by Erin Johnson
Seashells, Spells and Caramels
Book 1 of the Spells & Caramels Cozy Witch Mystery Series
Erin Johnson
For my mom and my sister,
my best readers.
Contents
1. Living the Dream
2. The Gig
3. Rehearsal Dinner
4. Celebration
5. The Fire
6. The Leap
7. France
8. Bijou Mer
9. The Rising Tide
10. Orientation
11. Visions
12. Practice Makes Something
13. The Library
14. The Competition
15. Burned
16. A Sign
17. Extinguished
18. The Investigation
19. Iggy
20. A Partner
21. The Forest
22. A Shift
23. Feeling the Heat
24. Finals
25. The Summer Solstice
26. Hank
27. Nate
28. The Infirmary
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Black Arts, Tarts & Gypsy Carts
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A note from the author
About the Author
1
Living the Dream
I quietly slid the wide drawer below my keyboard open and pulled out the folded piece of paper hidden below the pencil tray. I held it in my lap, scanning the rows of low, beige cubicle walls to make sure no one watched me. My officemates shuffled papers, printers spooled and chugged, phones rang, and the low murmur of chatter grew louder.
I unfolded the paper. I’d done this so many times, it had begun to tear along the creases. I smoothed it open on my lap—the real estate listing for my bakery.
Well, not my bakery yet, but the corner spot where I planned to open it. The old brick building crumbled in places, but that just gave it character. Four windows wrapped around the corner, perfect for displays of scones, cakes, and loaves of bread. I could picture Imogen’s Patisserie painted on the door. Every day I’d buy fresh flowers for the counter, and I’d wake up at 3:00 a.m. to start baking, while the world still snuggled in their beds.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! I jumped and hid the flyer under the desk as the loud, electronic phone ring startled me out of my daydreams. Coworkers filed past my desk to the elevators, coats in hand. I glanced at the clock. 4:59. Urg.
It rang again. I groaned and tipped my head to the side as I debated answering it. Friday night. So close to leaving. With a sigh, I picked up the receiver.
“Imogen Banks, Medical Billing. How can I help you?”
Twenty-five minutes later I’d helped the little old lady caller get an extension and coordinated with collections to reduce her bill by half. After she asked if I was single and tried to set me up with her twenty-year-old grandson (I’m okay with being a bit of a cradle robber, but nine years was pushing it for me), we said our good nights.
I slipped off my black work heels, the only dress shoes I owned, and laced up my black leather combat boots. They didn’t look particularly professional with my red pencil skirt, which matched my hair, and white tie-neck blouse, but they gave me an edge that made me grin. Imogen Banks, punk rock medical billing specialist.
I padded to the elevators, hoping the superglue would keep the sole in place. I didn’t need wet feet in the Seattle weather on my walk from work to the train and from the stop to home.
I punched the button for the elevator and rocked on my heels as I waited, itching to escape the sickly florescent lights and step into the cool grey mist outside.
A high-pitched whine made me pause and listen.
“Eeeeeee!”
2
The Gig
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. I stepped toward it, but froze midstep when I heard another agonized wail. Get in, you dummy. But what if a cat had gotten stuck in the walls or something? I headed back into the office, following the noise.
I rounded a corner. A light shone from Victoria’s office. Urg. I did not feel like dealing with my supervisor. Another wail issued from her open door. Geez.
I imagined coming back to work on Monday and hearing that she’d been attacked by a rat, contracted rabies, and died in the office. If only someone had heard her cries for help. I sighed heavily and dragged my feet to her door.
“Hey, Victoria.”
The wailing stopped immediately. My boss sat at her desk with her face buried in her arms. Her normally flawless blond hair stuck out at all angles. She’d collapsed on top of a desk piled with wedding magazines, menus, seating charts, and vision boards.
Oh right. She was getting married on Sunday. I didn’t know how I could have forgotten. I, and the rest of my team, had been picking up her slack for the last nine months as she wedding planned during office hours.
I cleared my throat. “I, uh—I thought I heard something, but seems like you’ve got this under control, so I’ll just—”
I halted my retreat when Victoria snapped her head up and glared at me, black mascara pooling under her eyes and streaking down her cheeks. “Thought you’d come and have a laugh, huh?” She spread her arms wide. “Let’s all have a good laugh at Victoria!”
I blinked. “No, I just—”
“You just what?” Her shoulders hunched like a wounded animal’s.
“I just thought I might be able to help.” My voice came out just above a whisper.
Victoria pouted and blinked. “Oh, wittle Imogen just wanted to help, huh?” She grinned, a wild smile that didn’t reach her crazed eyes. “Okay, how ’bout you help by finding me a new rehearsal dinner coordinator by tomorrow night, along with a two-tiered cake with eighty matching cupcakes.”
I stood still, afraid that if I moved or spoke she might lunge across the desk and attack me. She groaned, buried her face in her arms, and sobbed loudly. I took a deep breath, leaned back out the door, and looked toward the elevator with longing.
