Charmed to Death
by
Constance Barker
Copyright © 2020 Constance Barker
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Thanks for Reading
Catalog of Books
CHAPTER 1
I sipped coffee and watched the first rays of sun appear over the rolling hills. I loved dawns, the promise of something new and exciting. I especially loved this dawn, as it was Easter Monday, the traditional opening of the Abbot’s Rise Farmer's Market. This was the Monday I had been looking forward to ever since the market closed in November. This was a chance to sell the charms I had created during the winter hiatus. While Christmas had been a good season for my small shop on the square, it was the farmer’s market that propelled my sales. The chance to sell lucky charms and bracelets to tourists was the highlight of my year.
“Time for a walk,” Gus said.
I turned to the beagle, who smiled, well, what I knew was a smile.
“Let me finish my coffee,” I said.
“I suggest a to-go cup,” Gus said.
I chuckled. “You might give me more warning.”
“It’s a morning thing. I’m sure you understand.”
I did understand, just as I understood my beagle could talk—thanks to magic. I also knew that Gus had been a cat before he became a dog, and he regularly surprised me. When other people were about, Gus communicated telepathically. Sometimes, I had a problem of not laughing when he made a particularly droll remark.
“You have to wear a leash,” I said.
“I know, and I’ve told you before, I’m not about to bite anyone. Not unless they’re about to attack or wearing their pants below the waist band. You don't know how hard it is not to rip those baggy britches off them ham bones. So a leash is totally unnecessary.”
“If you want to pay the fine, that’s great. How’s your bank account?”
“Very funny. Maybe I should just have an ‘accident’ inside the house.”
“Let’s not get into playing some sort of game. Get the leash. I’ll use a to-go cup.”
I slipped on a jacket before I went out, as spring mornings in my neck of the woods were still chilly. It seemed there was no one up on my block. The post-WWII houses sat silent and dark, for the most part. Two cars, Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Pike slipped past without fanfare. They were the early risers, heading off for work. I looked about for Tony, the jogger from two blocks over. He sometimes greeted me with a nod, as he passed. He was as skinny as a rail from the running, while his wife, Cathy, was one of the larger women on the block. They were living proof that opposites attracted.
Twenty minutes later, I was back in the small house where I had grown up. My parents sold me the house before they left for Florida and a much-deserved retirement. If they missed the snow, it didn’t show. They seemed as happy as they had ever been. Their departure had allowed me to set up a charm-making shop in the spare bedroom. I did most of my work at my shop; the home workshop allowed me to create during those awful winter days when no one wanted to go out.
“I have to get ready,” I told Gus.
“Me too,” he answered. “This is opening day.”
“I can’t wait.”
“I’m sure this will our best year ever.”
I pushed my hand cart through the vendors’ gate, past Bill Maston, the head of security. Big, heavy, Bill looked like the bouncer he had once been. A florid, somewhat lopsided face spoke to more than a few battles. When my mother, Georgia, organized the market, there hadn’t been a need for “security”. But she was in Port St. Lucy. George White ran the market now, and George found a reason to hire Bill.
“Good morning, Elle,” Bill said. “Looks like it’s going to be a great day.”
“It will be. Anything I should know about?”
“Not a hint of trouble, but then, Larson and Vera haven’t arrived yet.”
“I’m sure they’ll avoid each other,” I said. “Their divorce was not exactly amicable.”
“You got that right. Vera might not come at all, all things considered.”
Bill leaned down and scratched Gus’s ears. “Gonna keep him on a leash?”
“That’s the law,” I said.
We should put him on a leash.
Gus’s thought slipped into my mind, and I might have agreed. But I wanted to get to my booth and lay out the display. The gates would open in an hour, and I wanted to be ready.
CHARMED, as my shop was called, occupied a booth between Brad Price’s PREMIUM JERKY and Alice Osborne’s WREATHS FROM HEAVEN. Brad sold the best-tasting jerky made from deer, elk, bear, and a variety of other animals. Smallish, quiet, with a black mustache, he favored blue jeans and plaid shirts, the country look. I knew he had regulars who came every year to stock up on the old and taste anything new. Alice still dyed her hair blonde, although she was in her mid-sixties. Round, she sometimes wore outfits two sizes out of date, and she always had time to get into other people’s business. Since her husband of forty years had passed away, Alice had become even more of a Nosey Parker. I didn’t mind too much. Alice needed to connect to people, and gossip was her connection of choice.
Satisfied with my displays, I sat in my blue camp chair and hugged myself. It was the same every opening day. I was stoked and ready. The beautiful, spring day was warming quickly. The crowds that had labored through the cold winter would be hungry for bargains and buying. Gus settled down at my feet. I wondered how he could be so calm. This was the season opening. I loved it. Antsy, I stood and walked out of the booth, looking down the line at the other vendors. Even as I did, Larson Hall stepped out of his pickle booth. He spotted me, grinned from ear to ear and walked down the line to me.
