Murder Any Witch Way: A Brimstone Bay Mystery (Brimstone Bay Mysteries Book 1)

by N. M. Howell

  There weren’t many alternatives for friends in this town, anyway. Most people blew off the idea of witchcraft as if it were some tale designed to scare children. Then there were the ones who believed it but were downright terrified of being turned into toads - which, of course, was ridiculous. Well, sort of. And then there were the very few who believed everything that they’ve heard on TV about witches to be true and obsessed over becoming friends with one. It was for those reasons that I never knew what to expect when I went anywhere public. I was either greeted politely, with complete disdain, or sheer adoration. None of us had admitted to anyone outside of the house that we were witches, so the town people’s attitude towards us was based on pure speculation.

  We all, of course, had our close friends who knew the truth. We didn’t have to hide who we were when they came to stay, but unfortunately, none of them actually lived in town. I only got to see any of my good friends when they came to visit from New York, which, of course, was very rare. Riley, for example, had only come to visit once when I first moved, preferring the flamboyant excitement of the big city to the “dreary dullness” of the small town, as he put it. If Brimstone Bay wasn’t accepting of witches, they certainly would not be accepting of a gay male witch.

  I suspected JoAnn knew I was a witch. She was exceptionally smart and spent many years traveling the world. One doesn’t spend that much time in new cultures without gaining at least some knowledge or appreciation of the paranormal. Magic is far less discreet in the more liberal cities around the world. Considering the way she studied me when I arrived on the first day of my job, I had a hunch she knew straight away what I was, though nothing was ever said. Mayor Scott, on the other hand, was less discreet about his assumptions, often making not-so-subtle magical puns whenever I was around him. I kept my mouth shut like any good witch should. He still liked to tease me about it, and I let him because, well, with a face like that, I’d let him get away with just about anything.

  “Morning River, what’s news?” He smiled up at me from his large wooden desk as I entered his office. He always greeted me with the same line, obviously thinking himself clever.

  “Oh you know, the usual,” I flirted. “Another bouncing baby boy born, another 90th birthday…” I trailed off, noticing the thousands of posters scattered over his desk and on the floor. His two young assistants were desperately trying to sort through stacks of announcement print-outs and posters with the words “Shadow Festival” printed across the pages. They must have blown all over the office due to the wind that blew in through the door. The mayor insisted on always keeping it open. It made him seem welcoming, or something along those lines.

  “What’s news with you?” I asked, amused at the carnage that was taking place in his office. I leaned against the door frame, sipping my coffee and watching the scene unfold in front of me. I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my lips as I re-read the words on the posters.

  Mayor Scott leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and gestured his muscled arms across the room dramatically.

  “How did you manage to get town approval for this one?” I asked in awe. “I don’t remember this ever coming up during the town meeting.”

  Mayor Connor Scott laughed a deep, cheerful laugh. “Ah, this town needs a little excitement. At this point, I would rather deal with the letters of complaint after the event is over than have to deal with the drama that ensues at every town hall meeting whenever a new idea is brought forward. I’ve had it up to here with those bloody church groups and lonely old widows clubs who always knock any progressive idea to the floor before anyone even has a chance to consider it in this town. The stress of it is too much, and I can’t afford to lose any of this hair.” He ran his fingers through this tousled dark locks that hung loosely over his eyes. He had a habit of brushing his hair away from his face, and he knew the effect it had on women. The only reason a place like Brimstone Bay allowed a guy like him to be elected mayor was because he came from a family with old money who had lived in town for the past few hundred years. The name Scott was scattered around many downtown buildings, and people generally had a lot of respect for the name.

  I smirked. “Well, your hair looks fine. And I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that other part.” He smiled up at me with those big, bright green eyes of his. I did my best not to swoon like a giddy schoolgirl. I think I managed it. Think being the operative word, there.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked, forcing myself to break eye contact.

