It's All Sixes

by Cindy Stark

  IT’S ALL SIXES

  Teas & Temptations Mysteries

  Book Six

  By Cindy Stark

  www.cindystark.com

  It’s All Sixes © 2018 C. Nielsen

  Cover Design by Kelli Ann Morgan

  Inspire Creative Services

  All rights reserved

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Welcome to Stonebridge, Massachusetts

  Welcome to Stonebridge, a small town in Massachusetts where the label “witch” is just as dangerous now as it was in 1692. From a distance, most would say the folks in Stonebridge are about the friendliest around. But a dark and disturbing history is the backbone that continues to haunt citizens of this quaint town where many have secrets they never intend to reveal.

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  Prologue

  Stonebridge, Massachusetts 1689

  Clarabelle sat with Eliza on one of the many log benches that encircled Stonebridge’s gathering space just outside the rock church. The villagers loved the after-sermon picnics the priest sometimes allowed on Sundays. They didn’t get many chances to socialize in large groups, so everyone was quite excited.

  It was times like these when she could pretend she belonged with the other townsfolk, as they all thought she did. Lily and Scarlet were noticeably absent, and Clarabelle feared for their souls. One did not want to cast suspicion upon herself in these times.

  Eliza bumped her elbow and leaned close. Her light pink cotton dress set off her long, golden hair and blue eyes so well. “That Cal Hooton has turned into quite the handsome man. I think he has his eye on you.”

  Clarabelle cast a quick glance toward Cal. He worked long hours farming with his father during the summer and had filled out. He no longer looked like the boy who’d once chased her with a frog.

  When he caught her watching him, he grinned.

  She curved her lips into a shy smile and flicked her attention back to Eliza. “Yes. He’s quite handsome. I believe him to be a suitable prospect for a husband. He would provide well for a family.”

  Growing up, Clarabelle had long thought she would never marry since male witches were in short supply, and she couldn’t imagine a regular man loving or accepting her as she was. A year ago, her father had informed her that she must marry because failure to do so was a sign of God’s ill favor.

  He would not allow others to call his beautiful daughter a thornback, for that was the first step toward the village branding her a witch.

  Despite her father’s acceptance of witchcraft, he insisted on following traditional courtship rituals. Since she and her parents would need to give their free consent to the marriage, her father had allowed her some input on who of the young men in town would be a suitable husband. They had both decided Cal, if agreeable, would make a good mate.

  Her mother, on the other hand, was leery about allowing any one to court her daughter, afraid that their heritage would be discovered and bring dire consequences to them all. But, to not marry would bring about the same.

  She was trapped between cultural customs and her own beliefs.

  Still, she’d had her eye on Cal for a while. If she had to pick, he wasn’t a bad choice. “He sent oranges to my mother yesterday and a fan for me.”

  Eliza widened her eyes. “Oh, my. This is serious.”

  Serious and exciting. For once, she felt like a normal woman her age. “My father is insisting we invite him to eat with us. My mother hesitates for fear of discovery.”

  Eliza’s features grew somber and thoughtful. She’d experienced the same when considering courtship. “A burden we all share.”

  Clarabelle nodded, wondering what married life would be like, and how long she’d have to wait to disclose her heritage to her husband. If that would ever be a possibility.

  But she wanted a home of her own. Wanted children.

  Eliza giggled. “He’s still staring at you.”

  Clarabelle looked again, and her heart faltered when she found him striding their way. “Oh, no, Eliza. He’s coming over.”

  “He must be serious to make such a public display. Next thing you know, your parents will be putting you to bed with a bundling board between you.”

  Clarabelle’s cheeks grew warm, and her chest tightened with anxiety and excitement. She could not imagine sleeping so close to a man. To Cal.

  He stopped in front of them, at least six feet of a handsome, strong man. The ends of his blond hair curled against his neck, but his engaging blue eyes intrigued her the most. They allowed her a perfect glimpse into his soul, and he had a good one.

  “Good day, Miss Eliza and Miss Clarabelle.”

  Eliza nudged Clarabelle with the toe of her shoe and smiled. “Good day, Cal. It’s a lovely day, is it not?”

  He nodded. “Indeed, it is.”

  He shifted his gaze to Clarabelle who hadn’t managed to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. He tipped his head in greeting. “Clarabelle.”

  Her heart quickened. “Good day, Cal.”

  He seemed so confident, but she could sense the violent thumping in his chest. “I wonder if you might like to taste Mrs. Henry’s pie together.”

  She glanced at Eliza who nodded and then back to him. “That would be nice.”

  Cal held out a hand to her. She slid her fingers across his palm, and he grasped her with a warm grip, helping her to her feet.