I could leave. She’d practically told me to leave. I looked back at Victoria. She was a blond monster, but I didn’t like to see anyone suffer. Even monsters.
I dragged myself into her office and stood beside her desk. When she continued to sob, I cleared my throat. Then cleared it again. She snapped her head up and rolled her eyes.
“You’re still here?”
“Yes. To the utter surprise and disbelief of both of us, I am still here. Listen, Victoria, I know weddings are complicated.”
“Oh, do you? Has anyone ever asked you to marry him?”
“Ha ha.” I shook my head and closed my eyes. Oh, give me strength to not strangle her. “No. But just look at all this amazing work you’ve done.” I gestured at the complicated schedules, charts, and fabric swatches on her desk. “If your wedding planner’s quit, I’m sure you’re still going to pull off an amazing wedding, and with the help of your friends and—”
She held up a hand. “Let me just stop you right there. My rehearsal dinner planner quit. If my wedding planner had quit, someone would be dead right now.” The way she stared me down, I had a feeling she meant someone in particular.
“Your rehearsal dinner planner?” That was a thing?
“Do you have a hearing problem, Imogen?” She sneered at me.
That was the final straw. I wasn’t anybody’s punching bag. “Okay, see you Monday.” I turned to go.
“Yes, okay, tomorrow night is the
rehearsal dinner, and I’m meeting Ben’s grandpa for the first time, and apparently when his grandpa met his brother’s former fiancée he vetoed the marriage and it was off. Just like that.”
“Why’s his grandpa so influential?” I shifted on my feet and glanced toward the elevator again. So close…
“He claims to be psychic, and the family believes him.” She rolled her eyes. “So when he says this girl is going to lead to disaster, poof, the wedding’s off.”
“Psychic, huh?”
“The real reason is he thinks he’s a big deal. He worked as a diplomat or something for a bunch of countries no one’s ever heard of.”
I doubted the citizens of those countries would agree.
“And he decided that girl didn’t live up to his standards.” Victoria dropped her head into her hands, staring down at her desk. “So, everything has to be absolutely perfect. I have to be perfect. And now the planner’s quit because I was too ‘demanding’ that he do his job apparently, and the baker only works with him, and now I have no dessert.”
She dug her fingers into her hair. “Whatever, this isn’t your problem, just go. Enjoy your weekend grooming your eight cats, or whatever you do.”
My adopted family. I corrected myself mentally—family. Just family. They were great—normal, good jobs, content with life. My parents hadn’t been able to conceive, so they’d adopted me, and then, as often happens, a couple years later had my sister out of the blue.
The three of them were peas in a pod. So completely normal and perfect. My sister still lived in St. Louis, three blocks away from my adopted parents—there I went again.
They had dinner together every Sunday night and went to Cardinals games together. They loved me, and I loved them, but I just didn’t fit. I felt so much like an outsider that I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of them as my adopted family.
I often wondered if I’d be a pea in a pod with my birth parents. Anyway, I knew what trying to fit in felt like—like trying to squeeze into jeans two sizes too small. Uncomfortable, tight, and you could never relax. I could see it in Victoria, and I felt for her. I rolled my eyes at myself. Stupid empathy.
“You know, Victoria.” It was almost painful to get the words out. “I do bake.”
She lifted her head slowly. “You do?”
I had to close my eyes to keep from rolling them. I brought baked goods into the office literally three mornings a week and made a special cake for each person’s birthday. “I made you a birthday cake, remember?”
“Oh right. I didn’t eat any, I don’t do sugar.” She raised her brows. “So what?”
I huffed. “So… if you need someone to make a cake and eighty cupcakes, I could help you out.”
She blinked. I could see the wheels turning in her head. She opened her mouth, her eyes hard, then stopped. She swallowed and said in a softened tone, “You’d really do that? I mean, it’s super last minute.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I’d do that.”
“I’ll pay you.” She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes with the back of a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll pay you what I would’ve paid that other J-hole. Is three thousand enough?”
I tried for a poker face. I knew I didn’t have one—I could feel my eyebrow twitching with the effort to hold back a gigantic shriek. Three thousand dollars? Three thousand dollars! I wanted to jump around her office screaming. Instead I took a deep breath, willed the corners of my mouth to stay down, and said, while picking at my nails, “Yeah, I think that should just about cover it.”
“Hey.”
I looked up.
Victoria pointed a finger at me and gave me a leveling look. “You know, if you’re doing this to suck up, it won’t protect you from layoffs, right?”
I blinked. “Layoffs?”
I replayed weeks of office talk and scanned my memory. I couldn’t think of anyone mentioning layoffs. Dang! I needed that job.
Except, after I got that three thousand dollars from Victoria tomorrow, I wouldn’t actually. I’d have enough to open my bakery—enough for the lease, the build out, the marketing. I’d accounted for it all and it’d taken me seven years, but I’d finally saved up enough.