“Good morning, Elle,” he said. “How is the prettiest charmer in Abbot Rise this morning?”
“I’m fine, Larson,” I said. Though forty-something, Larson wore the skinny jeans and black T-shirt of a young entrepreneur. His pickle business had been started by his great grandfather. The family recipes were “secret”, although Larson sometimes offered them to the prettiest women who came to his booth. I had to admit HALL’S FINEST were good pickles. But they weren’t tasty enough to land the women Larson chased. That was the word about Larson. Don’t get caught in an elevator with him.
“This is going to be a great day in a great year. I c
an feel it. People have been itching for winter to end for a month. And now, it has. We’ll be swamped, swamped. Say, why don’t you stop by later. I’ll introduce you to the new flavor I’ve invented. It will knock your socks off.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” I said. “If we’re as busy as you think, well, there won’t be much time.”
“There’s away time for a pickle or two.” He grinned. “If you know what I mean.”
I knew what he meant, and I simply smiled. The last thing I wanted was a double entendre flirtation with Larson. Luckily, the bell rang, the signal that the gates were opening.
“The witching hour,” Larson said. “We’ll talk later, Elle.”
I nodded, and he hurried away. I settled behind my tables and waited.
I thought I was the only dog around.
I laughed out loud at Gus’s comment. I was beginning to believe that Larson had more than a little bit of “dog” in him.
The Farmer’s Market was shaped in a large U, and my booth was on the backside with the other artisans and food processors. One leg of the U was devoted to fresh vegetables, and the sellers displayed greenhouse produce this early in the season. The same held for the fruit sellers on the other side of the U. It was too early for field-grown food. That wouldn’t stop the shoppers from coming around. They moseyed around the corner and started down my line. I noticed the eagerness in their faces, the itch to buy something, to try something. It had been the same for the three years I had had a booth. The food and drink vendors were packed together by the entrance. A person could spend an entire day at the market.
“Hey, Elle,” Percy said. “How goes it?”
“It’s going great, Percy. How about you?”
“You know reporters,” he said. “Wretched, ink-stained drinkers.”
I laughed. “You’re not a reporter, you’re a blogger. And no one has ink-stained fingers anymore. Although, the drinking part might fit.”
“Strictly for medicinal purposes,” he said.
I often read Percy’s blog in the Abbot’s Rise Newsletter, our local paper. He had a knack for discovering the best gossip and presenting it in a way that didn’t hurt anyone. I was pretty sure he had passed fifty years of age recently, and I knew he had been working on a novel about the town for years. Thinning hair, watery blue eyes behind thick glasses, he was neither thin nor fat, just average. He would visit my parents and pump them for information about this or that event from decades before. And I was pretty sure he hung around ABBOT’S PUB in the evening, nursing a beer and listening to the locals. Alcohol loosened lips, which suited Percy just fine. He also had a magical gift of being able to hear whispers from a distance, which came in handy for his blog.
“Got anything for me?” he asked.
“Not at the moment,” I replied. “But it’s only opening day. I’m sure there will be lots of juicy stuff soon.”
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about you let me watch your booth, while you stretch your legs? That way, I might catch something from the shoppers, and you get a break.”
“Works for me,” I said.
“I’ll watch Gus too,” he said. “Not that he needs watching.”
“I’ll be back in a few,” I said.
I walked along the booths. As I passed HALL’S PICKLES, I noticed Larson trying to sell a jar of his “finest” to a pretty, Hispanic woman with dark hair and eyes and a body most women would envy. Larson looked up in time to wink at me, which pretty much cemented my opinion of him. I kept moving, hoping the Hispanic woman knew her way around.
Around the corner, I was surprised by the array of fresh fruit available. It seemed the hot house business was going strong. Everything looked healthy and nourishing. The shoppers were stocking up. There was something about buying produce from a farmer’s bin.
Vera Hall stood off to one side, and it didn’t take a detective to notice that she had been crying. I knew I should just keep going, but that was not the right thing to do. As Gus sometimes told me, knowing the right thing to do was easy, doing it was very hard. I did the hard thing.
“Hey, Vera,” I said. “You all right?”
Vera’s smile was a half-hearted thing, hardly noticeable. “No, no, not all right. I shouldn’t burden you with my problems, but you’re probably one of the few women in Abbot’s Rise who hasn’t slept with Larson. He’s so...so egotistical. He can’t stop chasing women, and even though we’re divorced, it still hurts. I have to confess I still love him. That’s bad enough. What’s worse is that all his pursuits eat up money, my money. He’s six months behind on alimony, and I can’t pay my bills unless he forks over the cash.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “Can’t you take him to court or something?”
