A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery

by blake, heather

  “Depends,” he said.

  “On?”

  “You. I can be done here right quick . . . on one condition.”

  I tapped my foot. “That reeks of blackmail, Dylan Jackson.”

  He winked. Winked! The nerve of him.

  “It’s called negotiating,” he said.

  Maybe I just ought to wait for my electrician to come back to town. Then I thought about moving back to my mama’s chapel—and what that would entail. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to go with me to Marjie’s,” he said casually.

  Too casually.

  He wiped his hands on his jeans. “I need to get some answers from her about Nelson’s murder. Having you along might loosen her lips a bit.”

  I sized him up pretty easily. “Are you scared to go over there alone?”

  He smiled that sexy grin again. “Terrified.”

  • • •

  If the slamming of the door in our faces was any indication, Marjie wasn’t too pleased to see us.

  “Go away, Dylan Jackson!” she shouted.

  He had the look of a man caught in the crosshairs—which was appropriate, considering Marjie was taking aim at him with her shotgun through the front window.

  “Should I be taking this personally?” he asked me.

  “Can’t rightly say. You did do me wrong. She’s family and all, so she might be a wee bit protective of me.”

  “What?” he gasped. “You did me wrong.”

  Not this again.

  “I’m not carin’ a whit who did who wrong,” Marjie yelled. “Go away!”

  “I need to talk to you about Nelson Winston,” Dylan shouted. “It’s either here or at the jail.”

  “You better get yourself a warrant,” she countered.

  Dylan said, “Fine. I’ll be back.” He started down the porch stairs.

  “Wait!” I cried.

  “Carly Hartwell, don’t you be calling him back!” Marjie yelled, her voice only slightly muffled by the window.

  “What about my electricity?” I asked, trailing after him.

  He shrugged. “We had a deal. No answers from Marjie, no electricity. Sorry, Care Bear. I can help you pack to move to your mama’s, though.”

  I let out a frustrated sigh and turned to face my aunt. “Now, Aunt Marjie, I need your help here. Dylan won’t fix my power unless you talk with him, and without my power fixed, I’ll have to move back to my mama’s. I really don’t want to move back to my mama’s,” I said, my voice low. “Maybe you can help me out a little? I’ve had a rough couple of days, what with finding a dead body in my shop, Coach running his truck into my house, people thinking my potions are tainted . . . and no power to boot. I mean, look at my hair.”

  Slowly, the door opened a crack. “Your hair does look somethin’ awful.”

  Which was saying something, considering Aunt Marjie’s hair resembled a light brown tumbleweed.

  “Five minutes,” she said to Dylan. “Make it snappy.”

  I slumped in relief and sat cautiously on Marjie’s wooden front step, trying to avoid splinters. She lowered herself next to me, keeping her shotgun close at hand.

  Dylan kept a fair distance. “Where were you between ten and midnight night before last, Miss Marjie?”

  Ten and midnight? That was new information. I hadn’t realized Dylan could place the time when Nelson had died.

  “Right here,” she said. “Like always.”

  He watched her carefully—whether to see if she was lying or to spot if she was reaching for her gun, I wasn’t sure.

  He said, “Anyone see you?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” She ran a finger down the length of the shiny gun barrel as gently as if she were caressing a newborn baby’s face.

  Dylan held his ground. “You talk to anyone on the phone?”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Is it true that you took a shot at Nelson last week?” he asked, rocking on his heels.

  “He shouldn’t have been trespassin’,” Marjie said, fidgeting. “I have a right to protect my property.”

  Underneath the gruff-and-rough exterior, my aunt was a beautiful woman. My dark brown eyes came from the Fowl side of the family, and Marjie’s were even bigger and darker than mine. Her skin had only a few wrinkles here and there, and despite her cranky disposition, it glowed with good health.

  “True fact,” Dylan said, obviously trying to smooth ruffled feathers. “Why was he trespassing? Did he say?”

