by Meg Muldoon
Ginger of the West
A Witches of Broomfield Bay Mystery
by
Meg Muldoon & Jools Sinclair
Published by Vacant Lot Publishing
Copyright 2017© by Meg Muldoon & Jools Sinclair
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance whatsoever to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Whiskey Rain: A Rose City Thriller (Book 1)
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Missing in Christmas River (Book 9)
Roasted in Christmas River (Novella)
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Burned in Broken Hearts Junction (Book 1)
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Ginger of the West
by Jools Sinclair & Meg Muldoon
Prologue
My Aunt Vivian has taught me a lot of things over the years.
She’s taught me how to make a lotion from lemon balm, eucalyptus leaves, and coconut oil that can turn rough, dry skin to silk as well as provide a little luck on a job interview.
She’s taught me that a tea made of hibiscus, red rose petals, and lavender left out in full sun for an hour can calm first date jitters and allow room for love to blossom.
And she’s taught me the right words to whisper to make someone pass on the potato chips and choose healthy greens instead.
Of course, Aunt Viv has taught me other things too, things that have nothing to do with being a witch.
For example, I know how to make the best salmon chowder this side of the Pacific and where to find the juiciest marionberries for my pies and scones. Thanks to my aunt, I also know how to navigate these narrow roads that hug the cliffs near our small town, and how to navigate around other things too, like the people here. She told me long ago that Broomfield Bay is full of good-hearted folk, even if sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they stare and whisper behind our backs.
She also taught me that honey attracts more bees than vinegar, and that it’s good, as well as smart, to be friendly to everyone – especially the customers.
But of all the knowledge and wisdom Aunt Viv has passed on to me, there is one thing that is by far the most important to remember: one that she’s repeated many times over the years.
It’s the lesson that she whispered in my ear after school that day when I arrived home in tears because Chelsea Bolbat told the other girls that I came from an evil family. The one she sternly reminded me of when I was 15 and wanted to make Aaron Baker take me to the St. Patrick’s Day dance. And once again, years later, when I was rejected for a car loan because of a late payment on my credit report.
She says, “No matter how desperate, never use the potion in the ruby bottle. Not ever. Bad things can happen if you do.
“Very, very bad things.”
It sounds like an easy lesson to get down, but trust me, it’s not. That’s why I think that once in a while, just out of the blue, Aunt Viv will remind me of it again. Just like a few months ago, before all hell broke loose and rolled over Broomfield Bay like a sneaker wave.
She says no matter what happens, no matter how powerful the desire, and no matter how bad things might look:
“Leave the ruby bottle alone. That way lies madness, Ginger Marie.”
Yet she’s kept that bottle in the garden shed high on the shelf with her other magic elixirs for all these years, never touching it.
But never throwing it away, either.
It’s not that I want to disappoint Aunt Viv.
Not ever.
But lately, it’s looking more and more like this particular lesson is one I’m going to have to learn the hard way.
Chapter 1
The story begins like all good stories.
With a batch of Double Chocolate Ginger Brownies, a broken heart, and a grisly death.
That batch of Double Chocolate Ginger Brownies? Well, I had just made those. I’d pulled a gooey panful of them out from one of the ovens in the café that I own called Ginger’s.
As for the broken heart – that was mine, too. It had been that way for the last three months, ever since that bitter, blustery day when my husband of ten years announced that he no longer loved me, packed up his suits, and took off with another woman.
Steve leaving like that made my head spin. It blindsided me like a sucker punch, and honestly I still don’t know what happened. One day we were drinking coffee together and making plans to go to Mexico for our anniversary, and the next day he was packing his socks and underwear along with those damn suits, saying that I should have seen it coming.
I didn’t, for the record. See it coming, I mean. And even though three months had passed since he left, I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
But lately, I’ve been trying hard not to dwell on the fact that my marriage has fallen into a massive sinkhole the size of the Pacific. Instead I fill my time by listening to New Age self-help recordings and focus my energies on doing what I love most: Working in the k
itchen of my café. Measuring. Mixing. Rolling. Pouring. Tasting. Baking. Delighting customers with delicious, buttery treats. Start from the top, and then repeat. Repeat. Repeat. All day long, until exhaustion sets in and it’s all I can do to walk home and fall into bed, asleep before my head even hits the pillow. Leaving no time to think more about why my husband left me or why he fell in love with another woman. Or who that other woman is for that matter, and all the ways I could and should exact revenge on the home-wrecking wench.
