A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery

by blake, heather

  “Good luck,” Delia scoffed. “You’ll have a riot on your hands. Mr. Dunwoody forecast a divorce, remember?”

  I gazed at the crowd. “Can I take any supplies from the shop?”

  “No. Everything has to be processed first.”

  Dang. I bit my lip. There were supplies enough at home, but in their raw state. The real problem was that the Leilara was hidden away in the room behind me. Without it, my potions were simply good homeopathic remedies. But those remedies would have to do. There was no way I would risk sneaking the Leilara bottle from its secret spot—especially not with Delia sitting out here. “Tell your deputies to announce that potions can be picked up at my house at four this afternoon and to line up by number.” I stood up. “I should get going. I have a lot to do.”

  “I could help you with those potions,” Delia said.

  “Good try again,” I said to her.

  Delia pretended to examine her jagged nails.

  Dylan said to me, “I’ll come by your place later and take your statement.”

  “To my house?” I asked.

  “You have a problem with that?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “I promise not to snoop through your underwear drawer while I’m there. Well, maybe a little snooping.”

  I frowned at him.

  “I’m kidding, Care Bear. I’ll be there on official business. I’ll officially search your drawers. You might have evidence hidden away.”

  “You’re not funny,” I said.

  “I think he is.” Delia smirked.

  I couldn’t imagine this day getting much worse.

  Until someone pounded on the front door. “Carly! Carlina Bell Hartwell, open this door right now!”

  I knew that voice well.

  My mother had arrived.

  Chapter Three

  By herself, my mother, Veronica “Rona” Fowl, was a force to reckon with.

  With reinforcements, she was plain ol’ impossible to ignore. Although I couldn’t see my mother (only hear her), I spotted Eulalie, Hazel, and Marjie Fowl with their noses pressed against the display window—they must have pushed their way to the front of the crowd. Their breath created little fog clouds on the glass. The three were fraternal triplets, sixty-five years old, and never married. A hundred years ago, they might have been called spinsters or old maids, but these days, the townsfolk called the three the Odd Ducks.

  I sometimes used that term, too, but mostly I called them my aunties. They were my mother’s older sisters.

  “Carly, open up right now!” my mama hollered from somewhere in the crowd.

  “That’s my cue to go.” Delia stood up and scurried toward the back door.

  My cue, too. I didn’t want to face my mother right now. She was going to have a thousand and one questions. Maybe I could sneak out the back as well. . . .

  “I see you in there, Carly!” my mama shouted. “Don’t even think about sneaking out of that shop!”

  She could see me; however, I still couldn’t see her—she was “vertically challenged,” as she liked to say—but her tone meant business. I heard that loud and clear.

  I sighed and looked at Dylan. “Do I have to?”

  “She can’t come in here,” Dylan said. “This is a crime scene.”

  The phrase turned my stomach.

  I yelled toward the window. “Dylan says you can’t!”

  “Dylan Jackson!” my mother yelled. “Don’t make me call your mama.”

  Dylan’s lip twitched. “Go around back, Miz Fowl. Carly will meet you in the alley.”

  I looked at him. “I will?”

  “I don’t want her calling my mama.”

  “No,” I said darkly. “Anything but that.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Let it be, Care Bear.”

  I stomped on his foot as I headed for the back door.

  “Hey, now! No need for violence.”

  Somehow he always managed to bring out my temper.

  I kept my eyes averted from the break room as I passed. The coroner hadn’t yet arrived, so the body was probably still lying there. On the floor. Dead.

  There was no time right now to think about who had killed Nelson—or why—as I stepped out into the back alley. I had to deal with my mother first.

  Crime-scene tape had already been strung tight from my shop to the stand of trees opposite the back door. Dylan followed me out as I ducked under the tape. My mama had just turned the corner at the end of the alley and sashayed toward me.

  The sight of her took me by surprise.

  “What on earth is your mama wearing?” Dylan asked.

  I let out a deep breath. There had to be a good explanation. . . . There always was with her.

  All five feet, two hundred pounds of my mama had been poured into a skintight, sparkling white minidress; her normally short, bleached blond hair was hidden beneath a lion’s mane of a curly platinum blond wig; and she wobbled on four-inch golden stiletto heels. Her ample cleavage was in full view, her bustline enhanced with quivering fringe.

  I braced myself for impact as my mother reached out and grabbed me in a bear hug. “Carly! What happened? Tell me everything!”

  “Can’t breathe,” I gasped.

  Mama let go. Her big brown eyes sparkled with excitement. “Rumor has it someone got themself killed inside your shop.” She leaned in and whispered in a loud voice, “You didn’t go killin’ someone, did you, sugar? I know how hot your temper can get sometimes.”

  Dylan chuckled behind her.

  “Nelson Winston is dead, and, no,” I said, holding on to my temper with all my might, “I didn’t kill him.”

  Mama’s hand flew to her mouth. “Nelson? Didn’t Marjie try to shoot him last week?”

