The Wedding Witch: a paranormal cozy mystery (The Fairyvale Mysteries)

by Sofia Belle

  “Linda?” I tried one more time, but when there was still no answer, I shook my head. “All right, I'm going to take a peek and see if I can find your feet, Linda. Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  I ducked my head, keeping my gaze somewhat averted—just in case—and looked for shoes.

  But I got an eyeful of a whole lot more than shoes. A view I wished I'd never seen.

  Linda's face lay inches from mine, her face puffy, her eyes open but unseeing.

  Then I broke Wedding Planner Rule Number 1: Don’t freak out.

  … And I freaked out.

  I leaped back, screaming and screaming. Mrs. Doodles shook me hard enough to calm my screeches. Then she took action, extending a hand and flinging back the cloth curtain.

  “What is it?” Hailey shot up, making her way over to where I stood, my face drained of all semblance of my professional mask.

  “Oh, dear, that is not good.” Mrs. Doodles shook her head. “Oh, no.”

  Linda, Hailey's almost-forgotten bridesmaid, had made a bigger splash in this wedding than anyone had ever intended.

  Lying on the floor with eyes wide open, her face turned a slightly greenish color, lay Linda.

  Dead.

  Chapter 2

  ** **

  Fairyvale had secrets.

  Many of them.

  Some were small, others were big, some were mean, and others were nice, but the greatest secret of all was this: magic is real.

  The secret to Fairyvale was that the whole magical thing wasn't totally a ruse. Underneath it all, we existed: the magical folks. We weren’t green like ogres and we didn’t wear pointed hats, except to costume parties. Our magic here in Fairyvale was more subtle. A wisp of power, an inexplicable talent...a tendency, as we called it.

  Some of us had stronger tendencies than others. However, powerful or not, all of us were forbidden to speak of our abilities. It was against the Rules of the Council to speak freely about our abilities.

  At the tippy, tippy top, in the ancient attic of the magical library, there lay a spell book. In this book, the history of our kind—the magical folks—was explained. It was locked in a single room that could only be accessed with a stroke of a finger and the murmurings of an old spell.

  These dusty books told stories about the terrible witch hunts of decades past. After years of destruction, our culture had become a more closed-off, private group. Now the first and foremost lesson that any baby witchling learned was to keep their secrets close and their magic closer.

  I’d learned this, too, before my parents had passed away. When my mother died, I'd found a box left behind that explained our family tree: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

  The good news was that I had inherited my mother's penchant for love magic. The bad news was that my mother had made a mistake and told my father about her magical abilities before they were married, which was a huge no-no in terms of Council ruling, since my father had been an ordinary human. The ugly was that the Council had forced my godmother to put a curse on me as punishment to my mother.

  It was this curse that had affected me from the day I’d turned sixteen.

  A curse that ensured I would never find love.

  To this day, it was true.

  Ever since I'd learned to drive, I hadn’t been able to hold a man’s attention for longer than three dates. Something always went wrong, and every time, I blamed it on the curse. Things didn’t go slightly wrong, either. They went terribly, horribly wrong.

  For example, my dates would pick their toenails at dinner or become suddenly “unavailable” for a relationship after a first date. I’d even had two of my previous dates—both of them men—decide they’d developed an interest in each other instead of me.

  The curse was real, it was brutal, and after a hundred failed dates, I'd given up and sworn off men completely. Instead, I found my satisfaction with love through other ways. Most specifically, through planning the most love-filled day of other people’s lives.

  My inability to fall in love hadn't made me bitter. In fact, I argued quite the opposite. I cherished those tender moments between other couples, loving the light a wedding dance could bring to their eyes, the subtle hand holding, the stolen kisses when the bride and groom thought no one else was looking. I didn't need love in my personal life; I saw enough of it in my professional life, and it was enough to make me happy.

  Maybe, just maybe, that terrible curse was the reason for my high marriage success rate. I only selected couples between whom I saw real chemistry, deep love, and unwavering devotion.