“That takes money too,” she said. “And if the skirt chasing isn’t bad enough, he found an Internet story about some amulet that’s supposed to hold magical powers. I’ve seen his basement, and it’s completely devoted to the search for the amulet. I happen to know that he paid a psychic a thousand dollars to pinpoint the location. Of course, the psychic is a fake. I’ve told Larson a thousand times that there is no such thing as magic or psychics. He refuses to listen. Can you think of any way to get him to give up this wild goose chase?”
I couldn’t tell Vera that I was a witch, and I had magical powers. I knew spells and curses and hexes and all manner of special rhymes. It was bad that she wouldn’t believe me. It was worse, if she did.
“Men of a certain age,” I said, “sometimes become fixated on something that represents youth to them.”
“Mid-life crisis?”
“That’s what some people call it. The problem is that unless and until they pursue the thing, they won’t give it up. There’s no way I know to shock Larson out of his fixation.”
“I was afraid of that.”
I listened to Vera for a few more minutes before I begged off and headed back to my booth. As I passed Hall’s Pickles, I spotted Larson with Martha White, and Martha had taken the spot of the Hispanic beauty. Martha and Larson appeared to be having a close contact moment, so I decided to forego a famous, spicy sweet pickle. That could wait.
I decided to pay my friend Millie a quick visit. Millie owned a small farm where she raised alpacas. It wasn’t just a labor of love, Millie used the alpaca wool to fashion yarn she used in her knitting, and she was always knitting. She could knit a sweater in no time, and every stitch was perfect. She taught knitting in the adult learning classes run at the high school. She kept very busy. I knew she had a crush on Henry Nicholls, a local beekeeper. I wasn’t quite sure how that might work out, so, I was glad that Millie didn’t ask me for advice. I was no one to emulate, as far as romance was concerned. While some people considered Millie flighty and eccentric, I knew better. She was very knowledgeable and wise. People who heeded her advice usually fared well. Her magical ability ingrained itself within her knitting, allowing folks to feel peace, energy or whimsical whenever they wore her garments. Whatever was needed at that time in their lives.
“Millie,” I said. “Who is the sweater for?”
Millie held up a stunning red, white, and blue argyle sweater. It was more than half finished, and I was impressed.
“It’s for my niece Saylor,” Millie said. “Like it?”
“It’s fabulous, as usual. How’s business?”
“I think this is going to be my best opening day ever,” she replied. “The shoppers seem ready to buy.”
“I hope so. After Christmas, it’s the doldrums. Some days, I wonder why I bother to open the shop.”
“Because staying home would be lazy, and you, Elle, are not lazy.”
“I could be. I really think I could be. I hope to be able to try it someday.”
“You’d last half a day, max.”
I laughed. “You’re probably right.”
I said goodbye and hustled along to my booth, where Percy was all grins.
“Hmmm,” I said, “you must have found something for your
blog.”
“It’s amazing what you pick up in crowds. I just learned that James Jefferson was fired by Larson Hall.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Get this, he was trying to sell Larson’s pickle recipes, the ones that have been passed down from the founders.”
“I thought they were written on papyrus, in Egyptian hieroglyphics.”
He laughed. “That’s good, and I’m going to steal it. And I don’t know how Jefferson got a hold of the recipes. For that matter, I don’t know how Larson caught Jefferson. I do know that Larson is spreading the word that Jefferson is a thief. As a thief, Jefferson won’t be able to find a job in Abbot’s Rise, not anywhere. He’ll have to disappear and hope his reputation doesn’t follow him.”
“I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Don’t. I don’t believe he had any motivation besides greed. We’re better off without him. But I have to run. The blog won’t write itself. I fed Gus half a hot dog...if that’s all right.”
“It was delicious. You could take lessons.”
Gus’s comment almost made me laugh. “It’s fine,” I told Percy. “I’m looking forward to reading your blog.”
With a wave, Percy hurried away. He was like a dog with a bone. He had to do something with his story right away. I settled down behind my displays and smiled at the shoppers as they surveyed my wares. I was proud of my ability to create helpful and eye-catching charms. Nothing pleased me more than so watch a satisfied customer walk away happy.
I closed the booth for lunch. Gus was more than happy for the break, as half a hot dog was not his idea of a meal. After lunch, I settled into the rhythm of the day, the ebb and flow of people who knew about Abbot’s Rise and its farmer's market. It was late in the afternoon, as the traffic slowed, that Larson marched up to the booth.
“I saw you,” Larson said.
“Saw me?” I asked.
“I saw you talking to Vera, and lord only knows what she told you. All lies, I’m sure. But that doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that you are meddling in my business, and I won’t have that. There are enough busybodies in this town already. We don’t need another one, even if she is the prettiest woman here. So, take heed, Missy, stay away from Vera and mind your own business.”
Charmed to Death (A Farmer's Market Witch Mystery Series Book 1) Page 1
