magic potion 03 - ghost of a potion

by blake, heather

  Dylan dutifully kissed his mama’s cheek. “We’re here now,” he said lightly.

  “Yes, I see that.” She smiled lovingly at him and straightened his tie.

  He was an only child, and it had been just him and his mama for a long time now. As critical as she could be to me, she adored every hair on his head, and it showed in the love in her eyes when she looked at him.

  The only thing in her eyes when she looked at me was judgmental disdain. “Hello, Carly.”

  “Hello, Patricia.” Civil. Perfectly civil.

  “Your dress is lovely,” she said. “Wearing white after Labor Day is a bold choice.”

  No ruckus, no ruckus, I silently repeated.

  I declined to point out that my dress was ivory. “Thank you. So is yours. And is that a new hairdo?” I asked as innocently as I could. “It’s very becoming. Very Martha Stewart–ish, post prison sentence.”

  It wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop me in the least. In reality her blond pixie-style cut with wispy ends looked modern and glamorous.

  Patricia’s mouth tightened, as did Dylan’s hand around mine.

  Warnings, both.

  “Miz PJ!” Ainsley said, quickly sidestepping in front of me. “The house is amazing.”

  Ainsley had always been the protective sort, but I wasn’t sure who she was guarding in this situation—Patricia or me. After all, Ainsley was one of the few allowed to call Patricia by her endearing nickname, as her mama and Patricia were close friends.

  Patricia smiled a genuine smile, and it transformed her whole face from pinched prune to Southern beauty. She grasped Ainsley’s hands. “It definitely is.”

  Longingly, I glanced toward the ballroom. I didn’t want to stand here under Patricia’s scrutiny. I spotted my daddy standing in a corner, a cocktail gripped between his hands.

  He was a man after my own heart.

  I squeezed Dylan’s arm and glanced around the small group on the landing. “I’ll catch up with y’all later. I see my father.” And the bartender.

  The blessed bartender.

  “Lovely,” Patricia said snidely.

  Dylan sighed heavily. Or maybe that was me.

  I made cross-eyes at Ainsley and turned to go. I’d taken only two steps before I was jerked backward. I’d have fallen flat on my rear if not for Carter catching me, his strong hands grabbing hold of me just under my rib cage. He carefully set me to rights, and I glared at Patricia.

  Whose stiletto was firmly planted on the train of my gown.

  “Oh my! Look at that. I’m terribly sorry,” she trilled with a malicious gleam in her eye as she removed her foot from my dress. “What an unfortunate accident. I hope the dress isn’t torn.”

  I clutched my locket and clenched my jaw. Hard.

  “It’s okay,” Ainsley said, crouching down to inspect the dress. “No rips. You’re good to go.” She smoothed my hem and gave me a little push forward.

  Trying to get me to go before I said or did something I’d regret.

  I took a step, caught Dylan’s gaze, held it.

  He must have seen the about-to-snap look in my eye because he cupped my face in his hands, leaned in and whispered, “Love you, Care Bear,” just before kissing me.

  I heard Patricia suck in a breath and resisted the urge to turn around and stick my tongue out at her. Instead I headed through the wide entryway that housed a coatroom and a hallway that led to the restrooms, and straight across the dance floor to the bar. Buffet tables lined a long wall, and I noticed silver candlesticks of varying heights had been used as decorations. Seeing them increased my anxiety over Delia’s dream.

  At the bar, I ordered a drink. A strong one.

  My father sauntered over. “After what I just witnessed, you might want to make it a double.”

  “Already did,” I said, thanking the bartender when he handed me the glass.

  Daddy curled an arm around me, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and threw Patricia a weary look. “Are you still considering marrying into that family?”

  My father, Augustus Hartwell, was an astute man who tended to cut straight to the chase on important matters.

  “There’s been no mention of marriage,” I said, watching Patricia laugh it up with Ainsley.

  Daddy harrumphed. “We both know it’s only a matter of when, but I do say that Patricia should be right glad your mama hadn’t witnessed what just happened.” His voice dropped to a deadly serious tone. “She might have pushed Patricia straight over that railing.”

