Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Acknowledgements
More Inept Witches Mysteries
About Amanda
Amanda's Other Titles
About Auburn
Auburn's Other Titles
Copyright
Amanda says:
This book is for Auburn. It only happened because you were being super awesome.
As per usual.
Auburn says:
Amanda, your sense of humor provides enough fodder for this book and many more.
We should write more books so we can dedicate them to each other. Evil cackle. You in?
1
Wednesday Morning
It took a simple flick of her finger to send the sheriff’s hat flying.
The first thing to be said was that Sheriff Gabe—and who knew or cared what his last name was—he was hot. He was lickable, gorgeous hot. He reminded Ingrid Pickford that she wanted babies, and he made her think he’d do well as the baby daddy. It was, in fact, possible that he made her ovaries hurt.
She watched him from behind the grimy window of Enchanted Tales, Emily’s dead aunt’s bookstore. Ingrid was supposed to be cleaning this dump but that felt too much like work. Everything about her and Emily’s plan was turning out to be too much work. Redoing the apartments upstairs—who would have guessed they’d be such disgusting, decrepit holes? It was work. She’d had to choose wallpaper and try out bathtubs and pick tile, and that all really interfered with naps and staring at the ocean. They could just rent out the bookstore, but then they’d have privileged American guilt. Possibly. Just living off money they hadn’t made—it was better to pretend to work and travel too much to be useful.
Ingrid watched the sheriff of Sage Island walk down the stupidly cute street, past stupidly cute storefronts, in jeans that were just the right amount of tight, and she took hold of her rusty abilities to send his hat flying. She leaned forward as her pretty Gabe bent down to pick up his hat. Her nose almost pressed against the disgusting window, she licked her lips because she couldn’t lick him and examined each and every inch of that flexing perfect physique.
“Mmmm,” she said as she watched. “He is perfect.”
Her magic abilities were not…miniscule. She suspected, in fact, she could be semi-powerful. There was a time in her life when she’d thought about working hard at magic. The occasional indulgence of that thought during her formative-type years was why she could send the sheriff’s hat flying to watch him bend over.
Her magical skills, however, were terrible. Sending hats flying, setting things on fire, and making, literally, a magical cup of coffee were the height of her skills. She could also make acne and fine lines disappear, make her high heels comfortable, and remove food stains from clothes but only after a recent spill. Anything old and set-in was beyond her.
She’d had to use old-fashioned sleuthing to discover that the yummy sheriff was single, never married, no children, and enjoyed football, home-cooked meals, and fishing. So they had absolutely nothing in common except being single and without children, but Ingrid thought that was enough given the level of his lickableness. The nail tech Kimmie had said he’d dated some local girl for a long time. They broke up over having kids and getting married. He’d wanted—she hadn’t. Despite that, it had been a flaming breakup with things thrown and tantrums and the window of his truck smashed. It was possible Ingrid had rubbed her hands together in delight at each piece of the story.
Ingrid didn’t want to like his ex, but she liked any girl who broke the windows of her exes. Ingrid’s standards might be low, but perhaps after she’d snatched up the sheriff, she’d look up his ex-girlfriend.
Though, another friend beyond Emily sounded like more work than Ingrid wanted to put in.
She and Em were best friends since their first day of college. They’d recognized each other as witches, flinched, and then heard that the other was also undisciplined and terrible at magic. It was a match made in friend-heaven. They somehow managed to get their degrees, get married, stay friends and finally become single again.
Ingrid’s husband had died three years ago. Emily was in the process of a messy divorce from a man that Ingrid refused to name in her head any longer.
He was dickhead now and forever.
That being said, Ingrid flicked her finger again, sending the hat a little farther along, and leaned forward as she re-examined the flexing of an already perfect physique.
“Mmmmmm,” she murmured and heard a cackle of laughter behind her. With a stifled shriek, she spun to find her friend grinning at her. “Emily, damn it.”
The cackles grew into full-on guffaws. Ingrid grasped her throat and tossed the dirty rag at Emily.
“He is divine,” Ingrid stated. It wasn’t a fact that could be refuted. He was lovely with his wide shoulders, narrow waist, flat abs, and eyes as blue as the sky. His face was perfection—sort of grungy angel. Like he’d been perfect once, but his two-day stubble and the scar on his eyebrow and the no-longer perfectly straight nose added up to someone she wanted to touch everywhere. “Have you dated him?”
“What? Why? No.” Emily’s face was too innocent.
Ingrid met her eyes, squinted at her friend and said, “But you wanted to.”
“I was sixteen.”
She lightly punched Emily as she said, “You were a slut. Ogling my man as a child.”
“Your man?”
“I think I’ll keep him.” There was the slightest note of actual seriousness to Ingrid’s voice. Even though she was the one who said it, she was shocked.
So was Emily. “You haven’t even spoken to him. He could be horrible. Or have bad breath.”
“I don’t need him to speak.”
Emily’s guffaws burst out, and Ingrid was delighted to see the tightness around her friend’s eyes ease. The divorce wasn’t going well, and it had begun to weigh on her mind all of the time.
