Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  “My gal’s robbing men? I don’t think you’ve got it right.” He peered down at me, wearing his impassive cop face and shaking his head. “I told you to leave Kat alone. Jealousy doesn’t suit you, sugar.”

  “And you’re not thinking with your brain, Deputy Harper.”

  His jaw worked. The cement floor grew cold as I waited. Or maybe it was the air between us.

  “I’ve got a job to do,” he said. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  I didn’t think I’d get any angrier. Or more hurt.

  But I did.

  * * *

  IN THE HOLDING area, I searched for the Bear, but he’d escaped the trap. Chris Dozen had not. And neither had Misty and Claire. Without masks or Daisy Duke’s I barely recognized the Honkers hostess and bartender. If it hadn’t been for Chris Dozen’s outrage upon seeing them, my eyes might have skipped over the two women wearing Prada suits and French twists. Another costume.

  Obviously not from Party Barn.

  Once Chris Dozen finished his tirade—that had more to do with their effrontery of showing at an elitist event than them stealing from his friends—I turned on the women.

  “I was hoping to turn you in myself,” I said. “But it looks like the law beat me to it.”

  They smirked. “And you’ll be sharing a cell with us. Except we won’t have a problem with bail.”

  My restraint should be noted. I’d have bruises where my fingers dug into my hips. But I’d also have the last laugh when they were carted to Forks County Jail in the paddy wagon while I walked to town. “Where’s Katty?”

  “Ask John Smith,” said Misty. “The way you talk, you know him pretty well. Too bad for you.”

  * * *

  FOR ALL THE trouble I’d gone through, Josiah should get his own damn codpiece back in his own damn ancestral home. But I remembered his broken leg and the broken-hearted goat in my backyard. My broken heart had also not mended, but righteous anger helped with that. At the auction raid, Luke had let me go, but I believed he did it to avoid my hissy fit before his fellow deputies, more than he “didn’t have time for my shenanigans” when he “needed to arrest real criminals.”

  But I had secured the codpiece and Josiah’s allegiance to assist me with the town council. After meeting with Josiah, I had fed Tater veterinarian-issued roofies and explained how I was sending him home for his own good.

  “You’re stronger and it’s time for you to confront your own homewrecker,” I said as Grandpa loaded the sleepy goat into his truck. “If you want to be with your gal, you need to show her how you feel.”

  Grandpa gave me a strange look and headed back to the farm.

  As dusk fell and the trick-or-treaters sprang from their homes, I headed to the center of Halo, where more than a century ago, the well-to-do had built their Victorians and Queen Annes. The Sweetons had the single Neoclassical Revival in Halo, which said something of their stature in our whistle stop town. Josiah had given me a house key, the safe’s combination, and specific instructions.

  On the surface, it seemed easy. I was to deliver the goods into the safe and skedaddle. Josiah had invited Mother to his house to pass out candy to the trick-or-treaters. The Bear had also been invited, at his own insistence. I’d kept my end of that bargain, thankful he’d also thought to wait out the sting and pick me up on the county highway.

  What Josiah didn’t reckon was Darth Vader standing on his porch. Tall, immovable, and oppressive, like the giant columns supporting the ornate portico he stood between.

  SIXTEEN

  I HUNG FOR a minute, at the corner of the neighbor’s fence. If not for the autumn leaf-scented breeze rattling his plastic cape, I might have missed him. This street of declining, century-old homes had a few porch lights on, but most kids knew the good stuff would be found in the newer subdivisions on the outskirts.

  The key Josiah had given me would fit the back door. I would need to sneak past Darth to follow the drive under the side’s porte-cochere and through the back gate. But before I could do any sneaking, Darth spied me. I climbed the porch steps at his beckon, fighting off the urge to kick a jack-o-lantern.

  “John Smith?” I said. “You use that on all your secret girlfriends?”

