by Tegan Maher
"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am," I said, and a faint smile crossed her lips. "Please, call me Edie. Ma'am makes me feel so old."
"Edie it is, then," I replied.
She wandered around the store as she talked, her gaze roaming over each piece.
"So how did you get into this business?" she asked.
"It just sort of came to me," I said. "I reached a point where I had to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up, and my two favorite shows were Flea Market Flip and Pickers. And I hate to see pieces of our past burned or tossed into a landfill. So, here I am."
"Indeed," she said, distracted as a living room set caught her eye. It was a coffee table and two end tables that I'd salvaged back when I first opened the store. They'd had lift-tops, but the hinges and wood had been so damaged that I'd had to make them immobile. Rather than replace the damaged wooden tops with more wood, I'd used glass, and lined the interior with seashells, held in place with epoxy.
The set had been one of my first projects, and I'd always been a little befuddled as to why that hadn't sold. At least until a mysterious woman had come through and told me the set was destined for someone. After she said that, I figured that someone would be along eventually.
"This set reminds me of the set we had when we lived here," she said, he eyes distant. Mama used to take us down to the lake, and we'd collect seashells and pretend we were mermaids. Of course, the boys were always pirates," she said, winking. Her gaze returned to me, and she gave me an winsome smile. "Those were the good days, when Mama and Daddy got along, and all was well in our worlds."
She squatted down beside the piece. "My little brother got what was probably the worst whoopin' of his entire life over that table. He carved his initials into I right—" Her eyes widened as her fingers ran over the exact spot I knew she was talking about, and felt the carved initials I'd left there when I refurbished the piece. At the time, something had told me to leave them alone, and I never go against my gut.
She scrambled to her knees to look at the underside of the table, and I was surprised when her eyes filled with tears. "We lost him a few years ago in a house fire," she said, barely able to speak. "He was living in my mother's house. It was a total loss, and we have no mementos of him—or anything from our childhood, really—at all."
Edie pushed back to her feet and brushed off her hands. "How much do you want for it? I'll pay whatever you ask."
I shook my head, a little choked up myself. "Nothing, Edie. My Aunt Addy would call it a gift from heaven, and it wouldn't be right to take your money. I was just tasked with holding them for you 'til you made your way around to collect them."
She swiped a tear off her cheek and pulled me into a hug.
"It's a miracle," she whispered. "I don't know how else to explain it."
"It's magic," I whispered back, "and that's all the explanation we really need."
Thank you!
Thank you for reading Makeovers and Murder. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are the lifeblood of an indie author’s career, so if you would take just one more minute to share your opinion and insights, I would greatly appreciate it!
Southern Fried Murder, Book 9 in the Witches of Keyhole Lake series, will be out in May of 2019, but until then, I invite you to try one of my other series. I’m including the first two chapters of Howling for Revenge, Book 1 in my Cori Sloan series, so keep reading. ☺
Happy Reading,
Tegan
Howling for Revenge
Chapter 1
I JOGGED ALONG THE stream, reveling in that peaceful, early-morning stillness that only lasts until the rest of the world stirs. I picked up my pace a little as I followed the sun-dappled path around the tree line, enjoying the brush of the cool breeze along my skin as it dried the fine sheen of sweat from my body. The only sound beside the birdsong was my heart beating in tempo with the soft, steady thud of my sneakers against the asphalt.
I sucked in a lungful of air, inhaling the fragrance of the early morning. The damp, earthy scent drifting from the stand of trees overshadowed the stench of humanity, and night-blooming jasmine sweetened the air, masking the lingering odors of fast-food wrappers and cheap perfumes.
I slowed as I neared the end of the trail then stopped, placing my hands on my knees as my heart rate slowed and my breathing returned to normal.
As always, tendrils of regret wound through me at the thought of leaving the peace and getting back to the grind. I propped my foot against a picnic table and leaned into a stretch, feeling a little euphoric as I did so. The endorphins flooding my brain were more addictive than any drug, which was the main reason I ran daily, rain or shine, in either this form or my other.
The wind shifted and I picked up a coppery, cloying odor that was as out of place in my little slice of heaven as a Ferrari in a trailer park. Dread trickled down my spine and I put my nose in the air, grinding my teeth as I searched for the source.
I picked it up and followed it, the stench getting stronger as I approached the road that ran parallel to the small strip of forest that separated it from the trail. My heart sank. A small white hand lay in the grass, palm up, about ten feet from the side of the road. Glossy red fingernail polish gleaming in stark relief against the dull, gray skin of the fingers.
My gaze traveled up the hand to the mangled body of a woman, her platinum hair covering her face, hiding her identity. I pulled my cell from my armband and called 911.
