That Old Witch!
The Coffee Coven’s Cozy Capers: Book 1
M.Z. Andrews
That Old Witch!
The Coffee Coven’s Cozy Capers: Book #1
by
M.Z. Andrews
Copyright © 2017 by M.Z. Andrews
ISBN-13: 978-1977880291
ISBN-10: 1977880290
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Character Illustration by Crissha’s Art
Edited by Clio Editing Services
Contents
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Also by M.Z. Andrews
About the Author
1
Baritone waves of thunder grumbled overhead as storm clouds poured across the sky like molten lava, chasing away the midnight-blue sky and filling in the empty spaces with blurry waves of charcoal and graphite etchings, choking out Polaris and the Big Dipper. The delicate tinkling of a wind chime hanging from a porch ceiling floated in on the air, lending a sweet melodic sound to counter the deep tenor of the rumblings.
As the storm front moved in, a sudden, fierce gust of wind whipped at the newly budded tree branches and sent a spray of gravel dust up into the air, exfoliating the front of the three-story Victorian and the back end of the old jalopy parked in the dirt driveway. The air seemed to split apart as the sky belched a sudden streak of incandescent light, electrifying the air. Seconds later, rain pattered against the parlor’s bow windows and settled the swirls of dust in the air, coating the dusty old road with a layer of much-needed spring precipitation.
In the backyard, the storm skirting around the perimeter of her rose garden didn’t faze Katherine Lynde. In fact, the old woman smiled a crooked smile as she stood barefoot in her ankle-length blue cotton nightgown next to the stone fountain and held her hands out, high above her head. The pale, wrinkled skin on her outstretched arms sagged from just below her elbows to her armpits, her short elastic sleeves doing little to carry the burden of the excess baggage. Hanging wild and free around her shoulders, Katherine’s long salt-and-pepper hair danced around her shoulders in the wind and battered at her face.
With her eyes closed, she chanted silently. Only her lips moved, murmuring the words from the open book on the iron garden table in front of her. Words she’d memorized from years and years of use. Still, she brought the book. It was a time-honored tradition. And old witches such as herself were nothing if not creatures of habit.
The black cauldron at the epicenter of the garden had just begun to bubble. A thick green substance swirled inside, permeating the air with the sweet scent of spring and the colorful aroma of freshly picked roses. Arched white trellises covered in pink and purple clematis and lavender-shaded wisteria anchored themselves centrally at each of the four cardinal directions. A white picket fence connected each of the four arbors and enclosed the garden, isolating the intricate beauty from the simplicity of the rest of the backyard. The storm the old witch had called didn’t dare enter her garden without her consent. Instead, it soaked her Kentucky bluegrass and drenched the lilacs just outside the fence. Rain on her precious rose garden would be the grand finale.
With her nose still pointed towards the clouds, Kat opened her eyes and ever so slowly dropped her chin. In turn, she slowly lowered her arms like a graceful ballerina with her fingers knitted together and her palms cupped heavenward.
Only she could hear the low buzz of the chant she continued to recite. Each recitation made the cauldron bubble with more fervor. Each verse lifted the substance higher in the oversized black pot. Each solemn word dared the liquid to overflow. Finally, she sucked in her breath and, with a great flourish, threw her arms into the air. The cauldron spewed the green liquid out sky-high in a tremendous neon gush. Kat watched proudly as the glow of her miracle rose potion met with the clouds. The combination of her magical fertilizer and the spring rain would surely bring her another bumper crop of the most deliciously fragrant Lady of Shalott roses, and with it the coveted Aspen Falls Master Gardener award.
Kat clapped her hands together. Folding them into her chest, she let out an excited squeal. Springtime was her favorite, and tending her garden her pride and joy. When the thunder boomed overhead once again, she shut her spell book, tucked the heavy brown leather-bound tome under her arm, and headed for the house. She had only a few minutes to get out of the garden before the magic fertilizer mixed with the rain coming down. Soon, like her precious flowers, she’d be coated with a fragrant layer of green slime.
On arthritic bare feet, Kat ambled towards the arched trellis on the west side of the garden. No sooner had she stepped foot onto the cobblestone paver pathway that would lead her back to her house than the rain pelting her yard soaked her hair and her nightgown. The skin on her arms and legs pebbled, but Kat was suddenly aware that it wasn’t from the coolness of the rain. She felt the distinct presence of someone behind her. Her upper torso turned slightly, just enough to catch the shadowed outline of a dark-cloaked figure behind her.
