Dylan’s fingertips brushed my calf. I jerked back.
“There was an ant on your leg,” he said, smiling as he rose.
I’d had just about as much closeness to Dylan today as I could handle. “Why are you so calm about this?”
“About what?”
I gestured toward the church. “Them!”
He shrugged. “Should I care?”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “If Johnny Braxton hired that law firm, then he was probably the one who recommended Nelson Winston to them. And if Johnny is that mad at John Richard, imagine how mad he must have been when a local failed to get Marjie to sell. It could be what they were fighting over when Jessa saw them.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t seriously think Johnny had something to do with Nelson’s death. . . .”
As I met his gaze, I felt the wall that I’d built up around my heart when he left town starting to crumble. I thumbed a speck of dirt from his cheek and told it how I saw it. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Chapter Twenty
The locksmith was waiting for me when I arrived back at my shop. I made a joke about how he should have let himself in, but he didn’t even crack a smile.
I tried not to take his sour puss personally.
As the locksmith set to work on the back door, it turned out he hadn’t been the only one waiting for me to return. Delia paced outside, her cape flying out behind her with each sharp pivot. Every few seconds she threw a look into the shop, as if waging an inner debate about whether to come in.
While she warred with herself, I went about gathering supplies to make a few bottles of bath potions and sachets, a task normally done by Ainsley. But since I had no potions to create, these handmade items were good busywork. They weren’t magical by any means, but they helped fill the shop with novelties that tourists loved. I also made and sold soaps, but did that at home so as to not stink everyone straight out of the shop with the lye scent.
As I worked, I couldn’t help but think about Johnny Braxton and his potential involvement in Nelson’s death. I was also worried about how far he’d go to try to buy Marjie’s inn. It was obvious he was determined—but he clearly didn’t realize how stubborn Marjie could be.
If Johnny had killed Nelson, he’d done a scarily good job of planning it—though his attempt to frame me for the crime, getting Angelea’s sleeping potion involved, was a bit convoluted.
All this time I’d been wondering why someone would choose my shop to leave Nelson in, but it made sense if Johnny wanted to cast suspicion on me—and my family. I snatched up a container of vanilla beans and the spice grinder. He probably planned to prey on us while we were in turmoil—and perhaps finagle Marjie to sell her inn during all the fuss.
Well, that plan never had a chance in hell.
When threatened, my family (both sides) closed ranks. We were nothing if not fighters—all of us.
Dylan didn’t seem too convinced that Johnny had anything to do with the crime, but I had talked him into a having a conversation with the man. I wasn’t convinced, either, but was just desperate for some kind of resolution. With any luck, Johnny would give a full confession and I could put this distressing chapter of my life behind me for good.
The whirr of an electric drill battled with the sound of the spice grinder as the locksmith removed the old lock on the back door and replaced it with three new dead bolts. I was hoping the triple deterrent would be enough to keep future murderers out of my shop. If I still had a shop after the rumors died down.
Starting to feel a pity party coming on, I threw myself into my work. The bath potions were sold in tall, colorful custom-made decanters that looked a lot like genie bottles. I set a purple-and-gold bottle on the walnut pedestal table along with various dried spices and scented essential oils and pulled up a stool.
Lavender was a favorite of my customers for its soothing scent and had many beneficial properties. I breathed in the sweet smell of the dried lavender sprigs. It was almost too overwhelming, but I’d worked with the strong scent for so long now it was just the thing to calm my nerves. It brought me back to more peaceful times, working alongside my Grammy Adelaide.
However, there was no time for reminiscing as the front door opened and Delia stuck her head inside. “Do you have a minute?”
I wasn’t sure if her appearance meant she’d won or lost the war with herself. I glanced around the empty shop. “I don’t know. I’m kind of swamped with customers.”
“So I see.” The corner of her lip quirked into a half smile as she scooted inside.
Boo stuck his head out of the basket hooked on her forearm and looked around. He was so adorable it made me want to get a puppy of my own, but I couldn’t even imagine how Roly and Poly would react to that.
Probably not well.
Tucking a lock of pale blond hair behind her ear, Delia sidled up to the table. She not-so-casually drummed her long fingers on the countertop. Figuring she’d eventually get around to why she was here, I continued to work. I had a feeling her presence wasn’t a social call, especially since we weren’t exactly on the best of terms.
“It smells good in here,” she said, placing her basket on the floor and sitting down on a spare stool. “Lavender?”
I nodded and added carrier oil to the decanter—it was the base of the bath potion and would dilute any essential oils I added. To that I added the lavender essential oil, some dried ground lavender and vanilla beans, and a single drop of mint oil. I capped the bottle, gave it a good shake, then pulled the stopper to sniff the final product.
“Nice,” Delia said. “A bit plebian but nice.”
“Plebian?”
“You know, common.”
“I know what it means.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“I wasn’t asking. I was mocking.”
Delia frowned. “This is what I get for trying to help you.”
Boo hopped out of his basket and sniffed around as I set the bath potion aside. “Help me how?”
“Well, I took a nap a little while ago. . . .”
