One Hex of a Wedding
Yasmine Galenorn
* * *
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Full Moon Bridal Ritual
PRAISE FOR THE
Chintz’n China Mysteries
“The perfect book to curl up with.” —The Mystery Reader
“A truly charismatic, down-to-earth character … Don’t miss this charming first book in the series. I look forward to the next one.”—Rendezvous
“A very appealing series with some very scary stuff. Thank goodness there’s a charm included!”—Mysterylovers.com
“This paranormal mystery has enough romance in it to keep readers of three genres very happy … The audience will adore Emerald, a bright, shining, and caring soul who wants to do right by everybody and use her powers to make the world a better place.” —Midwest Book Review
“For those who love paranormal mysteries, Murder Under a Mystic Moon … will not disappoint.”—MyShelf.com
Chintz ’n China Mysteries by Yasmine Galenorn
GHOST OF A CHANCE
LEGEND OF THE JADE DRAGON
MURDER UNDER A MYSTIC MOON
A HARVEST OF BONES
ONE HEX OF A WEDDING
To Daniela, who was my
matron of honor at my wedding.
You stuck with me through all the crazed planning,
you championed Samwise before
the rest of our friends accepted him,
and you did everything a blood-oath
sister is supposed to do.
Love ya, babe!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, love and thanks to my supportive husband, Samwise, and our four cats, who are the joys of my life. Thank you to the usual crew: To Christine Zika, my editor. To Meredith Bernstein, my agent, for believing in me and being there when I need to talk. To my sister, Wanda. To Margie M., Vicki St. C., Siduri, Theresa S., Tiffany M., and Brad R., Lisa DDC, Linda W.—good friends all. To my Witchy Chicks blogging group: You’re all warped women and I love you.
Thanks to my readers, old and new. Without you, we authors would be lost. And of course, Mielikki, Tapio, Rauni, and Ukko, my spiritual guardians.
If you wish to contact me, you can via snail mail through my publishers or the address on my website (please enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope for reply), or via e-mail through my website, www.galenorn.com.
Bright Blessings to all,
the Painted Panther
Yasmine Galenorn
Anger and jealousy can no more bear
to lose sight of their objects than love.
—GEORGE ELIOT
One
THE PARTY WAS in full swing when Harlow grabbed the microphone and motioned for the Barry Boys to take a break from the ’80s retro dance numbers they were playing. The strains of “Burning Down the House” fell silent as she stepped up on the stage and clapped her hands for attention, although she needn’t have bothered. My ex-supermodel buddy was tall, gorgeous, with golden blond hair braided à la Bo Derek’s cornrows, and the mere sight of her standing there in a gold mini-dress and red stilettos stunned the room into silence.
“Welcome, and thank you for coming. As you know, Emerald and Joe will be taking that last leap of faith and making it official. Countdown is T-minus two weeks! And we’ll all be right there with them, cheering them on. Until then, let’s bring down the house!”
The crowd erupted in a roar and Jimbo, who was standing next to me, swung me up to sit on his shoulder. I grabbed hold of his shirt collar with one hand—I’ve never been one for high-wire acts—and he braced my legs against his chest and paraded me around the room. I waved as a volley of friendly catcalls rang out from our friends, and then he stopped in front of Joe and tossed me into my fiancé’s arms. I gasped as I sailed through the air, but Joe caught me without so much as a grunt. As he set me down on the floor, I looped my arm through his.
Harlow’s voice rang out again. “Be careful, Jimbo. Remember she head-butted you to the floor once before. I’m sure she can do it again.” Another round of laughter from the crowd. “Okay, let’s show these two just what we’re made of. Get your butts in gear and bring on the music!”
