Beached & Bewitched

by Emery Belle

  Beached & Bewitched

  A Magic Island Paranormal Cozy Mystery, Book One

  Emery Belle

  Beached & Bewitched

  A Magic Island Paranormal Cozy Mystery

  Book 1

  By Emery Belle

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  © Copyright 2018

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For all those who believe in magic.

  Contents

  The Beginning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Afterword

  About the Author

  The Beginning

  This whole fiasco started because of that garden gnome. I’m sure of it.

  But Wren, you’re probably thinking to yourself, it’s not real! Its head is as empty as a jack-o’-lantern; your eyes were just playing tricks on you in the sunlight. You’re probably also thinking that I’m off my rocker, have got bats in my belfry, and am a few pickles short of a full jar. In fact, you’re inching away from me right this very minute, aren’t you?

  For your information, I can’t blame you in the least.

  If you had told me that a wizard with tufts of gray hair sprouting from his ears and a charming pot belly hanging over his striped pants had burst into your life without warning and announced for all the world to hear that you were a witch, I’d be carting you off to the loony bin faster than you could say “abracadabra”—which, incidentally, is not a real spell. Go figure.

  But, believe me or not, it is a solid, unarguable fact that no less than twelve hours before that happened—before life as I knew it came crashing to a screeching halt—I saw that little ceramic garden beast move.

  The initial movement was so subtle, so positively tiny, that at first I thought a squirrel was hiding behind the gnome’s pointy red hat, biding his time, just waiting for the right moment to pounce on my poor tomato plants and gnaw them down to the roots, like he had already done to my green peppers and the overly ambitious watermelon I’d tried to grow last summer.

  So with my entire body seething with rage, I whipped the gnome out of the way and prepared to give that squirrel a piece of my mind, only to find the garden entirely empty save for a ladybug crawling lazily along the soil.

  “Must have been my imagination,” I muttered to myself, settling the gnome back into place and giving him a quick pat on his round tummy for good measure.

  I should have walked away right then. After all, what more was there to say? There wasn’t a squirrel in sight, so it was obvious that the sun was just casting shadows over the garden. Besides, I had a big night to prepare for. It wasn’t every day that a girl got engaged.

  If only I hadn’t tipped my head up to the sky one last time to catch a few warming rays of the brilliant summer sun on my face, basking in the excitement of what the next few hours would surely bring. Then, I wouldn’t have seen that squirrel perched on the roof of my gardening shed, twittering down at me with a nut clamped between his paws and a mischievous gleam lighting up his beady little eyes.

  I could have ignored him, I suppose. I could have told myself that, in all fairness, the squirrel had just as much right to those gorgeously ripe tomatoes as I did—after all, he couldn’t grow them himself, and he would probably enjoy them three times as much as I would. On that particular afternoon, though, despite my pre-engagement glow, I wasn’t feeling generous.

  So instead of gritting my teeth and continuing on my merry way, I decided to point my finger at the garden gnome, still standing placidly among the sprawling plants, and say in a voice that brooked no argument, “You are under no circumstances to let that squirrel touch any of my plants. Do you understand?”

  And do you know what that gnome did next? The very same gnome, I should add, that I had rescued from the depressing half-price bargain bin at the local thrift shop, polished until his rosy cheeks shone, and plopped down in the middle of my garden four years ago without stopping to consider the implications of what would happen should he decide, one perfectly ordinary day, to come to life.

  He squared his ceramic shoulders, raised one peach-painted hand, and pressed it against his sun-bleached forehead in what was, unmistakably, a military salute.

  The squirrel darted away, as fast as he could.

  So did I, even faster.

  That was the beginning.

  Chapter 1

  “It moved, Jason. I’m telling you, it moved.”

  Jason, my boyfriend of eight years, pressed the back of his hand against my forehead and looked at me in concern. “Are you feeling all right, Wren? I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.” He eyed my glass of wine warily and not-so-subtly nudged the rest of the bottle away from me.

  So much for the romantic engagement dinner I’d been envisioning since Jason called me up yesterday and asked if he could come over to my apartment to “talk about something really important.” It was the eve of my thirtieth birthday, and I’d been dropping hints for months that the time had come to take our relationship to the next level. And what better occasion than the night before I entered the next decade of my life?

  He’d even brought me sunflowers—my favorite—and a bottle of cabernet that I’d been making my way through steadily as I babbled on endlessly, much to Jason’s bewilderment, about my alarming encounter with the garden gnome. The minute he arrived, rather than greet him in the slinky black dress I’d bought specially for the occasion, I’d dragged him down to the garden and made him examine every square inch of that gnome, who remained as motionless as ever.

  Well, almost ever.