  Darth gave me a loud Darth breath, then pulled his helmet off. Luke ran a hand through his flattened curls then placed it on his hip. “John Smith is the fence. He works at the auction in security. I think you met him.”

  “Combat?” I tried to reignite my fizzling righteous anger. “And I suppose you’re not seeing Katty Bomar?”

  Sucking on his lip, he shook his head.

  “Are you trying not to laugh at me? Because I’m already sorely ticked and that just might send me over the edge.”

  “I don’t think you want to have a fit on Mrs. Sweeton’s front porch. What will the neighbors think? Anyway, we might as well get to your breaking and entering before anyone does see us.” He replaced his helmet. “I noticed you dressed the part, too.”

  I glanced at my cat burglar outfit. Complete with tail and ears. And unlike Shawna, whiskers. “I’m not breaking and entering. I have a key, security code, and permission to be here.”

  “From Mrs. Sweeton, the owner of the house, or Josiah? Still a B and E, sugar.”

  “Don’t ‘sugar’ me.” I slipped the key from the backpack, telling myself not to feel pleased that Luke would break the law for me.

  We entered into a foyer smelling of pine polish and pressed flowers. Luke closed the door behind us and gestured to the front staircase. “I assume you know where to go.”

  He waited while I climbed the stairs. I found the safe, replaced the heirloom, and hightailed it back to safety. It gave me the jitters, even knowing I was reverse-robbing. I’d make a terrible burglar.

  On the bottom step, I halted to study the-man-who-had-not-strayed. Of course, if he’d been more communicative, I wouldn’t have suspected him. “How did you know I was returning the codpiece tonight?”

  “It wasn’t hard to figure the man you were helping was Josiah Sweeton. What interested me was the family heirloom. Tamara told me you came to the station and tried to get information on a robbery case. Pretty easy to put together what had happened. But then you started showing up at Honkers.”

  “I found Chris Dozen’s invitation at the country club. By coincidence did I learn of your cheating ways when following that lead.”

  He smirked, infuriating me more. “Kat Bomar is John Smith’s girlfriend, not mine. She was helping me with a multi-jurisdictional criminal investigation that’s been building for months. A traveling auction trolling internet sites, searching for buyers besides their regular clientele. Buyers who don’t ask for the item’s official provenance? Sound familiar?”

  “And did you know Kat’s been drugging and stealing from historic preservation board members with some of the other waitresses? And using her young cousin to do it?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  I planted my hands on my hips, dug in, and winced. “I have it from Melissa Bomar’s lips. She thinks the Catwomen were getting back at handsy customers. Melissa didn’t even know they were robbing and giving the loot to John Smith.”

  “That will help her in court. As long as she indicts Misty and Claire, who were going through John on their own. They know him through Kat, just like they know who’s got valuable antiques in their homes through Chris Dozen’s preservation board friends. They all drink at Honkers after the meeting on Chris’s dime. Loose lips sink ships and the men love nothing more than to brag about their family jewels.” He winked. “So to speak.”

  “Stop your winking. And stop flashing those dimples.”

  “But hon’, y’all did good. You figured it out and returned Josiah’s whatever to his momma’s house. What was it by the way? I didn’t find anything when I searched you.”

  I gave up fighting the grin curling my lips. Luke had been so fearful of my anger that night, he barely patted me. Not that it was easy to find a codpiece
among all the crinoline.

  “You can understand why I was anxious to have those men report the robberies.” Luke stepped closer. “They didn’t trust me, but they trusted you. Kat was my informant on the auction. She got her information from John. But she didn’t tell me about the girls. I didn’t know anyone was mugging locals until you tipped me off.”

  “I never trusted her for a minute.”

  “Because you’re jealous.” He grinned.

  “Am not.” I studied the pine flooring to escape the silvery glow in his smiling eyes. “I can’t help it. Women constantly throw themselves at you.”

  “Baby, haven’t you notice how I step aside before they hit?” He brushed a finger down my arm. “Anyway, I have you to thank for giving me a bonus in this case. I was only after the auction site for fencing stolen goods.”