  “No thanks, we’ve got it. Right, ladies?” His two assistants ignored him, obviously annoyed with their task.

  “I’ll leave you to it then.” I turned to leave, but glanced back one last time. “When is the festival coming through?” I tried my best to sound casual to not give away my excitement.

  “First week of October,” he said. He got up and walked over to me, handing me the stack of mini posters. “Here, take these back to JoAnn. If anything, you should have some juicy stories about how enraged the town will become at its new, unpredictable mayor.” He winked.

  I took the stack and left, waving casually over my shoulder as I walked away down the sidewalk.

  Yeesh, that man was good-looking. Why he chose to come back to Brimstone Bay and work in politics is beyond me. He could have built a successful career in LA as an actor or something. Ah, well. Lucky for us girls, we at least had something nice to look at other than the architecture.

  It didn’t take long for me to get back to the Brimstone Press.

  “You’re kidding me,” JoAnn said incredulously as I walked up the stairs to our office with the stack of posters. “How the hell did you manage that?”

  I laughed. She rarely swore, and I knew she must have been impressed because the word hell was way out of character for her.

  I shrugged. “I guess good ideas travel fast.”

  “When?” she asked, tossing a few papers aside to clear room on her desk for her calendar. JoAnn was funny - she embraced new technologies, always eager to test out the latest gadgets. In business matters, though, she always relied on her hand-written notes and a printed calendar with kittens on it.

  “First week of October,” I answered. I tucked one of the posters in my bag and placed the rest on the corner of her desk.

  “Ok great, that gives us lots of time to prep,” she replied with a grin, clearly pleased. “We’ll want to write a piece announcing the festival, of course, and then some background stories leading up to it.” I nodded along, grabbing my notebook and pen so I could jot down notes as she spoke.

  “We will obviously want to cover all aspects of the event as it unfolds, both the event itself and the town’s response to it,” she continued. “And definitely a few follow-up pieces, discussing the long-term, hopefully positive, effects the event will have on the town. With any luck, if we spin this the right way, this might result in Brimstone Bay opening up a little bit to future events.”

  I nodded, writing furiously as she spoke.

  “I’d like you to write the first piece today,” she said.

  I looked up at her, wide-eyed. “Me?” I asked. “Don’t you want to write that one yourself?”

  She shook her head. “No, I think this is a great opportunity for you to build your portfolio and discover your voice.” I was flattered until it dawned on me that she most likely didn’t want her name attached to any story relating to the controversial event.

  I chewed my lip. Well, if the town wasn’t weary of me yet, they certainly would be after that. Ah well, great exposure, I supposed.

  “I won’t let you down,” I said cheerily, packing up my bag with a few necessary items to complete my research. I would have to go home, grab my good laptop to do some research, and then maybe go around interviewing a few people about the event. I would have to select them carefully so as not to end up with a bunch of cranky and threatening quotes for the article.

  “Oh, and River,” JoAnn continued as I headed for the door. �
��I’d like you to cover Mr. Johnston’s 95th birthday party tonight. It’s at the hall on 4th.”

  I groaned and rolled my eyes.

  “Will do!” I bounded for the door before she could pawn any more boring stories off on me. Let the other guys handle those, for a change.

  The sun was bright, and it was another lovely late summer’s day. I strolled slowly through town on my way home, choosing to walk my bike instead of riding straight home.

  I noticed the smell of warm spices emanating from Mrs. Pots’ Bakery as I walked by, and couldn’t resist the urge to go in to see what she was cooking up.

  Mrs. Pots was a lovely, portly little woman with a kind smile that could warm even the coldest of hearts. She was the closest thing in town that we witches had to a friend. Apart from the mayor, of course. I often stopped by to chat on my way to and from work. She always welcomed us warmly every time one of us stopped by, always eager to tell us about her latest encounter.