  “Warning shot!” I cried. My silver locket grew hot in my palm as I squeezed it tight. Bits of my mama’s and Dylan’s energies were starting to creep in on mine. Mama’s enthusiasm; Dylan’s uneasiness. I drew in some deep breaths to try to keep their feelings at bay. If they kept encroaching on mine, I was going to have to step aside—far aside. At least ten feet. Distance usually helped in situations like this.

  “Where are the Odd Ducks?” Dylan asked. “They were with you a minute ago, weren’t they?”

  “They aren’t real fond of the police,” my mama said, batting her long fake eyelashes.

  An understatement, for varying reasons.

  Dylan was going to have to interview Marjie, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be shot at, too.

  Marjie had a bit of a trigger finger.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Oh! Nothing to worry your pretty little self about.” She patted my cheek.

  Which made me worry. A lot. I had a feeling this little getup probably had something to do with her wedding chapel, Without a Hitch, and Mama’s crazy schemes to increase business.

  Right now, I didn’t want to know.

  In fact, I was pretty sure I never wanted to know. That fringe scared me.

  The coroner’s van pulled into the alleyway and made my heart drop clear into my stomach.

  “You two should go,” Dylan said.

  “Before they bring out Nelson’s dead body?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, Mama. Before then.”

  Mama pursed her lips. “Can’t we stay for just a few seconds more? I just want one little peek.”

  Mama had a morbid streak a mile wide, plus she liked to gossip. A story like this would have all the town biddies gathered round her for weeks.

  “No,” I said, and steered her toward the end of the alley.

  “Was there a lot of blood?” Mama asked.

  “Where’s Daddy?” I asked, hoping for an ally.

  “Still at his fancy conference. He’ll be home tomorrow morning.”

  My father, Augustus Hartwell, was the director of the Hitching Post Public Library, and had been away at a national library conference for a f
ew days. I thought he’d be back by now. “Does he know about this outfit?”

  She smiled a Cheshire cat grin. “He will soon enough, but just wait till you see what he’ll be wearing.”

  “Daddy has an outfit, too?”

  “Of course!”

  Now I was getting really worried. Especially if his had fringe, too.

  I motioned over my shoulder toward the police tape. “Could you do me a favor and not tell him about what happened here until he gets back? He’ll just worry, and there’s nothing he can do about it now.”

  Mama patted my cheek. “As long as you don’t tell him about this costume if he calls.”

  “Deal,” I said without hesitation.

  Dylan called after us, “I’ll be over later, Carly. Don’t forget.”

  I planned to turn off all the lights and hide in my bedroom with a box of cookies.

  “I still have a key, remember,” he added.

  Dang! Why hadn’t I gotten around to changing those locks?

  Best I clean out my underwear drawer.

  Just in case.

  • • •

  I borrowed my mama’s wig (she told me to keep it because she had a spare), and made my way around the Ring, along the sidewalk, past the bakery, the candle shop, a book and gift shop, a jewelry store, Emmylou’s Café, and into the storefront next to mine with no townsfolk recognizing me.

  I didn’t think the disguise was all that good, so it must have been the arrival of the coroner that had captured their attention.

  Whatever the reason, I was grateful for the distraction as I pulled open the door to Caleb Montgomery’s law office.

  The picture of spiffy Southern gentlemanly perfection, Caleb himself sat at the desk in the reception area and busted out laughing when he saw me.

  “Wait, wait,” he said. “Let me get my camera.”

  I pulled off the wig and threw it at him. “Do and die.”

  “Homicidal suddenly, aren’t you? I heard you offed Nelson Winston.”

  I sank into a neutral-colored armchair across from him. “I didn’t off anyone!”

  “What about your aunt Marjie? Did she off him?”

  “It was a warning shot!”

  Caleb Montgomery had been one of my closest friends since grade school. These days he was the best quickie divorce lawyer in town. His office was decked out in high style with expensive furnishings and decor. However, he’d yet to find himself a good receptionist—it was hard to live up to Caleb’s high standards.

  Which also might explain his short-lived relationships.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Marjie could hit a moving target at a hundred feet with her shotgun. If she wanted to shoot someone, that person would be full of shot by now.”

  He spoke from painful experience. Once when he was a teenager, Marjie caught him sneaking into her shed, where (rumor had it) she stored her homemade liquor. She’d gone after him with a BB gun. He still had a pellet or two stuck in his rump.

  I still felt bad about the incident—after all, I’d been the one to start the rumor. “Well, as far as I could tell, Nelson wasn’t full of holes, but he did have a big crack in his head.”

  Caleb leaned forward. “What was he doing in your shop?”

  “No idea. I was hoping you might know something.”

  “Me?” His gray-blue eyes widened. “Why me?”

  “You’re both lawyers.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe he told you something lately?”

  “I can’t speak to the dead, Carly.”

  I sighed. “It would be nice if you could.”

  He ran a hand over his hair to check for flyaways, despite the fact that there hadn’t been a dark hair out of place since grade school. Caleb was the persnickety sort and wasn’t afraid of hair products. Or starch. His white button-down shirt was pressed to within an inch of its life. “Can’t say he had any enemies.”

  Nelson had no enemies I knew of, either. He was about ten years older than I was—just over forty—wasn’t married, had no kids, and lived in a big house overlooking the Darling River. He was popular around town, taking on cases for little to no fee. He gave back to the community and was personable and outgoing.