  He sounded like he shared those same vengeful thoughts, which wasn’t like him at all. Daddy was a peaceful sort of man. Patricia’s spitefulness toward me had clearly worked its way under his skin.

  A surge of love for him swept over me, and I leaned up and kissed his cheek. “That would be quite the ruckus.”

  He patted my cheek. “That’s a fact. You know, part of your mama’s crazy plan for me to infiltrate the Harpies is to soften up Patricia with my abundant charm.” Puffing up, he straightened his bow tie. “Smooth waters for you to sail on into her life with Dylan at your side. I’m not sure your mama is aware what a challenge that might be.”

  So that’s how my mama had spun her scheme to him. No wonder he’d agreed to put himself through this humiliation. He’d do anything for me.

  I sipped my drink—an act of great control because I wanted to slam it back—and looked up at my father. “As charming as you are—and you are—smooth waters are not in my and Patricia’s future, Daddy. She just made that quite clear. So save yourself. Run. Run far away from this group and don’t look back.”

  His gaze softened. “Running isn’t going to solve anything, my darlin’ girl.”

  I knew. Oh how I knew.

  Daddy said, “True love is worth fighting for. If you want Dylan you have to figure out a way to make nice with Patricia. We all do.”

  It was something much easier said than done.

  I was still pondering that when Haywood Dodd strolled over and shook Daddy’s hand, then turned to me. “Aren’t you a sight to behold, Miss Carly. Much too beautiful to be wearing that frown. Is the drink not up to your liking? I can get you something else if you prefer . . .”

  Architect Haywood Dodd reminded me of Pierce Brosnan in his Mamma Mia! role, but without the accent or penchant for launching into song: Tall, dark hair threaded with silver, downturned blue eyes, classy, and wealthy. I knew from experience that those last two weren’t always mutually exclusive.

  Quick with a smile, he was warm and welcoming, and just a bit shy. He was more comfortable with his drafting table and architectural books than a crowd of people. But one-on-one, he was open and charming, funny and humble. It was easy to see why Hyacinth Foster, whose standards were notoriously high, had fallen for him.

  The band segued into a bluesy number, and I spotted a number of familiar faces, like my next-door neighbor Mr. Dunwoody; Hitching Post newcomer, Gabi Greenleigh; and one of my closest friends since we’d been knee-high, Caleb Montgomery. I mustered the smallest of smiles. “Thank you, Haywood, but it’s just fine. If anything, it’s not large enough.”

  His bushy brows furrowed, then he said knowingly, “Patricia?”

  I raised my glass in a mock toast. “Ding, ding.”

  Haywood, as a regular customer, knew my colorful history with Dylan’s mama. But truly, the whole town was aware. I had a feeling that there was probably a betting pool going on somewhere on which one of us—Patricia or me—would snap first.

  At this moment, I’d lay odds on me.

  “If it makes you feel better, she doesn’t care for me, either,” Haywood said. “I can’t rightly say why she doesn’t, but it’s been that way a good many years now, a couple of decades at least. She’d always been friendly until one day she wasn’t.”

  “You hadn’t slighted her in any way or form?” I asked him, curious as to why Patricia would turn on him. If it had been going on for decades, then it wasn’t because of his connection to the Harpies. He�
�d been with them only six months.

  “I had just gotten married to my ex Twilabeth,” he said, smiling. “Maybe Patricia had been holding a secret torch for me.” He winked with exaggeration, then shrugged it off. “All kidding aside, it’s no big deal. I can live with her cattiness just fine.”

  As far as I knew, Patricia had loved Harris Jackson something fierce, so I doubted she’d been pining for Haywood. Still, it was a strange coincidence.

  He clapped my father on the back. “I for one will be glad to have another man in the Harpies.”

  Apparently his announcement tonight was not to announce his resignation. Interesting.

  Daddy said demurely, “Nothing’s for certain.”

  I watched as Dylan, Ainsley, and Carter finally came into the ballroom. Dylan stopped in the entryway, slowly scanned the room, and when he finally spotted me, he smiled a smile that nearly melted me on the spot.