  Whatever he was doing, it was working. “You were stalking me at the parties. But you didn’t do anything when the bartender roofied me.”

  “I got you home, didn’t I? Never seen you so drunk. And here I thought you were slugging back the nasty love potion because you were sore with me. That was painful, getting kicked out of your house like that. I could barely concentrate on the raid, thinking about you.”

  “You deserved it if you were seeing some Honkers girl on the sly. If you had told me what you were up to...” I sniffed back a tear. “I guess we’re not so good at trusting each other.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” Luke held his arms open. “We’ve come a long way, sugar.”

  I stepped into him and let my head fall against his plastic breast plate.

  He wrapped his arms around me and deposited a kiss on the top of my head. “It ate at me, having to keep this a secret until the auction bust was over. And then to find you stuck under that curtain? If I wasn’t so angry, I would have laughed.”

  “You did laugh.”

  “Sugar, I would never cheat on you. No other woman compares to you.”

  “You better not.” I snuggled against him. “Speaking of codpieces, are you wearing one?”

  “Knowing how ticked you were? Why’d you think I picked this costume?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A 2015 Georgia Author of the Year Best Mystery finalist, Larissa writes the Cherry Tucker Mystery and Maizie Albright Star Detective series. The first in the Cherry Tucker series, Portrait of a Dead Guy, is a 2012 Daphne du Maurier finalist, 2012 The Emily finalist, and 2011 Dixie Kane Memorial winner. The sixth mystery, A Composition in Murder, releases November 15th. The first Maizie Albright Mystery, 15 Minutes, releases Winter 2017. Her family and Cairn Terrier, Biscuit, now live in Nagoya, Japan, but they still call Georgia home. Visit her website, find her chatting on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Goodreads, or join her Facebook street team, The Mystery Minions.

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  Larissa Reinhart also has the Maizie Albright Star Detective Mysteries, a new series that will start in 2017. When ex-teen star Maizie Albright returns to her Southern hometown of Black Pine, Georgia, she hoped to rid herself of Hollywood tabloid and reality show hell for a new career as a private investigator. Instead, Hollyweird follows her home. Maizie’s costar crushing, but now for her gumshoe boss. Her stage-monster mother still demands screen time. Her latest rival wants her kicked off the set, preferably back to a California prison.

  By entangling herself in a missing person's case, she must reprise her most famous role. The job will demand a performance of a lifetime. But this time, the stakes are real and may prove deadly.

  Contents

  For fans of The Kitchen Witch mystery series, and anyone who enjoys historical mysteries with a paranormal flair, this story comes as a treat. Thelma Spelled must discover the mystery around a murder that entangles her and her husband. The tale is also a prequel to the novel Miss Spelled, and reveals more about the magic of the house, as well as about Australia in the early 20th century.

  NO TIME TO WITCH

  By Morgana Best

  THE MANGAN TREE

  1936, Australia

  I WAS BLISSFUL. It was a beautiful summer’s day. The heady fragrance of the lilac trees wafted along on the gentle breeze, and I had not a care in the world. I looked up at my home, built the previous century, a grand Victorian place that had started its days as a hospital for mothers and children. My husband had purchased it three years earlier.

  The main reason for my happiness was that my first wedding anniversary was the following month. I could not believe my luck in marrying the love of my life, a perhaps stereotypically tall, dark, and handsome man with the unusual name of Wolff Spelled. What’s more, my morning tarot divination had foretold that my first child, a girl, would soon be on the way. I planned to name her Angelica.

  I had never thought I would be able to marry, given that I was a witch. Not a storybook witch, mind you, the sort with a pointy hat and a wart on the end of the nose, but a traditional witch, known as a ‘wise woman’ in Europe in times gone by. I cast spells and used herbs, mostly for healing. Witchcraft was not an accepted practice in the 1930’s in Australia—in fact, it was illegal under The Witchcraft Act of 1735 and carried heavy penalties.

