by Molly Fitz
Merlin the Magical Fluff
Molly Fitz
© 2021, Molly Fitz.
* * *
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Editor: Jennifer Lopez, Mistress with the Red Pen
Cover & Graphics Designer: Amala Benny, Mayflower Studio
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Sweet Promise Press
PO Box 72
Brighton, MI 48116
Contents
About this Book
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
What’s Next?
Sneak Peek of MERLIN FIGHTS A GHOST
More Molly
More Peach Plains Paranormal
About this Book
My name is Gracie Springs, and I am not a witch… but I’m pretty sure my cat is. I first started to get suspicious when he jumped just a little too high while chasing after a robin in our front yard. I knew for sure when he opened up his mouth and addressed me by name!
* * *
The first thing he told me? That he doesn’t like the name I gave him—even though “Fluffy” fits him like a warm sweater at Christmas. Now we’ve compromised on “Merlin the Magical Fluff,” which according to him references his long and proud lineage just fine.
* * *
After that small matter was settled, he informed me that I must uphold his secret or risk spending the rest of my life in some magical prison. I agreed, not knowing it would turn into a full-time job of covering his tracks and fibbing our way out of some pretty tight spots.
* * *
When my boss at the local coffee shop turns up dead as a dormouse, things go from challenging to practically impossible… especially since all my coworkers seem to think I’m to blame.
* * *
Here’s hoping my witchy cat can charm our way out of this one, because right now it looks like I’m cursed if I do and charged with murder if I don’t. Yikes!
Author’s Note
Hey, new reader friend!
* * *
Welcome to the crazy inner workings of my brain. I hope you’ll find it a fun and exciting place to be.
* * *
If you love snarky talking animals and crazy magical mishaps as much as I do, then I’m pretty sure you’re going to enjoy the journey ahead.
* * *
This book is just the first of many brain-tickling adventures to come, so make sure you keep in touch to keep in the know!
* * *
I’ve done my best to make it easy by offering several fun ways to access sneak peeks of upcoming books, monthly giveaways, adorable pictures of my own personal feline overlords, and many other cool things that are just for my inner circle of readers.
* * *
So take a quick moment now to choose your favorite:
* * *
Download my app
Join my VIP reader group
Sign up for my newsletter
Kick off a cat chat on Facebook
* * *
Okay, ready to talk to some animals and solve some mysteries?
* * *
Let’s do this!
Molly Fitz
1
My name is Gracie Springs, and I’ve always been a pretty normal girl. I work as a barista while working toward my master’s degree in Sociology. I’ve finished all my coursework but still haven’t landed upon the perfect thesis topic. And I can’t earn my degree until I do.
Oops.
Meanwhile I live in a small suburban town in Southern Georgia called Elderberry Heights. And the name fits it to a T, because most of my neighbors are somewhere north of seventy years old. I’m living in my grandma Grace’s house, which she left behind when she chose to move south to a trendy retirement community in the Florida Keys.
She gave me the home where she raised my father and all my uncles, saying it was my early inheritance and that I’d always been her favorite, anyway—and not just because we shared a name.
She left all her furniture and decor, which means my house has at least three dozen hand-crocheted doilies and the living room is made up of brown floral couches and honey oak side tables. I don’t have the heart—or the money—to change anything.
Grandma Grace also left me this ragamuffin cat that turned up at her doorstep only days before she’d been scheduled to move out and me to move in. The vet says he’s a Maine Coon. I say he’s much larger than any cat should ever be, especially considering all that stripey fur that poofs out from his body and makes him look like a literal fluff ball.
I guess that’s why I named him Fluffy.
Keeping a cat I hadn’t wanted was a small price to pay for being handed a free house, and over time Fluffy has started to grow on me. He’s not exactly the cuddly type. In fact, every time, I’ve tried to pick him up, he’s gone for blood. And succeeded in getting it twice.
I don’t try to pick him up anymore, but if I sit really still and pretend I’m not interested, sometimes he’ll help himself to my lap. Once he even purred.
Fluffy does love food and often takes a bite of whatever I’m having for dinner. He also enjoys running up and down the hallways in the middle of the night like a creature possessed.