  I'd never once accepted a wedding just because of a price tag or hefty fees. It was tempting, sure, but that wasn’t how I worked. I'd work for free if it meant I could pair off a set of soul mates.

  Don't get me wrong, I needed to pay the bills like everyone else, and weddings like Hailey's helped when I needed to fix the plumbing in my office or go out to dinner with my friends, but I'd made a vow both to myself and to every potential client that I'd turn down any job that didn't satisfy my soul.

  It had worked. The whole process was smooth now, after a few long years of streamlining every aspect of my business. Only six percent of the couples I met with for an Initial Inquiry made it to the second meeting.

  At this first meeting I asked questions, observed behavior, and used my “intuition,” which some might call magic, to get a vibe for the couple. If I saw real, true love between them, they got a second meeting. If the couple got a third meeting, that meant I'd found their love to be genuine and their intentions pure. That was when we talked details.

  My acceptance rate was so low these days—it had to be, seeing as how I received hundreds of inquiries per day via text, email, and walk-ins—that signing the wedding-planning contract was almost as exciting for the couple as the actual moment they stood on the altar. Or so my brides told me. In the wedding community, a contract with me meant a marriage for life.

  And I'd do whatever it took to keep things that way.

  Finding a dead body was not in my game plan. It was very, very much not a part of my prewedding rituals.

  After discovering Linda’s body, I pulled myself together and attempted to distract the bridesmaids until the cops showed up a few minutes later. We'd tried everything we could to save her; I’d felt a pulse, attempted CPR, but still, nothing had worked. Linda was too far gone for saving.

  I'd ended up closing the curtain to avoid people gawking at the body. Hailey sat huddled among the rest of her bridesmaids, a few of them quietly crying, a few others sitting in shocked silence.

  I’d never before seen anything like it. Sure, every now and again my weddings had a hitch in them, but I was used to things like mismatched napkins or stained tablecloths. About the craziest thing I’d seen had been someone taking off their clothes during the first dance and streaking through the reception hall. Alarming at the time but amusing after the fact. Especially since it had been the groom, and the bride was a good sport about it. I’d just made sure to keep the tequila to a minimum at all future weddings and keep bathrobes on hand to cover up any exposed body parts.

  This was new territory for me. I did my best to console Hailey, but what could I say? Her bridesmaid was dead. Hailey’s wedding was in seven days, and a huge black cloud loomed over the whole ceremony now. The ceremony of the century.

  I shouldn’t have been thinking about logistics at a time like this, but I’d had one of those thoughts pop up in my head and couldn’t do anything about it. Would my business go down the drain? My name could be mud in a second after a scandal like this.

  My business surely wasn’t more important than a woman’s life, but still, it was my livelihood, and it was all I knew. As saddened as I felt over the end of a human life, I couldn’t ignore the tension creeping up my shoulders as I wondered if I’d ever work again. Fairyvale was a small town, and good news got around quickly—bad news, twice as fast.

  “There you are!” Rosie Bell popped up out of n
owhere, throwing the front door to the seamstress shop open and whirling in like a tornado. My best friend and the face behind The Witch Weekly—the hottest blog in town—bounced over and pulled me into a tight hug.

  I had barely wrapped my arms around her shoulders to give a squeeze back before she let go and strolled over to the body. She got down on hands and knees, examining Linda from head to toe as if she were an expert. She wasn’t an expert. She was a bulldog with a pink bow who’d do just about anything for a good scoop.

  I took a few seconds to make sure that Hailey was well tended to by her friends before joining Rosie. Strangers were often fooled by her pretty face, petite frame, and cute name. However, I knew that behind her long brown hair and clear, hazel peepers, she could be quite brash. And more than resourceful in her “methods” of getting information out of people.

  Speaking of...

  “What are you doing here?” I knelt next to Rosie, keeping my voice low so as not to startle the bridal party any more than they’d already been startled. “We were trying to keep a low profile on this. I only called the police two minutes ago.”