  “He was too busy running.” Marjie smiled—apparently she found the memory amusing. “But I reckon he was snooping for the same reason everyone else does. He wanted to buy my inn.”

  “Actually,” I said, clearing my throat, “he didn’t want the inn for himself. He was representing a law firm in Birmingham who has a client who wants it.”

  Marjie’s thin eyebrows snapped downward. “Who’d that be, now?”

  She asked in such a way that I suddenly wondered if she had a target-practice list she was looking to add a name to. “Don’t know.”

  Dylan’s gaze zeroed in on me. “How do you know about the law firm and the buyer?”

  I flicked a loose paint chip from the porch railing. “John Richard Baldwin.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “The man Marjie tried to shoot yesterday afternoon.”

  “He had it comin’,” she interjected sharply.

  Dylan rolled his eyes. “Miz Marjie, you need to lock up that gun of yours. You’re going to kill someone one of these days.”

  “If I’m lucky.” Standing, she grabbed her gun and went into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Dylan’s time was up.

  He stared after her for a good long minute.

  “We should go,” I said finally, brushing debris from my shorts. “Before her good mood shifts.”

  “If that was a good mood,” he said, “I don’t want to see her bad side.”

  “No,” I agreed. “You don’t.”

  As we walked through the gateway, he said, “Now, about this John Richard fellow . . .”

  “Now, about my electricity . . .”

  He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Care Bear, are you negotiating?”

  “I’m a quick learner.” On some things at least.

  We crossed the street and paused at the foot of my driveway. Bessie Blue leaned against my garage door, its shiny turquoise a bright contrast to Dylan’s beat-up, mud-caked truck. Two opposites—just like their owners. Maybe that was the real reason our relationship hadn’t worked out.

  I bit a nail. Guilt was eating at my insides, gnawing away at a year of suspicion that Dylan was right in what he’d said earlier. The part about my apple not falling far from the Fowl tree. But there was no time to think about that right now. I squashed the guilt, banishing it for the moment. But I knew it’d be back.

  “Well, I’m all for a little negotiation. How about you tell me about this John Richard fellow while I finish up the repairs?” he said.

  “Maybe.” I skirted past his pickup, climbed the back steps, and pulled open the screen door. “After you’re done with the fixin’.”

  He didn’t make another comment about me not trusting him, thank goodness. Instead he said, “And how about you fix me a sandwich or something while I’m at it? I’m getting mighty hungry.”

  “How about no?”

  “That’s not very gracious of you,” he said in a teasing tone. “Especially with me restoring your power and all.”

  Tilting my chin, I narrowed my gaze. “Maybe if you tell me more about Nelson’s murder, we can cut a deal.”

  His eyes crinkled as if he knew exactly what I was up to. “Sorry. No can do, Care Bear.”

  My jaw jutted. Obviously my negotiating skills needed honing.

  Until then, there were no two ways about it. I was just going to have to keep investigating on my own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A little over an hour later, Dylan had jus
t walked out my back door, the electricity was fixed, and the phone was, too.

  Apparently, all my power woes stemmed from some sort of critter living in the walls, chewing wires for fun and giggles. Dylan suspected that the thinned wiring had been jarred loose by the force of yesterday’s crash that took down the front porch. He’d jury-rigged it and told me the fix would hold for a while, but my whole system needed to be replaced soon.

  I glanced at my cats and shook my head. “You two need to start earning your keep.”

  Roly barely lifted her head to glance at me. Poly kept sleeping, but I knew the only thing he’d be attacking was the treat canister.

  “Mooches.”

  They paid me no mind.

  I needed to take a quick (blessedly hot) shower, blow-dry my hair, and head to work, where I’d attempt to never use my break room again. The phone rang as I watched Dylan hop into his truck. We’d both held our own while he replaced chewed-up wires; I hadn’t weaseled any more information from him about Nelson’s murder, and he hadn’t sweet-talked me into making him a sandwich.

  There had been no more talk about his mama or our failed relationship, but heaviness still hung in the air between us. Tension. Anticipation. I had a feeling our conversation was far from over.

