it wouldn’t be dead all day. She’d likely climb out of her skin if she had to stare at the beige walls and listen to her mother complain for the rest of the day. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to put some fries on for me? It’s the only thing my mother likes to eat, and she’s so hungry she’s darn near biting my head off right now.”

  Miss Georgia considered the request for a moment.

  Gwyn made a cross in front of her heart. “I promise we’ll be on time to every meal from this day forward. We just rolled into town. We’ve been driving for three days straight.”

  Her matted strawberry-blond hair, smudged makeup, and the deep purple circles beneath Gwyn’s eyes told the story of their last few days on the road. Miss Georgia’s face softened slightly. “Alright. I’ll put on some fries for your mother. Do you want some too?”

  Gwyn shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll make do with this lasagna.”

  Miss Georgia pointed to a self-service counter behind her. “There’s a microwave back there if you’d like to heat it up. It’s probably cold by now.”

  “Thank you, Miss Georgia, I really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll bring ’em out when they’re done,” she said before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  Gwyn served up two plates of food and ran both of them through the microwave before returning to her mother.

  “Took you long enough,” Hazel barked, looking down at the plate of food her daughter put in front of her. She sucked in her breath. “Where are my French fries?”

  “They have to make you some fresh ones. They’ll bring them out.” Gwyn took the seat across from her mother.

  Hazel poked at her lasagna. “Is this homemade or store-bought?”

  Without skipping a beat, Gwyn replied, “Homemade.”

  Hazel eyed her daughter suspiciously. “How do you know?”

  Gwyn didn’t know, but what she did know was that her mother would refuse to eat it if it were store-bought. “I asked,” Gwyn lied.

  “Gwynnie, don’t lie to your mother.”

  “I’m not lying, Mom.” Gwyn crossed her fingers under the table. She didn’t have the energy to deal with her mother’s idiosyncrasies right now. She really needed a nap. “Just try the lasagna. It looks good.” Gwyn forked off a small bite and popped it in her mouth. “Mmm, it is good. Try it.”

  Hazel’s hand shook as she cut a small piece off with her fork. She lifted it to her nose and took a whiff. “It smells store-bought.”

  Gwyn palmed her forehead. “Oh, for the love of Pete. Take a bite, Mom.”

  Hazel set her fork down and buried her hands in her lap. She turned her head stubbornly, giving her daughter her side profile. “I’ll wait for my French fries.”

  Gwyn didn’t have the energy to argue. She’d force-feed her mother at the evening meal if she had to. Maybe by then, they’d both have a nap in, and she’d have gotten her second wind. “Fine. You’ll be starved by supper.”

  Gwyn chewed the tasteless, rubbery lasagna in silence, lost in her thoughts, while Hazel sat across from her, stubbornly refusing to eat until finally Miss Georgia came out with a basket of French fries and set it on the table. “I think these are for you?” she asked, looking down at Hazel sweetly.

  “Well, they aren’t for the dog!” snapped Hazel.

  Miss Georgia’s eyes widened.

  “Mother!” snapped Gwyn. “That was rude. Miss Georgia went to special trouble to make you those.”

  Hazel wagged a wrinkled, stubby finger in the air in front of her. “Don’t make it sound like she whipped me up some big culinary delight, Gwynnie. The woman put some fries from a bag into a basket and lowered them into some grease. McDonald’s hires children to do that.”

  Gwyn felt the heat rush to her face as she looked up at Miss Georgia in horror. “I’m so sorry, Miss Georgia. My mother hasn’t eaten yet, and I think her blood sugar’s low. She’s really not that rude in general.” Gwyn kept her fingers crossed under the table.

  Miss Georgia’s face softened. “It’s alright, I understand.” She turned around to walk away.

  Hazel held a hand out to touch Miss Georgia’s arm before she could leave. “Is the lasagna homemade or store-bought?”

  “I get it frozen from the company,” she said.

  Hazel nodded her head knowingly and let the woman walk away. When she was gone, Hazel leaned forward and smiled knowingly at her daughter. “I told you not to lie to your mother. Have you forgotten I can read minds?” She tapped a finger to her temple.

  Gwyn sighed as she leaned her elbow on the table and let her chin fall into her palm. “No, I haven’t forgotten, Mother.” It was going to be a long night.

  4

  Char Bailey flipped off Kathie Lee and Hoda, set the remote control on the two-tiered midcentury end table that was so old it was now considered retro, and stood up. “Time to get crackin’,” she said to the small tan-and-white Chihuahua in a ball on the sofa.

