Midlife Curses
Witching Hour Book One
Christine Zane Thomas
By Christine Zane Thomas
Foodie File Mysteries starring Allie Treadwell
The Salty Taste of Murder
A Choice Cocktail of Death
A Juicy Morsel of Jealousy
The Bitter Bite of Betrayal
Comics and Coffee Case Files starring Kirby Jackson and Gambit
Book 1: Marvels, Mochas, and Murder
Book 2: Lattes and Lies
Book 3: Cold Brew Catastrophe
Book 4: Decaf Deceit
Contents
1. In Witch I File for Divorce
2. In Witch I Get Caught Speeding
3. In Witch I’m Late for Work
4. Yer a Witch, Constance
5. In Witch I Discover a Dead Body
6. The Village Vampire
7. Bewitched Books
8. In Witch We Meet Someone New
9. Too Familiar
10. Creel Creek After Dark, Episode 44
11. The Faction
12. In Witch I Meet My Familiar
13. In Witch I Meet the Family
14. Daylight
15. In Witch I Go to the Top of the Hill
16. In Witch We Learn Who’s the Boss?
17. Paranormal Podcasts
18. Creel Creek After Dark Episode 45
19. In Witch I’m Accused
20. In Witch I Get Robbed
21. In Witch We Find The Cabin in the Woods
22. The Vampire’s Estate
23. Creel Creek After Dark Episode 46
24. In Witch I Get Fired
25. In Witch I Wait Three Days for a Phone Call…
26. Liar, Liar
27. In Witch Someone’s Pants are on Fire
28. The Midsummer Festival
29. Silver Bullet
30. Use the Force, Constance
31. The Wrong Doug
32. Creel Creek After Dark Episode 47
Also By Christine Zane Thomas
About Christine Zane Thomas
The End
1
In Witch I File for Divorce
I stared at the email sitting at the top of my inbox. It made my insides want to leap to the outside, only I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. At first glance, it looked completely benign. Only four words: “Meet me in five.”
But I was on my hundredth glance. I stared at those words until my eyes blurred. I was still unable to glean any more information out of them.
Those four words were in reply to a standard company email—software requirements for a new client. I’d asked to be CC’d on any correspondence between our sales and engineering team. At a small company like Swizzled Innovators, that meant I was added to an email between just two people—Melissa, our sales rep, and Mark, the head of engineering. Oh, and Mark just also happened to be my husband.
We’d started working there the same day. It was his idea, following several of his “brogrammer” friends from Yahoogle.
I wondered if Mark had made a mistake—if he’d hit reply all accidentally. An easy mistake to make—one I’d made several times in the past, often to my detriment.
I watched the door to his office, the one adjacent to my own. Back when we’d started at the company, we shared a small office. Back then, it was fun. Working all hours at a startup hadn’t seemed like a chore.
Where is this meeting going to take place? I wondered. Is it a meeting at all or something else?
Maybe Mark and Melissa get coffee together all the time. That idea didn’t sound quite right in my head. It weirded me out how easily Mark and Melissa rolled off the tongue—even in my head. In fact, it was so weird it made me shudder.
There’s no ‘Mark and Melissa,’ I told my inner monologue. Or perhaps it told me.
Right on time, Mark left his office. I moved my eyes in the other direction. Oh, here’s my computer that just went to sleep. From the corner of my eye, I saw him glance my way but he didn’t seem worried at all. That was a good sign.
I had to stand to get a view of where he went next—to the meditation room. The dark, one person only, meditation room.
Not a minute passed before Melissa scurried that way, stumbling on her too-high heels. She was awkward and self-conscious as a rule. But I could swear she used that trip as a ruse, to gauge if anyone was watching her.
I slipped behind my door before the tall brunette could see me. Melissa flipped the sign on the meditation room from vacant to occupied and slipped into the dark room.
The room had once been used for lactating mothers, when there was a lactating mother. Now, it was supposed to be used for moments of quiet reflection. There was a fish tank, a white noise machine, and two cozy beanbags. It was a perfect storm. A storm I wasn’t quite ready to face.
Minutes later, I watched them leave. Only minutes. I knew Mark. He wasn’t one to worry about anyone else’s needs. In a way, it was funny. Melissa probably thought quickie meant something regarding time.
I resigned myself to confronting him that night. My heart wasn’t breaking. It was crumbling into pieces as I went back to my desk.
And I would’ve waited—I really would have—had I not caught them sneaking in there again later that afternoon.
This time, I couldn’t sit by. I couldn’t ignore it happening multiple times right under my nose.
Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I basically flew out of my office. And before I thought about it, I knocked on the meditation room door.
In the tone I reserve for company meetings—my most demanding voice— I said “Mark, I need to see you right now. It’s urgent.”
Heart pounding in my chest, I stormed down the hall from the meditation room toward the breakroom, unsure where to go, unsure what to do.