Joe and I found ourselves unceremoniously pushed into the middle of the dance floor while the band began a frenzied rendition of “Whip It.” He grabbed my hand and spun me out to the center, where I let go with a shimmy that brought yet another round of cheers, and then the room was filled with dancers, clapping and head-banging to the beat. As the band segued into “Don’t You (Forget About Me),” by Simple Minds, I rested my head on Joe’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around my waist as we swirled around the floor, lost in the music. Would we still be dancing like this in fifty years? I couldn’t see that far ahead, but something inside told me we would.
“Babe, you look gorgeous,” he whispered.
And in truth, I felt gorgeous. I had shaped up a lot over the past six months as I advanced my practice of yoga, and while I vowed never to give up my caffeine or chocolate, I had managed to cut back on the sugar. As for my outfit, I’d found the perfect lilac gauze and lace skirt for the party, thanks to Harlow and a trip to Seattle. It floated a couple inches above my knees, and I’d paired it with a plum camisole and a Victoria’s Secret demi bra.
I’d also succumbed to vanity at long last, and dyed the silver out of my waist-length mass of curls. When I told Harl I intended to go to Bab’s Salon down the street from my teashop, she whisked me away to Seattle. We stopped at the Gene Juarez spa for the works. As an early shower gift, she paid my way through a trim, color job, manicure, pedicure, and massage, and I didn’t put up a fight. Then we hit her favorite boutiques, where I found my outfit and the perfect pair of shoes.
As Joe danced me around the floor, I glanced down at the open-toe, sling-back black pumps, still aghast both at how high the heels were and at how much they’d set my credit card back. My toenails, painted a brilliant fuchsia, stood out against the rich fabric. Suddenly overwhelmed by the whimsy of the situation, I pushed aside my worry over their cost and laughed as Joe dipped me. The back of my head almost touching the floor, I raised one leg into the air, toe pointed, in a kick that would have made Catherine Zeta-Jones proud.
After the song ended, the band took a break and everybody headed for the buffet. I rested my head on Harlow’s shoulder. “Thank you,” I said. “Even with my family here, I’m having so much fun. Thank God, I don’t have to entertain them tonight. The buffet will take care of that. It’s been crazy since they showed up.”
Harl’s eyes twinkled. “Relatives can be a bitch, can’t they?” She threw her arm around my shoulder and wrinkled her nose. “I’m so glad you let me plan everything. Murray’s knee-deep in work right now, and I love playing hostess. You shouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
I frowned. She’d just touched on a point that had been bothering me all day. “Harl, does Murray seem different to you lately?”
“What do you mean?” Harl cocked her head to one side.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. It seems like she’s been moody and distant for the past couple of weeks. I
know things are okay with Jimbo, so I don’t think it’s anything to do with their relationship. I’m just a little worried. She doesn’t seem herself lately.”
Harlow shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. To be honest, I’ve been focused on other things. Like this party.” She looked around. “Everybody seems to be having fun, don’t you think? And the room looks gorgeous.”
She was right, on both counts. Everyone—including my easily offended Grandma McGrady—had a smile on their face. And the banquet room at the Forest End’s Diner had been decked out in full glory. A huge photograph of Joe and me blown up to poster proportions graced an easel near the buffet. Roses, both pink and red, filled vases on every table. Streamers in sparkling metallic hues of purple, green, blue, and gold spiraled from the ceiling, and the walls had stick-on hearts plastered on them.
I had a suspicion the latter was Kip’s idea. He’d developed a romantic streak ever since he realized that I’d be marrying a man who would be there every day to hang out with him and treat him like his father should have, but never did. Add in the fact that I’d seen the hearts peeking out of my ten-year-old’s backpack before he and Miranda headed out to help Harlow get things ready, and I was pretty sure my guess was on track.
“Speaking of Murray, where is she?” Harl asked. “I wanted her to lead the toasts.”
Anna Murray, my best friend in the whole world and my maid of honor, was nowhere in sight. I glanced around, wondering where she’d disappeared to. “I don’t know. Last I saw she was dancing with Jimbo. Whoever knew he could do the twist? And I’d have lost my shirt betting he wouldn’t know the difference between the Hustle and a waltz.” Jimbo, it turned out, was not only a biker extraordinaire, but also quite the star on the dance floor.