  “Word gets around,” Rosie said evasively. “And I was in the neighborhood, thought you might need support.”

  “Word doesn’t get around. I made one phone call to the chief. That’s it. How did you get here so fast?”

  “You called the chief before you called me?” Rosie grumbled, shaking her head. “And I thought we were friends.”

  “We are. It’s protocol to phone the police and not your best buddy at the scene of a murder.”

  “This was a murder?” She shot up. “Wowzers, I thought maybe it was a heart attack or something. Can I quote you on that? Murder will really draw in the readers.”

  “No, no, no!” I waved my hands, feeling flustered. Deep down, Rosie was the most loyal friend a girl could hope for, but when it came to her blog, she had a tendency to get overzealous and milk stories out of nothing. “It’s not murder. We don’t know that. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe it’s a heart attack. Anyway, you never answered my question. How’d you get here?”

  She didn’t answer but instead knelt back down. “Why is she hanging onto these flowers?”

  I hadn’t noticed three long-stemmed roses clasped between her hands, the blossoms poking out from underneath the bright-pink fabric of her bridesmaid dress. A few petals dusted the floor around her head. Then I recognized this for what it was: a distraction.

  “Rosie!” My voice came out a shrill squeak. “You didn’t give the police scanner back! You stole that from the chief, and he told you to return it.”

  “I didn’t steal it,” she said, shifting cagily. “He left it in my house.”

  “Yeah, because you brought it into your house.”

  “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” She picked up one of the petals and gave it a sniff. “Anyway, you’re lucky I haven’t given it back yet. Without the scanner, I wouldn’t be here to give you support.”

  “Really, and this is how you support me? Examining the body as if you were a coroner?” I shook my head. “Don’t go writing about this yet. We have to get some answers first.”

  “Not write about a dead body…?” Rosie’s voice was pained. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to write about a real, juicy story?”

  “I do, in fact. But we have a mourning bridal party here, and I will not allow you to report on things while they’re in a sensitive state.”

  Rosie made a disgruntled noise in her throat. “Fine,” she said. “But if it’s a murder, can I get an exclusive?”

  “If that will keep you from reporting on it right away, then sure. Whatever you want.” I looked down at Linda. “But it’s not a murder. There hasn’t been a murder in Fairyvale for over ten years.”

  She didn’t comment, but the arch of her eyebrow told me that Rosie’s mind was already off whirling through one conspiracy after another. Plus, she’d just hooked me for an exclusive interview should anything about Linda’s death turn out to be fishy.

  Though Rosie was known not as a crime reporter but as the advice guru for our magical little town, it was only because she hadn’t been able to make a living reporting on the more gruesome areas of our town. Mostly because—up until now, at least—there were no gruesome happenings in Fairyvale.

  The door to the seamstress shop opened again, and in walked the chief of police for Fairyvale. He was tall, broad shouldered, and looked like a cowboy transplanted into a Cinderella story. I might have been cursed at finding love, but if I weren’t, I’d have considered him a worthy candidate for my consideration. Chief Sparks was kind, generous, and just a bit rugged around the edges.

  He had the patience of a saint, which was required for any cop in a town this size. Most of their calls involved helping old ladies find their knitting needles or giving tourists directions to the Forest of Fairies.

  Luckily, Sparks was more than comfortable with his manhood; he helped those ladies find their knitting needles like it was his job, and he looked good doing it. In fact, I’d heard rumors that a few of the old ladies “lost” their knitting needles just to watch the chief bend over.

  More than one tourist had invited Sparks out for drinks, and more than one tourist lady had been declined. Sparks’s love life was a mystery to me, to the tourists, to pretty much everyone.

  He lived alone, worked alone, and minded his own business. General belief around the town was that he was the ultimate bachelor and would be a catch for any woman. I agreed, and I only hoped he’d ask me to plan his big day—I’d do it, free of charge. Who knew? If Linda had been murdered and business disappeared, I might be paying him to let me plan his wedding.