  The Chihuahua’s batlike ears perked up excitedly as his body uncurled. His sticklike feet poked out first. Elongating his body, he stretched one leg and then the other. When he finally stood, he put his two front paws out in front of him, lowered his chin to the cushion, stuck his butt up in the air, and arched his back in a downward dog yoga pose. When he was properly stretched out, he sat back down on his bottom and looked at Char with interest. His bulbous black eyes shone in the light as he tilted his head to the side. “What’s on the agenda today, my little love muffin?” he asked quite clearly in a bouncy voice.

  “I thought I’d go get the mail, and then we’ll go for our walk. Then maybe this afterno
on we can make some muffins to take to Sarah Henderson’s little boy. You know, poor little Patrick broke his leg playing soccer last weekend, and he’s stuck with a cast and crutches right now. I thought if we brought him some of his favorite muffins, we could sneak in a little bone-healing potion. Plus if he gets to see you, it might cheer him up a little.”

  Victor Bailey’s eyes widened. “Brilliant idea, sweetheart. Count me in! I’ll go through my recipes and see what I can find!”

  Char scratched beneath her husband’s chin and laid a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Perfect! I also told Phyllis I’d meet her for lunch and coffee this afternoon. I hope you don’t mind me leaving you alone for an hour or two?”

  Vic jumped off the sofa and looked up at his wife. “I don’t mind at all. Maybe you could drop me off at the bakery, and I’ll see how Sweets is getting on.”

  “Brilliant idea. That’s why I married you, you’re full of brilliant ideas,” said Char. She walked to the door, pulled a hot pink visor from the hook next to the front door, and slid it on over her puffy white curls. Then she lifted a miniature tie-dyed visor from the next hook. “Do you want your visor too?”

  Vic looked at her suspiciously. “Just the visor?”

  Char held up two hands defensively. She hadn’t been allowed to dress up her Chihuahua since her late husband’s spirit had accidentally inhabited her dog, Regis, thanks to a group of young, inexperienced witches, one of whom was Phyllis’s granddaughter, Mercy. “I swear, just the visor. No tutus, no hunting vests, no kilts—although you’ve got to admit that Scottish kilt is so adorable. Are you sure you don’t want to wear the kilt?”

  Vic palmed his forehead with a paw. “Sugarplum, I’m absolutely sure I don’t want to wear a kilt, it’s just a fancy name for a skirt.”

  “But it comes with a matching beret!”

  “I don’t want to wear a beret either. I’ll wear a visor to keep the sun out of my eyes, but that is it. It’s not a fashion statement. It’s just practicality.”

  Char waved a hand towards him dismissively. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’m going to go get the mail, and then we’ll go.” She dropped the visor next to him on the floor and headed for the door.

  The screen door on her small bungalow had no sooner slammed behind her than she noticed a familiar car pull up to the curb. The door popped open, and Phyllis nearly flew out the driver’s side. What in the world? she wondered as she looked at her watch. “Well, it’s barely eleven! I thought we were meeting at noon.”

  With her white hair in a wild bun atop her head, Phyllis ignored Char’s questions and instead padded towards the woman. “Did you get your mail yet?”

  “I was just walking down to the box to get it, why?” asked Char, noting Phyllis’s wild hair, bathrobe, and house slippers. “Golly! Where’s the fire? You couldn’t even bother to put on pants before leaving the house this morning?”

  Phyllis waved a letter in the air. “Check your mail!”

  “I’m working on it, for cryin’ out loud.”

  Phyllis grunted. “Oh, just stay there, I’ll check it for you.” She popped open the box and pulled out a handful of items.

  “Do you mind? That’s private information,” grumbled Char from her front step.

  Phyllis rifled through the letters while walking up the sidewalk. “Oh, you got one too!” She held up a letter with an embossed seal in the corner.

  “Well, what is it?” Char asked, snatching the letter out of Phyllis’s hands.

  Phyllis took a deep breath, but Char held up her hand to stop her. “No, don’t tell me. I’d rather read it for myself.”

  Phyllis blew out the breath she’d just sucked in. “Well, then, hurry up already.”

  “Come on in,” said Char, opening the front door.

  Phyllis followed Char inside and sat down on the couch. “Good morning, Vic,” said Phyllis.

  “Good morning, Phyllis. I thought you two were meeting for lunch later?” he asked, peering up at Phyllis beneath the brim of the little visor he’d managed to get on his head.

  “I had to stop over and see if Char got the letter from the lawyer too.”

  Vic’s beady black eyes widened. “Lawyer?” He looked at Char. “What’s a lawyer want with the two of you, Pumpkin?”

  Char’s eyes scanned the official-looking letter. The Estate of Katherine Lynde. You have been named in her will. Meet at my office this Wednesday at 9:00 a.m. Char’s eyes swiveled up to look at Phyllis. “Kat put us in her will?”

  Phyllis nodded excitedly. “It looks like it. I wonder what she left us.”