I hadn’t meant for him to be an outdoor cat, but he’s such a good escape artist that eventually I just installed a pet door so I wouldn’t have to worry about it, anymore.
That brings me to this morning…
I was running late for work, thanks to having a particularly difficult time following a new makeup tutorial from my favorite beauty Tuber. In the end, I scrubbed off the whole thing and went with a smoky eye and nude lip. That’d teach me to try something new so close to the start of my shift.
Especially since my mean old boss would take any excuse to dock my pay. He’s still bitter that a popular franchised cafe moved in a couple streets away and cut his profits considerably. But he’s also stubborn and not quite ready to admit defeat, which is why he’s kept the whole staff on while slashing our hours and looking for any excuse to pay us less.
Great guy, that boss of mine.
I ha
dn’t seen Fluffy since breakfast and wanted to make sure everything was okay with him before taking off for my shift.
“Fluffy! Fluffy! Here, kitty, kitty!” I called and clicked my tongue, but he didn’t come running. He never comes running. It’s always up to me to find him.
And so I looked under the bed, behind the couch, and out the front window.
Finally I spotted him with his butt in the air and face toward the ground in that classic pre-pounce pose. Across the way stood an unaware robin bathing in the stone birdbath Grandma left behind with whatever few drops hadn’t yet been evaporated by the hot summer sun.
Wiggle, wiggle, went Fluffy’s butt.
He leaped, but the robin saw him coming and flittered away.
Fluffy flittered after him.
Not just a normal cat leap, either. He looked like a tiny feline athlete about to slam dunk a basketball. Up and up he went after that frightened avian target. He must have gone at least six feet into the sky and was still climbing up, up, up.
That’s when he turned his head my way and saw me watching. Those emerald eyes bored straight into mine, and for a moment he remained stuck mid-jump just hanging in the air.
Then he turned again, and the sudden movement broke the spell. Fluffy came crashing straight back to earth, then skittered out of sight, leaving me to wonder: What in the heck just happened?
I chalked the whole gravity-defying cat episode up to poor sleep and an overactive imagination, then hurried my way over to Harold’s House of Coffee.
Despite ignoring both speed limits and stop signs, I wound up three minutes late for my shift. My boss, Harold himself, stood just inside the front door waiting for me.
He tapped his wrist even though he never wore a watch and shouted, “When will you learn? Three minutes means three dollars, and since this is your second offense this week, I’m doubling it.”
I snorted and rushed past him to clock in.
“Gracie! Aren’t you listening to me?” he demanded, trailing after me like a demented duckling.
“Yes, you’re docking me six dollars for being three minutes late, even though we have no customers and you only pay us minimum wage. And even that’s because you’re legally obligated. Pretty soon I’m going to be paying you for the pleasure of standing around with nothing to do while our customers hang out at Mermaid’s Brew down the street. Does that sound about right?”
Harold’s face turned bright red. “The insolence!” he screamed. “If it didn’t cost so much to train someone new, you’d be out of a job. In fact you’re lucky that I—”
He took a step back, shook his head, and tried again. “Listen here, Gracie. You’re lucky that—”
His words stopped coming as he gasped and crumpled to the floor. From hotheaded to out cold in mere seconds.
“Harold, Harold!” I cried and fell to my knees to check if he was breathing.
He wasn’t.
I grabbed his wrist and tried to find a pulse.
I couldn’t.
Ruh-oh.
2
My boss had just dropped dead, right here in front of everyone—well, at least a couple coworkers and one customer who sat sipping a cold brew in the corner. Even though I couldn’t find a pulse, I attempted chest compressions. But Harold was already gone.
“I’m calling an ambulance!” Kelley, our newest barista, shouted from behind the cash register.
Drake, our shift manager, tromped over to the door and flipped the open sign around, then drew the blinds.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” I told our lone customer. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave now. If you have your punch card handy, I can give you a couple extra points as an apology for the inconvenience.”
Had Harold been alive, he would have fired me for that, given his propensity to nickel and dime both his staff and his customers for all they were worth. But I guess that didn’t really matter now.