And speaking of which, as to that grisly death I mentioned earlier? Well… don’t worry. We’ll get around to that soon enough.
It was mid-June in our sleepy little seaside town, but in the kitchen it felt like a heatwave in August. The air conditioner system was humming, but no cold air was coming out, and the fact that it was malfunctioning at such an early stage in the season didn’t bode well for the summer ahead.
Luckily, though, it didn’t get all that hot here in June or any other month. My hometown of Broomfield Bay is a little windy town beside the rough and ragged cliffs of the Oregon Coast. It’s about three hours from Portland, and down a ways from the treacherous waters of the Columbia River Bar. The town is part summer vacation paradise, part wealthy folk playground, and part hardworking blue-collar community. And as with all towns on this stretch of the coast, Broomfield Bay sees more cloudy days than sunny ones, has its share of wicked weather, and takes some endurance to live in year-round. I should know – I’ve lived here all of my life.
The morning of the death, the first flood of summer tourists was spilling into my shop. I knew that my looks reflected it, too. Sweat was free-standing on my upper lip like a tide pool. My eyeliner had all but rubbed away. And my flaming ginger-red hair, which was prone to fits of uncontrollable frizz even on the driest of days, was going completely rogue in the sweaty heat of the kitchen, becoming as unmanageable as a spoiled child.
But those self-help recordings that I mentioned earlier? They say that focusing on the negative only brings you more of it. So I pushed my wild hair up into a high ponytail, dabbed my upper lip with a Kleenex, and tried not to think about the air conditioner that was on the fritz or my looks or Steve. Instead, I turned my attention to the pan of knee-weakening ginger brownies that I had just pulled from the oven.
I paused, inhaling the spicy, chocolatey aroma that wafted through the kitchen. Then I got a sharp knife and started slicing the brownies into crowd-pleasing hunks.
Live in the moment. Fulfillment only exists in the here and now. The past and future is where all sorrow inhabits. There’s no need to ever dwell on either. Your power is in this very second.
That’s what Dr. Victoria Honeycutt, the voice behind the New Age recordings, says anyway.
After savoring the rich smell and living in the moment, I grabbed a bowl of buttercream icing along with a spatula. I waited a few minutes for the brownies to cool and was just about to spread a heavy coat of the sweet frosting over the top when I heard a loud CRACK! come from the other side of the kitchen.
I froze.
It sounded like a slugger hitting a game-winning home run.
The spatula fell out of my hand and onto the large butcher block, a dollop of frosting flying up into the air.
I stood there in the silence, hoping the loud noise hadn’t been what I thought it was.
I turned around slowly, peering into the dark corner, and felt my blood turn cold.
It was what I thought it was.
The broom was on the floor.
There were plenty of reasonable explanations for the broom to fall in the kitchen. There could have been a draft of ocean air blowing in from the door open in the back. Or maybe the broom hadn’t been balanced in the corner all that well to begin with. Or it could have had something to do with the humidity and high temperature in the kitchen, causing the wooden handle to expand and slide down the wall.
Plenty of logical reasons why an inanimate object might move.
But that’s one thing you have to know going forward in this story.
That broom sitting in the corner of the café’s kitchen isn’t just any broom.
His name is Sherwood, he used to belong to my grandmother, and he’s been around for a very long time.
And when he falls, the way he had just done, it always means something.
And it’s never something good.
Five minutes later, the café’s crowded dining room was filled with hushed whispers about the death of Mayor Penelope Ashby.
And the bad news didn’t surprise me in the least.
Chapter 2
Maddy Fox took a massive bite of her tofu turkey and low-fat cheese on sprouted wheat bread sandwich, and chewed with a degree of determination and ferociousness that most women eating in public rarely display.
But then again, my best friend wasn’t exactly your typical girl.
