A Murder in Hope’s Crossing
Witch’s Kitchen Book 1
Brooke Shelby
Copyright © 2019 by Brooke Shelby
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Cozy Mysteries by Brooke Shelby
Romances by Brooke Shelby
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Mailing List
Cozy Mysteries by Brooke Shelby
The Witch’s Kitchen Series
The Plague Doctor and the Pussycat
A Murder in Hope’s Crossing
Romances by Brooke Shelby
The Billionaires Series (Romance)
The Baker’s Billionaire
Billionaire’s Karma
Billionaire’s Accident
Billionaire’s Bet
Billionaire Unmasked
Billionaire’s Trust
The Billionaires Series
The Tech Titans Series (Romance)
Weapon of Love
The Billionaire’s Killer
Chasing the Cure
Fixing the Cure
The Character Assassins
The Character Assassins: Part II
1
Maggie Corey was done.
She had had enough of her unsavory, toxic marriage and she was finally doing something about it. For once, she’d decided not to allow Gareth to insult her intelligence and rob her of her self-esteem anymore, but it had taken her a while to come to this conclusion, as most life-changing moves usually do. The thirty-four-year-old culinary wizard had spent enough years in a marriage with a superb narcissist and philandering drunk who had made her life miserable on purpose.
At first, Maggie thought it was just circumstance that held up Gareth’s ability to work for a living, perhaps some backlash from a personal phase of struggle, but she quickly learned that he was just a freeloader who cared more about hanging on to his looks than being a productive partner.
“Ugh, I am giving you way too much time and energy as it is, you mongrel,” she muttered behind the wheel of her car, addressing her absent ex-husband. Ahead of her, the road snaked leisurely towards the western horizon in the magnificent Massachusetts afternoon glow. Since Maggie had parted ways with Gareth the Leech, she had been coping well, apart from the obvious resentment left in the wake of their marriage. That was how she still found herself mumbling aloud in complaint about him.
“I cannot believe I trusted her,” she muttered, shaking her head. Maggie’s heart was so flooded with negative emotion that she could not cease her defensive monologue about the dire circumstances of her divorce and the evil players that had orchestrated its culmination. “How could you, Billie? We were friends, but I guess your sincerity about the restaurant was about as sincere as your loyalty, you backstabber! Backstabber!” Maggie exclaimed over the dull hum of her vehicle.
She was heading to a town called Hope’s Crossing, a quaint and picturesque mountain town west of the more notorious Salem, known for its historical witch trials. Its vicinity to Mount Greylock made it a beautiful setting for the tourist industry and its ventures. Maggie had been invited by her aunt Clara to see if she would perhaps like to settle there eventually. Aunt Clara was never the pushy type and upon hearing of her niece’s dismal divorce and the poor child’s entrepreneurial failure at opening her own restaurant, she’d approached Maggie about helping her in her herb shop.
At first reluctant, of course, Maggie had soon reckoned that starting over in another town would be the best thing for her to do. Strangers would not know her business and she could get on with her life without sore interference from nasty characters in her life. This was her chance to make a clean break and leave the treacherous Gareth safely in the arms of her cheating former best friend, Billie Greene.
Maggie scoffed at the thought of Billie, the wealthy best friend who’d vowed to run the restaurant with her as a silent partner. Money could not buy Billie self-respect, Maggie had always thought, but speculation turned to fact when Billie started sleeping with Gareth.
“I’m doing it again!” she moaned at letting her heart whisper in her mind about those horrible people she was trying to leave behind like a snakeskin shed. “No! No!”
The somewhat eccentric beauty decided to drown her thoughts in something better than vodka—music. Her pristine blue eyes darted from the radio to the road so as not to veer off the tarmac as she hunted for something to play. She selected her playlist and before long, Maggie Corey was entranced by the loud Stevie Nicks that blared through her speakers.
“That’s right! You go, Stevie!” she howled, rolling down her window and singing at the top of her lungs. Maggie was grateful that there was no audience to her rather endearing tone-deafness as she gave the car a bit more accelerator. For the first time during the trip, she was looking forward to reaching Hope’s Crossing and seeing Aunt Clara. Besides, she was convinced that things would get better as soon as she started this new life working for Aunt Clara.
No more stress about the restaurant she could not keep up with. No worry about her drunk, deluded husband who made her feel inadequate about his own flaws. No more people gossiping about her life and deserting her for Gareth’s blatant lies about her. Maggie smiled. No more bad stuff. Just small-town glee, working with her dear aunt in a relaxed environment.