  I’m done leaving things be.

  The phone rang again, and I grabbed it up, grateful for the distraction. “Hello?”

  A high-pitched female voice cried, “Sweet baby Jesus, Carly Hartwell. You need to get yourself to the church right now. Right. Now. Do you hear me?”

  “Mrs. Jackson?”

  “Ha, ha. You’re hilarious,” Ainsley said.

  “Does Carter know you talk about baby Jesus that way?”

  An aggrieved sigh echoed across the line. “Seriously, Carly. You need to get down here to the white-elephant sale at the church. I don’t know how much longer she’ll be here.”

  “Where’d the term ‘white elephant’ come from, anyhow?”

  “Hand to God, I’m fixin’ to jerk a knot in your tail, Carlina Hartwell.”

  I knew she was serious when she pulled out the down-home threats. “Who’s there?”

  “Bernice Morris, that’s who. Right this here minute, she’s elbow deep in macramé pot holders. I don’t know how long she’s staying.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I cried. “Stall! Sic the twins on her.”

  “Do you want her to leave?”

  I smiled. “Oh, and if I haven’t told you lately, you’re the best friend a girl can have.”

  “Hon, tell me something I don’t know.”

  • • •

  White-elephant sales were a big chunk of the church’s bread and butter and were held every other weekend. Truth be told, “white elephant” was a bit of a misnomer, a euphemism used to pretty up the truth. The sale was nothing more than a big ol’ ’Bama-sized yard sale. The church donated its land and good name in return for booth or tent fees. Locals loved the chance to sell their junk, and tourists loved a big dose of local flavor.

  I parked my bike near Emmylou Pritcherd’s food truck and saw her loading a dolly with bakery boxes. She waved and said, “Any news about the shop?”

  “I’ll be opening in a little bit.”

  “Praise be!” she cried as she wheeled the dolly toward a booth.

  “Did you find your ring?” I rubbed a finger over the bare spot on the ring finger of my left hand. I hadn’t actually received a wedding ring, but for a good long while I’d worn an engagement ring. I could hardly imagine how I would have felt if I’d lost that. Even now I felt a little tug of my heartstrings at the thought of it sitting in my dresser drawer, tucked into its fancy little black box.

  I probably should have given the ring back to Dylan, but I couldn’t bear parting with it. Fortunately, he’d never asked for its return.

  She shook her head and unloaded boxes onto a table. “Not yet. Dudley’s still looking. Care for a slice of Lane Cake?”

  “Definitely. I just need to find Ainsley first.”

  “I’ll save you a piece.”

  For not being a native, she’d taken to making traditional Southern, boozy Lane Cake, a multilayered, bourbon-laced sponge cake with pecans, coconut, and raisins, like she’d been born and raised in these parts—and, really, I could use a little liquor right now, even if it was only ten in the morning. We all had our limits, and I’d just about reached mine for the day.

  As I wove through the crowd, looking for either Ainsley or Bernice, heat radiated from the ground. The storm last night had brought in a dose of the tropics. I shaded my eyes, wiped my brow, and noticed I’d garnered some attention.

  There were whispers all about me, along with some not-so-discreet pointing. I set my shoulders, lifted my chin, and refused to look like I had done something wrong. My name—my potions—would be cleared soon enough. I kept a firm hand on my locket and refused to give in to the urge to tap into the energy of those around me, to feel what they were feeling. To see whether they truly thought I was guilty or if I was just a curiosity, like one at a carnival freak show. I didn’t need to be borrowing trouble, so I pressed on.

  I felt someone studying me intently and looked around. I found the man standing next to a booth that sold ceramic knickknacks and had to do a double take to make sure I wasn’t seeing a ghost.

  It appeared as though the man was Johnny Cash himself, but upon closer look, I realized it was Johnny Braxton. He’d done a remarkable job transforming himself, shaving off his beard but leaving long sideburns. His hair had been dyed a dark brown and was slicked back in a fancy pompadour. A Western-style shirt with black piping was left unbuttoned to his breastbone, and I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to hear him launch into a rendition of “Ring of Fire” right there on the spot.