“Hey, Kay,” I said when Castle’s Bluff’s one dispatcher picked up. “This is Cori. I need an ambulance out on Route 6 by the park, and keep it as hush-hush as you can, please. We have another dead body.”
CHAPTER TWO
My next call was to my second in command, Sam Cassidy, who said he’d call the coroner and meet me there in ten minutes.
I examined the scene while I waited, using my heightened sense of smell to pick apart the different scents in hopes of finding some clue to the identity of the killer. Sometimes being a werewolf came in handy, but it wasn’t doing me a lick of good right then.
All I could detect was the same strange wolf scent that I’d gotten from the other scene. Like fingerprints, it would help if I came across the killer, but for the moment, it was useless. All I could tell for certain was that he was male, and wasn’t a member of my pack.
Exactly ten minutes later, a beat-up truck pulled off into a wide spot across the road from me and a grizzled man climbed out the driver’s side, followed by a shorter, younger guy I’d known since grade school.
Sam strode across the road, a slight hitch in his step and a scowl on his leathery face. My mind shifted from the murder to the man I’d looked up to since I was a little girl.
Even though I was his boss, he still saw me as a little girl if things got real. Of course, until the murders, "getting real" usually involved a drunk tourist getting handsy when I'd have to haul him out of the Hook, our local dive bar. Even with—or more likely because of—the confluence of supernatural beings in Castle's Bluff, things like murder just didn't happen. Until then, anyway.
“Cordelia,” he said, nodding at me as he strode toward the body. Though he tried not to show it, I knew he was worried about me; it was the only time he defaulted to my given name. I drew my brows together, but didn’t say anything.
Stan Lee, the younger man, took off his hat and mopped the sweat from his forehead with a bandana he pulled from the shirt pocket of his deputy’s uniform. Though it was late in the summer, the humidity still made the air thick as the Georgia mud our state was known for.
Despite his best efforts, his gaze inadvertently dropped to my chest; my snug tank top was still damp with sweat. I whacked him on the arm and glowered at him.
His face went beet red and he snapped his eyes back to my face. “Sorry, Cor—Sheriff,” he stuttered.
I cut him some slack because I knew he’d had a crush on me since the seventh grade, and he was a good guy with a huge heart. He looked around me, try
ing to put on his cop face, but turned green when he caught his first glimpse. I couldn’t blame him; I wasn’t feeling so peachy myself.
Sam was standing back a few feet from the body, one arm crossed over his chest, the elbow of the other resting on it. He rubbed his chin, his gaze roaming over the scene, taking in the body and the mish-mash of huge paw prints surrounding it.
“You pick up anything?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Nothin’ other than what I got from the last scene.”
A breeze fluttered through, and I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, behind the body. Squinting to get a better view, I stepped closer to the body. A clump of black fur clung to a broken branch.
“Do you have an evidence bag on you?” I asked, a little thrill running through me; this time, he’d left evidence. I moved around the body to avoid disturbing the scene.
Sam reached into a small pouch on his gunbelt and pulled out a clear baggie, passing it to me over the weeds.
I placed my hand on the bottom and pushed it back over my fingers like it was a glove, then pulled the clump of fur off the branch. Holding onto it, I peeled the bag back over my fingers and sealed it.
When I held it up to the light for a better look, a few white hairs glinted through the black. Not enough to alter the color of the wolf, probably, but it would give me something to compare it to if—when—I caught the guy. Maybe before, but I doubted it since black wolves were common in our region.
Still, if I could match it to somebody who’d been acting erratically or couldn’t vouch for their whereabouts during the times of the murders, it could be a nail in the coffin.
I turned to Stan. “Would you mind running crime-scene tape around this area?” I asked, motioning to where I wanted it.
He nodded, glad to have something to do that didn’t involve dealing directly with the body, and turned toward Sam’s truck to get the tape out of the box of supplies he kept there.
The ambulance pulled up, lights off, and the coroner, Colleen Bennett, pulled in right behind it in her Blazer. Two guys stepped out of the ambulance and started to pull the rear doors open to pull out the gurney, but Colleen held up her hand.
“It’s gonna be a few minutes, boys,” she said, swinging her black crime-scene bag as she approached us.
Like Sam, Colleen was in the loop when it came to the existence of supernatural beings. She had to be when all of the deaths in the area passed through her office.
She tossed a humorless smile our way, but went straight to work. “Same as last time?”
“Yup,” I said. “No real sense of who he is, other than a werewolf.”
“You can’t pick up anything with your other abilities?” She wiggled her fingers, indicating my witchy powers, inherited from my mother.
I pinched my lips shut and shook my head. “You know they’re spotty on the best of days.” Turning so that my back was to the medics, I pulled the bag of fur out of my pocket and showed it to her.
