Chapter Sixteen
A few minutes later, after seeing Caleb off, I decided I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. I needed to open the shop.
The lock on the front door of the Little Shop of Potions turned easily, reminding me that I still needed to call a locksmith. The familiar scents of the shop greeted me, erasing some of my unease. I breathed in deeply jasmine and vanilla as I looked around, took stock.
Colorful potion bottles were in disarray on the shelves, and I noted in dismay that one or two lay in shards on the floor, knocked over by a careless hand. I guessed the “stain magicians” had worked their magic only in the break room.
The back hallway was in shadow, dark and foreboding. My feet felt glued to the floor as I trudged toward the potion room . . . and the break room. As I passed a wall plate, I cut on the lights and the shop brightened immediately, further relieving my anxiety.
The door to the potion room was open, and I peeked inside. Nothing seemed amiss from the way I’d left it the day before when I made Francine Debbs’s hangover potion. I pressed onward, ready to face my fears.
Bracing a hand on the wall, I peered into the break room. Part of me had fully expected to find another dead body. . . . But all was clear. The room was immaculate, scrubbed top to bottom. My gaze lingered on the tile floor, and I knew without a doubt that it was going to have to be replaced. The walls painted. The cabinets torn out. It would be the only way I’d be able to use the space again—if it felt new. Untarnished. Mine, and mine alone.
Glancing at the back door, I noted that the double locks were still bolted. There hadn’t been another break-in. Good to know.
I grabbed a broom and other cleaning products from the supply closet and went to work in the shop cleaning up broken glass.
An hour later the floors were immaculate, the potions bottles were back in alignment, and I hadn’t had a single customer, even though plenty of people had stopped by to gawk through the window.
When the phone rang, I snatched up the receiver, glad to have something to do.
“Carlina Bell Hartwell, you have to help me,” my daddy said. He sounded out of breath.
“What’s wrong? Are you back in town?”
“Got in this morning. And it’s your mama. . . .”
I couldn’t help my smile. My mama was all kinds of wrong, it was true. “Did you find out what Mama’s planning exactly? Mr. Braxton is all worked up over her sabotaging his big weekend.”
“Don’t I know it?”
I rather hoped she changed her plans. “Is she still planning to sabotage his weekend?”
“Of course she is. You know your mama when she has a bee in her bonnet.”
“There’s no stopping her.”
He let out a deep breath filled with frustrated vibrato. Next to my mama and my aunt Eulalie, there was no one more dramatic than Augustus Hartwell. He had learned from the masters.
He said, “She is a freight train out of control.”
“And you?” I asked, playing along. I found it was best just to humor his rants.
“I am but her caboose, being dragged along behind her by the braids of my wig.”
“The braids of what?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.
“My wig,” he repeated. “It’s why I called, Carly. I’m in desperate need of your help before your mama makes a fool of me this afternoon.”
A braided wig. I couldn’t wait to see what Mama had in mind. “Tell me what I can do.”
“First, I need you to—”
My head snapped up as the shop door swung open. “I need to call you back, Daddy.”
He protested. “But, Carly—”
“I’ll call you right back,” I said, and hung up, feeling guilty about cutting my daddy off. But I knew he’d understand if he could see who was here.
“Is it a bad time?” she asked as she scooted into the shop, throwing a look over her shoulder as if afraid someone might see her.
Which was understandable, considering most of the townsfolk suspected I had tried to kill her husband.
“What are you doing here, Angelea?”
Coach Butts’s wife was a pretty little thing, with long curly red hair, fair sun-kissed skin, and pouty lips. She and Floyd Butts had met while she was still in high school, she the head cheerleader and he the school’s gym teacher. It was a scandalous relationship and the only things that had kept him out of jail and from being fired were the facts that she’d been eighteen when they started dating and that their relationship hadn’t come to light until after she graduated.
When she found out she was pregnant.
They eloped right off and had come back to tongues wagging about their marriage. They weathered the storm, but unfortunately Angelea had miscarried after a month or two and had never been able to conceive again despite years of trying. Even my potions hadn’t helped any.
Rumor around town was that she’d faked the initial pregnancy all those years ago to trap Coach into marrying her. . . . Why, I’d never understand. Angelea could have had her pick of men. And still did, which she regularly proved whenever she and Coach were separated.
Why they kept getting back together was beyond me.
“I need a potion made up,” she said. “I heard about Mr. Dunwoody’s forecast yesterday.”
It seemed so long ago that he’d predicted sunny with a chance of divorce.
“You want one of my potions?” I asked, noticing she didn’t look so good and didn’t seem herself. Dark circles colored the fair skin beneath her eyes, and instead of her usual skintight jeans, heels, and tank top, she wore a pair of baggy cargo pants and a thick sweatshirt. In this heat. Something was definitely off. “Even after everything’s that happened?”
Chipped manicured nails gleamed as she waved a hand. “I’ve known you a long time, Carly. You don’t have it in you to hurt someone like that.”
It was nice of her not to bring up the pitchfork incident with Mrs. Jackson. She’d been at that party.
“Plus,” she added, “I don’t give a damn what other people say.”