As she drove through the meandering back roads that traversed the valley, Maggie felt a sense of peace, something she had not had the privilege of experiencing for years. “This is going to be good for me. I know it. I am coming, Aunt Clara.”
It was liberating to have her phone switched off, another thing she had not done in years. Only now that she was entering a tranquil phase did she realize just how extremely stressed her life had been and just how taxing every moment had been on her heart and her feelings. In fact, she had become so accustomed to animosity, lies, sadness, and duplicity that she had begun to treat these things as par for the course in married life. A lot of her perspective would have to be reprogrammed to accommodate her new happiness, but that was an endeavor she looked forward to.
Just past 4:00 p.m., Maggie finally saw the green and gold sign that announced her arrival in Hope’s Crossing. Her tummy tingled a little when she drove past the elaborate sign, fraught with the promise of a new future, not to mention Aunt Clara’s amazing culinary skills, her own only second to the amazing confections of Clara’s expertise. Maggie was relieved that the town was built around one main street as its spine, greatly
reducing the chances of her getting lost while looking for Corey’s Herbs and Simples. Maggie had never been good with directions, as her life choices ultimately attested.
“Ah!” she cheered as she saw the antique spire of her aunt’s house protruding over the roofs of the shops flanking the main street of Hope’s Crossing. Trying not to speed, she scrutinized the passing scenery of the small town and its people, wondering how many of them she would know by the end of the year.
As she rounded the last turnoff from the main street, Maggie was bewildered to see a crowd gathered in front of Aunt Clara’s house and shop. Her mouth agape, she studied the scene with a lump in her throat. Yes, it was the correct premises. Yes, it was Aunt Clara’s shop. Yes, those were crime-scene detectives putting up crime-scene ribbons around the house.
“No,” she said softly as she drove up to the yard, but a large, grizzled-looking officer stepped in front of her car and held up his hand.
“You can’t come in here, ma’am,” he said sternly, his sharp brown eyes pinning her with authority. “This is a crime scene.”
“Um, how? Um, I am …” she stuttered, but he interrupted.
“Please leave the area, ma’am,” he commanded.
“But I … I am going to live here,” she explained.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“I am Maggie Corey. Please tell me that I have the wrong address,” she said with a cracking voice, hoping that she was wrong. “Is my aunt all right? What happened?”
His expression wavered somewhat. First, he looked less firm, and a moment after his face settled on sympathy. Slowly, the sheriff shook his bowed head and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Corey.”
Now it was official. Aunt Clara was dead. Maggie’s heart stopped for a second as the sadness and confusion gripped her. Tears came inadvertently, but she had to know. “Please just tell me how.”
“I am sorry, Miss Corey, but I am not at liberty to divulge details of the investigation yet, as I am sure you understand,” he explained.
“No, I don’t understand, officer,” she wailed. “I just need to know how she died. Please!”
“Miss Corey, please let us do our job. I assure you that I will be in touch as soon as we have wrapped things up here,” he insisted. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”
“No, I don’t have a place to stay tonight, officer. I was going to stay with my aunt Clara, but apparently, my accommodation has been short-circuited by her unexpected death!” she snapped furiously, her heart driven by loss and impatience. “Geez, had I known she would die on me, I would have checked into a hotel, wouldn’t I?”
Sheriff Carl Walden winced at the harshness of the pretty stranger’s sarcasm, but he maintained his professionalism as much as his overworked psyche would allow. His brown eyes showed the exhaustion that sat on his back, but Maggie simply could not feel sorry for him while she was the one who had lost family.
“Ma’am, I think that would be a good idea. There is a comfortable B&B just up the road. Berrie’s Corner. If you leave your details with me, I shall be sure to contact you in the morning and sort all of this out,” Carl coaxed as gently as he could. It was clear that this lady was a Corey. She had her aunt’s feistiness and conviction, for one thing.
Maggie had no choice. She had to spend her very first night in her new home in a common bed and breakfast, instead of having a good laugh with Aunt Clara in her kitchen, discussing recipes and redundant men.
2
When she finally accepted the sheriff’s advice, a reluctant and deeply devastated Maggie drove to the address the officer had jotted down for her. As she went past the beautiful old shop, now decorated with the hideous markings of a crime scene, she caught a glimpse of something peculiar on the roof peak of Corey’s Herbs and Simples—a pentagram of sorts she could not quite identify.
“Thank God I didn’t see her body,” Maggie sniffed, wiping her tears with her sleeve and hoping that her late mother was not watching. “Poor Auntie Clara.”