  Mrs. Pots claimed she could speak to ghosts, you see. As I never knew any non-witch to be able to even see ghosts, I highly doubted her stories. A witch could normally tell when he or she was in the company of another magical being, and Mrs. Pots gave no hint of having any magical aura whatsoever. That being said, she was adamant that she could, in fact, speak with the otherworldly, so who was I to say otherwise?

  As I walked in, she was busying herself in front of the ovens, frantically pulling out cookie sheets filled to the brim with miniature pies and quickly replacing them with new ones as the baked goods came out perfectly golden brown.

  “Smells amazing, Mrs. Pots,” I said as I walked in the door. She hadn’t noticed me come in, and she jumped in surprise when my voice startled her.

  “Oh, it’s you, dear.” She smiled sweetly and wiped her hands on her apron as she closed the oven door on another batch of miniature pies. “Lovely to see you, sweetheart. How is work going?”

  “Wonderful,” I said, her cheery attitude was always contagious. She came around the counter to give me a big squeeze of a hug. I loved Mrs. Pots like family, and she certainly filled the maternal void as best as anyone could. Mrs. Brody took good care of us girls at the house, but she was the furthest thing from maternal anyone could get.

  Mrs. Pots handed me a cookie from the counter, always trying her best to fatten me up.

  “The Shadow Festival is coming to town,” I said through a mouthful of butter cookie, crumbs falling down all over my shirt.

  “Are you serious?” she asked, beaming up at me. She jumped up and down with joy like a little girl, clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh, how wonderful! Just think of the spirits I will get to meet. What an absolute delight. I must text my nephew, he won’t want to miss this.” She pulled her pink-cased phone from her apron pocket and immediately set to texting. Her plump fingers flew wildly across the screen.

  I had met her nephew, Roger, when I first moved to town. He was a clever kid and had an absolute obsession with witches. I’m not sure what Mrs. Pots had told him, but he followed me around like a lap dog for three full days, before heading back home to Vermont. I shouldn’t really call him a kid, as he was only a handful of years younger than I was. But at 19 he was still a teenager, which made him a kid to me.

  “He would be delighted to help you with your stories, I’m sure.”

  I did my best to look polite as she beamed up at me, but honestly that was the last thing I wanted right now. I had enough work to do as it was, and I didn’t need a shadow following me around everywhere. “Oh, I doubt he’ll enjoy that,” I offered. “It’s boring work being a journalist.”

  “Oh nonsense,” she replied, smiling down at her buzzing phone. By her absolutely thrilled facial expression, I imagined Roger was equally as excited as she was. Yipee.

  I smiled at her, trying to direct the conversation away from her nephew before I had to commit to anything else. “It will be interesting to see how the town responds to the news,” I said. “I’m supposed to write an article announcing the event. Would you be interested in offering a quote I can use for the paper? It would be nice to get some positive perspective on it.”

  Before she could answer, the door chimed behind me. Bailey bounded in, panting and out of breath.

  Bailey was one of my housemates, and she always seemed to be in a rush.

  “Hey,” I said to her through another crumbly mouthful of cookie. She nodded up at me in acknowledgment, bent over nearly half-way, leaning against her legs for support.

  “Get chased here by a bear?” I laughed at her.

  She shook her head. “Mrs. Brody…needs…her pies,” she said, through forced breath.

  I raised my eyebrow at her. “What on earth does Mrs. Brody need all those pies for?” I eyed the counter. It was covered end to end in at least a few dozen mini pies.

  Bailey finally caught her breath and wiped a sweaty strand of blond hair from her face. “She’s having another bridge night and wants to impress her guests.”

  I rolled my eyes. Mrs. Brody has bridge nights nearly every week, but based on her recent events, I didn’t think her guests were likely to be interested in pies.

  “They’re nearly ready, dear,” Mrs. Pots said, bustling about behind the counter. “Another ten minutes and they’ll be ready to go.”

  “What’s that spice I smell?” I sniffed the air. It smelled so familiar.