  That.

  That was why I put up with Patricia Davis Jackson.

  Dylan gestured toward the bar, silently asking me if I wanted a refill. I nodded.

  Haywood waved a hand of dismissal toward my father. “It’s all but a done deal, Augustus.”

  Panic flashed in Daddy’s eyes. Suddenly, it occurred to me that he’d played along with Mama’s plan only because he never believed he would actually be permitted into the Harpies’ tight circle.

  Poor, poor man.

  “Wonderful,” Daddy muttered, then excused himself to join Dylan at the bar.

  We were all going to need hangover potions in the morning.

  “What time is your big announcement?” I asked Haywood.

  “Ten.” He drew in a deep breath. “Thanks again for that calming potion. It worked wonders on my nerves.”

  “Is the announcement about Hyacinth?” I asked as I glanced across the room at her. She was casting a nervous look over her shoulder at us.

  Interesting that she was anxious, too. If she suspected a proposal, I’d think she’d be a bit more excited. Or maybe not, considering those rumors about her previous husbands . . .

  “Good try, Carly,” Haywood said, grinning mischievously. “You’ll know soon enough.”

  Ten o’clock seemed an eternity. It wasn’t even nine. And in between now and then was nine thirty, the time noted in Delia’s dream . . .

  Trying not to think about that dream, I changed the subject. “The house is a beauty, Haywood.”

  Beaming, he glanced around. “Thank you. It is. It truly is. A work of love.”

  It showed.

  Our heads came up in unison as raised voices caught our attention. Patricia Jackson Davis was reading a beautiful woman the riot act for party crashing.

  Eyes round with fright, she cowered under Patricia’s onslaught.

  I noted that the woman also had dark hair. Was she Patricia’s potential victim? I didn’t recognize her, so she definitely wasn’t local, but as she frantically looked around—for an escape route, I assumed—there was something familiar about her that I couldn’t quite place.

  It appeared as though the whole crowd froze to watch the scene unfold. The music stopped and conversation quieted.

  As Patricia continued to lay into the woman, I’d had enough. Party crasher or not, no one deserved that kind of venomous welcome to town. I started forward, intent on stopping the tongue lashing—or at least turning it toward me so the woman could escape.

  A hand settled on my arm, tugging me to a stop. Haywood’s eyes blazed with fury. “I’ve got this, Carly.”

  Before I could ask if Haywood knew who the woman was, he’d already surged across the room, but Patricia and the woman were no longer in sight. One of the Harpies must have already put an end to the spectacle.

  The band started up again. Laughter soon filled the air, replacing the tension.

  I looked around for my daddy and found him in my mama’s clutches. She had her hand wrapped tightly around his arm as she regaled Mayor Ramelle and her husband, Doug, with some sort of high-spirited anecdote.

  My aunt Eulalie had somehow coerced Dylan into dancing with her, and he was twirling her round and round, taking full advantage of her hoop skirt to clear their path. If the pure look of joy on her face was any indication, Aunt Eulalie was loving every second of the spotlight.

  Like Mama, Aunt Eulalie adored being the center of attention.

  That trait must have skipped my generation.

  Smiling, I glanced out the window, which faced the backyard. The cemetery was positioned to the far right side of the house, set in a copse of trees and barely visible from the house. For that I was grateful.

  “See any ghosts out there, Miz Carly?” someone said close to my ear.

  I nearly jumped straight out of my skin, and my drink would have surely splashed my dress had my glass not been empty. My heart pounded as I whipped around to find Mr. Butterbaugh frowning as he peered around me, out the window.

  “G-ghosts?” I stuttered. No one but immediate friends and family knew I could see ghosts. Certainly not Mr. Butterbaugh.

  Solemnly, he said, “Strange things been happening around here.” He handed me a drink and added, “Dylan asked that I deliver it to you right after Eulalie sweet-talked him into taking her for a spin around the floor.”

  “Thank you.” I gratefully took the drink. “What kind of strange things?”