She knew that she would probably not be able to sleep tonight, what with the uncertainty, especially not knowing exactly what had befallen her aged aunt. Was it a heart attack? She was in her seventies, after all, Maggie guessed. Her heart was shattered, although she was not that acquainted with Clara. They had not seen one another for years and this was going to be their reunion. The very thought felt like a meat hook lodging in her chest, turning the pleasant sunset into a solemn birth of evening for Maggie.
Another morsel of tonight’s trauma kept resurfacing in her mind—that sign, that symbol thingy that was painted on the roof of the shop. It intrigued Maggie no end and she intended to scratch that itch in the morning, as soon as she had spoken to the sheriff with the sad eyes. Not long after she left the bustle of the main street, her car pulled up to Berrie’s Corner, a pretty and secluded patch of yard that boasted a rather fetching old-style house with similarly charming outbuildings.
She parked her car off the street and proceeded up the wide steps to the veranda, where the double doors waited. One was open, inviting her in with silent reverence. The porch was vast, occupied by chairs and small tables, and she figured that guests probably had their post-dinner drinks there.
“Can I help you?” she heard from beyond the narrow double doors.
“Yes, uh, thank you,” Maggie answered, trying to compose herself and wipe her reddened eyes to look presentable. As she entered the elegant lobby of the old renovated Victorian, she found a middle-aged woman behind the counter. There was a sofa with two people chatting while soft piano music filled the place and Maggie almost felt better already. “I need a room for tonight and Sheriff Walden directed me to you.”
“Of course,” the lady smiled. “We have three rooms available. Is it just for yourself?”
The woman lifted her chin as she waited for Maggie to answer.
“Just me, yes,” Maggie nodded.
“Can I have your name?” the lady asked, opening the booking screen on her computer.
“Maggie Dewey … uh, Corey,” she corrected her former last name with her reclaimed family name. “Maggie Corey.”
Everyone present in the small drawing room just off the lounge hushed and murmured at once and the receptionist looked equally surprised. In fact, she looked Maggie up and down as if she had just stepped off a UFO.
“Maggie Corey,” she repeated as she typed in the name, looking quite judgmental all of a sudden. While the lady took care of Maggie’s debit card, Clara’s niece tapped her finger lightly on the counter, slowly surveying her surroundings and the odd looks she was getting. She wondered if it was her bloodshot eyes that had them talking, but in her gut she knew better. It was her name that had perked them up.
“Excuse me,” she asked the lady upon return, “but what is the problem with my name?”
Immediately everyone resumed their previous activities and carried on chatting, while the receptionist shrugged awkwardly with a stupid smirk on her face.
“Oh, it’s just that … ” she hesitated and lowered her voice, “we did not know that there were more Coreys in this town.”
“Really?” Maggie narrowed her eyes in vexation at the snide remark of the woman as she took her card back. “You all keep count of family members up here or something?”
“No, no,” the sneering receptionist played it down. “We just thought Clara was the last Corey, that is all. Now here you are, sprung up from practically nowhere.”
Maggie felt her heart skip at the obvious sarcasm of the spiteful woman, who had not the courage to be openly hostile. If there was something that vexed Maggie, it was smiling bullies who pretended to be civil while they picked apart the character of others.
“Yep, that’s me. Sprung up out of nowhere. Just like magic,” Maggie snarled with a smile of her own, but her statement drew audible gasps from some of the guests. Even the receptionist looked stunned at the statement, but she tried to retain her charade nonetheless.
“I am so
sorry to hear about Clara, Miss Corey,” she lied out of propriety. “We heard about the awful business just an hour ago. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Maggie replied, also scraping at the bottom of the pleasantry bowl, “but I doubt things could get any more uncomfortable than this. My room. Where is it, please?”
Ignoring the new Corey’s abrupt punch, the receptionist obliged, showing Maggie where to go. “Room 13.”
“How apt,” Maggie mumbled to herself as she stepped out to round the building toward her assigned room. “There seems to be bad luck all around in this town.”
She did not sleep well, wishing she knew half as much about soothing herbs as Aunt Clara did. Maggie could sure use some of Clara’s concoctions tonight to help her relax while she worried about the next day. That sheriff had told her that she would have to identify the body in the morning and she had not the stomach for such things. Of all the hell she had just been liberated from, now she had to deal with a deceased relative in a strange town full of creepy, untoward citizens.
The next morning, Sheriff Walden picked Maggie up from Berrie’s Corner to come and identify Clara’s body. It was a dismal affair for poor Maggie to imagine seeing her aunt for the first time in years, under such circumstances.
“This is not how I want to remember her,” she mentioned as they stopped in front of the county coroner’s office.
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