  “Cloves, dear,” Mrs. Pots said, her voice muffled as she poked her nose into the warm oven behind the counter.

  “Ah.” My dad used to brew tea at home with cloves; that’s why it smelled so familiar. I breathed in the warm scent, the memories flooding back. “How creative,” I said finally.

  “Well, I’ve had to step up my game since Mr. Hoity-Toity Bramley and his blabbering son Ryan started carrying those imported cakes in the café.”

  Bailey blushed and preoccupied herself with rubbing out a scuff mark on the bakery floor with her sandal. Bailey often hung around the café, having had a crush on Ryan for the past few years, or so the other girls told me. Her long blond hair and slim curves had guys drooling over her everywhere she went. She could have any guy in town, but she had her sights set on geeky Ryan Bramley, yet was far too shy to do anything about it. All the girls in the house knew, of course. It was often discussed that we should cast a spell of encouragement on the poor guy so he would build up his confidence enough to ask her out himself. Spells like that are dangerous, though, and we didn’t want to screw anything up for Bailey if we could help it. Besides, we vowed that we would never use magic on anyone outside of the house. House rules, and all that.

  Mrs. Pots took the last of the hot pies out of the oven and placed them carefully in the pretty pink containers her shop was known for, muttering something about “stupid city cakes”.

  We helped Mrs. Pots pack up the pies in the tidy little containers and placed them in cardboard boxes for easier transport.

  “Help me carry these home?” Bailey asked, picking up one of the boxes and carrying it high to hide her glowing cheeks.

  “Sure,” I laughed. I was still unsure what the purpose of the pies was.

  Mrs. Brody’s bridge nights consisted of her and the local ghosts. Often at least a dozen or so of them would show up, and they all sat around the table chatting. There was no bridge to be played, of course, as ghosts were unable to handle material objects. They were unable to eat, too, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I eyed Bailey questioningly, but she just shrugged. We never truly understood what went on in Mrs. Brody’s mind, but we learned to stop asking questions we didn’t want to know the answers to.

  Mrs. Pots placed a small container of sugar cookies on top of the pile in my cardboard box, insisting we share them with the other girls.

  “You’re going to make us all fat, Mrs. Pots,” Bailey said as she held the door open for me.

  “That’s the plan, girls, that’s the plan.” She waved goodbye to us. “Come back soon.”

  We left, and I struggled to
balance the massive box of pies on my bike seat as we made our way back home to deliver Mrs. Brody’s pies. The delicious smell from the boxes garnered a few sidelong glances from passersby as we made our way down the winding streets of the town.

  If anything, at least it looked like we were preparing for a social event. Since we were rarely seen with anyone besides each other, I hoped it would make us at least appear to be somewhat normal.

  “One last thing,” Bailey said to me, eyeing me sideways.

  “What’s that?” I didn’t dare take my eyes off the box of pies balancing dangerously on my bike.

  “Mrs. Brody has invited us to bridge night.”

  3

  After delivering the pies to Mrs. Brody in the basement apartment, Bailey and I joined the girls upstairs for some down time before I had to race off to cover Mr. Thompson’s birthday party. At least at 95 years of age, your energy levels are low, and the party wasn’t likely to last very long. I would show up, snap a few photos, get a quote from the birthday boy, and be on my way.

  As I got upstairs, Rory was busy preening in front of the large ornate mirror on the third floor. That girl spent more time fussing with her face than she did sleeping. Despite her vain outward appearance, though, she was a really down-to-earth person. She was always the one I went to when I had to vent about my day at work.

  Jane was the exact opposite. Sporty and outgoing, she was always the life of the party.

  “Hey girl,” Jane called out to me, as I climbed the rickety staircase to the third floor where she and Rory’s rooms were. There was a large open lounge room with windows along the entire back wall that overlooked the bay on their floor, so we often hung out up here. Jane was lying back on the couch, her feet kicked up over one of the armrests.