Emily had received notice that dickhead was trying for a piece of the building where Ingrid had invested a lot of money already. They’d agreed to start remodeling long ago, never expecting dickhead to try for a piece of this post-breakup inheritance.
Just the thought of it made Ingrid want to punch him in the throat and then the kidneys. How dare he ruin Emily’s new life? How dare he mess with her fresh start? Why hadn’t he just let her go? He was the cheater, damn it. He was the one who was in the wrong.
“You’re going to miss the boat if you keep on ogling my former love.”
Ingrid sighed, checked her phone for the time, then brushed her hands clean as she headed for her bag.
“This is my last trip back,” Ingrid said as she dropped the green bag onto her shoulder. “For a while anyway. I plan to get an éclair for me and you. Clean the entire place while I’m gone, rearrange my closet, get rid of my fat clothes, and no moping!”
“See you.” Emily followed Ingrid to the door and waived as she got into her Prius.
Ingrid drove down to the ferry, got in the line, and sighed in frustration as it looked like she’d be waiting for a while. The worst thing about living on the San Juan Islands was being bound to the boat schedule. Even still, the beauty of Sage Island soothed her in a way that was
priceless.
She was going to go into Seattle, sign the paperwork to sell the house, tell Harrison’s children that their trust funds were all Harrison intended for them, and as his wife of five years, who’d loved him and didn’t want to lose him, she wasn’t a thieving bitch for refusing to give them every single thing he ever owned or purchased. They’d rail at her and then she’d go stress shopping.
She pounded the steering wheel of her tiny car, remembered that Harrison bought it for her when she mentioned getting a new car without ever asking her what she wanted, and then she remembered the letters. The love letters between him and his first love. Harrison had fallen back in love with his first girlfriend while he was married to Ingrid.
But she didn’t want to think about that.
The memory of those letters, finding them in the weeks after his death, calling Emily—all of it came back to Ingrid in a wave as she sat trapped in her Prius. She shook her head and thought that perhaps she’d get a new bag or shoes.
She’d felt for so long that she’d been in a box. She hadn’t noticed Harrison putting one up around her. And then she was bound down by her loss and her anger and the betrayal. He’d never cheated on her physically. That might have made it worse. He put her in a box, got her to attend class after class and travel with him and see to everything for their home.
She’d become an extension of him, controlled by him without ever realizing it.
Her teeth gritted as she remembered. She had to stop thinking of it. But then she caught sight of the pretty sheriff again through her rearview window. With a wicked grin, she fumbled for her abilities and sent his hat flying. The flex of his back, his arm, and the curve of his body would do a lot to remind her that Harrison had been gone for three years, that even though she had loved him, he was dead, and this was a new life.
Except…
Ingrid was terrible at magic.
This time she lost her grip on her magic and shoved him into the brick wall of the storefront. He hit the side of the building, slid to the cement, and after a long dazed moment, pushed himself to his feet.
•
Wednesday Afternoon
“You are such a greedy bitch,” Daniella said as Ingrid pressed Emily’s name on her phone and sent it ringing. Ingrid was standing in foyer of the lawyer’s office, waiting for the elevator. Unfortunately, her dead husband’s children stood with her. “Dad never intended for things to be this way.”
“As evidenced by his will?” Ingrid asked.
“A horrible greedy scum-sucking…”
Ingrid waved a pinky in acknowledgment and turned for the stairs to get away from Harrison’s beasts.
“This isn’t over,” Harrison Jr. yelled after her.
“It really is,” Parker Dobson said just as the stairwell door closed behind Ingrid. Parker was Harrison’s attorney and could deal with those brats from now on. It wasn’t like they weren’t adults. Or not wealthy from their inheritance.
“Hey,” Emily said. Her voice was tinny and far away, and Ingrid wanted to punch the wall.
“I think we need an espresso machine,” Ingrid said without a greeting.
“So it went well then.”
“And I’ll be getting new shoes.”
“Like heels or sandals or what?” Emily did what friends do and helped Ingrid talk about shoes so she didn’t have to think about what had just happened.
How was she doing? Terrible. Emily didn’t need to ask, and Ingrid didn’t want to tell.
She’d just sold the home she and Harrison had purchased together. She’d been so excited to buy it. There were so many dreams and memories there. She’d sold it to people who wanted children. Just like she had—except Harrison hadn’t wanted more and she’d let her wish go.
She’d sold it, and she would never walk inside of it again.
The couple who had bought the house had told her of their life and of traveling across the world—they had gone beyond Oxford and Stratford-Upon-Avon. She’d wanted to travel, but Harrison had already seen the world. He hadn’t wanted to go the places she wanted to. Ingrid had wanted to lay on a beach in freaking Thailand. She’d wanted to drink whatever the Thai drink and spend most of a few weeks tipsy in between making love with Harrison.
But he’d wanted to go back to England.
The first time was exciting.
The second time was fun. She’d revisited places she’d enjoyed the first time.
The seventh visit left her so full of desperate boredom that she’d had to go to a spa to recover interest in anything.