  As they walked away, Clarabelle glanced over her shoulder toward Eliza who beamed at her. Puritan customs ensured their lives would evolve whether they wanted them to or not.

  She glanced up at the handsome man next to her. This could be the beginning of something beautiful or the first step toward suffering and despair.

  One

  Stonebridge, Massachusetts – Current Day

  Glorious morning sunshine poured down on Hazel Hardy as she sat amongst the grasses near the edge of the dirt circle deep in the forest. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and closed her eyes. Birds sang in the treetops, and peace resonated in her soul.

  She couldn’t imagine a more beautiful day.

  Once upon a time, her ancestral grandmother had likely sat in this same spot. Hazel hoped at some point in Clarabelle’s life she’d found happiness, too, and everything wasn’t tragedy and fear.

  Hazel lifted her arms and opened her palms to the sky, letting the universe’s energy soak into each cell. “Thank you for your gifts this and all days.”

  She crossed her arms overhead, brought them down in front of her, and then drew her hands straight out to her sides. Energy rushed through her, creating a disturbance
in the air. The birds in the trees squawked and took flight.

  She smiled. She’d learned to do that as a teenager and had enjoyed it ever since. Before coming to Stonebridge, she’d often completed her ritual as a reminder of how connected she was to everything and everyone on earth. She couldn’t agree more today.

  A rustling noise interrupted her reverie. She panicked and flicked open her eyes. Mr. Kitty and his new friend, the black cat she’d seen around her house recently, darted in and out of the trees across the clearing, creating a ruckus.

  Hazel relaxed her shoulders and inhaled a deep, calming breath. “Nothing but the cats,” she whispered.

  Mr. Kitty paused and glanced at her. He stared for a long moment, and then slowly rotated his head until he gazed south.

  She followed his lead and then startled. Someone was watching her. Someone whom she didn’t know.

  A willowy woman with long brown hair that rested about her shoulders stood hidden in the thick trees. Now that Hazel had spotted her, she was surprised she’d missed the light pink shirt amongst the brown bark.

  Their gazes connected for seconds, at least as much as they could across that distance. Hazel hoped the woman hadn’t recognized her spiritual union with the powers that be.

  The brunette turned and walked away. She didn’t head deeper into the woods or out toward the road, but south, instead.

  Hazel frowned. She hadn’t explored far into the forested area in that direction, but, as far as she knew, there were only pines and maples spread out for at least a mile.

  She shifted to her knees and then stood. If that woman could spy on her, turnaround was fair play. In all honesty, she needed to know who the woman was and her intentions. If she was an enemy, Hazel might need to mitigate damages caused by what the woman may have witnessed.

  She brushed off the back of her jeans and headed south.

  Hazel spotted the cottage before she came across the woman. The darling house wasn’t big, but it held all the charm one could want from a tiny home. Gray stone covered the outside, while a brown roof topped it and yellow shutters hung next to the windows. Pink and purple petunias dripped from white window boxes, and a riot of bright pink roses climbed on trellises near the house.

  She shifted her gaze across the lush property including the ivy-covered arch that led to a white picket fenced garden. What a lovely place.

  The woman must have taken extremely good care of her plants during the heatwave the town had just survived. That earned her more than a few points in Hazel’s book.

  A force of energy brought Hazel’s gaze to the side of the house. The woman approached her but stopped before she came too close. A wary look hovered in her bright green eyes. “Can I help you?”

  Hazel cringed with embarrassment. She’d basically stalked her and violated her privacy without thinking twice. If someone had done that at her home, she might likely put a hex on her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  The woman didn’t crack a smile, and her demeanor remained guarded. As far as Hazel could tell, she didn’t possess powers. But then again, she’d learned that those who lived in Stonebridge were masters of deception.

  Hazel exhaled and tried again. “I just moved into the old house to the north, so I guess that makes us neighbors.”

  She kept her gaze pinned on Hazel. “I know.”

  The woman’s aura was closed tighter than a rosebud, and Hazel wasn’t sure she could ingratiate herself enough for the woman to open it. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Hazel Hardy. I own the teashop in town.”

  “I know.”

  It appeared this woman knew far more about her. “I hadn’t realized this house was here. It’s lovely, by the way. A storybook cottage.”

  She gave a brief nod of appreciation but didn’t respond.

  Hazel lifted her hand in a wave and dropped it. “I’ll just go then and leave you to your peace.”

  She turned toward her house.

  “Wait.”

  Hazel glanced back, and the woman walked closer.

  “I’m Anyanka Worley. Most call me Anya.” She hesitated. “Well, my family used to call me Anya. The ones I knew well have passed on, so…” She shrugged.

  A wounded, cautious soul, then. Hazel offered a friendly smile and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Anya. Being that we’re the only two on this road, I suppose we should know each other. Of course, I’m always available if you need a cup of sugar.”