This wasn’t the plan.
The plan was to open a bottle of wine and to calmly and assertively ask Mark for a divorce. Still seeing red, I was anything but calm.
“Constance,” Mark said. “Constance, it’s not what you think.”
Mark trailed me like a dog with its tail between its legs. Except Mark’s tail was a belt that dangled from his halfway up pants. He jerked them to his waist, zipped the zipper, and clasped the belt and said, “Okay, it is what you think. But I can explain.”
My stomach churned and was on the edge of spewing its contents over the grimy breakroom floor. My eyes stung. Still, I resolved to keep it together, to put on a brave face—mostly because nearly half of the company was watching from their desks.
This stupid open office floor plan. The tears began to flow down my cheeks.
I should’ve seen this coming. A little voice in the back of my mind said it had. It said I told you—I told you he was up to something.
Only, that little voice wasn’t so loud a week ago. It hadn’t warned the rest of me—the parts of my body doing all the work, pulling air into my lungs and pumping blood from my chest. Had those parts known, well, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up a red-faced monster with mascara smeared down my cheeks and snot cascading from my nose.
My thick blonde hair was frizzed where I twisted it in frustration—an attempt to subvert my hands, to keep them from throttling Mark’s highly throttle-able neck.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Mark said twice. The first in an undertone, the second loud enough for Steve in accounting to hear. Accounting was in the back corridor by the stairs.
Strike one and strike two. Obviously, it was him. Who else could it be?
Given the way he—and everyone around—was looking at me, that answer, too, was obvious.
But I couldn’t let him win. He was just spewing the same played out, cliché-of-a-phrase he’d heard in e
very romantic movie ever made. Not that Mark had many of those. Six, maybe seven. And they were all comedies starring Adam Sandler.
“Of course it’s you,” I shot back. “I’m not the one who had my pants down with Melissa.”
“It’s not Melissa’s fault either,” Mark said defensively.
“Again, I know,” I reiterated. “It’s your fault and yours alone.”
“Well,” Mark muttered, “not alone. I mean, you’re to blame for this too, right? It takes two to tango and all that. And it’s obvious there are some things that I haven’t been getting from our marriage.”
I knew exactly what things he was talking about.
“There’s more to a relationship than sex,” I said.
“Keep your voice down, Constance.” First, he had the audacity to blame me, then he tried to shush me.
Mark made a failed attempt at placing a hand on my shoulder. Reflexively, I pulled away. I knew that lowering our voices wasn’t going to help anything. The whole office could see and hear us. Some even had the temerity to walk by, their ears pricked like Doberman Pinschers.
Granted, it was the middle of the day, and one or two probably wanted to retrieve their lunches from the office refrigerator. But most were there for the spectacle, lurking to get the inside scoop on the drama.
I took a deep breath, then took in the scene. My formerly blue, but now undoubtedly red and blue, eyes scanned the open floor plan. Every single person pretended to be busy all of a sudden, unwilling to look at me. Except Melissa, who was already back at her workstation with earbuds in her ears. She wasn’t listening to our argument. She pretended the confrontation had nothing to do with her. And maybe it didn’t.
Maybe this is all my fault.
Then Mark spoke and I knew better. This was his fault. I should’ve seen it coming. I could’ve shielded myself from this inevitability.
“It not just the lack of sex,” he whispered. “It takes a lot of work to, uh, make a relationship work. It’s been ten years. It’s not working.”
“I know, Mark,” I said mimicking his tone. “I was there too. We were working—working on this company. That’s all we’ve been doing the past few years.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m trying to say,” he pleaded. “We’re here at work together, but you’d never know that we’re married. You’re always busy. Then we get home, you go straight to sleep like you’re exhausted.”
“I am busy. And I go to sleep because I am exhausted.”
“Right, but can’t you see why I wanted to—I needed to—to sleep with someone else?”
“Oh, you weren’t doing much sleeping.” Brody Hickman couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He barged into the breakroom and refilled his coffee cup, officially making the breakroom, and our personal lives, fair game.
A gaggle of employees streamed inside. They opened the refrigerator, shouldered into a line at the microwave, and like Brody, poured coffee into their cups, all of which had our company logo on the side.
This was why I should never have taken a job with all of Mark’s friends and none of my own. I should’ve done something else with my life, not tried to micromanage code jockeys.
It was too much. I wanted them gone. I wanted everyone to just stop. So, I yelled, “Stop it—all of you!”
And they did. Everyone just stopped—even Mark.
It was more than just a pause though. Much more. They froze, unmoving.
It was a relief at first. The weirdness of it took a few seconds for my brain to realize. I tentatively waved my hand in front of Mark’s face. He didn’t blink.
It was like on Saved by the Bell when Zach Morris said “time out” and everyone around him stopped what they were doing.
Only that was a TV show and this was real life. My life.