I opened my mouth to say something, but a tingle of electricity ran through my body, and I got a glimpse of a woman screaming. It was over before it even really started, and I swallowed, trying to fix it in my brain before it wisped away, but I lost it. Speaking of shorted-out witchy powers.
“What did you see?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at me. Like Sam, she’d known me since I was young.
“Nothing of use,” I replied, frustrated. “Just a quick glimpse of her”—I nodded toward the victim, shuddering—“screaming while something dragged her by the arm. I could feel the teeth biting down.”
Anger flashed across Sam’s face, and Colleen set her jaw as she snapped on a pair of gloves and bent over the body. When she pulled the hair back from her face, she gasped.
“I know this girl, Cori.” She smoothed the bangs back and her face hardened. “Nobody deserves to die like this. We have to get this guy.”
As I expected, a small crowd had started to gather, and I went to help Stan keep them back while Colleen did her thing. Sam pulled his truck so that it blocked most of the scene. The gossip was going to be bad enough without giving them access to the gory details.
Half an hour later, he laid his hand on my shoulder and I turned to him.
“She’s almost done.” His voice was tired and his thick salt-and-pepper hair was standing on end. I knew he'd been running his fingers through it like he did anytime he was frustrated.
He gestured toward my running clothes. "I got this handled if you want to go home and change or something."
I gave him a wry half-smile. "I will, but first I wanna take one last look at the scene before everything gets trampled worse than it has. See you back at the station in an hour?"
Sam nodded. "See ya then, kiddo."
Despite his use of pet names, Sam respected my position as sheriff. As a matter of fact, he was the one who pushed for it when others urged him to step into the role instead. He said he liked fishing too much to listen to old ladies bicker over parking tickets.
To be fair, that was definitely a time-suck, but he also understood there was much more going on beneath the façade of our town that he didn’t have the experience to deal with. He was one of the few humans who knew about the town’s diverse citizenry.
I noted the slight hitch in his step as he walked back to his cruiser. He brushed off his aches and pains, but I worried about him. At sixty-five, he was healthier than a lot of people in their early fifties, but still.
As I combed over the scene looking for anything we may have missed, I tried to figure out the murderer’s angle. The one thing that bothered me more than anything about this one and the one that had been committed a few days prior was that the wolf didn’t seem to care if he was caught. That was a problem on a number of levels. He had to know the pack wouldn't tolerate this, and that if we didn't get him, one of the other organizations would, so I didn’t get it. Yet.
What I did get was that it was about to turn into a hot mess if I didn’t get it under control, pronto. Some of the unofficial supernatural organizations tended to come in with sledgehammers rather than scalpels, and I needed to avoid that at all costs.
A little farther into the woods, I saw what looked like another small tuft of fur, but I was interrupted before I could move toward it.
"Cori?" somebody said from several yards behind me. My heart stuttered at the familiar voice, even though I hadn't heard it in nearly twelve years.
I paused as a tangled rat's nest of competing emotions writhed in my stomach, the fur forgotten. I mentally wadded them up and shoved them to the back of my mind. That was a therapy session or twelve for another time.
I schooled my face into a friendly yet detached expression, then willed my heart to slow before I pushed to my feet and turned to face the man who’d broken my heart. Because, you know, I didn't have enough to deal with right then.
Want to keep reading? Pick up Howling for Revenge here for 99 cents or free with Kindle Unlimited.
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Other Books by Tegan Maher
Witches of Keyhole Lake Series
Book 1: Sweet Murder
Book 2: Murder to the Max
Book 3: Murder so Magical
Book 4: Mayhem and Murder
Book 5: Murder and Marinade
Book 6: Hook, Line, and
Murder
Book 7: Murder of the Month
Witches of Keyhole Lake Shorts
BUBBLE, BUBBLE, HERE Comes Trouble
Witching for a Miracle
Moonshine Valentine
Cori Sloane Witchy Werewolf Mysteries
Howling for Revenge
Dead Man’s Hand
Bad Moon Rising
Enchanted Coast Magical Mystery Series
Deadly Daiquiri
Surfboard Slaying
About Tegan
I WAS BORN AND RAISED in the South and even hung my motorcycle helmet in Colorado for a few months. I've always had a touch of wanderlust and have never feared just packing up and going on new adventures, whether in real life or via the pages of a great book.
When I was a little girl, I didn't want to grow up to be a writer—I wanted to raise unicorns and be a superhero. When those gigs fell through, I chose the next best thing: creating my own magical lands filled with adventure, magic, humor, and romance.
I live in Florida with my two dogs. When I'm not writing or reading, I'm riding motorcycles or binge-watching anything magical on Netflix.
I'm eternally grateful for all the people who help make my life what is today - friends, readers, family. No woman is an island.