The woman took a long swig of her cold brew, her green eyes wide as she regarded me, then tossed the remainders in the trash can, gathered her belongings, and high-tailed it out of there. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
Kelley rushed over to my side and glued herself there. “An ambulance is on the way.”
“Won’t do any good if the jerk is already dead,” Drake said with a scowl.
“Don’t talk like that,” Kelley shrieked, clutching a hand to her chest. “A man just lost his life!”
“Probably a heart attack,” I offered with a shrug. “It’s sad, but it happens all the time. Harold wasn’t exactly in the best of shape, besides.”
“Yeah,” Drake added with a sarcastic laugh as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. “And considering his heart was at least three sizes too small, I’d say it had a pretty hard time keeping up.”
I kept my lips pressed together in a tight line. Even though I agreed with Drake’s assessment of the man, it was a terrible thing to witness his death. Add to that the uncertainty of my future employment, and today was just an all-around crummy day.
We had a few gawkers peek through the edge of the windows where the blinds were cut slightly too short and thus allowed a glance inside. One even knocked despite the CLOSED sign. Drake pounded on our side of the door and screamed threats at the would-be customers.
I decided to focus on my work even though there was no one to make coffee for. I cleaned down all the tables and counters, praying help would arrive soon. There was something so creepy about being locked in with a dead body.
I think Drake felt it, too, because he continued to pace and prowl, all the while muttering something under his breath.
By the time the emergency workers arrived, Kelley had taken up a spot on one of the squishy club chairs, her knees drawn into her chest as she sobbed silently.
Since neither of my coffee colleagues were in shape to play host, I welcomed the paramedics and the policewoman inside, then relocked the door behind them.
“He’s right over here,” I announced, walking them toward the back area that housed Harold’s small office and gave the rest of us a place to stash our coats and scan our timecards.
Poor Harold lay on his back with his head slouched against the wall and his neck bent uncomfortably. One hand set atop his chest and the other lay splayed out at his side. His face had already started losing its color, giving him that waxen appearance that no amount of postmortem makeup could hide.
The paramedics bent to examine Harold while the policewoman remained standing at my side. “Is there a place we could go to have a chat?” she asked, her face giving nothing away.
“Sure.” I led her to the one booth we had in the back corner of the cafe, a relic from the shop’s previous life as an old pancake place. “Would you like a coffee or something?”
She shook her head and pointed to her shirt pocket. “I’m Officer Dash. And you are?”
“I’m Gracie. Gracie Springs.”
She took out a notebook, licked her finger, and flipped to a fresh page, then drew a small pen out of the binding and held it poised above the paper. “And you worked for the deceased?”
“Yes. For the past few months.”
Officer Dash scribbled away with a frown.
“Why is this important?” I asked, tapping my fingers against the tabletop.
“Just getting the facts down now in case we need to revisit them later.”
“But what do you mean?”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Ever heard the phrase presumed innocent until proven guilty?”
I nodded.
“Well, in this case, our stiff is presumed murdered until proven dead by natural causes. We can’t just assume there’s no foul play involved here, because by the time we get the coroner’s report, we’ll have already lost the opportunity to investigate the crime scene.”
My head spun. There was no way Harold had been murdered. And yet…
“Wait,” I mumbled, a horrifying thought settling into my brain. “You don’t think I had somet
hing to do with this. Do you?”
Officer Dash smirked. “From what the dispatcher told us, you were having a heated exchange with the deceased right before he keeled over.”
“Yes, but you couldn’t possibly—”
“And were these fights a regular thing?”
“Yes, but I didn’t—”
“Well, Gracie Springs. You better hope that Harold died of a heart attack or an aneurysm or some other kind of commonplace medical tragedy. Otherwise you are definitely at the very top of my suspect list.”
3
I returned home physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out. Everything happened so fast after Harold collapsed. The severity of Officer Dash’s implication didn’t fully sink in until I finally escaped the coffeehouse and began my quiet drive home. Now that I had a moment to think, a few very important questions crowded into my mind. Why was she so sure that he had been murdered? And even more puzzling, why did she believe I’d done it?
True, lots of people disliked Harold, but nobody had a reason to kill him—least of all me. I mean, why would I when I could have just quit my job and never seen him another day in my life?