  “Well,” I said. “Someone killed him. In my shop. Why?”

  “Did you ever sell him any potions?”

  “I don’t think he ever came into the shop at all. At least not while I was there. I need to check with my daddy and Ainsley.”

  He tapped a pen on the desk. “Are you sure Aunt Marjie is innocent?”

  “Caleb.”

  “Fine, fine.” He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Seems to me that whoever had a grudge against him likely had one against you, too.”

  It was an angle I hadn’t thought of. “Me? Why?”

  “Why else would his dead body be in your shop? How many enemies do you have?”

  I bit my lip. “None that I know of.”

  “Liar, liar.”

  “Okay. A few.” People who’d come to me for advice and hadn’t liked what I said. Plus, as my mama mentioned, I had a bit of a temper and wasn’t afraid to speak my mind. “I have a hard time believing this is about me, though. What kind of cases was Nelson working right now?”

  Caleb leaned back in his seat. “The only case I know of is Coach Butts’s. Nelson took it over recently from a Birmingham firm.”

  That’s right. I should have remembered that. The case was the talk of the town.

  Coach Floyd Butts. A perfect surname for such a jackass of a man.

  Even though Coach and his wife insisted the last name was pronounced Boots, everyone around here still said Butts behind their backs. We were a childish lot.

  Until four months ago, forty-year-old Coach Butts was the high school gym teacher and the local youth baseball coach. That was until an audit concluded he’d pilfered league funds to the tune of twenty thousand dollars. At first he’d hired a fancy firm to defend him, but he fired them abruptly and then, at his older sister, Bernice’s, urging, hired Nelson. Bernice Morris worked as Nelson’s secretary, and had talked Nelson into taking the case pro bono as a favor to her.

  It was quite the favor.

  Especially since following Coach’s arrest his personality had taken a bit of a dark turn. He’d picked more fights around town in the past few months than I could count. Coach had become a very angry man, raging against . . . life in general.

  The town was split fifty-fifty on Coach’s guilt. I’d had Coach Butts for ninth-grade PE, when he was fresh out of college. I knew darn well he used to try to peek up the girls’ shorts when they climbed the ropes. I had serious doubts about his innocence.

  Nelson had quite the challenge defending him, but as far as I knew he’d thrown himself into the case and supposedly was doing a stellar job.

  “Do you know why Coach fired that Birmingham firm?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Can you find out?”

  Caleb narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Do I need to remind you that there’s a dead man in my shop?”

  It didn’t escape me that Coach Butts was one of my known enemies—ever since I reported him for looking up those shorts.

  I didn’t have much to do with him these days, except through interactions with his wife, Angelea, who I’d gone to school with. I didn’t agree with their relationship—they had started secretly dating while she was still a student in high school, and even though she’d been eighteen it still made my stomach turn a bit, with him being a teacher and all. They’d been married twelve volatile years now and had been separated more times than I could count, venturing off to date other people. Their latest breakup was a ten-month-long stretch last year that I thought would seal the fate of their marriage once and for all.

  But they always seemed to come back together, despite probably being better off without each other. Currently, they had been back together for almost six months now.

  It might be a record for them, one that p
robably had more to do with keeping up appearances in light of Coach’s recent run-in with the law than anything. Especially if the rumors that she was stepping out on him (again) were true.

  Angelea was one of those frustrating women who sought her worth in a man. Any man, it seemed, married or not.

  She was what my Grammy Adelaide would have called a vixen, and Grammy Fowl would have called a tramp.

  I just called it sad.

  Angelea was a loyal customer. In fact, I’d just seen her on Wednesday morning when she came in for a sleeping potion to fight her insomnia. We talked about a lot of things but never her husband—she knew how I felt about him and how he felt about me. He despised me so much that she had to keep her potion habit secret from him, hiding her bottles in her car, her yard, and at her friends’ houses.

  The more I thought about Coach, the more my witchy senses tingled. Something was off with him. Way off—I could feel it in my witchy bones. And if my witchy senses were involved, that meant he was either in danger . . . or he was the danger. Could he have had something to do with what happened to Nelson? It wasn’t a possibility I could rule out at this point.

  Standing, I grabbed the wig from the desk and put it back on.

  “What’s with the wig?” Caleb asked.

  “It’s my mama’s.”

  “Enough said.”

  “I’ve got to go. I have potions to make.”

  “I heard about the forecast.” He eagerly rubbed his hands together. “Can’t you skip the potions this once? Or give them fakes or something?”

  Technically that’s what I was going to have to do, since I couldn’t use the Leilara. I hoped the potions would have a placebo effect and no one would be the wiser about the concoctions missing the secret ingredient.

  Rolling my eyes, I said, “You get enough business on your own.” Divorces were more common here than one would think.

  “You’re no fun.”

  I strode to the door and turned back to look at him. “When are you going to let me set you up with someone?”

  “Let me think.” He tapped his chin. “Never? Save your matchmaking for someone else, Carly Hartwell.”

  He was a confirmed bachelor—a hazard of his job. Not because of the long hours he worked, but because of all the marriages he’d dissolved.