I glanced up in time to see a miniature zombie waddle past the front of the shop, quickly followed by a vampire, two ice princesses, and a tall witch with a long black cape flowing out behind her.
In celebration of Halloween, the town was hosting a big to-do all weekend. Today’s events included a treasure hunt, a jack-o’-lantern contest, and of course—being the wedding capital of the South—numerous ghoulish weddings.
The witch peeled off from the rest of the pack and opened the door to the shop, a basket holding a little black dog looped over one arm, a garment bag draped over the other.
This time of year might be the only time of year my cousin, black-magic witch Delia Bell Barrows, who wore that cape year-round, fit in with a crowd.
Delia came to a dead stop at the box in the middle of the floor, and Poly’s gray paw poked through the cutout handle as though waving hello.
She lifted a thin pale eyebrow and glanced at me, amusement in her ice blue eyes.
“Mama,” I said, “I’ve got to go. Someone just came in.” She didn’t need to know it was a social visit and not a customer.
Delia set the basket on the floor, and her dog, Boo—a black Yorkie mix—hopped out and immediately started sniffing the box. Poly stuck his arm father out of the hole to tap Boo’s head. Bop, bop, bop.
“But, Carly! We’re not—”
“I’ll see you tonight, Mama. At the party.”
“Wait. What did you say?”
“I’m Dylan’s plus one.”
Her voice rose to a twangy falsetto. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
I’ve been known on occasion to incite my mother just to see her get all fired up. It was that mischievous streak in me. “I’ve got to go, Mama.”
“Fine. But, Carly?” she said, sugar sweet.
“Yes?” I slumped over the counter, exhausted from this conversation.
“Be sure to leave your pitchfork at home.”
My pitchfork was my home-protection weapon of choice. It had gotten a lot of use over the past six months, what with a couple of murder cases I’d been wrapped up in. It was also what I’d used when I forked Patricia Davis Jackson in her aerobically toned tush. I’d been tempted to smuggle it into the party tonight just for old times’ sake. “But—”
“Tonight has to be perfect,” Mama continued. “Our family must paint the picture of propriety.”
That was going to take a very large canvas and a small miracle. My family was anything but proper. “I can’t make any promises.”
“So help me, Carly Bell, if you raise a ruckus . . . There must be no scenes, no drama, no nothing, y’hear?”
“I hear, I hear!”
Delia smiled. Clearly, she heard, too. Lordy be, people over in Huntsville could probably hear.
Before she could say anything else, I quickly said, “I’ll see you later, Mama!” And I hung up.
No scenes. No drama. No ruckus.
Shoo. I couldn’t help but think my mama had just jinxed this party seven ways to Sunday.
Maybe this shindig wasn’t going to be as deadly boring as I had thought.
Which was just fine by me—I loved a front-row seat to drama.
Just as long as it didn’t turn out plain ol’ deadly . . .
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
Some Like It Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 28