magic potion 03 - ghost of a potion

by blake, heather

  It had taken more patience than I thought I possessed to talk him out of that. Dylan was right—it was best to wait until morning. For multiple reasons. The first being that the deputies at Haywood’s home would undoubtedly turn me away. The second being that midnight had marked the coming of Halloween.

  And more ghosts.

  Oh, I hadn’t seen any more of them, but I knew they were out there.

  Waiting. Watching. Searching for someone to help them.

  Guilt pricked at my conscience.

  After all, I could help them . . .

  But when the memory of that one bad experience slid into my mind, a shiver ran down my spine, reminding me why I’d stopped assisting the ghosts in the first place.

  Helping Haywood was a big enough step outside my self-imposed ghostly comfort zone to give me peace of mind. I was doing the best I could right here and now.

  The phone on my nightstand rang, and when I reached over to pick it up, I saw who was calling: My mama. I set the handset back down and let the call go to voice mail.

  Later. I’d deal with her later.

  I said good-bye to the two feline lumps under my duvet, told them the house would soon be theirs for a while, and reached for the bedroom doorknob. Willed myself to turn the handle.

  Now that it was almost time to leave the house, my nerves were kicking up something fierce. I didn’t want to go out there.

  Didn’t want to want to have to deal with Haywood.

  Didn’t want to think about murder.

  But I also knew I had no other choice. Not really. Not if I wanted to help Haywood cross over so I could return to my regularly scheduled hibernation period. Taking a deep breath, I gave myself a silent pep talk and swung open the door just as my front bell pealed. I left the door ajar for Roly and Poly to have free rein and dashed down the narrow steps.

  The first thing I noticed was that Haywood was nowhere to be seen.

  Was it possible that he’d decided he didn’t need me after all? My hopes picked themselves up, dusted themselves off.

  The second thing I noticed was that it wasn’t Dylan on my front porch but rather my aunt Eulalie. She had her hands cupped on each side of her face and her nose practically smushed flat as she peered through the leaded glass of my front door. Her sullen features brightened when she spotted me.

  A gentle rain was falling outside as I unlocked the door, and although the gray weather fit my melancholy mood, I hoped the skies would clear by evening. Once upon a time I had been a happy-go-lucky trick-or-treater, and there had been nothing worse than bad weather while going door to door.

  “Carly Bell, I’m glad you answered, what with you being in your current state of hibernation.” She noisily kissed my cheek.

  I quickly closed the door behind her before any wayward ghosts wandered by. There was a nervous energy around my aunt as she sashayed into the living room, her pleated full skirt swinging like a pendulum.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, studying her. “Everything go okay on your date with Mr. Butterbaugh last night? Well, minus the murder?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It was fine.”

  Fine. That was the kiss of death for poor Mr. Butterbaugh. “Not your type?”

  Aunt Eulalie rarely looked anything other than perfectly put together. It helped that she could easily pass for Meryl Streep’s twin sister, but her fashion sense played a huge role as well.

  She preferred retro-looking fashions. From the forties, fifties, sixties . . . she loved them all. Today she had on a fitted navy blue blouse, a purple cardigan, a gray, blue, and purple plaid skirt, and dark purple Mary Jane heels—with sheer hose of course. Aunt Eulalie seemed to have an endless supply of stockings. And gloves, too. Today she wore a pair of cream-colored wrist-length gloves with a ruffled cuff.

  “I’m coming to believe, Carly Bell, that my type does not exist. Wendell is a perfectly lovely gentleman. For someone else. I need someone with a stronger . . . constitution.”

  “The ulcer?” I asked with a small smile.

  “And the headache from the music. And the sore throat from a possibly tainted piece of shrimp.” She peeled off her gloves. “Bless his heart.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Just one more frog crossed off the list,” she said on a long sigh. “But never mind that right now. I’ve come over because I want to talk to you about a particular guest staying at the inn. A young woman. Very sweet. Extremely kind.”

