A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery

by blake, heather

  Mama had outdone herself decking him out.

  My father, my laid-back librarian daddy, had grown out his whiskers, wore long phony braids, a bandana headband, tie-dyed peace sign T-shirt, leather vest, tight jeans, and cowboy boots.

  He wasn’t quite the spitting image of Willie Nelson, not with his hooded glower, but it was close. I was impressed.

  As I started toward him, my witchy senses suddenly began twitching. I stopped, turned, and found Dylan Jackson hot on my heels. “Your mama sure is something,” he said, coming up beside me.

  “So I’ve heard.” He’d changed out of his jeans and into a pair of dress pants and a button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows. A badge and gun were clipped to his belt. He was working. “Are you planning to arrest her?” I was only half kidding.

  “Nah. I don’t want to deal with the paperwork.”

  He wasn’t fooling me. He adored my mama and would sooner lock himself up than cuff her.

  “But,” Dylan looked around, “I doubt Rona has a permit for this party, so someone will probably be along shortly to break it up.”

  The crowd cheered as my mama finished the song and then immediately launched into another Dolly classic, “Here You Come Again.”

  I figured my mother had never applied for a permit in her life. “I’m guessing Johnny Braxton will see to shutting this down—if he hasn’t already.”

  Glancing around, I saw him stewing on the side of the road, his jowls quivering in anger. He glared at me, and I tried not to shiver. Abruptly, he looked away and started marching toward my father.

  Uh-oh.

  Mama must have seen him, too, because she finished her song and cooed, “Come on up here, Augustus, darlin’.” Then she said, “How about a little ‘Everything’s Beautiful’?”

  The crowd whistled and crowed at the suggestion of the Dolly and Willie duet. I watched my daddy’s cheeks redden but noticed that Johnny had veered off, out of the limelight. He stood to the side, looking like a big ol’ Johnny Cash–like storm cloud waiting to bust open.

  Long Willie Nelson braids convulsed as my daddy shook his head in a vehement no.

  “Come on, Gus, honey,” my mama purred. “Don’t be shy.” She turned her charms on the adoring crowd. “Ain’t he cute?”

  They started chanting, “Gus! Gus! Gus!”

  If my parents had actually been married, this little stunt might have precipitated a divorce. Perhaps Mr. Dunwoody had been wrong with his forecast—maybe he’d meant sunny with a chance of permanent separation.

  “Come on, darlin’,” Mama urged, shaking her fringe in encouragement.

  Never one to resist Mama’s allure for long, Daddy reluctantly dragged his skinny self onstage. Wild clapping erupted.

  Dylan reached over and, using the tip of his index finger, lifted my jaw from where it had fallen. I snapped my mouth closed.

  I couldn’t help but smile as my parents launched into the duet. Especially when my daddy started loosening up and enjoying himself, looking slightly entranced by my mama’s fringe.

  It had probably been my mama’s plan for that trimming all along.

  Both had great voices and had quite the act going. If they wanted, they could probably take it on the road and give the real Dolly and Willie a run for their money. Couples in the crowd started slow dancing, and I figured my mama would have a packed chapel tonight. Unlike Johnny, who still fumed. If eyes could throw flames, my parents would be ashes on the stage. I watched him spit, then he turned and—

  “Uhhn!” I grunted.

  Dylan spun me around and into his arms. “Hush now,” he said, shimmying to the left.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, still struggling as his gun nudged into my rib cage.

  “Dancing.”

  Tossing my head back, I laughed. “You call that dancing?”

  He shimmied to the right. “You never did teach me how to do it proper.”

  No, I hadn’t. We’d planned to do a lot of dancing on our honeymoon . . . the one that never happened. I wiggled some more.

  “Quit your squirming, Care Bear. I’m not letting go.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  I gave in to his embrace, and he rested his chin atop my head. We continued the pattern of shimmying to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left.

  If I had a lick of sense, I’d kick his shin and hightail it out of there. But his arms felt a little too good wrapped around me.