Now probably wasn’t the right time to point out that her husband had accused me of poisoning him. If she was willing to overlook it, so was I.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Did that sleep potion I made work okay for you?”
The mix of lemon balm, valerian, chamomile, and Leilara should have worked like a . . . well, like a charm. Since it was, in fact, charmed. But she looked like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a month of Sundays.
Rolling her eyes, she shifted her weight and tossed another look over her shoulder. For someone who didn’t care what others said, she was sure nervous about being seen in my shop.
“I didn’t get a chance to use it. Floyd found the bottle and asked me a million questions.” Fussing with her collar, she said, “He didn’t give it back. And now the police have it, as you probably know.”
The bottle had been empty when Coach crashed. Had he dumped it out? “This is going to sound strange, but the remnants in that potion bottle weren’t those of the sleeping cure I gave you. Do you know what might have been in it?”
Her face drained of color. “In it? No . . . I don’t. Was it something bad?”
“The police are looking into it. It just didn’t smell like anything familiar. And the bottle was empty when Coach had it, but you say you didn’t drink any, so . . . what happened to the sleeping potion?”
“I-I don’t know. That’s surely strange,” she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Her strange behavior was making me suspicious that she knew more than she was letting on. I tapped into her energy for a second and felt evasiveness wash over me. She was lying. “Are you sure you don’t know what happened to that potion?”
“I’m sure,” she said. “Maybe Floyd knows.”
“Maybe,” I murmured, wondering what she was hiding. “How’s he feeling?”
“Much better. My apologies about your house. Whatever the insu
rance doesn’t cover, we will, of course.”
Bass vibrated through the floor from distant yet loud music. I glanced out the window but didn’t see anything. “What’s that, do you think?”
“It’s probably from your mama’s block party,” Angelea said.
“Her what?”
Angelea smiled, and it lit her whole face. “The block party? Your mama’s quite the sight, I have to tell you.”
A block party. My word. I was definitely going to have to rescue my daddy—but not before I took a picture of how my mama had trussed him up. “Give me a quick sec, and I’ll fix you up a love potion. Then I’ve got to see what’s going on.”
“Wait,” she said, grabbing my arm as I passed by her. “It’s not a love potion I want, Carly.”
“But you said . . . about the forecast?”
“Right. But I don’t want a love potion. I want to make sure that the breakup Mr. Dunwoody predicted is my own. I want a divorce potion. I-I actually told Floyd earlier this week that I want a divorce. We’ve been living separate lives for so long now. . . . This divorce is a long time coming, and I want to make sure I actually go through with it this go-round.”
I felt my eyes go wide. “A divorce potion?”
“Surely you can concoct one,” she said, a desperate gleam in her eye.
“Actually, I can’t,” I said. “Divorce falls outside my abilities.” One of Delia’s hexes, however, would be just the thing she needed. Not that I told her so.
Water filled her eyes. “Why not?”
“My potions are to foster love, to heal, to fix.” Not to cause pain. I studied her carefully and noticed the anguish in her eyes she was trying desperately to hide. “Why do you think you wouldn’t go through with the divorce?”
People came from all over Alabama to Darling County for its quickie, no-muss, no-fuss divorces. We had laws here that didn’t apply to the rest of the state, grandfathered in from a time when government wasn’t quite so involved in people’s love lives.
“It’s like Floyd has a spell cast on me, making me come back to him time and again. It’s time I leave. For good.”
I thought it was a sensible decision. “How’d he take the news?”
She let out a weary sigh. “About as well as you’d expect with his temper these days.”
“He didn’t hurt you—”
“No, no. But he was angry as the devil, punching walls, throwing things, and accusing me of cheating on him. I had to promise to give him another chance just to get him to calm down.” Her voice cracked. “So I’m still living there, and now he’s hurt. . . . And he’s already vowed to fight a divorce if I do go through with it, dragging it out to a bitter end.”
Ah, there was the rub. Quickie divorces were only quickie if both parties agreed to the terms. I wanted to ask if she had been cheating, because most of the town had heard those rumors, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“I just want out.” Her shoulders shook and she wrapped her arms around herself.
I motioned her to a stool. “Have you two tried counseling?”
A tear dripped from the corner of her eye. “I don’t think it will help. We’re too far gone. As you know, we’ve always been at odds, but this court case has just torn us apart.”
“Because he’s guilty?” I prodded. I couldn’t help myself.
She gave me a weak smile. “His ego has been bruised and battered,” she said, not answering the question. “It didn’t help that right around the time he was arrested we found out that it’s near impossible for him to have kids, neither. Some sort of complication of his diabetes. He’s taken that hard. So hard.”
Ah. That would explain why none of my fertility potions had worked on Angelea. The issue had been with Coach. “Maybe if he comes in, I can make something that will help. . . .”
Fear filled her eyes. “Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. He’s not all that fond of you, and, in fact”—she winced—“he thinks your potions are to blame for my infertility. He believes that your potions made me barren so he couldn’t have kids.”
“That’s . . .” I was at a loss for words.
“Crazy. I know. He’s . . .” She searched for words. “He’s not really thinking straight right now. He hasn’t been really. Not for a while. He hasn’t touched me in months. He’s a shadow of the man I married. I need to get out.”