  All three Odd Ducks owned inns on this street. Eulalie’s, the Silly Goose, and Hazel’s Crazy Loon were almost always filled to capacity. Aunt Marjie’s Old Buzzard had never once seen a guest and had a NO VACANCY sign hanging out front. She was contrary that way.

  Eulalie’s place was two doors down, one of only three homes on this side of the street. Sandwiched between her place and mine was Mr. Dunwoody’s house, and I was grateful for the buffer. Though I loved my aunts, being directly next door would be a little too close for comfort.

  “A bride-to-be?” I asked. With Hitching Post being the wedding capital of the South, most visitors to the town were involved with a wedding in some way. Before Eulalie could answer, I added, “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, following me into the kitchen. “My guest has been extremely tight-lipped as to why she is here. Not for a lack of my trying to get a reason out of her, mind you.”

  Eulalie had probably wheedled the woman endlessly. Poor thing. I set about making the coffee.

  She said, “As far as I knew this young woman had no connections to this town, wedding or otherwise.”

  “Knew?” I questioned her use of the past tense.

  “Imagine my surprise when she turned up at the masquerade ball last night.” Pressing her hand to her chest dramatically, she added, “And played a starring role in the debacle that took place with Patricia Davis Jackson.”

  The debacle. Eulalie had to be referring to Patricia’s tongue-lashing of the party crasher. The one Haywood had set out to rescue just before he was killed . . .

  Slowly, I turned to face my aunt. “She’s that woman?”

  Solemnly, Eulalie nodded. “Avery Bryan, age twenty-seven, from Auburn.”

  Auburn was a good three and a half hours away and best known for the university of the same name. Hitching Post was mostly comprised of ’Bama football fans, but that wasn’t to say Auburn didn’t have pockets of fervent fans around these parts. It could get downright nasty during the annual Iron Bowl matchup between the two teams every November.

  Reaching for a pair of mugs, I instinctively smiled at the Professor Hinkle mug Dylan had given me years ago. Once broken, it was now glued back together. Kind of like Dylan’s and my relationship.

  “She was most distraught after returning to the inn last night,” Eulalie continued. “I heard sobbing coming from her room during the wee hours.”

  The coffee finished perking and its alluring scent filled the air. I breathed it in like the true caffeine addict that I was. After grabbing a carton of cream from the refrigerator, I said, “I can imagine how upset she must have been. As you may recall, I’ve been on the receiving end of Patricia’s tirades many times.”

  “That vicious tongue of Patricia’s will get her in trouble one of these days, mark my words. But regardless, Avery wasn’t weepy after the argument between them. I spoke to her immediately after the tiff when Idella Kirby pulled the two into the powder room to cool off.” Eulalie smiled slyly, her pale pink lipstick sparkling in the light. “I had gone in there to eavesdrop properly on the quarrel and my foresight paid off very well indeed.”

  I could only shake my head. My family was certifiable. Both sides, the Fowls and the Hartwells. “Indeed.”

  “Anyhow, Avery was angry and embarrassed, yes, but not tearful.”

  I added a little sugar to my coffee, and gave it a swirl with a spoon. “Did she say why she’d crashed the party in the first place?”

  Leaning against the counte
r, Eulalie took a dainty sip of her coffee, her pinkie finger in the air. “Avery said she didn’t know Patricia from Adam.” She frowned. “Or should that be Eve?” Waving a hand in dismissal of the query, she went on. “And Avery didn’t crash anything, Carly Bell. She had an invitation, the same as the rest of us. I know. I couldn’t help but see it as she waved it in front of Patricia’s face in defense of her presence.”

  I cupped my hands around my mug, letting its warmth seep into my palms. My fingers probed the cracks that had been mended, finding the fissures oddly comforting. “She had an invite? You don’t say.”

  “I do say.” Eulalie arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “And yet, when confronted with the truth, Patricia remained steadfast in ordering Avery to leave the premises immediately, declaring that she wasn’t welcome. Idella overruled Patricia, issued her deepest apologies to Avery, and escorted Patricia out of the powder room quicker than a sinner passes by a church.”

  Patricia had never been one to admit when she was wrong or apologize. However, it seemed to me that she’d gone above and beyond to get rid of Avery Bryan.