  My head rested square on Dylan’s chest and I could hear the steady whumping of his heart, beating hard and fast. I found it as mesmerizing as my daddy did that fringe.

  My eyes widened when I spotted Auntie Hazel dancing with John Richard Baldwin, whose eyes were the size of full moons as Hazel’s hands roamed his backside.

  Apparently he hadn’t heeded my warning about staying away. Maybe he figured the way to Marjie was through one of her sisters. He was going to learn very quickly that the three stuck very closely together.

  My aunt Eulalie stood nearby, singing along to the song, and Marjie was next to her, scowling so hard I thought the top of her head might pop clear off. Although a scowl was Marjie’s usual expression, this one seemed especially fierce. It didn’t seem to be aimed at John Richard, which made me think that she hadn’t recognized the man she tried to shoot the day before.

  To her, all suits looked alike—targets.

  Shimmy to the left, shimmy to the right.

  Above the whumps of Dylan’s heartbeats and my parents’ rousing duet rose the thin, plaintive wail of a siren. It grew louder as the sheriff’s cruiser pulled up to the sawhorses.

  Auntie Eulalie made herself scarce. She was still convinced the police were after her for sneaking into Birmingham’s Alabama Theatre to see the Miss Alabama Pageant as a teenager—she’d always fancied herself an unfulfilled beauty queen . . . and a fugitive.

  Mama was unfazed by the arrival of the law, but Daddy’s Willie impression faltered as the last notes played out—he was probably hoping the police didn’t take him for the real Willie, who’d had notorious brushes with the police.

  The deputies looked more amused than anything as they made their way toward the stage, the crowd parting like the Rea Sea.

  I reluctantly let go of Dylan. It had been a long time since I’d been in his arms, and much to my dismay I found I’d missed it. Too much.

  No sooner had I taken a step toward my parents than a hand reached out and latched onto my arm, spinning me around.

  “Broom-Hilda, could I have a word?” John Richard Baldwin asked.

  “Broom-Hilda?” Dylan echoed, a smile in his voice.

  I didn’t feel the need to explain. “I’m surprised to see you back in town so soon, John Richard.”

  Dylan straightened, obviously recognizing the name. I felt the shift in his air as he switched from flirting ex to interested investigator.

  Multiple thin red scratches marred John Richard’s determined face. The brambles had really done a number on him.

  He said, “I’m not giving up until I explore all possibilities.”

  “So I saw. Hazel seems to have taken a liking to you.”

  He glanced at my aunt, who smiled and waved. “I think we’re going steady now,” he joked, waving back to her.

  In this case, I wasn’t sure who was manipulating whom. Hazel’s always had a thing for younger men. I figured John Richard deserved whatever she had planned for him. That’s what he got for playing with fire.

  “Do you have a sec?” He tossed a look at Dylan. “Alone?”

  “I don’t think—,” Dylan began.

  “Sure,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Dylan, you might want to go help my mama deal with those deputies, or you might have a riot on your hands soon.”

  The crowd was starting to get rowdy, chanting, “Doll-y! Doll-y! Doll-y!”

  “Don’t go far, Carly,” Dylan said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, too.”

  “Well, aren’t I the pop
ular witch today?”

  Dylan strode off, and John Richard and I walked away from the crowd, down toward the river walk. Sunbeams glittered off the Darling River, the water sparkling like stars on a pitch-black night.

  “What is it you wanted, John Richard?” I asked, dodging a hand-holding couple who had eyes only for each other.

  Shrugging out of his suit coat, he slung it over his shoulder and ran a hand over his face, then winced at the contact with the scratches. “I could use your help. I’m looking for any hints or tips that will get me a meeting with your aunt. All I need is a few minutes of her time to explain the situation.”

  “And what exactly is the situation?”

  “That she has a very interested, motivated buyer for her inn. A cash offer.”

  Chapel bells rang in the distance. “What kind of cash are we talking?”