  Now, back in my apartment, I ran my hands through my long brown hair, which was sticking up in every direction, and shifted on the couch cushion to try and cover up the spaghetti stain on the front of my ratty sweatshirt. I was a mess. This was not how I envisioned starting my life as the soon-to-be Mrs. Jason Showalter. If he even wanted me anymore, now that we had both discovered that I was, apparently, a lunatic.

  Ceramic garden gnomes don’t move, Wren. You were probably just more nervous about the engagement than you realized. Now get a grip before he runs out the door and never looks back.

  Taking a deep breath to try and calm myself, I downed the rest of the wine in my glass, offered him an embarrassed smile, and eyed his jacket pockets for any bulge that could indicate a ring box. “So what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked sweetly, sliding closer to him and resting my palm on his leg.

  In my mind’s eye, the garden gnome was still saluting at me, but I pushed the image firmly aside and tried to focus instead on Jason, the man I loved, the man who had rescued me from a life of solitude and, oftentimes, sadness. Finally, I belonged to someone, and someone belonged to me. It was the only thing I had ever wanted.

  Jason gave me a startled look, no doubt confused by my abrupt shift in tone, and cleared his throat nervously. I
watched in breathless anticipation as his right hand drifted to his pocket and he began sliding out something black. This was it. This was really happening. This was…

  Buzz buzz.

  A cell phone.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, tilting the screen away from me as he tapped out a quick message. “Work stuff. You know how it is.”

  Work stuff? Since when did a fourth-grade history teacher need to answer urgent text messages at eleven-fifty on a Saturday night in the middle of July? I frowned and craned my neck to try and see what he was typing, but—whether accidentally or on purpose, I couldn’t tell—he shifted his hand over the phone before slipping it back into his pocket.

  “What was I saying?” he asked, running a distracted hand through his mop of wavy blond hair. His phone buzzed again, but this time he ignored it. Which was a good call on his part, because I was so wound up with nervous energy at that point that I would probably have chucked it out the window. And if it took out that garden gnome on its way down? So much the better.

  You were saying how much you loved me and couldn’t live without me. You were saying that you finally grew a pair and decided that eight years was long enough to date me before making it official. You were saying…

  “You weren’t saying anything.” The words came out harsher than I’d intended. “I was asking what you wanted to talk about.”

  I frowned at him, suddenly uncertain. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it? To ask—I mean, say—something important?” My eyes raked over his pockets again, to no avail. He was keeping that rock well hidden.

  “Right.” He smiled at me, and I noticed that his cheeks were flushed, the way they always were when he was nervous. My heart skipped a beat as he took my hands in his and gave them a squeeze.

  “We’ve been together a long time, Wren. What is it, seven, eight years?”

  Eight years, ten months, and four days. But who was counting?

  “…And we’ve had a lot of great times.” He sighed. “We’ve also had a lot of hard times, too.”

  Huh. This proposal wasn’t starting out exactly how I’d envisioned it, but I guess I could be flexible. Jason wasn’t exactly one for making sweeping romantic gestures. Like our first Valentine’s Day together, when he bought me an electric toothbrush. “But you always said how much you wanted one!” he protested when he saw the crestfallen look on my face. The next year, he presented me with what must have been half of the Godiva chocolate store, and only after I’d eaten a few pieces and wondered at its… interesting… aftertaste did I realize that it had expired. A year earlier. Apparently he had gotten it at a steep discount, as in free.

  He gave my hands another squeeze, interlacing his fingers with mine. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Wren, and I want you to know that I didn’t come to this decision lightly...”

  He swallowed hard, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He looked so adorable when he was nervous. My stomach performed a series of somersaults, and I felt my eyes welling up with tears of happiness.

  Then, after another deep breath, the words I had been longing to hear for eight long years finally came bursting out of his mouth.

  “Wren, I think we should break up.”

  “Oh, Jason, I would love…”

  Wait. What?

  I reeled back as if he had slapped me, my eyes bugging out of my head. “It’s not all your fault,” he blurted out, dropping my hands and inching away from me as my chest visibly swelled with rage. “I’ve done things, too. I haven’t been the perfect boyfriend, and you deserve someone who loves you completely.”

  His voice faltered, and he picked at a scab on his wrist. “And since I don’t want to end things on a lie, I think you should know that I met someone else.”

  “B-but what about the sunflowers?” I stammered, gesturing wildly to the bouquet he’d brought me. “And the wine?” Without realizing what I was doing, I rose to my feet, towering over him as I flapped my arms around my head in a tizzy, desperately trying to understand what was happening. “What about my proposal?” I jabbed my finger into his chest, hard enough to make him wince.

  “Proposal?” He looked genuinely bewildered. “Wren, I don’t know what you… We never really talked about…”

  He stood too, laying his hands gently on my shoulders and guiding me back down to the couch. I pressed my back against the farthest cushion, desperate to put distance between us.

