My mind whirled with the knowledge that Haywood Dodd was the heir to the Ezekiel mansion. How long had he known? Had he only just found out? Or had he been toying with the Harpies all along, letting them fix up the house on their dime while he planned to swoop in to take possession after it was complete?
The phone was ringing as I came through my back door. I set the photocopies on the counter, whipped off my sunglasses, and peered at the ID screen. The sheriff’s office.
Grabbing up the receiver, I gave a breathy hello.
“Carly Hartwell, this is Patricia Davis Jackson. Is my son there with you?”
I bit back a smart remark about manners and courtesy hellos. I could cut her a bit of slack considering where she was calling from.
Leaning up on tiptoes, I peeked out the window above my kitchen sink to see Dylan on the sidewalk chatting with Eulalie who’d clearly waylaid him on his way inside if her hand on his arm was any indication. “He’s outside right now.”
She hesitated, then said, “It’s rather important I speak with him.”
Important? I wondered if there had been a break in the case. “Give me a second. . . .”
“Oh, please do take your time,” she said smoothly. “It’s not as though I have any time constraints.”
“Why? Is this your one phone call?” I asked, joking. I couldn’t help myself. It was that mischievous streak in me. That sucker was a mile wide.
Bitterly, she said, “I suppose it takes a jailbird to know a jailbird.”
At first, I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. “You’re serious?”
“Put Dylan on the phone. Now.” Each word was enunciated as though being pulled from the very depths of her being, shoved through a wringer, and hung out to dry.
Patricia had clearly reached a breaking point, and though that ought to make me happy at some visceral level, it didn’t.
I’d try to figure out why later.
I set the phone on the counter and ran out the door I’d just come in. “Dylan, your mother’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you,” I hollered from the back steps, garnering his attention, Eulalie’s, and . . . Virgil Keane’s as he wandered by.
Hell’s. Bells. This was why I hibernated. A witch wasn’t safe in her own driveway.
Virgil’s ghostly head whipped in my direction, and he looked straight into my eyes. I’d forgotten to put my sunglasses back on when I came outside, so I blinked and tried to pretend I hadn’t seen him, but he came floating up the driveway alongside Dylan nonetheless.
Oblivious to the ghost that had just passed by her, Eulalie gave me a wave and said, “See you in a bit, Carly Bell!”
Dylan came up the steps, and I looked to him for explanation about my aunt’s comment.
He said, “Eulalie wanted us to know that Avery Bryan is back at the inn, but she’s packing her bags, getting ready to check out. What’s my mama want?”
The closer Virgil came, the deeper a painful ache started to settle into my muscles, my bones. I tried to remember what happened to Virgil, how he died. It took me a moment to recall.
A car accident.
He’d been hit while out walking his dog last May. The driver had sped off, leaving him lying in the road, his dog crying over her master’s broken body.
The driver had never been found.
Trying to hide my discomfort, I managed to say, “I’m not sure.” If Patricia had been arrested, I’d let her tell him. “Go, go. The phone’s on the counter.”
The screen door thwapped loudly in his wake, and I waited until I heard his voice before I held up a hand, palm out toward Virgil. “Stop right there.”
Eyebrows shooting upward, he stopped.
Full of raw emotion, his eyes were brown, a deep dark brown that reminded me of the center of a molten chocolate cake. In his mid-fifties he had been a lifelong resident of Hitching Post and newly retired from his job as a senior manager at the Pig when he’d died.
He wore a pair of dark cargo shorts, a short-sleeve dark tee, and flip-flops. His hair, which I recalled to be snow-white, was buzz-cut short. In his ghostly state, his black skin looked the same as Haywood’s: gray. In death, all of us had the same skin color.
As I held on to my locket, I quickly went over the rules with him, told him how the ghost thing worked, and informed him that he was second in line for my services. And that if he couldn’t abide by these rules he could turn himself around and go find Delia.
He backed up ten feet, and I took that as consent to my terms.
“Are you looking for the person who hit you with their car?” I asked, hopping right onto his ghost train. The sooner I could figure out why he was here, the sooner he could be on his way, crossing over, and never coming back.