  Her stiff posture softened. “Thank you. Same for me.”

  Hazel glanced up toward the windows. “Do you live here alone?”

  Anya paused for a moment as though considering the question. “Yes, I’m alone. You are also?”

  Hazel nodded. Unless one wanted to count Mr. Kitty and his new friend, along with a moody ghost. “I’ve lived in town for a while but fell in love with this old house and recently purchased it.”

  Anya gazed past Hazel’s shoulder in the direction of Clarabelle’s house, though Hazel knew she couldn’t see it for the mass of trees. “I believe it’s several hundred years old.”

  She wished she could tell her that it had once belonged to her grandmother. “That’s part of why I love it. It’s obviously been upgraded from the original structure, but it still carries the feel of the past.”

  Anya shifted her stance. “The charm and the history are why I stay even though…”

  The hint of mystery tugged hard on Hazel. As much as she knew she shouldn’t press for unspoken information, she couldn’t help herself. “Even though?” Hazel smiled to soften the question.

  “Even though most don’t like me here. But my muse loves the atmosphere, and I’m afraid if I leave, my paintings won’t be the same.”

  Hazel wanted to continue down the path that followed the part about most didn’t like her, but Anya was obviously trying to steer the conversation in a new direction. Hazel didn’t want to ruin their friendship right off the bat by pressing too hard.

  “You’re a painter. Wow. That’s amazing. What do you paint?”

  Anya glanced around, looking high and low. “Different parts of this place. Flowers. Trees. Insects. They all inspire me.”

  Hazel nodded. “I can see how that would be true.”

  Anya tilted her head to the side as she regarded Hazel. “I have a painting of your house. Would you like to see?”

  Interest sparked bright inside her. “Are you kidding? Of course.”

  Anya gave her the first real smile since they’d met. “My studio is around back.”

  Hazel followed her along the path constructed of large, flat pieces of stone. Tufts of grass grew between the cracks. Pink and red hollyhocks along the side swayed with the soft breeze.

  “How ever did you manage to keep your flowers looking so great after all that heat?”

  Anya glanced back over her shoulder. “Lots of water and luck, I guess.”

  Hazel had thought she’d given her petunias at the teashop lots of water, too, but they’d failed to thrive.

  The stone pathway led to a smaller version of the cottage, but it had been styled the same. A small teakwood table with only one chair next to it sat near the door to the studio.

  Anya opened the door and stepped inside. She waited for Hazel to follow before she closed it.

  The scent of paint lingered in the air of the one-room studio. Gorgeous watercolors decorated nearly every inch of the walls. One with stately pine trees backed by an ominous sky hung next to a closeup of a bright pink rose with a fat bee hovering near its center.

  “The painting of your house is over here,” Anya said.

  Hazel shifted her gaze to where Anya pointed and immediately fell in love. Anya had painted Clarabelle’s house with evening sun streaming down in ethereal rivers from a bruised sky. The effect cast the white house with a pinkish glow that left Hazel feeling like the building was alive.

  “This is incredible, Anya. There’s so much energy and beauty. It’s as thou
gh it’s not an inanimate object, like it has a life of its own.”

  Anya’s eyes lit with happiness. “That’s the effect I was hoping for.”

  Hazel couldn’t take her gaze off it. “It’s so amazing. So perfect. I don’t know that anyone could have captured the feel of the place any better.”

  She turned to her new friend. “You seem to have a knack for sensing what lies beneath and the ability to transfer that to your paintings.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. She smiled and looked away. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I am able to live off what I make.”

  Hazel turned to another picture and immediately recognized it as the river where she and Peter loved to explore. She pointed to it. “This is right across the street, isn’t it? I love that old bridge.”

  Anya nodded. “I love the energy there.”

  The mention of energy caught Hazel’s attention. “Do you often sense energy from other people and things?”

  Everything about her suddenly shut down, surprising Hazel. “If you’re suggesting I’m a witch, I’m not.”

  Hazel held up her hands, palms facing Anya. “Oh, no. Of course not. I would never suggest that to anyone in this town even if I thought they might be. A hint of the word, witch, sends everyone into a frenzy.”

  Anya chuckled. “Like when they were throwing holy water balloons at everyone?”

  She grinned. “Exactly.”

  Hazel studied her friend for a moment. “You seem to know a lot about what happens in Stonebridge, yet I never see you in town.”

  Anya turned to her workbench. She scooped up several paintbrushes and placed them in a metal can. “I do most of my shopping in Salem. Not that I get out that much anyway.”

  Hazel had a hard time believing others wouldn’t like her. “Because of problems with some in town?”

  She wadded used paper towels and tossed them in the trash. “Most people.”