  Why?

  “Avery promised she wouldn’t let Patricia ruin her night, but I never did see her again after I left the powder room. Patricia, either, until the unfortunate incident with Haywood Dodd.”

  Unfortunate incident.

  Only Aunt Eulalie could get away with calling a murder an unfortunate incident.

  Speaking of Haywood, I’d bet my witchy senses that he’d decided to float over to his house without me to see what was going on with the break-in. If so, I’d see him soon enough. I was headed there as soon as Dylan arrived.

  Tsking, she took another sip of coffee. “I think Avery knows him.”

  “Him? Haywood?”

  “Yes. He was standing in the hallway outside the powder room as though waiting for her to emerge.”

  I recalled Haywood’s reaction at seeing Patricia and Avery arguing. He’d been disturbed by it, and until right this second I’d chalked up the way he’d behaved as deep embarrassment at the scene being made at a glamorous Harpies event.

  But if he had personally known Avery Bryan . . . his reaction made perfect sense.

  Aunt Eulalie might be onto something.

  “And then the poor dear cried her eyes out all night long. Clearly she’s grieving.” Eulalie pointedly looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Do you think, perhaps, she and Haywood were . . . well acquainted?”

  It was obvious what she was hinting. That perhaps Haywood and Avery were having an affair. A pretty younger woman. A handsome older man of means. It wasn’t out of the question; however, Haywood didn’t strike me as the cheating type, and I’d never read anything in his energy to support that theory.

  But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

  If Aunt Eulalie had so easily made a leap to an intimate relationship between the two, it made me question whether Hyacinth had witnessed the pair together and jumped to the same conclusion.

  She’d already buried three husbands . . . all of whom died of natural causes.

  Supposedly.

  “Do you know of any bad blood between Patricia and Haywood?” I asked, then added, “It could be an old grudge.”

  “There’s none that I know of unless there is a connection between him and Avery. Last night Patricia was madder than a wet hen in a paper sack, and I can absolutely see her taking out that rage on Haywood if he dared confront her about her deplorable behavior.”

  I could see it too. “Do you know of anyone else who might hold any ill will toward him?”

  “I certainly hold a smidgen of ill will toward the man.”

  Shocked, I said, “What?”

  “I’m personally offended that he has never shown an inkling of interest in moi.” She preened and batted her eyelashes. “Choosing to date Hyacinth Foster shows a distinct lack of good taste on his part. Perhaps, he’s had a death wish all along. Everyone knows the rumors about her former husbands. He might very well be alive right this moment if he had only looked my way. God rest his soul.”

  Eulalie had never lacked for ego.

  She finished her coffee. “No matter what potential relationship there was or wasn’t between Avery and Haywood, Avery’s tears have broken my heart. I know you’re in the midst of hibernating and all, but I was hoping you could sneak over for a visit with her, read her energy. If anyone is in need of a healing potion, it’s her.”

  I wasn’t buying her broken heart nonsense. Eulalie wanted to know what was going on between Avery and Haywood.

  Truthfully, I wanted to know, too. Not only because I was nosy, but because I could easily recall the desperation in Dylan’s voice the last time I spoke to him. He needed to find another suspect to take the heat off his mother. Perhaps if I could help find that person it would go a long way to bridging the gap between Patricia and me.

  If you want Dylan you have to figure out a way to make nice with Patricia.

  My daddy was a wise man.

  With any luck the mysterious Avery Bryan might have some insight into Haywood’s life that she wouldn’t mind sharing. “Okay. Later, though. I have to go out with Dylan for a bit.”

  Eulalie clasped her hands in glee. “Perfect! She went out for a walk a little bit ago, but I’m sure she’ll be back soon. I’ll call as soon as she comes through the door.”

  She gave my hands a squeeze and headed for the door, her skirt swaying and her heels clacking.

  As I watched her go, I thought about Haywood. Whether or not he was having an affair, it was becoming clear that he had been keeping some secrets.

  Rounding up a few more suspects was just a matter of discovering who had known those secrets . . . and if Haywood had been killed because of them.