“You and me both,” Harl said. She glanced around and a smile filtered over her face, a smile I recognized instantly. I followed her gaze to find myself staring at her husband, James. He was a lean, muscular, dark-haired man who was a good three inches shorter than Harlow. James carried himself with a quiet dignity. He was holding their daughter, Eileen, who was only a couple months shy of her first birthday. The look on his face said everything was right in his world. Harlow and Eileen were lucky ladies. He was one of the good guys.
“You, my dear, have a beautiful family,” I said. “So, what’s next on his agenda?” James was a photographer and was often away for several months at a time on photo shoots. A childhood sweetheart of Harl’s, they’d reconnected years ago when he was assigned to photograph a layout where she was the star supermodel. They’d rekindled their romance and—aware of the fleeting life expectancy of her career—Harlow decided to get out while she was on top. She had socked away most of her money, after a brief dip into the cokehead-party lifestyle, and they were set for life.
Harl shrugged, her smile fading. “He said he’s staying close to home, but I know for a fact he’s being talked up by one of the big adventure magazines. Other than that, he’s got a three-day shoot coming up at the end of the month for the Seattle tourism board. We’re all going and turning it into a minivacation. But that’s after your wedding, so don’t worry about us skipping out on you.”
Just then, I noticed Murray slip back into the room from the double doors leading to the restaurant proper. When she saw us, she motioned with her head. I didn’t like the look on her face.
I touched Harl on the arm and she followed my gaze. “She looks upset.”
“Yeah, she does, doesn’t she? Come on, let’s go see what’s up.”
As we made our way through the crowd, I fielded congratulations from all sides. The party was one last bash before the wedding, for my relatives, my customers, and all of our friends. The ladies who frequented my tea and china shop would have felt slighted if they weren’t offered the chance to congratulate their tea-monger. Jimbo and Joe were planning a family-and-friends-only barbecue for tomorrow after my bridal shower, and Harl would be holding a formal dinner a few days before our wedding.
Murray impatiently gestured us over to the doors. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you’d want to know in advance.” Her gaze fastened on my face and a shiver ran up my back. Yeah, something bad was coming.
The kids were here, my family was here, and Joe was here, so there couldn’t be anything wrong with any of them. A sudden sweep of panic rushed over me. “The cats? The house? Did something happen?”
“No … nothing like that,” she said.
“Then what? A ghost in the attic? A murderer on the rampage? Don’t tell me Cathy Sutton’s decided to film my wedding for KLIK-TV?” As far fetched as they sounded, those possibilities were all too real for my comfort.
Mur grimaced. “Worse. Okay, here’s the deal—” But before she could tell me, a voice interrupted our conversation and I knew she was right. This was worse than almost anything I could dream up.
“Aren’t you going to say hello or are you playing the little snob today?”
Tone on edge, slightly patronizing. Oh yes, I knew that voice only too well. It was one I despised and dreaded every time it winged its way into my ears. I held my breath, hoping that I was wrong, but in my heart I knew I wasn’t. I glanced at Mur, swallowing. She gave me a sympathetic smile, and I knew that there was no help for it. I had to face my nightmare come to life.
“So, you’re getting married again. My feelings are hurt; you didn’t invite me to your little shindig. I had to find out through our son. But then again, you always did specialize in playing the martyr, Emerald.”
I slowly turned around, gritting my teeth. Please, oh please let me be wrong. But luck was a fickle mistress. There, in the doorway behind Murray, uninvited and unwanted, stood my ex-husband. Roy. And the smirk on his face told me we were in for a bumpy ride.
WHO AM I ? Well, I’m Emerald O’Brien, I’m thirty-seven years old, and I own the Chintz ’n China Tea Room, where we sell china, tea, cookies, jams, and gift baskets, and where the local matrons meet for a quiet cup and scone amidst their busy afternoons.