I lifted an eyebrow. “I bet you were exhausted after getting up early to sell my potion bottles at the white-elephant sale.”
The locksmith turned on his drill again, cutting off whatever Delia was going to say. She stuck her thumbnail in her mouth and nibbled.
I grabbed a tag for the bath potion but found my hand was too shaky to write. Delia’s presence had thrown me off-balance. “Why are you here, Delia?” I asked loudly, to be heard over the never-ending whirrs.
“I had another dream,” she shouted.
“What now?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
Her face paled even more than normal, and she wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I just . . . ah . . .”
“Just say it,” I prodded.
With a firm shake of her head, she said, “I can’t. It’s too . . . disturbing.” She bit her nail.
“You’re making me nervous.” The drill stopped, leaving the shop in silence. Thick tension hung in the air, and I felt sick to my stomach.
Boo sniffed my foot, and I reached down and picked him up. He licked my chin, and I wondered if Delia would notice if I kept him. He calmed me better than the lavender, and that was saying something.
She reached into her cape and drew out something closed within her fist. A long black leather necklace cord dangled from her hand and brushed the table. “Here,” she said, pushing her fist toward me. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, revealing a beautiful purple vial pendant with a sterling silver engraved stopper.
“What’s in it?”
She finally looked at me, and I tried not to shiver from the look in her ice-blue eyes. “Is it a hex?” I asked.
“It’s protection.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She let the pendant dangle between us. “I think I did. Take it.”
I set Boo down and reached out for the charm. The glass vial was stunning, and
I immediately thought to add some to my collection of bottles—some of the potions I made would fill these small containers nicely. I pulled the stopper and brought it to my nose.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Delia warned. “One droplet of that stuff will make you temporarily blind.”
I stared at the liquid sloshing inside. “What’s the whole vial do?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I feel bad for the person who might find out.”
I quickly shoved the stopper back in its place and held the necklace out to her. “I don’t want this.”
“Oh yes, you do. Trust me. Boo, come here.” She patted her leg. “It’s time to go.”
I eyed her carefully. “No, really, I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to do with hexes.”
She gathered up Boo and set him in his basket. Shifting off her stool, she adjusted her cape and looked at me with an expression that chilled me to the bone. “Carly, this is no time to stand on principles. Like I said, think of it as protection, not a hex.”
“Take it,” I said, still holding it out.
“Keep it. Just in case.”
“No.” I thrust my hand forward, the vial swinging between us like a pendulum.
The front door opened, and Emmylou Pritcherd hurried inside, wiping her brow. Oblivious to what she had just walked in on, she said brightly, “Whoo-ee, it’s a scorcher out there! Hello, Delia!”
Ignoring the necklace and Emmylou, Delia said to me, “Do what you want with it, Carly. At least I know I tried.” With a flourish of her cape, she rushed out the door.
Emmylou pushed a hand to her chest. “Was it something I said?”
“No.” I stared at the vial, now resting in the palm of my hand.
“What’s that you have?” Emmylou came toward me. “It’s stunning.”
Before she had a chance to examine the vial more closely, I closed my fist around it and walked over to the cash register counter. I pulled open a drawer and dropped the necklace inside, not sure how to get rid of it. A hex like that couldn’t just be thrown away. “It’s nothing.”
She slid onto the stool Delia had just vacated. “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”
I was saved from having to say anything by the appearance of the locksmith. “Back door’s done. Front will take just a minute.”
He was a chatty fellow.
Emmylou watched him work and shook her head, tsking. Before she could launch into all the woes that had befallen my shop, I said, “Let me get your potion started.”
She smiled. “Please. I have big plans for tonight. Well, I hope to have big plans for tonight. I need to run Dudley over to the doctor first. I didn’t have the slightest clue his stomach was feeling so poorly.”
“Do you want me to make a potion for that instead?” I figured if she was going to slip him a potion, it might as well be one that would heal him.
She wrinkled her nose. “Can he take two at once?”
“Not a good idea,” I said.
“Then no.” She tossed a look at the locksmith. “Let’s just go with the original one.”
I nodded. The healer in me didn’t want to go along with her, but I was also still feeling the sting of Dudley’s rejection. He hadn’t wanted one of my potions at all. . . .
Most likely, the doctor he was going to see would help his stomach. This other problem . . . I could take care of that.
I pushed aside my oils, spices, and bath-potion bottles and grabbed a jar and various supplies to make the impotence cure. Into the jar I mostly put ginseng water and a couple of other herbs to act as aphrodisiacs. As Emmylou watched, I swirled the mixture and funneled it into a potion bottle.
“Done,” the locksmith said, packing up his tools. “You want me to bill you, or are you payin’ now?”
“I’ll write you a check.”
We quickly settled up and he handed me new set of keys before walking out the door without so much as a “Good day.”
“Cheerful guy,” Emmylou said with a smile.
I couldn’t argue that. “But he works cheaply and on a weekend, so I can’t complain too much.”
“How come you needed the locks changed? Because of the . . .” She pointed down the hallway.