  “Ahh, I see you’re here.” The chief ran a calloused hand through his sandy brown hair, his sandy brown eyes looking straight at Rosie. “What a surprise.”

  For some reason that I couldn’t figure out, Rosie seemed to be the only person in town who rubbed the chief the wrong way. Moreover, the feeling was mutual. Rosie complained about him, too, though I couldn’t figure out why. I don’t even think they knew why.

  Maybe their mini rivalry had just been going on for so long that it was ingrained in them. They’d grown up neighbors and friends, but when they got to the age where boys and girls started to have cooties, they’d parted ways and never quite reestablished their friendship.

  “Thank you so much for coming.” I stepped between my friend and the chief, giving Rosie a subtle nudge to give us some space. She only moved closer. “I came in here with my bride, and when I asked the bridal party to get together for a picture, we were missing one woman. I pulled the curtain back and found her like this.”

  The chief looked to where I was pointing, his eyes widening the smallest amount as he took in Linda’s figure sprawled across the floor. Unlike me, he didn’t freak out. He did give a low whistle of surprise before kneeling in front of the body and taking a closer look. He felt for a pulse, but after a few seconds, he gave a tsk of dismay and stood up.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I’m going to have to call for some help from the next town over. We don’t have an ME on call anymore.”

  “You’re borrowing the medical examiner from the city?” Rosie nosed her way in. “Can I quote you on that?”

  “No quotes,” he barked back. “In fact, you shouldn’t even be here. How did you get here?”

  “She called me.” Rosie pointed at me. “Maybe not directly, but I came here for moral support.”

  “You were listening on the scanner,” he said. “I want my scanner back.”

  “You left it at my house.”

  “You tricked me into leaving it there.”

  The two bickered for a few more minutes before I stepped between them. “What’s the next step?”

  “She needs to get out.” The chief’s chest rose and fell. It was one of the first times I’d ever seen him come close to losing his temper. Usually the mild-mannered cop was the stable force in any room. Apparently, Rosie knew ju
st which buttons to push in order to get under his skin.

  “Rosie,” I said, pulling her gently to the side. “I’ll meet you at home.”

  “How about I stay and help…” Rosie looked around for any excuse to stay. “I can help console the bride.”

  “Absolutely not. In fact, if you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to arrest you.” The chief crossed his arms.

  “For what?” Rosie stuck a skinny hand on her hip. “I’m on public property.”

  “Trespassing. Stealing my radio. Listening to secure communications. Take your pick.” He paused. “And I can’t prove it, but I know you got your hands on those confidential records I had in my cruiser last week. I just haven’t figured out how you did it. Yet. I’ll figure it out if I have to. Just make me, Rosie. Make me.”

  Rosie blew out a huge gust of air between her lips. “Fine. I’m going, but only because I want to. And remember what you promised me.”

  I nodded as Rosie pointed in my direction. The chief was staring at me as Rosie stomped off.

  “What?” I shrugged. “If I didn’t promise her an exclusive, she’d never have left.”

  He gave a slow, aggravated shake of his head. “That woman.”

  “Hey, am I evacuating the scene of a crime?” Rosie called. She had her nose pressed to the front window and waved vigorously at the two of us. “Can I quote you on that, Chief? It’s a crime scene?”

  “No!” he roared. “Get out of here.”

  I hid a small smile as Rosie slunk away, her shoulders slumped in disappointment. I knew they’d pop right back up, and she’d be like a bloodhound on the trail in a few short seconds. I gave her an hour before she bothered the chief again. She couldn’t help it; the thrill of a story ran in her veins.

  “Finally,” he muttered, squatting next to the body, his sharp eyes scanning Linda, her clothes, and the surrounding area.

  I stepped back as he walked with slow, careful steps around the figure, murmuring to himself and jotting down notes from time to time. I couldn’t read his expression, and he didn’t seem inclined to talk, so I moved back across the room and checked in with Hailey. Considering the circumstances, she was holding up better than expected.