Shaking his head, he moaned, and I took a quick second to explain that he couldn’t talk.
After a minute, he stuck his tongue out, panted, and brought his hands up in a begging gesture.
“Your dog. You’re looking for your dog.”
Yes.
I racked my brain trying to think of the dog’s name. L-something. Lovey. Lucky. No, no. “Louella.”
His head bobbed. Yes.
What a cranky scraggly mutt of a dog she had been, too. Brownish white, she was part Lhasa apso, part terrier of some sort, and part she-devil. She was a biter, and seemed to like no one but Virgil.
Nodding enthusiastically, he hunched his shoulders and turned his palms up.
“Where is she?” I interpreted.
Yes.
Where was she? It was a good question. I realized I hadn’t seen her around town at all after the accident, so no one local had taken her in. “I’m not sure,” I finally said. “But I’ll find out.”
It was impossible not to feel a pang for this man. He seemingly didn’t care who’d killed him. He wanted only to learn the fate of his beloved dog, which spoke volumes about the kind of person he had been. I wished I’d made more of an effort to get to know him while I’d had the chance.
Dylan came back out of the house. “Who’re you talking to out here? Haywood?”
“No. Virgil Keane.”
“Virgil . . .” His eyes widened, then he shook his head. “You can tell me about it later. I’ve got to go. My mother’s been arrested.”
Wincing, I said, “I was afraid of that.”
He headed down the steps. “A bail hearing is in an hour.”
“So soon?”
Smiling, he said, “A few favors were called in. Judge Wilfork took over the bench when my daddy died. They’d been good friends, which my mama’s lawyer made sure to remind him about.”
Dylan’s father, Harris Jackson, had been one of Darling County’s most beloved elected officials. He’d been dead and buried some ten years now, and I knew Dylan missed him fiercely.
Even though Judge Wilfork was a Jackson family friend, I knew the man to be fair. Although he had been agreeable to a bail hearing on a Sunday afternoon, he wasn’t going to give Patricia a get-out-of-jail-free card simply because of a long-standing friendship.
“Will you go see what’s up with Avery Bryan?” he asked.
I nodded.
He kissed me. “I’ll check in as soon as I know something.”
As he walked away, I called after him. “Are you going to tell the sheriff about Haywood inheriting the mansion?”
Dread filled his eyes as he looked back at me. “I have to. It might be the only way to keep my mother out of prison. No doubt it’s going to stir up one hell of a hornet’s nest.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
Because when a hornet’s nest was disturbed, someone always ended up getting stung.
• • •
Eulalie’s inn, the Silly Goose, wasn’t nearly as theatrically dramatic as she was, but it was just as full of Southern charm. Painted a pale gray color that in certain light looked green, it had pure white trim that accented three-paneled shutters, the detail work on the wraparound front porch, and the peaks on the triple-gabled roofli
ne. Two stories tall and fairly wide, it had six guest rooms plus a deluxe honeymoon suite. The lush gardens in the big yard were a source of pride and joy for Eulalie, and she spent a lot of free time fussing, pruning, and fertilizing. Climbing vines covered a series of multiple arbors that created a tunnel leading from the driveway into the backyard. Walking through it felt like entering a magical world. One where wood nymphs and elves might play.
Eulalie was a gardener at heart. Even in these cooler months when colorful blooms waned into dormancy, she often could be found outside cooing to her beloved plants.
Today, however, I found her in the inn’s front parlor. I wiped my feet on the braided welcome rug, took off my sunglasses, and hung my raincoat on a stand near the door. Flames jumped inside a gas fireplace set into a stunning floor-to-ceiling surround made of beautiful ledgestone. Its heat chased away a late-October chill that had come in with the rain. A rustic redwood mantel was decorated in autumn leaf garland, pumpkins, black metal ravens, and candles.
Nutmeg spiced the air as Eulalie rushed over to me the minute I came inside, her purple heels tap-tapping on the hand-scraped dark wood floor. “You will never guess who showed up not five minutes ago and delayed Ms. Bryan’s imminent departure.”