I’m also the mother of two incredible children—Kipling, my ten-year-old computer whiz, magic-loving, tumbling-his-way-onto-the-gymnastics-team son, and Miranda, who’s fourteen going on thirty, and who can out-stargaze any astronomer she meets. She’s going to land on the moon someday. Or Mars. I’m counting on it, and I have all the confidence in the world that she won’t stop there. No, if there’s a warp engine to discover or a new comet heading our way, Randa will be the first in line for accolades. To round out our family, we share our house with four cats—Samantha, a gorgeous calico, and her now-grown kittens, Nebula, Nigel, and Noël. We almost lost Samantha last year, so now they are all indoor-onlys, safe from predators and interdimensional rifts in time.
And then there’s Joe. Joseph Ethan Files, to be precise. My fiancé, who happens to be ten years younger than I am. We fell in love a little over a year ago, and on Halloween—my birthday—he knelt down on a dark stormy night when I was in tears from a tragic and ghostly reunion I’d just witnessed, and he asked me to marry him. I said yes. We’re getting married in a couple of weeks on the summer solstice, under the fading light of the evening sky in the gazebo flower garden that used to be the haunted, bramble-infested lot next to my house.
Oh, one more note. A little one, really, all things considered. I’m the village witch here in Chiqetaw, Washington, a small town off Highway 9 in Whatcom County. I no longer try to deny the claim, because I’ve finally accepted my place in the town. When the universe decided to slap a cosmic badge on me and call me the new sheriff, I resisted at first, but as the Borg say in the Star Trek realm, “Resistance is futile.”
I’ve accepted my destiny. On the astral realm I fend off—and sometimes help—otherworldly visitors. And on the mundane, I’ve been the downfall of a few murderers and thieves.
If there’s one thing the past couple years have taught me, it’s that when fate comes knocking, you either open the door or the karma police bash it in. So, when the universe deliv
ers me a new mission, I accept it, even if it seems impossible. As my Nanna taught me, there’s usually a solution for every problem. You just have to ask the right question.
HOLY HELL. I closed my eyes, repressing a groan. Roy was out to ruin my evening. I knew it as sure as I knew my own name, and I planned on nipping that little prospect in the bud. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He blinked, his expression as guileless as usual. The man had a way of looking naïve and fresh off the turnip truck. Brilliant, he had appeared the epitome of the all-American boy when I first met him, and the look had stood the test of time. Pity his actions didn’t follow suit. It wasn’t until later that I’d learned the truth hiding behind those wide, innocent eyes.
“Kip invited me, so I thought I’d show up and see who on earth decided to put a ring on your finger.”
Damn it. I knew Kip didn’t expect—or even want—me to get back together with Roy, but sometimes that little goober did a good job of mucking things up. Kipling wanted his father’s approval, a dream seldom realized. I had to hand it to him, though. He persevered. And chances were, Kip didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. That was part of the problem with my son. He ran headlong into situations, acting first and only thinking it through later. As a result, Kip had managed to pull off some pretty big blunders for his age.
“Kip made a mistake and you should have known better. You’re an adult, so give us all a break and act like one.” I leaned in so I wouldn’t be overheard. “I know you, Roy. The only reason you’re here is to see what havoc you can cause. You’re so miserable in your own life that you want everybody else to be miserable with theirs. I’m sorry Tyra left you, but it’s your own fault.”
Roy’s second wife—the woman I caught him cheating with when we were married—had dumped him a few months ago. She’d mysteriously fallen and had a miscarriage. Having been on the wrong end of Roy’s fists a couple of times, I suspected Roy had something to do with her fall, but she wasn’t pressing charges. Unlike me, she’d just quietly demanded a sizable alimony. I’d asked for child support, and forced him to pay it, but I’d only asked for a settlement of our property and money on hand when we divorced. I didn’t want anything from Roy that might chain him to me any tighter than the bonds forged because of our children.
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