Once I would have thought that being a shadow of his former self wasn’t a bad thing. Seeing as how his former self was a big jerk. But in light of the fact that he’d been losing touch with reality, this news wasn’t good.
She looked up at me through lowered lashes. “I just want . . . I want him to get better—but without me.” Letting out a deep sigh, she said, “What am I going to do now?”
Even though I didn’t particularly like Coach, I did like Angelea. I hated seeing her hurting so, but wasn’t sure what kind of advice to give her. Finally, I said, “Maybe you should talk to Caleb Montgomery. He’s the best divorce lawyer in town, and he’ll know how best to handle this.”
Pulling a hankie from her purse, she nodded stoically. “Maybe I should. This stress is hurting me, too. “
“I can help with that.”
She looked like she was about to decline, then nodded.
I left her in the front of the shop and went to work on her potion. As I took out the Leilara from its hidey-hole, I glanced at her through the pass-through.
She looked over her shoulder once again and moved off to the side, out of sight of anyone happening by.
“Are you afraid Coach isn’t going to like you being here if he catches wind of it?” I asked.
“It’s not that. It’s just—” She tossed another glance out the window.
“Just?” I prompted as I gathered ingredients.
“It’s probably silly, but I can’t help but feel like someone’s been following me.”
I stopped working and took a good look at her. There was a hint of fear in her eyes, but when she blinked it was gone.
“Silliness,” she said with a wave of her hand.
Ordinarily, I’d have agreed with her. But strange things were happening in this town. “Is there any reason someone would be following you? No one has threatened you, have they?”
Uneasily, she laughed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just being paranoid.”
I let my guard down to feel her energy, and a wave of overwhelming anxiety crashed over me. I quickly wrapped my hand around my locket and blocked out her emotions. She might have a smile on her face, but under the surface she was a wreck. There were definitely things she wasn’t telling me, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to prod her any more than I had.
Very carefully I put in two drops of Leilara into the fuchsia-hued bottle. Wisps of magic rose into the air and wafted away.
Angelea said, “Almost done?”
“Almost.” I attached two small tags with directions on how to use the potion and placed the bottles in a purple packing box.
Her head lifted and cocked to one side. “You hear that?”
Muted music—singing—filtered into the shop. I recognized my mama’s voice instantly.
Angelea’s smile this time was genuine. “Your mama’s something.”
“That she is.” I needed to get out there to see exactly what she was up to. As I quickly went about mixing the stress potion, Johnny Braxton’s threat echoed in my head.
Just fair warning. No one messes with my bottom line and gets away with it.
Johnny wasn’t a man to bluff. I could practically smell retribution in the wind. What that would be was anyone’s guess.
Chapter Seventeen
I closed and locked the shop and hung a sign on the door that I’d be back as soon as possible.
Finding my mama wasn’t going to be a problem—I simply followed the noise. Currently, she was belting out “9 to 5,” a classic Dolly Parton song, which perfectly explained yesterday’s costume of a blond wig, sky-high heels, and low-cut dress that r
evealed bodacious cleavage.
It appeared as though she was having her own country extravaganza, and everyone around here knew Dolly trumped Johnny Cash any day of the week.
Mama had purposely one-upped Johnny Braxton.
He was going to be fit to be tied.
I quickly picked up my pace and as I exited the Ring and rounded the corner, I found sawhorses blocking off Magnolia Lane, the next street over, which housed not only Mama’s chapel but Johnny Braxton’s as well.
With bass pulsing through my veins, I bypassed a large sign that boasted RONA’S BLOCK PARTY, and stopped dead in my tracks.
Lordy be, as Ainsley would say.
A stage stood smack-dab in the middle of the street in front of mama’s chapel. A huge crowd was gathered round it, swaying and clapping as mama finished her song. Tents had been set up on the grounds of the chapel, and it looked a lot like the white-elephant sale except under these tents there were wedding games, like wedding bingo and a Newlywed Game–type contest, a dance floor, a reception buffet. There were prizes of free weddings and honeymoons.
Mama had gone all out in upstaging Johnny.
All out.
Mama shook her booty salaciously as she launched into “Jolene” at the top of her capable lungs. She shimmied back and forth, as comfortable in five-inch golden stiletto heels as she was in bare feet. Her ample cleavage was in full view, her bustline enhanced with that quivering fringe.
The crowd ate it up.
Thoroughly amused, I looked around for my father, afraid that he hadn’t been joking yesterday about being sent to an early grave—or, after having seen this whoop-de-doo, he might have opted to put himself in one. Rightly so.
Though he had dramatic tendencies, my daddy wasn’t the attention-seeking type. Not the least bit. In fact, he reminded me a lot of Bashful from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Except for the fact that he wasn’t a dwarf, I should say. He was tall and balding with big eyes, round cheeks, and trimmed white whiskers, and was prone to blushing.
At first I had trouble finding him—I’d glanced past him three times before I realized it was my daddy holding up the side of the chapel, looking like he was trying to blend in with the whitewashed barn board. Which wasn’t even remotely possible with the way he was dressed.
A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery Page 15