  His cheeks colored, and it looked like he waged an inner war on whether he should divulge the information. He must have finally decided that the number would help his cause. Solemnly, he said, “Millions.”

  I tried to keep a straight face and not gasp. “How many millions?”

  “I’ve been authorized to offer up to four.”

  I whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a run-down inn.”

  “Tell me about it. I think the client is nuts, but now the firm has upped my bonus amount if I get your aunt to sell. A bonus I’m generously willing to split with you if you help me. The money will go a long way toward fixing up your house.”

  “I see.” Indeed, I saw very clearly that he had a death wish. If Aunt Marjie didn’t get him first, I might have to drag out my pitchfork. Did he actually think I could be bought?

  Instead of giving him what-for right there on the river walk, I decided to see if I could pry more information out of him before I told him exactly where he could put his generous offer.

  I leaned on the safety railing. “About this client . . . Do you know who it is yet?”

  He hedged. “It’s confidential.”

  Hmm. “Well, do you know if the client asked for Nelson Winston specifically to talk to my aunt?”

  Confusion flashed in his eyes. “Nelson Winston? Oh, right. The dead guy.”

  That was one way to describe him.

  He pulled a fancy cell phone from his pocket, and held it high in the air as if trying to find a signal. I didn’t bother telling him it was of no use. There wasn’t coverage within miles. “I don’t know who brought him on. All I know is that the firm offered the guy a full-time position if he convinced your aunt to sell.”

  I still wondered why Nelson wanted a new job in the first place. Was Caleb right? Was there a woman involved? The mystery girlfriend? At this point, I didn’t know how to find out. It seemed like no one knew who she was. I would think she didn’t even exist, except for what happened with Delia and how Nelson dumped her.

  “So, what do you say about helping me?” he asked.

  I scrunched my nose. “I don’t know, John Richard.”

  “Come on. Is there anything I can buy for your aunt that will help sway her? Like I said, all I need is five minutes of her time. Flowers? Chocolate?”

  The thought of Marjie with flowers and chocolate nearly made me laugh.

  I glanced up the hill and saw my daddy walking toward us, his braids swaying. I patted John Richard on his shoulder. “I need to go. Do you really want to know the way to Marjie’s heart?”

  Eagerly, he nodded.

  “Guns, John Richard. That’ll get her attention. Oh, or bullets.”

  As I left him staring in wonder I went to meet my daddy.

  “Bullets?” he called after me. “Are you sure?”

  Smiling, I yelled back, “All the better to shoot you with.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Nice braids,” I said to my daddy, kissing his cheek. His facial scruff scraped my lips.

  “The things I do for your mama.” He took hold of my hand as though I were a wayward three-year-old and threw a look toward John Richard. “Who’s that?”

  “A fool with a death wish.” I explained about the quest for Marjie’s inn as we headed back toward the chapel. After the long tale, I squeezed my father’s fingers. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Carlina Bell Hartwell, you should have told me on the phone what was going on with the trouble at your shop and that buffoon running into your front porch.”

  “Buffoon” was about the biggest insult my father would ever utter. He used the term a lot when speaking about Johnny Braxton.

  “I can’t justify being angry at him, since the insurance will cover the damage.”

  He nudged me with his elbow. “You want your mama to set fire to the place so you can start from scratch?”

  The funny thing was he wasn’t joking. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m rather fond of the old place.” As we continued up the hill, my mama’s voice echoed loudly as she started singing once again.

  “Did she sweet-talk those deputies?” I asked.

  His eyes twinkled. “Well, yes, but she also presented them with her permit.”

  “Mama got a permit?”

  “Not exactly. I called in a favor this morning to secure the permit when I learned what your mama had planned. I had a feeling that buffoon Johnny Braxton would call the sheriff straight off, and you know how I like to do things by the book.”

  “Like asking me to kidnap Mama and offering to burn down my house for the insurance money?”

  His cheeks colored. “Mostly by the book.”