Because most typical girls didn’t go around carrying a baton and handcuffs, either.
I pulled up a chair and took a seat across from her.
“Can you tell me if it’s true?” I whispered.
She stopped chewing and looked at me with clear, calm eyes.
“You know I can’t tell you anything, Ging. Not before the press conference.”
“C’mon, Mads.”
Officer Madeleine Fox shook her head.
Though her name made her sound like some sort of femme fatale, my best friend since junior high was nothing like that. She was straight-laced, honest, frank, tough as an old piece of driftwood, and not afraid to say what was on her mind. And no doubt it was those characteristics which had propelled Maddy to graduate at the top of the police academy she had attended in San Diego, and then to a successful six-year career in that city’s police department. But when her dad – who raised her as a single father – had a sudden heart attack a few years ago, it had shaken Maddy to the core. She gave up the big city policing, returned home to Broomfield Bay to be closer to him, and took a job with our town’s tiny police department.
Her eyes avoided me and my question, and she focused intently on the plate in front of her.
I watched as she chowed down. Those so-called “sandwiches” she ate weren’t my cup of chowder, but I always kept the health-conscious ingredients on hand in case she swung by the café for an early lunch – which she often did.
“Folks are saying that you could hear her screaming all the way down the cliff,” I said, reaching over and stealing one of her kale chips.
I took a bite and made a face.
“Geez, Mads. How can you eat these things? They taste like baked dirt.”
She shrugged.
“Ask me again when I outrun the punk who’s been breaking downtown shop windows.”
Maddy smiled before stuffing another chip into her mouth.
“Bad-tasting health food aside,” I said. “Did Penelope Ashby really drive off the cliff early this morning? Because everyone is—”
“Geez, Louise! Keep your voice down,” Maddy said in a raspy whisper, leaning forward across the table.
Her eyes darted around the room.
“Nothing’s been confirmed and no information has been released. For now, nobody knows nothing about nothing. Okay? It’s all just rumors.”
I followed her gaze around the crowded café. It was the fullest it had been since September, and I was glad for it. Winters were always lean for small businesses in Broomfield Bay, and it was nice that we were coming into the green tourist season once again.
“Nobody can hear us,” I said in a low voice.
“Are you kidding? It’s a small town. Everybody hears us,” she said. “And anyway, if I told you anything about the thing you’re asking about, Chief Logan would have my head on a silver platter.”
She let out a breath, then looked out the window.
It was a sparkling late morning, with a powder blue sky. Shimmering ocean waves gently rose and fell, and in the distance a family of seals bobbed along, their shiny black fur slipping in and o
ut of the surf.
It was a shame that Penelope Ashby had died on such a perfect day.
“You know, that Sunset Cliff Drive is a dangerous road and really, I’m surprised something bad hasn’t happened sooner,” Maddy said softly, keeping her eyes fixed on the ocean. “Have you ever been up to Mayor Ashby’s house?”
“No, never,” I said. “I’ve just seen it from the beach, like most people. The mayor and I didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”
“You mean you weren’t one of the lucky ones to get an invite to that exclusive book club of hers?” Maddy said, a small, sarcastic smile spreading across her face.
“Not unless the invitation got lost in the mail.”
We both smirked at the political gaff that still had people talking – and not talking in a good way.
Earlier this year our esteemed mayor posted a letter on the city’s website inviting all residents of Broomfield Bay who enjoyed mystery and romantic suspense fiction to join her in a new book club she was putting together. The trouble was, as people later found out, it wasn’t exactly an invitation but more like an application. When Penelope accepted only 12 people, mostly wealthy business owners and politicians, out of the 259 that had shown interest, more than a few feathers got ruffled.
Adding insult to injury were the mayor’s lavish catered meetings up at her house – it was almost as if she was rubbing her wealth and position in the town’s face. The fact that Penelope had inherited a sizeable fortune from her family didn’t help her cause any with the blue collar workers that kept Broomfield Bay running.
A snub like that wasn’t going to be forgotten anytime soon.
“That book club fiasco probably was not the smartest move for somebody needing votes in an upcoming election,” Maddy said, taking a sip of her electrolyte-replenishing smoothie.