I let out a breath. “Whoever left Nelson in here didn’t break in. We think Ainsley’s keys were used—she lost them last week.”
“Oh no.”
I jangled the new keys. “A little too late, but changing the locks gives me peace of mind.”
“This whole situation is just crazy,” she said. “Did you know that Dylan Jackson wants to interview Dudley and me? He left a message on our answering machine about it.”
“You and Dudley? Why?” Were they the loose ends Dylan had been talking about earlier? Was this about the embezzlement? Because I’d already cleared Dudley’s name about that.
“All because Nelson Winston’s phone records showed he called our house the night he died.” She wrung her hands.
What? “He called you? Why?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. Dudley had talked to him earlier in the evening about something to do with the trial next week, but neither of us talked to him after suppertime. We did have a hang-up call that night. . . . It had to have been him. It’s the only explanation. It just makes me feel ill thinking that he could have called us in his final hour. Maybe we could have done something. . . .”
If Nelson had been poisoned and not feeling well, he might have tried to call someone for help. Personally, I’d have dialed 911, but maybe he’d accidentally hit redial, which rang Emmylou’s and Dudley’s house. . . .
“I need to use your washroom, Carly. May I?”
She did look a little green. “Of course. I’ll finish up your potion.” As she wandered down the hallway, I stepped into the potion room and closed the door. I worked quickly, pulling the Leilara from its hiding spot. I added two drops of the magic tears to the potion, then hesitated before adding a third. Just to be sure. White tendrils swirled into the air, then dissipated—a feature of the Leilara that I’d never tire of watching.
I put the Leilara back where it belonged, boxed the potion bottle, and walked into the front of the shop just as the door burst open.
An angry Coach Floyd Butts filled the doorway. He pointed a finger at me. “You’re just the witch I wanted to see.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Making myself remain calm, I set the box on the counter and stepped behind the wooden cash register cabinet to put an obstacle between the two of us.
He seemed bigger, more muscled than I ever recalled seeing him. Yesterday when he crashed into my porch I’d been too flustered to notice anything but his injuries and the potion bottle in his hand. But I noticed now. His neck was almost as thick as one of the trees I’d hidden behind earlier.
I summoned some good old-fashioned Southern manners, as insincere as they might be. “Coach, you must be feeling better. You’re certainly looking a sight better than the last time I saw you . . . when you crashed your truck into my house and accused me of poisoning you. Are you here to apologize? If so, I accept.”
Clearly, my manners needed some fine-tuning.
If the vein pulsing in his wide forehead was any indication, I may have pushed it a little too far.
“You!” he thundered, slamming the door behind him.
I winced, fearing he was going to pop the stitches along his forehead. I refused to appear intimidated, however, though my adrenaline suddenly shot through the roof. My fight-or-flight response was screaming at me to run. Instead I straightened as tall as I could and stared him down. “What about me?”
He looked like a stereotypical jock, with his thick neck, wide shoulders, and beefy arms. Dirty blond hair stuck out from beneath red Alabama cap, and furious dark blue eyes narrowed on me. Even at forty he still had pimples marring his skin.
I had a potion that would work wonders for that, but I didn’t think now was a good time to mention it.
Slowly, he
reached into his pocket and for a split second I worried he’d come armed. When he revealed what he pulled out, I realized he had—in a way.
Armed with a potion bottle.
Meaty fingers held on to the faceted glass bottle. It was such an incongruous pairing that I nearly laughed.
“What is this?” he demanded, shaking the bottle.
“It looks a lot like one of my potions.”
He took another step toward me. “I’m in no mood for your smart mouth, Carly Hartwell.”
“Then I suggest you leave.”
“Not until I know what this is.”
“Why not ask Angelea?”
It was, after all, the stress potion I’d given to her earlier.
“She won’t say.” He took another step toward me, so now he stood directly across from me, within arm’s reach. His bloodshot eyes narrowed, and I was beginning to rethink my stick-it-out stance. Running seemed like a perfectly good solution to this predicament. “Is this some potion,” he spat the word, “that will get her the divorce she wants so badly? Are you helping her leave me? Tell me!” he thundered.
Steel laced my tone as I said, “I think it’s time for you to go, Coach.”
In one quick motion, he lunged across the counter, grabbing for my T-shirt.
“Get out!” I shouted as I jumped backward, out of his reach. I searched frantically for something to throw at him. The stapler, maybe. It was heavy enough to do some damage if I was closer to him.
But I didn’t want to be that close. Not ever.
“Not until I get what I want.” Menacingly, he scooted around the counter.
I went round to the other side, trying to stay one step ahead of him. His eyes burned with fury, and I feared that if he actually got his hands on me it wouldn’t end well.
His behavior went beyond a fit of temper. It was . . . manic, and I immediately worried that he’d truly gone insane over the past few months and everyone had simply written it off as stress.
We circled the cabinet a few times, and I panicked, thinking that this standoff might never end. The stapler was starting to look like my only option.
“You deserve whatever happens to you,” he snarled.
A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery Page 18