Once Wicked_A Paranormal Cozy Mystery

by Cindy Stark

  ONCE WICKED

  Teas & Temptations Cozy Mysteries

  Book One

  By Cindy Stark

  www.cindystark.com

  Once Wicked © 2018 C. Nielsen

  Cover Design by Kelli Ann Morgan

  Inspire Creative Services

  All rights reserved

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Welcome to Stonebridge, Massachusetts

  Welcome to Stonebridge, a small town in Massachusetts where the label “witch” is just as dangerous now as it was in 1692. From a distance, most would say the folks in Stonebridge are about the friendliest around. But a dark and disturbing history is the backbone that continues to haunt citizens of this quaint town where many have secrets they never intend to reveal.

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  Prologue

  Stonebridge, Massachusetts 1680

  Clarabelle Foster stood next to a wooden work table and stared in amazement as her mother’s delicate hands crushed dried flowers and leaves with a pestle. She sniffed, enjoying the scents that rose to greet her.

  “How do you know which flowers to pick, mama?” Most of them smelled good and were pretty. Except the nettles. She didn’t like those.

  Her mother smiled gently at her. “Well, you pick the ones that are right for the job. We’re going to turn these into a salve that will heal yours and papa’s cuts when you get hurt.”

  Clarabelle nodded, her eyes wide. “You’re the best at making magic.”

  Her mom gasped and dropped the pestle. It landed on the wood with a resounding thud. She pressed her fingertips over Clarabelle’s mouth. “Clarabelle. Where on earth did you hear that word?”

  She didn’t understand why her mother was so worried. “Magic?” she said beneath her mama’s fingers. “Genevieve said that’s what you do. Her mama, too. And her mama doesn’t care if she says it. She can say witch, too.”

  Her mother’s jaw dropped, and worry creased her forehead. “No, no, no. I’ve told you before there are some words too dangerous to say.”

  She shrugged, not understanding why her mother made a big fuss. “It’s just a word, Mama.”

  A cloud of worry surrounded her mother, reaching out toward Clarabelle with sticky fingers. The feelings made her tummy hurt, and she tried to avoid them by taking a step back from the work table.

  “It’s not just a word,” her mother said in hushed anger. “If you say that to the wrong person, they will come after our family. Is that what you want? To have us torn apart? They would shun your father and likely kill me. They might hurt you, too. Is that what you want?”

  Shameful tears welled in her eyes. “No, mama. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want any of us to die. I just want to stay here with you and papa.”

  Her mother grasped her chin and tilted her face upward. A stern expression darkened her features. “Then don’t ever speak those words again. Do...you...understand?”

  She didn’t like this side of her mother. It frightened her. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

  Her mother exhaled a breath, and her relief was a soothing balm to Clarabelle. “Good. Let’s get back to this lesson. What do we call these purple flowers?”

  “Lavender, Mama. And that other one is mint.”

  “Smart girl. Keep listening to me and not your friends, and we will all be just fine.”

  Her mother might have said the words, but she could tell she still worried. And Clarabelle didn’t want to worry her mother. Next time she saw Genevieve, she’d tell her what she thought of her stupid words.

  One

  Current Day

  Hazel Hardy’s thighs burned as she pedaled her bicycle up the incline toward the big Victorian manor at the top of the hill.

  She’d pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail to keep the loose curls out of her face while she rode. Between jeans and her favorite olive-green sweater, along with the exercise, she’d stay warm enough. It was only mid-March, and the days could still carry a chill. Luckily, this year, they’d been blessed with unseasonably warm weather and the sun was out today, bright and warm, so she’d be just fine.

  She’d tucked tins of her handcrafted teas in the bike’s basket, and they bumped against each other with each pedal, clanging out a metallic tune. She couldn’t picture a more beautiful small town than Stonebridge, Massachusetts, with its tree-lined streets coursing between a mixture of newer buildings and centuries-old rock-hewn churches. For an earth witch, it was perfect.

  No matter where Hazel went, she always found a smiling face. Her mom had missed the mark completely when she’d warned her a few months back about the town that still harbored hatred against witches going on three hundred years.

  But Hazel had yearned to learn more about her heritage, and the people she’d met in Stonebridge were as nice as sweetened chamomile tea at bedtime. The cherry on top was that she’d never have to see Victor’s cheating face again.

  Filling her lungs repeatedly to compensate for her thumping heart, she gave a last burst of energy to wheel up the Winthrop’s driveway. Hopefully all this biking would compensate for her obsession with cherry macaroons and hazelnut cannoli.

  A loud horn battered her eardrums from behind, sending her into a panic. She turned the handlebars to the right in a quick, knee-jerk reaction to avoid the threat. Her front tire slid sideways as she struggled to keep her bike upright. She wobbled to the left and teetered to the right.