  He’d done good. Damn good. It was on my lips to congratulate him on his costume until I remembered his threat from the night before. And it also made me wonder what my mama had up her sleeve for today. Johnny’s weekend bash was due to start at two today, and I was afraid that if my mama was planning to sabotage it, Johnny wasn’t above some sort of retribution.

  Johnny dipped his head in acknowledgment of me and kept on staring. I nodded back and tried to shake off a case of the willies.

  Pushing farther into the crowd, I still couldn’t find Ainsley or Miz Morris, but I did spy someone who might be able to help me out.

  “Mornin’,” I said to Carter Debbs, stepping up beside him. He was easy to spot in a crowd, being that he was well over six feet tall and as skinny as a whittled twig. Not for the first time, he reminded me of a big ol’ tree, like a shagbark hickory, tall and thin but incredibly strong.

  He turned, his eyes widening when he saw me. In his early thirties, he had a thick shock of brown hair, a dimple in his square chin, and gray-blue eyes that held a hint of mischief mixed with intelligence that came from always having his nose pressed into a book. His daddy had been a preacher before him, and the church and its congregation had been handed down to him when his daddy passed a few years ago. Ainsley and I had known Carter just shy of forever, sharing a grade in school, but she hadn’t hit it off with him until she’d literally hit him.

  With her car.

  It had been raining, and there was a crosswalk, and she swore she braked. . . . He hadn’t been seriously injured, unless one counted the way he’d fallen for her after that.

  And one could count that as an injury, seeing how Ainsley was Ainsley and he was the son of a preacher man. (That song had been played at their wedding, much to Ainsley’s mama’s dismay.)

  But it seemed to have worked out. Separately, they were both misfits, but together . . . they simply fit.

  “Mornin’, Carly,” he said, glancing around.

  The stares had followed me to his side. He tugged at his shirt collar, probably feeling the heat of the day along with the pressure of everyone around us to reach a decision on my guilt or innocence in the matter of Nelson Winston. Carter was an important man in
our town, and his opinion held a lot of weight to many people. His actions toward me could either turn the tide on the rumors or bury my business for good.

  Considering we didn’t particularly see eye to eye on a lot of things, I honestly didn’t know which side he’d choose.

  “I’m looking for Ainsley,” I said, trying to stay calm and not lash out at those around me. For land’s sakes, most of them had known me since I was knee-high. Did they really think I could kill someone? “Is she still around?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I held his gaze and tried to convince myself that it didn’t really matter much what people believed because I knew the truth. But here, now, with the blazing sun feeling like a spotlight and all these people watching . . . Suddenly I cared very much what people thought. What Carter thought.

  Not enough to tune into their energy, but enough to make my heart pound and my palms sweat as I waited for him to say something, do something, to issue a verdict.

  Finally, the corner of his lip lifted into a smile. “I do believe she’s giving Sister Morris a tour of the house.” His eyes crinkled with humor. “Against her will, I might add.” He hooked an arm around my shoulders and turned me to face the home he and Ainsley shared. “Go on up. If you see little Olive, hide. She’s on the warpath today.”

  The tension in the air around me deflated suddenly, a balloon popped by his kindness. Another thing about the shagbark hickory tree—it was able to bend and not break. I was surprised by the sting of tears in my eyes as I said, “Isn’t Olive always on the warpath?”

  The crowd about us slowly went back to their business, and I no longer felt any stares. Any judgment. Relief swept over me, though I wished it hadn’t taken someone else’s opinion for people to believe in my innocence.

  He rolled his eyes. “She’s a three-year-old reincarnation of General Beauregard, I’m convinced.”

  “Luckily, she doesn’t look like him,” I said, laughing. “The mustache would be a mite disturbing.”

  “Amen.” He smiled and his eyes softened. “She has the face of an angel. Her mama’s face.”