Emily, however, ignored all that, though she knew that Ingrid was thinking of it. She focused on the shoes, like good friends do.
“Pointy shoes. Or sandals. I don’t know. Something sexy. Something to distract Sheriff Hotpants.” Ingrid said it dryly but Emily would know Ingrid was faking. She was dying inside a little bit. She’d loved Harrison. Still did, even with the letters. She wanted to curl up next to him while he re-read stupid Julius Caesar and smell his cologne and feel his skin.
But Emily could cry with Ingrid when she got back. Properly. With wine. And fattening exotic food.
“We could lay a love spell on Gabe.” Emily’s voice sound too intrigued.
“That’s rapey,” Ingrid said absently, scowling at the stupid little Prius that Harrison had bought her.
“Is it though? He’d probably not even need to be drugged if you approached him right.”
“Really?” Ingrid asked, intrigued.
“Um, maybe not,” Emily sounded as if she were translating Latin. “I mean I spent most of my high school setting things on fire with matches since I suck at magic and skinny-dipping with my boyfriend, Justin, but I’m pretty sure Gabe’s more. . .homespun than that. You might want a different baby daddy. He’d probably want to be involved.”
“Ugh,” Ingrid said. “I’ll call you back. I’m going to buy a bunch of things until I feel like eating again and then get those éclairs.”
“Totally get an espresso machine. The diner across the way makes the worst coffee ever. I’ve been slowly and terribly dying, but I didn’t want to say anything since I come and have coffee in your apartment every single day. But espresso is what I’ve been needing. It’s the key to my happiness.”
“Will do,” Ingrid said. Right after she bought a new wardrobe, a new car, and perhaps got a cat. Or two. Maybe little yippy dogs instead. One for her and Emily. Oh, and wine glasses. She had some drinking to do.
“Oh, wait,” Emily said. “Hazel wants to know if we’ll come to the coven thingy.”
“When is it?” Ingrid asked as she unlocked her car, glanced around, noticed the gray skies and thought she needed some cute rain boots, too.
“Tomorrow at one.”
“One p.m.?” Ingrid asked, realized that must be what Emily meant, and said, “That interferes with my nap.”
“Right,” Emily said. “Mine, too. I’ll tell Aunt Hazel that we’ll have to do it next time.”
“They need to pick an evening time. With wine. And they should feed us. I need someone to cook for me. It should be them. They’re old, so I assume they can make more than Hungarian mushroom soup and grilled cheese.”
“Oh, man,” Emily said and all the pep was gone from her voice. “Dickhead’s coming tomorrow anyway. He wants to ‘survey the property, takes some photos, and see if we can come to a mediated agreement.’”
“Dickhead should go ahead and suck it,” Ingrid said. “I will help you fight this from now until forever just so he can’t have anything. Because in the end, my pockets are deeper than his, and I’d rather give every bit of what I’ve put into the building again to a lawyer than let him have one single cent. Also, he can’t go into my apartment. He’ll mess with the aura or something, and then we’ll have to burn some sage or a candle or whatever, and maybe it’ll never be the same again and we’ll have to evict the rest of our tenants so I can remodel their floor instead because I won’t live where dickhead has dared to breat
he.”
“Well,” Em said, sounding amused, and Ingrid grinned in triumph.
“Also, I can’t believe you ever had sex with him. You should go boil your privates.” Ingrid turned off the phone without saying goodbye and drove aimlessly until she passed her old home one last time. Then she went and bought the biggest and shiniest car she could find.
2
Wednesday Night, 9pm
Emily Brown sat on her couch eating Chinese noodles with her platinum chopsticks. With every bite she thought about having to deal with her future ex-husband tomorrow. She stabbed the noodles with fury, imagining she was putting his eyes out with each jab. Dickhead, as Ingrid liked to call him, cheated on her, left her, and then had the nerve to try to take half of her building from her. Aunt Danna, one of many aunts that made up the local coven, left her the building that housed her magical bookshop, Enchanted Tales, and Ingrid, Emily’s best friend, used her massive fortune to renovate it.
“Ugh, hate that guy. Totally screwing with my fresh start.”
She tossed her take-out carton in the garbage, unable to think about Owen Brown and have an appetite at the same time. Instead she poured herself a tall glass of red wine. Emily stood by the window, looking down on the quaint main street of this little town where she’d grown up. She’d left for college, but Sage Island was her home. Seattle had been fun. College with Ingrid had been fun. Who was she kidding? Anything with Ingrid was fun. But she was thrilled to be back, even with some of the bad memories that haunted her from her time as young witch on the island. She shivered as the image of the charred boy flashed through her mind, then stomped it out. Hard. Those things were in the past. Just like her relationship with her soon-to-be ex-husband. Over and done. Or nearly so. She fantasized about seeing Owen tomorrow and stabbing him in the neck with those chopsticks and then drowning him in a bucket of red wine.
“A perfect ending for my fresh start,” Emily said to herself.
Her crazy self-talk was interrupted by voices coming up through her open window from the street below.
Inconvenient Murder: An Inept Witches Mystery Page 1