  When her front tire hit soft gravel off the edge of the driveway, her bike launched her like an angry bull did a novice cowboy.

  The palms of her hands took the brunt of the landing. She skidded for a moment before rolling to a stop.

  Unladylike curses hovered on her tongue, and she swiveled her head, ready to unleash her rage.

  Overweight, gray-haired, and full of himself, Winston Winthrop didn’t spare her a glance as he drove his black Mercedes past her and parked between the sparkling fountain and elegant house.

  Hazel struggled to catch a decent breath as she got to her feet. She wiped her dusty, scraped up palms on her jeans.

  Across the drive, Winthrop’s manservant dashed from the house to open his employer’s car door.

  Up until this point, Hazel hadn’t come face-to-face with her client’s husband. But she was about to now. She’d heard rumors of the self-important, rude man, but she’d had a hard time believing such a man could be married to the sweet and gentle Mrs. Winthrop.

  Apparently, she’d been wrong.

  Hazel hobbled to where her bike
had fallen after her spectacular dismount, and she lifted it from the ground, inspecting it for damage. Lucky for Mr. Winthrop, her favorite mode of transportation remained intact. She picked up the tin boxes of tea and placed them in the basket, grateful they’d survived as well.

  She strode toward the house, walking as fast as her tender knees would allow.

  As she approached, the wealthy aristocrat dropped his keys into the hands of his employee. “Do take care to keep the drive clear, Mick. We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Hazel opened her mouth to give Mr. Winthrop the verbal lashing he deserved, but Mick shook his head in warning, a lock of the twenty-something man’s dark hair falling into his eyes.

  Mr. Winthrop walked toward the house, exuding a privileged air. “And do get yourself a haircut,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve had enough trouble with witches and beggars in the past. I can’t continue to employ anyone looking so unkempt.”

  Hazel clenched her jaw. “Witches and beggars?” She spat out the offensive words to Mick. If she could make one wish, she’d hope never to encounter the nasty man again.

  She’d never tell her mother she’d been right about the residents of Stonebridge who still believed those who practiced witchcraft were spawns of Satan, a notion some residents had passed down for generations, since the early colonization of the area. Up until this moment, she hadn’t witnessed evidence of such despicable and unfounded attitudes toward others, and even now, her heart didn’t want to believe it was true.

  Witches were not the devil’s disciples, and she took issue with anyone who thought they were. Honoring Mother Earth and her gifts was anything but evil.

  If there was a rotten egg in the bunch, it was Mr. Winthrop.

  Mick cast a wary glance toward the house and then switched his dark gaze back to Hazel. “Ignore him. He’s an old man out of touch with reality.”

  She liked Mick Ramsey, though she couldn’t get a clear reading from his soul. He had many emotional walls, though that alone didn’t make him bad. Sometimes people erected barriers to hide something. Other times, their walls were for protection.

  She liked to think it was the latter, and he just needed a friend.

  Hazel snorted. “I’d like to show him reality.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” Mick countered.

  She considered her options. A healthy dose of the itches…in a very uncomfortable place? A potion that would leave his stomach heaving? The thought of Mr. Winthrop trying discreetly to take care of his issues brought a smile back to her face.

  Mick nodded to the white woven basket on the front of her pink bike. “Tea for Mrs. Winthrop?”

  She smiled, grateful to focus on something else. “Every Monday. Speaking of which, I’d better hurry. I’m already behind, and the matron of the kitchen, as I like to call her, gets snippy when she has to wait for me.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “That’s one woman I try to avoid at all costs.”

  “Mrs. Jones isn’t that bad,” Hazel said, and they both laughed because they knew she was. “Catch you later.”

  She parked her bicycle alongside the garage and retrieved one of several tins from the woven basket. With her delivery safe in her tenderized hands, she followed the flat stone path around the side of the elaborate home to the back door where she didn’t bother to knock.

  “Hello?” she called as she entered, and immediately Mrs. Jones, the curmudgeonly cook appeared from inside the pantry.

  “Good morning, Hazel.” Mrs. Jones graced her with a never-before-seen smile that surprised her.

  She took a few seconds to recover from the shock. “Good morning to you, too. You seem particularly happy today.” Perhaps she’d misjudged her. After all, working for Mr. Winthrop could make anyone ornery.

  Mrs. Jones widened her eyes as though also surprised, and the bright aura hovering around her dimmed. “Nonsense. I’m no happier than any other day.”

  Hazel stared at her for a long moment, sad that the woman had chosen to return to unhappiness. She sighed and held up the tin. “I have Mrs. Winthrop’s tea delivery.”

  Mrs. Jones jerked her head toward the stove. “Her tea service is ready to go. Just waiting on you. I’ve been keeping the water hot for the past fifteen minutes.”

  And, just like that, the waspish old woman was back. “Sorry. I stopped at June Porter’s first, and she can…well, you know…” How did she say this without being rude? “She likes her conversation.”