A streak of lightning burst overhead, and she caught the reflection of the shovel as it swung back. Kat’s heart surged and her breath caught in her throat. She felt the spell book tumble to the ground as she raised her arms to defend herself, but the shovel was too fast. The blunt force to the back of her head was enough to make Katherine Lynde’s world go black.
2
A bell chimed above a heavy wooden door, and two elderly women dressed in black ambled into Habernackle’s Bed, Breakfast, and Beyond, a home-style restaurant in the heart of downtown Aspen Falls, Pennsylvania. The familiar scent of bacon grease and the pungent aroma of coffee welcomed the women.
Phyllis Habernackle glanced out across the restaurant. A smattering of people dotted the booths and tables in the dining room, but no one sat on the barstools across from them at the long counter.
“Should we sit at the bar today, Char?” asked Phyllis, clutching a brass urn in her gnarled hands. Though her last name was on the sign out front, it was her daughter and her grandson who owned the cozy little establishment.
Charlotte Bailey shook her head, her black veil rustling over the top of her short white curls. “No. I’d prefer our usual table.”
“Fine by me.”
Char led Phyllis to a round table in the middle of the room, just a few tabl
es away from a tableful of men enjoying their midmorning cup of coffee.
The men were absorbed in a political debate of one type or another, and only one of the men acknowledged the women’s entrance. He was a distinguished gentleman with a perfectly groomed flattop of white hair, wearing a crisp blue gingham button-down shirt with a starched collar.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said with a polite nod.
“Not really,” grumbled Phyllis. Her chair made a scratching sound as she pulled it backwards across the hardwood floor.
Sitting at the table with one impeccably creased trouser leg crossed over his knee, the man leaned his head backwards and lifted a single white eyebrow. “Let me guess. You’re coming from a funeral?”
Phyllis eyed Char. Like herself, her friend wore a black veil, a black dress that nearly covered her ankles, and sensible black shoes. “No, Sergeant, we’re coming from a birthday party,” replied Phyllis as she set the urn she carried on the table and took a seat in front of it. She nodded towards the urn. “This was our parting gift.”
With his arms folded neatly in his lap, he merely blinked, unfazed by her sarcasm. “I’m sorry, you’re right. That was an observation posed as a stupid question. It must be a hard day for you both. Is the deceased from Aspen Falls?”
Char nodded as she pulled the black pillbox hat with attached veil off her head and set it on the table. She ran a hand over the top of her hair to settle the strays. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red as she pulled a wadded lipstick-stained tissue from the pocket of her skirt and blotted at her pinkened cheeks. “Katherine Lynde. She lived on the west edge of town.”
The sergeant’s silvery-blue eyes widened as he motioned towards a man with a camera bag in front of him just across the table. “Benny just mentioned the other day that Katherine had passed away.”
Phyllis glanced over at the small pointy-nosed man who barely managed to take his eyes off the front page of the Aspen Falls Observer in front of him while cutting his cherry Danish with a fork. “I wrote her obituary for the paper,” he said offhandedly.
Although Benny Hamilton was quite a few years younger than many of the retired gentlemen at the table, he was the only man to experience the unfortunate irony of saving a bundle on shampoo bills. Though he claimed to be only in his forties, the majority of his scalp was barer than a plucked chicken’s butt, yet he allowed two tawny tufts of hair to take up residence behind his ears. Phyllis wondered why men of his follicly challenged state didn’t just shave it all off completely. What was the sense in keeping the tufts? Are there women out there who find such a thing attractive? she wondered.
“It’s a shame how it all happened,” said the sergeant with a bit of a sigh.
“How it happened?” Phyllis leaned forward in her seat and lifted her veil back over her head to expose narrowed emerald-green eyes of suspicion. “It was accidental, you know.”
He nodded and sat forward in his seat as well, turning his torso so he was able to see her better. “Well, how they found her anyway. I can’t imagine being that paperboy and finding her after all that time. I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight.”
Char frowned as a hand went to her stomach. “Sergeant Bradshaw, we were just about to have a bite to eat, do you mind?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was incredibly rude of me. You’re right. One shouldn’t talk about such things, especially in the presence of ladies. How did you two know Katherine?”
“We went to school with her years ago,” said Phyllis.
“Oh, are you all Aspen Falls High alums?”
“Actually,” began Char slowly, “we all went to the Paranormal Institute for Witches together. Katherine was my roommate. Phyllis lived down the hall from us.”
That seemed to be a conversation killer. All the men at the table looked up and stared at them then. Char and Phyllis were used to it. Being a witch in Aspen Falls wasn’t that big of a deal, really. At least a third of the small town’s population had supernatural powers of one type or another, thanks in large part to the Institute’s presence in the community. But there were still people who either got a kick out of seeing a real live witch in their midst or were annoyed that witches were so prevalent in the community. The other portion, and the majority of the Aspen Falls residents, simply went about their lives, not caring if someone had magical powers or not.