  I laughed. My parents might seem like complete opposites, but underneath it all they were a perfect match.

  “Now tell me all about this business with Nelson Winston,” he said. “What was he doing in the shop?”

  We took our time returning to the block party, and I told my father all I knew about the case, and finished with a question for him. “You never made a potion for Nelson, did you?” He could still make potions—he just chose not to do it full-time. But he did help me out by working a few times a month on the cheap.

  “No. He never came in the shop while I was there.”

  That’s what I had figured. Nelson just wasn’t a potion kind of guy. Whoever put that empty potion bottle in his hand must have done so to hurt me somehow. I purposely didn’t tell my Daddy about Delia selling potion bottles. I thought his heart might have had enough excitement for one day. I changed the subject. “Daddy, Mr. Dunwoody overheard gossip in the library about Nelson Winston taking a job in Birmingham. Did you hear the same news? I’m trying to figure out why Nelson would want to leave town. He has a successful business here and was apparently well liked by most everyone.” Except for whoever killed him, but I thought that a little insensitive to point out.

  Daddy scratched his chin. “I do recall something of the sort.”

  “Do you remember who you heard it from?”

  “Let me think. Let me think.”

  Ahead, I saw Dylan sitting on the stone wall that abutted the sidewalk in front of Mama’s chapel. His long legs were stretched out, and his arms were folded across his chest.

  It appeared as though he were waiting for someone.

  Someone like me.

  “I do believe it all began with Earl Pendergrass,” my father finally said.

  Earl was the local mail carrier, and I doubted anyone knew more about the goings-on in town than he.

  “Apparently he mentioned to his daughter that Nelson had asked him about change-of-address forms.”

  Felicity Pendergrass was a reference librarian and a chatterbox. No doubt it was she who told Mr. Dunwoody of Nelson’s impending move.

  “Did he happen to say if anyone else requested change-of-address forms, as well? A female someone?”

  Daddy’s eyebrows lifted. “Not that I heard. You think he was leaving town with a woman?”

  “It’s the going theory. I can’t verify it, though.”

  “Me, either.” Daddy squeezed my hand before releasing it. “I don’t suppose
that helps much, does it?”

  “It can’t hurt to ask Earl if anyone else is planning to move,” Daddy said.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Now, Carly,” he began. “I know you’re the independent sort and all, but remember it’s okay to ask for help once in a while.”

  My parents had always let me make my own choices. Sometimes they worked out; sometimes they didn’t. “If I need someone to help me set my house on fire, I know who to call.”

  “You get your impudence from your mama.”

  “I know.”

  His eyes softened. “I think you have company.” He nodded to Dylan, who came over to us and shook hands with my father.

  “It’s good to have you back in town, where you belong.” Daddy shot me a look when he said this.

  He’d never made it a secret that he thought Dylan and I should have kissed and made up a long time ago. It was the hopeless romantic in him.

  Mama, on the other hand, had offered to burn his house down.

  We had a thing for fire in my family, apparently.

  Neither had happened—Dylan had packed up and left town, leaving me to lick my wounds in relative peace. Relative, because his mama still lived round these parts. Unfortunately.

  “I agree,” Dylan said, narrowing his eyes at me.

  Daddy smiled, kissed my cheek, and said, “I better go make sure your mama’s not getting into any more trouble.”

  “That’s a full-time job,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it?” he muttered.

  Once Daddy was out of earshot, Dylan wasted no time in getting down to business. “What did John Richard want?”

  I sat on the stone wall. “He wanted me to help get him a meeting with Aunt Marjie.”

  “Did you pull out your pitchfork?”

  It was amazing how well he knew me. “No, but I thought about running home for it.”

  As he settled in next to me, his thigh brushed mine. I wiggled a little to the left, but he simply stretched his leg a little farther so it rested against my skin. I scooted a bit more.

  “You’re awfully fidgety,” he said.

  “Stop touching me, and I could sit still.”