  The cook grunted. “Best keep your hands on your ears when she’s around, or she’ll talk them off before she sends you on your way.”

  Hazel smiled in agreement and headed toward the tea service Mrs. Jones had prepared. She could have mentioned her unfortunate incident outside, but she doubted she’d gain any sympathy. “I’ll just wash my hands and head on up.”

  She hesitated for a moment, reluctant to ask her question. “Shall I put away the remaining tea?”

  Mrs. Jones lifted a sarcastic brow. “Does anyone touch anything in my kitchen? Ever?”

  “No.” Hazel answered, the same as she had the other four weeks she’d been delivering tea. It seemed wrong to leave it for Mrs. Jones, but the woman barely tolerated Hazel as it was. Hazel quickly finished her task and headed for the elaborate staircase with the mahogany handrail and turned balusters that she loved so much.

  The home Hazel had rented was older as well and had retained an air of history with arched doorways and decorative moulding between the ceiling and walls. But where her house was akin to a common person, Mrs. Winthrop’s was the grand lady of the town, and Hazel never tired of visiting.

  When Hazel’s new assistant at her shop, Hazel’s Teas and Temptations, had suggested door-to-door service to increase her customer base and therefore revenue, Hazel had questioned her sanity. People wanted pizza delivered, not tea.

  But Gretta had been right to an extent. Many of the fifty and older crowd of ladies of Stonebridge loved the idea of gourmet tea being delivered straight to their doors, especially when they learned Mrs. Winthrop had signed up for the service. Most of these women came from prominent families who had lived in Massachusetts since colonial times, and they had the money to show for it.

  Mrs. Winthrop’s influence had sent Hazel’s bottom line sailing into the black, and she couldn’t be more grateful.

  Which was why she’d agreed to also serve a pot of her gourmet tea every Monday to Mrs. Winthrop, allowing time for lovely conversation with a woman who rarely left her house. It was the least Hazel could do to show her gratitude, and besides, she’d found she enjoyed their time together, too.

  The stairs of the old house creaked as Hazel ascended, a sentry of sorts, announcing her arrival. Hazel followed the now-familiar path she always took to the end of the hall and then knocked on the last door on the left.

  “Come in,” Mrs. Winthrop said.

  Hazel balanced the tray on one hand and turned the doorknob.

  Inside, sixty-nine-year-old Florence Winthrop sat at a Victorian dressing table with several bottles of nail polish in front of her. Patterned gold on ivory walls were the backdrop for the elegantly carved mahogany bed that dominated the room, complete with a gorgeous dusty rose quilt that matched the color of the curtains.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Winthrop.” Hazel made her way to the small table and two chairs near the window where they always drank tea. She lowered the tray that also carried some delicious-looking blueberry scones and Florence’s joint supplements to the table and turned back to her client.

  The frail woman graced her with a smile. “Good morning to you, my dear, and, please, call me Florence. We’ve known each other long enough, and calling me Mrs. Winthrop makes me feel old.”

  “Of course.” Hazel gave her an approving nod. “I’m glad to see you’re up and out of bed early this morning.”

  Some days, Mrs. Winthrop, make that Florence, had still been asleep when she’d arrived. Her ailments, whatever they were, tired the poor woman some
thing fierce and added a good ten years to her looks though she really wasn’t that old at all.

  Florence graced her with a smile. “Today is a good day. Hardly any pain at all.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that.” Hazel found it difficult not to add a little something to her tea to help with those aches and pains, but she’d promised her mother she’d not use any potions or spells whilst in Stonebridge.

  The whole idea that she’d had to promise to her mother seemed silly, but the town had a history of murdering innocent witches. Long ago, her ancestors had run in the middle of the night to escape persecution.

  Times had changed, but, apparently not as much as she would have expected.

  Hazel moved to the dressing table and inspected the array of nail polish. “Looks like you’re planning to get dressed up. Is Mr. Winthrop taking you out on the town?”

  Florence snorted and shook her head. “No, nothing special. Albert and I haven’t dated in years.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to do something small to feel pretty.”

  She met Hazel’s gaze with a sad one of her own. “I haven’t felt pretty in so long. If only I could be young again like you and Rachel.”

  Hazel gave her a kind smile. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Florence. Rachel and I don’t have anything on you.” Though Hazel also envied the Winthrop maid’s figure. She wouldn’t mind having her sleek blond hair, too, as opposed to her own unruly auburn curls that tended to get out of hand at times.

  Mrs. Winthrop stood and placed a hand on the dressing table to steady herself. “You have your youth, and that’s what men want. That’s what we all want.”

  She linked her arm through Mrs. Winthrop’s and led her to the tea table.

  “Be a dear and bring the polish, too, won’t you? Perhaps you can help me paint my nails after we’ve had tea.”