I wanted to crack a joke about it being Virgil Keane, but I had the feeling the less Eulalie knew about the ghosts following me around the better. Plus, if my body aches could be trusted Virgil was somewhere behind me, and he probably wouldn’t find the joke as amusing as I did.
“Who?” I asked, glad someone had stopped her. I noted the set of luggage near the reception desk and wondered if the sheriff had even spoken with Avery yet. If Patricia had already been charged in Haywood’s death, it wasn’t likely he would ever follow up with that particular loose thread.
Not unless some new evidence came to light.
Like Haywood Dodd being the heir to the Ezekiel mansion.
Eulalie leaned toward me, her eyes big and round with excitement, and whispered, “Hyacinth Foster.” She let out a hushed squeal, happier than a pig in slop. “They’re in the conservatory staring at each other over mugs of coffee. This whole scenario is better than As the World Turns, and you know how I loved that show—may it rest in peace.”
I did know. She’d mourned a good four months when it went off the air.
Skirting a large sofa and a pair of armchairs, I peeked down the wide arched hallway that led to the glass room at the back of the house that was the true showpiece of Eulalie’s inn. Although she kept a small herb garden inside the octagonal glass room, it was primarily used as a dining space for her guests.
As I approached, my head began to hurt.
Apparently I found where Haywood had wandered off to.
There were six small square tables draped with white hand-embroidered tablecloths and each wooden chair had a deep-padded cushion upholstered with an elegant botanical-print fabric. Atop every table, a hollowed pumpkin served as a vase for white hypericum berries, yellow and orange tiger lilies, and crimson dahlias. A sideboard held a coffee and tea service, a stack of appetizer plates, silverware, mugs, and napkins. Several dessert pedestals with clear glass cloche tops showcased a selection of scones, cookies, and a coconut layer cake, which already had a few slices missing. That cake alone made me wish I were one of Eulalie’s guests.
Raindrops snaked down tall glass panes as Hyacinth and Avery sat sipping coffee in awkward silence. The room was empty but for the two of them . . . and Haywood sitting at an adjacent table dismally shaking his head at the pair.
Avery tipped her head side to side as though trying to work out some kinks. A graceful neck was accented by a strong square jawline. Brown hair with hints of red curled around her shoulders. Her long nose gave her a royal sort of air, but her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.
I assumed Hyacinth’s were as well. It was impossible to tell as she had on an even bigger and darker pair of sunglasses than I’d been wearing around today. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back off her face with a wide velvet headband, and a cashmere sweater hugged her toned body. Except for the sunglasses, she would have looked like she was just having a normal lunch meeting.
I backed up and surreptitiously shooed Virgil to retreat as well. He was getting a mite too close. I wasn’t sure what his official cause of death had been exactly, but beyond every muscle in my body aching, I had trouble breathing properly when he was within a few feet of me. Collapsed lungs was my best guess.
“Have they said anything to each other?” I asked Eulalie.
“Not especially. Hyacinth came in asked for a moment of Avery’s time. They’ve been back there ever since. Do you think there’s going to be a catfight?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Are you hoping or preparing for the worst?”
“Hoping, of course!”
Laughing, I said, “Have you ever known Hyacinth Foster to raise her voice?”
“That holds no bearing, Carly Bell. Supposedly she killed her previous husbands, remember?”
All had died of natural causes.
A heart attack, a stroke, a blood clot.
Supposedly.
Either Hyacinth Foster had the worst luck of anyone on the planet, or she was a psychopath.
Bless her heart.
“Shh, shh. Do you hear that?” Eulalie asked. She tiptoed back down the hallway and pressed her back to the wall.
Avery was saying, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get going.”
Hyacinth’s hand shook as she set her mug on the table. “Are you coming back for the funeral?”
Avery wrapped her long fingers around her mug. “I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“It’s not your decision,” Avery said, her voice tight with anger.
“You shouldn’t have come in the first place,” Hyacinth added icily.
There might be a catfight yet.