A few minutes passed and nothing changed. I was starting to slightly freak out. This couldn’t be real. Then it clicked into place. I realized my words caused this. I screamed.
I screamed again, loud and long, wishing for things to go back to normal.
And everything did.
Well, sort of. Mark and the staff unpaused, but now they were looking at me, wondering why I was screaming like I’d just met Pennywise the Dancing Clown.
Brody took a sip of his coffee. “Why the hell is the coffee cold?”
Fifteen minutes later, Randy, the HR manager, was in my office telling me that it wasn’t working out. Randy’s words were the human resources equivalent to Mark’s “it’s not you, it’s me.”
Two hours after that, I was in another office—the office of my attorney. And Mark was served divorce papers the next day.
I wasn’t going to wait around for the full six-month waiting period required by California state law for the divorce to be final. I let Mark have everything—the house with its three hundred and twenty-five more payments, and the Tesla that I’d helped secure. And everything else he wanted—the TV, the other TV, the video game consoles, and our shared collection of Funko POPs. Well, except for the Harry Potter POPs, those were mine.
I packed up Crookshanks, my ten-year-old Subaru Outback—the only that was solely mine—I’d had her since college—and I left.
I started toward my Dad’s place in San Diego. But somewhere along the way, I changed my mind.
I let Mark have the whole state. I just kept driving without anywhere in particular in mind. I stopped to sleep. I stopped to eat. But I didn’t consult a map or a phone. I was driving on autopilot.
Two days later, I was surprised to find myself on an unfamiliar doorstep. My memory of the road trip faded into nothing. I couldn’t remember what roads I’d taken or what hotels I’d stayed in. Nothing. I had no recollection of how exactly I’d gotten here or where here was. I had no clue who was on the other side of that door.
But I knocked on it anyway.
I thought about running back to the car, but my feet might as well have been nailed to the porch. I couldn’t go back.
The door cracked and a narrow slice of an old woman’s face appeared. She was smiling.
“Constance,” my estranged grandmother—Gran—said, pulling the door wide. “I’ve been expecting you.”
2
In Witch I Get Caught Speeding
Great—just great, I thought. As if this day, this week, this whole year, could get any worse than it already was.
Blue strobe lights illuminated the whole street. The lights bounced off walls and windows and trees. The asphalt glowed blue.
I pulled Crookshanks onto the shoulder, slammed her into park, and rolled down my window. The engine whined—her way of saying “it wasn’t me that did anything wrong. It was you! Your foot on the pedal.”
The car had a point. I turned off the ignition.
It was still dark outside, ten minutes to six. I had to be at work at 6:00 a.m.
The job was new, something Gran had set up for me along with her spare bedroom, no questions asked, repeating she’d been expecting me.
When I’d asked her why, she went off on a tangent and left my question unanswered. Every time I tried to circle back, she deflected me easily, saying things—like where I could find an easy job. After working myself to the bone in Silicon Valley, an easy job sounded agreeable.
She’d failed to mention this easy job started at the crack of dawn.
A tinge of gray light peeked over the sloping horizon. What passed as a mountain in Virginia amazed me. Still, there was beauty to them, and they kept the temperature moderately cool for it being so close to summer.
The silhouette of a sheriff’s deputy strode through the blue light toward my window. I half-expected him to shine a flashlight in my face. But he stopped just behind the door and leaned toward the window, bent at the waist. His hand rested on the holster at his hip.
In the dim light, I could just make out his features. He had dark hair, cut short under a ball cap. His mustache was thick and disorderly, framing his mouth—it was definitely out of regulations. There was a growth of
stubble on his chin and cheeks. It made me wonder why he bothered shaving at all. Despite his grizzly appearance, he was attractive. Lean. Dark eyes, a thin nose. Twisting his mouth into a ball, he studied me.
Creel Creek, Virginia—the smallest town I’d ever set foot in—he probably wondered why he didn’t recognize me. Or worse, he thought I was passing through and thus an easy target for his speed trap.
I wondered if I was supposed to start the conversation. After all, we both knew what he was going to say. Finally, he smiled thinly and asked the question. “So how fast do you think you were going back there?”
If I knew that, I thought, I probably wouldn’t be in this predicament.
“I don’t know. You tell me, deputy.”
He smiled. Those teeth gleamed in stark contrast to the dark world around us. “Ma’am, you may not be aware, but this is a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone. And I’m not a deputy. I’m the sheriff.”
I was taken aback. Since when does a sheriff write speeding tickets? Since when is a sheriff so young? There was no way this man was a day over forty. Who did he think he was, Andy Griffith?
This wasn’t the first time in my short stay that Creel Creek had drawn comparison to the little town of Mayberry. But where Mayberry was quaint and charming, Creel Creek was repulsive. It was cast aside, unwanted even by its own residents.
“Well, Sheriff,” I said a tad too snippy, “if you don’t mind my asking, how fast was I going?”
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