  Chapter Seven

  Haywood Dodd had lived in a pretty teal green Queen Anne–style house that had a wraparound porch with beautifully crafted spindles and posts, a turret, and a big Palladian window on the first floor.

  His landscaping was meticulously tended, the shrubs sculpted just so, the lawn cut to the perfect height. Despite the rain and the chill in the air, the pansies and mums that lined the front walkway were bright and cheerful.

  There were only two items glaringly out of place in the serene setting: The yellow crime tape on the front door . . . and me.

  I paced the length of sidewalk along the tree-lined lane, rain pinging off my polka-dotted umbrella as I waited for Dylan to arrive. He’d called and said he was running late and asked me to meet him here. I’d decided to take my chances and walk over instead of driving, which might have raised the suspicions of the neighbors with my Jeep parked in front of Haywood’s.

  It was a decision I regretted. Turned out Dylan was running later than he thought, and I’d been waiting for close to ten minutes now.

  Out here in the open.

  I’d already spotted the ghost of Virgil Keane, who’d been a manager at the Pig before he’d died last spring. As he wandered by, I maintained my distance and he kept on going, seemingly oblivious to my presence. He appeared to be searching for something, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask what. Nope. I was going to stay on my side of the street, tucked under my umbrella and hiding behind my sunglasses.

  I still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Haywood this morning, but every time I passed in front of his house, my head faintly ached, so I surmised he was inside surveying the damage done during the break-in, just as I had suspected.

  As I made my eighth pass down the street, I spotted someone bundled in a black raincoat creeping around the side of Haywood’s house, testing windows to see if they were unlocked.

  I loudly coughed to get the person’s attention and a head snapped up. Mayor Barbara Jean Ramelle let out a nervous laugh and came over to me.

  “Carly? I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with those big ol’ sunglasses on a rainy day like today?”

  “Sensitive eyes,” I lied, not daring to remove the glasses when Virgil Keane was somewhere n
earby. I adjusted my umbrella to cover her as well and said, “Were you trying to break in?”

  She winced, then laughed. “I suppose I was.”

  Barbara Jean was what my mama would call “plain of face.” She was perfectly average; none of her features stood out in a good—or bad—way. Average blue eyes, narrow forehead. Shoulder-length dark brown bob with golden highlights. Thin lips, round cheeks, small chin. She was a bit on the curvy side, heavier through her hips and chest, which gave her an hourglass shape.

  What stood out, however, was her voice. Full and rich, it flowed like hot honey. It was truly mesmerizing and gave her the ability to rule over town meetings without one constituent nodding off during the dull proceedings.

  Her laugh was like a ray of molten sunshine on this dreary day.

  “I suppose I should have just waited for the sheriff to open the place up to me, but they’re currently busy with their investigation, and I didn’t think anyone would care a whit if I just popped inside for a moment to grab some Harpies paperwork.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Haywood—God rest his soul—was our historian and kept all the group’s important documents here at his home. General stuff, nothing terribly important. It’s of no use to anyone but us, but I’m afraid with no known next of kin that it’s going to get lost in the shuffle of whatever becomes of his estate. I’d hoped to collect it and take it home. No one would even notice it was gone. No harm, no foul.”

  Two things of import struck me at that moment. One was that Mayor Ramelle was trying mighty hard to convince me that she was acting on the Harpies’ best interest and that whatever papers were inside Haywood’s home held no importance. The second was about Haywood’s next of kin.

  “Haywood had no living relatives?” I asked, playing along with her excuses for now.

  She stuck her hands into her coat pockets. “He’d been an only child raised by his grandparents after his mama died in childbirth, and they’re both long dead. No siblings, no aunts or uncles. He’d had a brief marriage some twenty-odd years ago, but that’s long over and they didn’t keep in touch after she moved away. I know he and Hyacinth were talking about marriage, but hadn’t reached the point of an engagement. But”—she tapped her chin—“now that I say that, I recall her mentioning recently that she was named as a beneficiary in his will so perhaps all I have to do is be patient to get those papers back.”