  Char shrugged. “Does it matter? Our friend is dead.”

  Phyllis lowered her head sorrowfully. “Yes, I know that. But who doesn’t like being named in a will? It’s like finding buried treasure.”

  Char sat down in her chair. “I suppose it is. It just makes me sad that we had to lose a friend to find that buried treasure.”

  “We’re all sad about losing Kat, but if she left us something, you know she’d want us to be happy about it.”

  Char nodded. “You’re right. Should I pick you up on Wednesday morning?”

  Phyllis stood up too. “I’ll be waiting with bells on!”

  The offices of Jerry T. Marlow were located in a stately brick building two blocks east of the Aspen Falls Police Department. The grass was a lush shade of green, and on Wednesday morning at 8:55 a.m., a groundskeeper had already set up shop on the lawn when Phyllis Habernackle and Char Bailey pulled up to the curb.

  Phyllis looked out the passenger window towards the law office. “What do you think she left us?”

  Char shut off the ignition and threw the keys into her purse. “I have no idea. But we’re about to find out.”

  The women emerged from the car and together made their way to the frosted glass doors painted with the words Jerry T. Marlow, Attorney at Law. As she touched the handle of one of the doors, a sudden feeling of unease rolled across Phyllis’s body. She rubbed her bare arms as her skin began to pebble. Something didn’t feel right. “I suddenly have a bad feeling about this.”

  Char wrapped her own hand over Phyllis’s and peeled back the door. “Too late now,” she said, holding the door open for her friend. “We’re here.”

  As they walked into the law office, Phyllis’s feeling of unease didn’t automatically dissipate. She’d had the feeling so many times in her life that it didn’t immediately cause her to turn tail and run. It was one of her many gifts; she could sense when bad things were about to happen. Sometimes her abilities came in little bursts of anxiety and amounted to little more than getting bad news like an overly inflated bill from the plumber or finding out her favorite television show hadn’t been picked up for a new season. Other times her abilities came in the form of full-fledged body-numbing panic attacks, and she discovered a loved one had passed away or that there had been a terrible accident involving someone she knew.

  The receptionist looked up at the two women with a polite smile. “Hello. May I help you?”

  “We have an appointment to see Mr. Marlow at nine,” said Char.

  “Yes, Mr. Marlow will be right with you. Please have a seat.” The young woman tipped her puffy blond hair towards the small lobby.

  Char took a seat on one of the red padded armchairs and plucked a magazine off the end table. Her sunny yellow polyester pants rode up on her calves, revealing the long white socks sticking out of her white New Balance sneakers.

  Phyllis took the seat next to her. She glanced over at Char, casually flipping through the magazine. She leaned towards her, resting her face in the palm of her hand with her elbow on the armrest. She wished the feeling in the pit of her stomach would go away. There was no way she could read about Martha Stewart’s tips for lining her cupboard shelves with rolls of cork instead of adhesive shelf liners. With a heavy sigh, she shifted her weight to her opposite cheek, leaning her elbow on the armrest on the other side. Seconds later, she fidgeted again and rocked her weight back onto her left hip
until finally, Char had to lay a hand on her thigh.

  “For heaven’s sake, Phil, sit still. You’re getting me all flustered. You need to relax,” Char chastised.

  Phyllis tucked her hands under her bottom in an attempt to keep still. “I can’t. Now that we’re here, I’m getting this really strong sense that something bad is going to happen.”

  Char let out a sigh and flipped the page in her Martha Stewart Living magazine. “You’re just being paranoid. What bad thing could possibly happen in a lawyer’s office?”

  “Good morning, ladies,” boomed a deep voice across the room a second later.

  The women looked up to see a man in his late fifties in a dark suit and tie standing next to the secretary’s desk. He wore a bad salt-and-pepper toupee on his head, and his shoulders were dusted with dandruff flakes. The broad smile he wore on his face curved up high on both sides of his cheeks like a drawn-on clown’s smile. “I’m Jerry Marlow. Come on back.”

  Phyllis’s unease continued as she and Char stood up and followed Mr. Marlow down the blue-speckled hallway into his office. Four chairs sat empty around his desk. He gestured towards them. “Have a seat, ladies. We’ll get started in a minute. We’re just waiting for everyone else to arrive.”

  Char and Phyllis exchanged glances. Who else would Kat have named in her will? Phyllis wondered. Maybe she left something to the paperman. Maybe that’s why he showed up at the funeral.

  “So, how did you two ladies know Ms. Lynde?” he asked, attempting small talk with them while they waited.

  “We went to school with her,” said Phyllis. She brushed a hand in front of her face, signifying that the length of time she’d known the woman was so far in the past, it belonged in a history book somewhere. “Years and years ago.”