“Uh, earth to Imogen.”
I snapped my head up. Victoria stared at me, one brow raised, her eyes ringed in mascara and still she somehow looked elegant. I’d need to do my best work to live up to her standard of perfect.
“Listen, I uh—” She swallowed. It looked difficult, like she might be sick. She cleared her throat several times, and finally managed to spit out, “I really appreciate this. Thank you.” I think she actually gagged a little after she said it.
I grinned. “I’m happy to help.”
“Well, I am paying you, you know. And I expect to get my money’s worth.”
Back to the good ol’ Victoria I knew. I pulled up a chair next to her and for two hours—two hours!—we reviewed the guests’ various allergies and preferences, her collection of possible recipes, concept art for the cake and cupcakes, and photos of other wedding desserts until I wanted to claw my eyes out.
Instead, I sat quietly and nodded, and in my head formed my own ideas of what I’d make for her. Victoria claimed she hadn’t eaten the cake I’d made her for her birthday, but I’d caught her pick up just a crumb and savor it with eyes closed. It’d been a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. I nodded to myself. That would be my little gift to Victoria. Something she actually enjoyed.
“Well, I think that just about covers it. I’ll call to check on your progress in the morning.”
By the time I got to my building, the mist had turned to rain. I held my jacket over my head to keep water out of my eyes, a bottle of wine in one hand. I’d stopped by the liquor store on the corner and bought the cheapest red they had, my first splurge in months. Whoa, big spender. I dropped the jacket and tucked the wine under my arm, fumbling for my keys.
“That you, Imogen?”
I looked up. My neighbor, Mr. Hendricks, stood beside me with an umbrella.
“Hello. How are you tonight?”
“Drier than you, it seems.” The old man held the umbrella as high as his stooped back allowed. I ducked under and smiled at the sweet guy.
“Thank you so much.” I shook my purse, listening for the telltale jingle of keys.
“Oh, don’t bother, I’ve got mine.” The rain came down harder now, tapping against the fabric of the umbrella and casting a hush over the whoosh of cars at our backs. The lock in the iron gate turned with a groan, and Mr. Hendricks pushed the door open for me. I stepped in under the overhang. As he shook out his umbrella, he nodded at the wine in my hand.
“Special occasion, young lady?”
I smiled brightly. “Got a job baking a rehearsal dinner cake.”
He nodded and gave me a wink. “Good for you. Smart customer, too.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, and he waved me up the stairs, saying, “Ladies first.”
I left him at the next landing. As I rounded the corner, he called up to me. “See you tomorrow at the market.”
Mr. Hendricks always did his shopping at the Saturday farmers’ market where I had my little baking stall. Shoot! The market.
“Oh, actually, not tomorrow. I’m going to be baking that cake all day.”
His face fell.
“But I’ll need someone to test it… if you’re around?”
The lines around his eyes crinkled deeper as he gave me a huge grin and nodded. “Sure will.”
The dim lights in the wall sconces flickered as I padded down the hall to my apartment. The door groaned as I shouldered it open. I left my keys and coat on the hook and locked the door behind me, flicking on the lights. Home, finally home.
I surveyed the entire 250 square feet of my closet-sized space. Cozy and simple, it suited me just fine, and the rent was actually cheaper than the room in that four bedroom I’d had before this. Plus, the only things I really cared about were a usable kitchen and a comfy bed, wh
ich in my case doubled as my couch.
I padded over to the small kitchen. I’d painted the cabinets white when I moved in, and hung my wood cutting board and rolling pins on the wall. The open shelves held my mixing bowls, and a white ceramic pitcher next to the stove held my wooden spoons, whisks, and spatulas.
I grabbed a pan and set it on the counter, right below the leak in the ceiling. Ping! Ping! Ping! I shook my head. The landlord had promised to fix that last month. I pulled up on the wood window frame above the sink and opened it a crack, taking a deep breath. I loved the smell of rain. I loved the smell of my kitchen in general, the butter, sugar, and chocolate scent that always filled the tiny space. Rain just made it better.
A police siren wailed nearby. Ah, the sounds of home.
I opened the half-sized refrigerator and stood pondering the selection. Eight eggs sat in a bowl—what was left of a gift from a farmer last week at the market. The market!
Before I could forget, I texted a friend who sold honey at the stand next to mine and asked her to cover my booth tomorrow. She lived down the street and we’d covered for each other on occasion. Then I got back to business. I grabbed the half-full (I’m such an optimist) Chinese take-out container of noodles, smelled it, deemed it acceptable, and grabbed a fork. I plunked down on my bed, too tired to heat the food up.
I shoved a mouthful of noodles and baby broccoli into my mouth and pulled my notebook off the side table beside me. I flipped through all my scribbles and opened it to a dog-eared page filled with rows of figures and dates. I looked at this book every night. I already knew how much sat in my savings account, but I couldn’t help reading with pleasure.