  “Things that be givin’ me an ulcer. An ulcer, I tell you.” He adjusted his black tie, then tamped his wrinkled brow with a handkerchief. “My stomach aches somethin’ fierce. You got something for that at your shop?”

  “I do.” I didn’t dare tap into his energy right here and now to see if he did in fact have an ulcer. One slipup like that, and the energies of everyone in this room would bombard me, coming at me from every angle, suffocating me with all their emotions. I broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.

  Fortunately I really didn’t need my abilities to read Mr. Butterbaugh anyway.

  More than likely, he was just fine.

  He was Hitching Post’s resident hypochondriac, and I had never dosed him with anything other than a placebo potion in all the years he’d been a customer of mine.

  But I was curious about his comment. “What kind of strange things?”

  His brown eyes widened and he swiped a hand through his graying hair, raising tufts. “Lord-a-mercy, the strangest. Bumps in the night, things out of place, but the most bizarre? Someone dug up one of the graves in that old cemetery out yonder.”

  Horrified, I gasped. “You’re not serious.”

  “Saw the fresh-turned earth with my own two eyes.”

  “But why?”

  “Beats the tar out of me,” he said. “Nothing out there but old bones.”

  That was strange. “Did you tell the sheriff?”

  “What was to tell? Nothing was missing that I could see. And I weren’t digging up that grave to double-check, Miss Carly.”

  Couldn’t say I blamed him.

  The song ended, and he perked up. “I’m going to catch another dance with Eulalie. I’ll drop by the shop in the morning, Miss Carly, for that ulcer potion.”

  Nodding, I said, “Have fun tonight.” I waved as he shimmied into the crowd. I needed to be sure to tell my daddy Mr. Butterbaugh would be coming by in the morning so he could be prepared with a placebo potion.

  I turned my attention back to the cemetery. I’d mention the digging to Dylan. If the grave had been robbed someone needed to look into it, as creepy as that investigation would be.

  A moment later, Dylan was at my side, breathing hard. “Where does Eulalie get her energy?”

  “She’s loving this party, isn’t she?”

  Her laughter carried as she and Mr. Butterbaugh tried to waltz. It was nice to see someone having a good time, because all I wanted was to go home.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “A little after nine. I should probably find my mother.” He looked toward the entryway. “Do you think she was escorted off the
premises?”

  I smiled. “If so, I’d have paid to see that. Do you know who the woman was?”

  “No. You?”

  “Nope, but she looked familiar.”

  Nodding, he said, “I thought so, too.”

  Her identity was bound to be revealed by morning and the gossip would make its way round to me eventually, even while I was in hibernation. Hitching Post loved gossip.

  “Something’s going on,” he said so quietly that I had to lean in to hear him. He surreptitiously scanned the room.

  “What do you mean?” I picked up the thread of his anxiety and clutched my locket. My defenses were already being tested.

  “With my mother. She’s on edge.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Edgier than usual,” he clarified. “Also, look at the other Harpies. They’re all . . . nervous.”

  I glanced around, picking out the Harpies in the crowd. I couldn’t locate Haywood or Patricia, but Mayor Ramelle, Hyacinth Foster, and Idella Kirby definitely appeared tense, with stiff shoulders and phony smiles. Odd. “You’re right, they are. Hey,” I teased, “you’re pretty good at this deduction stuff.”

  Rolling his eyes, he said, “I’m starting to get a bad feeling.”

  Starting? I’d been harboring the bad feeling since hearing the details of Delia’s dream.

  “I should go find my mother,” he said, “keep an eye on—”

  His words were cut off by a high-pitched scream.

  This time it clearly wasn’t an owl, as the screaming came from the entryway, and reached a bloodcurdling level before suddenly going deathly quiet.

  Dylan broke into a sprint.

  I set my drink on the windowsill, grabbed up my dress, and followed him.

  On the landing, we fought through a gathering crowd to find Patricia bent over Haywood Dodd’s body, a bloody silver candlestick in her hand. I didn’t see any wounds on Haywood, but his skin was eerily pale, and I didn’t think he was breathing. Dylan dropped down to search for a pulse.