  “Look, Wren,” he said softly, his gaze piercing mine as I tried to look every which way but at him. “Can you honestly say you didn’t feel like there was something missing in our relationship? I mean, we’ve been together for eight years without taking the next step. I think we both knew in our hearts that we weren’t right for each other. When I met Clarissa, for the first time in my life I understood what a soulmate was…”

  He stopped, realizing he had gone too far.

  “Clarissa?” I asked in my softest, most dangerous voice. I felt like a pressure cooker, ready to explode at any second. How dare he mention her name in front of me?

  “And just how long ago did you and Clarissa decide you were soulmates?” I grinned at him. “That’s great, Jason. That’s really great. Do me a favor, okay? Make sure you send me an invitation to your wedding. With a love like that…well, that’s not a day I’d want to miss out on. The two of you could definitely teach me a thing or two, show me what I’ve been missing in the life that I’ve built with you for the past eight years.”

  If words could bite, he’d be torn to shreds right now.

  “I should go.” He stood, straightened his jacket, and gazed down at me with a sad smile. “Take care of yourself, Wren. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  I was going to let him walk away. Truly, I was. His mind was already made up—I knew that—and there was nothing I could do or say to change it. And I certainly wasn’t going to lose whatever remaining drops of dignity I had by clinging to his legs and begging him not to go.

  Then I heard it.

  Buzz buzz.

  It was her. I knew it.

  When I’d been sitting on the couch with him, mere minutes ago, my heart brimming with excitement and possibility as I waited for him to ask me to be his forever, he hadn’t been dealing with work stuff at all. He’d been dealing with the woman who’d just stolen everything from me.

  Before I could stop myself, I launched myself at him and grabbed the phone from his pocket. He didn’t even try to resist as I read the text message, just kept looking at me with that same sad smile.

  Did you do it? Come over when you’re finished with her and we can celebrate…xoxo

  Finished with her. That meant me. The unfairness of it all threatened to overwhelm me.

  Searing red rage flashed in front of my eyes as I imagined the two of them together, snuggled up on her couch, laughing over the idiot girlfriend who was blind to what was happening right underneath her nose.

  You know that expression, the one where someone gets so angry that steam comes out of their ears? Well, that’s exactly what happened to me next.

  Literally.

  “What the—?” Jason gasped, his eyes widening in horror and confusion as the steam gushed out faster, thicker, swirling around my head until I could see nothing but a cloud of white.

  As I clawed at the air, trying to clear my vision, I could just make out the back of Jason’s head as he tore open the door, ran down the stairs, and disappeared into the night without a backward glance.

  Before I could call after him—clearly, I was in desperate need of medical attention—a series of clanging and banging sounds erupted from the bathroom down the hall, followed by an earsplitting whistle that made me drop to my knees involuntarily, clutching my head in agony. At the same time, I heard the shower turn on, the water pumping hard and fast, almost as if the entire Pacific Ocean was trying to squeeze itself through a tiny showerhead that, on a good day, came out as a trickle.

  Great. This was just what I needed right now. On what was rapidly
shaping up to be the worst night of my life, I was going to have to track down a plumber. But why not? My whole life had just been flushed down the toilet anyway. It all seemed rather poetic.

  I stumbled to my feet and raced down the hallway, my heart thumping as I envisioned spending the next few days mopping up the damage, when instead I should be camped out on the couch with a package of Oreos—okay, who was I kidding, three packages—and the best of Alanis Morissette. But as I rounded the corner and got my first peek at the bathroom floor, I realized something rather strange.

  It was completely dry.

  “Thank goodness,” I whispered to myself, wiping the sweat off my forehead as I pushed open the bathroom door the rest of the way and squared my shoulders, ready to face whatever damage was waiting for me. “I thought I was going to have a real disaster on my—”

  The rest of the sentence died in my throat as I gazed up at the showerhead. Or, more accurately, at what was coming out of the showerhead.

  Two plump little feet wearing black boots.

  Chapter 2

  Frozen in shock, my mouth open in a silent howl of horror, I watched as a pair of dimpled ankles squeezed their way out, followed by the slightly frayed cuffs of a pair of purple and orange striped pants. By the time a fleshy pot belly sprouting curly gray hair made its appearance—and then stopped abruptly midway as it got caught in the spout—I sprang into action, desperate to find anything in the bathroom that I could use as a weapon.

  My eyes landed on a pair of fluffy pig slippers, a bath towel that had seen better days, an assortment of half empty bottles of lotion that would probably only serve to unstick the intruder’s belly… until finally I made a wild grab for the curling iron, brandishing it in front of me like a knife.