  And so, it had been to my enormous relief and never-ending delight that my then husband-to-be had accepted the fact I was a witch. To my utter surprise, Wolff had told me his family, even his own mother, had long professed to be witches. He had even given me a family heirloom, an ancient Book of Shadows. Wolff said he himself had no witchy ability, given he was of a practical temperament, but he certainly held no prejudices against those of the craft.

  I smiled as I filled my watering can and walked along the garden to water my hybrid tea roses. My favorite was the Beatrice-Berkeley, an elegant orange-salmon rose with the mild scent of sweet tea. This variety was prone to black spot, but I kept pests away with my herbal concoctions—plus a little spell.

  I walked past my young plum tree, a wedding gift from someone who was apparently unaware plums don’t survive in the cold, mountainous regions of Australia. I would have to cover it next winter if it was to have a chance. I spun around as a flash of gold blazed across my peripheral vision, and then I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized it was simply a butterfly. At the same time, a chill ran up my spine, making me shudder. I idly wondered if the plum tree was, in fact, the native plum, the mangan. I remembered the ancient Aboriginal legends that the mangan had the power to attract and spellbind lovers, so they could be sneaked upon and killed.

  I tried to shake away the fanciful notion. What was wrong with me all of a sudden? I was on edge, and I had no idea why.

  I continued down to the daisies, and then clutched at my stomach. A wave of nausea hit me. They were all gone. Yesterday, I had a sizeable bed of pink and white daisies, and today—nothing! But who would do such a thing? This was a quiet town. There had never been any incidents of vandalism, not as far as I knew. I kneeled down for a closer look. Weeds were growing in the dirt, which I found quite strange as I had never noticed weeds growing amongst the daisies. And how did the culprit manage to pull out the daisies without pulling out the weeds?

  It was then I noticed the sky clouded over, whereas only minutes earlier, there had not been a cloud in the sky. My temples throbbed, a fact that did nothing to aid my thought processes.

  I saw the knife first, a long, gleaming steak knife sticking out of the ground, glinting in the sunlight that peeped through the clouds. I edged closer, wondering what had happened to my garden overnight—only the knife wasn’t protruding from the ground; it was protruding from a ma
n’s back. He was face down on the ground, crushing the lavenders.

  “Wolff!” I screamed.

  NAMA

  I MUST HAVE fainted, and I came to next to the man’s legs. I saw at once they were not Wolff’s socks or shoes, and I burst into tears of relief. I forced myself to my feet and brushed myself down. I squinted through my tears to make out the man’s features, but it was immediately evident he was a stranger to me.

  I looked around wildly, realizing whoever killed this man could still be near. My own house suddenly felt alien and unwelcoming, as if danger could be hiding behind every corner. The large Victorian building now loomed over me unpleasantly, the sharp eaves of the roof jutting out at strange angles, the stained-glass windows taking on a twisted life of their own. Even the lilac trees strewn about my garden felt somehow unnatural, their rich violet buds swaying in stark contrast to the nearly black sky.

  I ran back toward the house as quickly as my feet would carry me, leaving the body alone in the garden. I couldn’t be sure how much of it was just shock and nerves, but something felt deeply wrong, as though danger were still well and truly imminent.

  My heart pounded as I slammed the door shut behind me. The room swam, and ripples flickered in front of my vision. I assumed it was from the fright I’d just had. I ran to the phone, nearly tripping several times along the way, eventually stopping to take a deep breath and to try to calm down. Who was that man? Why was he here? More importantly, what had happened to him?

  I took another deep breath and massaged my temples, trying to think rationally. None of that mattered right now. I needed to call Wolff, though as much as I wanted to speak to him, my priority was to call the police. I snatched the phone receiver off the hook and jiggled the lever, hoping someone would answer quickly. My throat tightened, and I glanced nervously around my house.

  I asked the operator to put me through to the police station. I took slow, deep breaths.