Eulalie’s eyebrows wiggled. She was eating this up with a spoon.
Haywood was pacing, his face pinched with what looked like anger as he listened to the sparring.
Avery said, “I know you’re not implying I’m at fault for what . . . happened.”
Hyacinth leaned toward Avery. “You’re not so naive to believe it’s a coincidence.”
“Your anger is misplaced, Hyacinth.” Avery stood up. “If you recall, I am not the one who dragged myself into this.”
Hyacinth rose as well. “So says you.”
“I do say,” Avery snapped. “Haywood got a letter, same as you did.”
This was getting very interesting. And a letter? What letter?
Haywood threw his hands in the air and tipped his head backward as though looking to the heavens for some sort of assistance.
“Yes, and his was postmarked from Auburn,” Hyacinth accused as she placed the straps of a designer purse on her shoulder. “Make no mistake that if you stick around, you’ll be talking to the sheriff soon enough.”
Hands on hips, Avery said, “Is that a threat?”
“Yes,” Hyacinth replied, sweet as pie. “Have a safe drive back home, y’hear.”
She strode away from the table, and Eulalie and I scattered. I ducked behind the reception desk, and Eulalie slipped into the kitchen.
Hyacinth didn’t look back as she walked out the front door, and I thought for sure she would slam the door, but instead she closed it softly behind her. In her wake was the strong scent of gin.
She’d been drinking. A lot, if the smell was any indication.
Fortunately, she’d left her snazzy red sports car at home and was walking. A good thing, too. The car was fairly new. Just a couple of months old. A gift from Haywood.
Eulalie emerged and I stood up. A moment later, Avery Bryan came into the front room and picked up her luggage. “I’m heading out now. Thank you for the hospitality, Miss Eulalie. It was lovely meeting you.”
Haywood followed her. When he saw me, he floated toward the fireplace.
He didn’t acknowledge Virgil, nor did Virgil acknowledge him. For good reason. Ghosts couldn’t see one another.
I was very curious about Haywood’s connection to Avery Bryan, but I couldn’t very well ask him any questions here and now.
“You sure you won’t stay a few more days?” Eulalie asked Avery.
“I’m sure,” she said, her green eyes shiny. She flicked a glance at me.
Eulalie said, “Avery Bryan, this here is Carly Hartwell, my niece. She owns the potion shop in town and can work wonders with what nature gives us and a little bit of Southern magic. Headaches, heartaches, stomachaches . . . You should stop in. Get a little pick-me-up to take back with you. It’ll perk you right up.”
I stared at my aunt. She made my shop sound akin to a marijuana dispensary.
“They’re herbal remedies,” I clarified. “Homeopathic preparations for the most part. There is a touch of magic in the potions, its roots harkening back to the white magic hoodoo of my great-great-grandmother.” I often left off my great-great grandfather’s history of practicing voodoo. It tended to put people off. But truth be told his magic was just as important in the Hartwell family, as it was what helped create the Leilara drops and is what Delia used to make her hexes.
Leila Bell and Abraham Leroux’s love story had been bittersweet. A good witch falling for a bad one. They overcame a lot to be with each other, and had died in each other’s arms after he’d been bitten by a poisonous water snake. She’d tried to save him by sucking the venom from the wound and succumbed as well. In the spot along the Darling River where they died grew an entwined lily that bloomed only one night a year. After opening its petals, the blossoms wept, and those droplets were the Leilara—the magical ingredient I added to my elixirs that ensured my potions would cure just about anything.
“Bless your heart,” Avery said to me so sweetly that I almost believed it to be sincere and not an insult. “But there isn’t anything in this world to cure what ails me.”
“And just what is that, sugar?” Eulalie asked, her nosiness on full display.
Avery gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing time won’t heal. I best get on the road. Thanks again.”
Nosy myself, I opted to read her energy before she left. A wave of grief and anger swamped me, so strong I nearly burst into tears. Latching on to my locket, I took a few deep breaths, separating my energy from hers once again but a residual sadness remained, thickening my throat.
magic potion 03 - ghost of a potion Page 8