Sergeant Bradshaw cleared his throat and looked up as a woman in a green apron split open a pair of swinging doors behind the bar. “Of course, what was I thinking? I believe I did know that you attended the Institute, it simply slipped my mind. Gentlemen, Phyllis is the Habernackle matriarch. She’s Linda’s mother.”
Phyllis glanced up at the woman coming their way. Not one for dillydallying, she gave the men a tight smile, the kind that didn’t so much as crinkle the deeply etched crow’s-feet near her eyes. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, our waitress is here. Have a nice day.”
Sergeant Bradshaw tipped his head in a gentlemanly nod. “You have a good day as well. My sincere condolences.”
“Thank you,” said Char before taking a seat across the table from Phyllis and turning her back to the men.
The waitress stopped at the table and looked down at the two women. Her red hair, peppered with strands of white, was rolled up and fastened behind her head in a long brown hair clip. “Good morning, Char. Good morning, Mom,” she said, giving both of the women a friendly smile.
“Hello, Linda,” said Char.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” said Phyllis, waving away the menu offered to her. “We’re starved. Char and I will both have coffee and your special.”
Char frowned. “What’s the special today?”
“Two eggs, toast, and a side of bacon or sausage,” said Linda, pulling a pencil from her hair.
Char shook her head. “I better not. I’m trying to watch my cholesterol.” She looked at the woman across the table from her. “You should be watching yours too, Phil. We aren’t spring chickens anymore. Look at poor Kat. It just goes to show, you can’t always count on tomorrow being on the other side of your pillow.”
Phyllis frowned. “Kat slipped on a paver and hit her head on a rock. She didn’t die from eating eggs and bacon.” She looked up at her daughter. “I’ll have the special and a double order of bacon, please. Bring Char a glass of ice water and a spoon.”
Char narrowed her eyes at her friend. “You’re so funny, you old witch.” She looked up at Linda. “I’ll have a bowl of oatmeal and a side of whole wheat toast, please.”
Linda nodded as she jotted the order down on her notepad.
“And make sure to give me my senior discount, please,” added Char as she readjusted her bottom on the cushioned vinyl seat.
Phyllis rolled her eyes. “Yes, Linda, do make sure to give my friend her ten-percent discount. What will that be today? Twenty-five cents?” she mused.
Char swatted at her friend across the table. “Oh, you just hush. I’m on a fixed income. Every little penny adds up.”
After writing the order down, Linda looked up at the women. “How was the funeral?”
Char sighed. “How funerals always are. Depressing.”
“It’s not fun watching all your old friends die,” agreed Phyllis.
“Were there many people there?”
Phyllis snorted out her nose. “I can count on one hand how many people were there, and I’d still have two fingers left over.”
Linda’s eyebrows lifted. “Kat didn’t have any friends or family?”
Char shook her head sadly. “The woman never married. I tried to visit her once or twice a month, but she never seemed to mind being all alone. She had her garden, her garden club, and her books to keep her busy.”
“Didn’t anyone from her garden club show up?” asked Linda, leaning one hand on the back of Phyllis’s chair.
“Not a single one of them,” said Char. Her voice took on a chastising lilt as she crossed her arms over her ample bosoms.
Linda lifted an e
yebrow. “Well, then, who was the other person there?”
“Her paperboy, if you can believe it,” scoffed Phyllis.
“I don’t think you can call a forty-five-year-old man a paperboy anymore,” said Char, shaking her head. Then she lowered her voice. “Especially one that just married a twenty-four-year-old stewardess.”
Phyllis’s eyes swung towards the ceiling. “What do you call him, then? A paperman?”
“That doesn’t sound right either, does it?” Char scratched at her chin.
Linda’s head volleyed back and forth between the two women. “The paperman was at Kat’s funeral?”
“Yeah, paperman definitely doesn’t sound right,” murmured Phyllis after she heard it roll off her daughter’s lips.
Char ignored Phyllis’s musings. “He was the one that found her. I suppose he felt obliged to show up for the funeral.”
“Puh,” puffed Phyllis. “I certainly wouldn’t feel obliged to show up at the funeral of someone I found dead and bloated in their backyard.”
“Do you mind?” barked Char, holding her stomach. “I’d like to eat.”
“I’m just sayin’.” Phyllis rolled her eyes and looked away. “So how do you know he’s shacked up with a twenty-four-year-old?” she barked. Her heavy voice seemed to fill the empty spaces around them.
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