A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery

by blake, heather

  As I tried to think of something to say in response, he lunged again and latched onto my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. He squeezed hard, and I refused to let out the cry of pain I held in my throat. Just as my hand closed around the heavy stapler, the front door flew open.

  “Let her go, Floyd!” Dylan shouted, stepping inside the shop.

  Like a deer caught in headlights, Coach looked between Dylan and me, anger radiating off him in pulsing waves.

  Dylan’s hand settled on his gun. “Let her go!”

  Slowly, Coach released his fingers.

  “You okay?” Dylan asked me.

  I didn’t even have to look at my arm to know there were already marks there. My skin throbbed where each of his fingers had been.

  “Why do you care about her?” Coach said, venom dripping from his words. “After the way she treated you? She ain’t nothing but a—”

  Dylan pulled his gun, effectively silencing the vitriol. “I suggest you shut up.”

  Coach sneered and suddenly reared back. He heaved the potion bottle he’d brought at the back door. With a deafening crack, the glass shattered, the potion splattering the walls.

  Dylan leveled his gun as two uniformed deputies came running into the shop. “Cuff him and take him outside.”

  “Cuffs!” Coach thundered.

  Dylan wore his “don’t mess with me” look. Even though Coach was bigger and stronger, I had no doubt Dylan could take him down.

  “Are you arresting him?” I asked.

  Dylan said, “Absolutely. We’ll start with assault and throw in criminal mischief for good measure.”

  “Assault!” Coach bellowed. “I barely touched her.”

  My throbbing arm suggested otherwise. Smiling sweetly at Coach, I said, “You deserve whatever happens to you. Bless your heart.” I was pretty sure a few more vessels popped in his bloodshot eyes as the deputies led him outside.

  Dylan took hold of my arm and examined the bruises forming on it. With a heated glance, he said, “Are you okay, Care Bear?”

  For a second there, he looked like he wanted to kiss the injury to make it better. And, Lord help me, I would’ve let him. I shook off his hand and backed away. “Me? Fine. I could’ve handled him on my own.”

  “Sure you could have. You can put the stapler down now.”

  I dropped it on the counter, and my hand immediately ached from holding it so tightly. “How did you know I was in trouble? Were you just wandering by with deputies in tow and happen to glance in?”

  “Got a call about a disturbance here.”

  “A call?”

  “Yoo-hoo!” a shrill voice called. “Is it safe to come out now?”

  “Emmylou!” I’d completely forgotten she was here.

  She tiptoed down the hallway, trying to avoid shattered glass. “Whoo-eee! That was something! I hope you don’t mind that I snuck into your break room and used the phone in there to call the sheriff. I didn’t like the way Coach was talkin’ to you.”

  “Do I mind? I could kiss you.”

  She fluffed her hair. “I do have that effect on people.”

  “Thank you, Emmylou,” I said. “Without that call . . .”

  She waved a hand. “I’m just glad Dylan got here in time, but I should be going now. My potion?” she asked, pulling a wallet out of her purse.

  “On the house.” I handed her the box.

  “You’re so sweet. Thank you!” She patted my arm before heading to the door.

  As she walked out, Ainsley came strolling in. “What’s going on here? Why does Coach Butts have handcuffs on?” She had her hands on her hips, and her toe tapped the wood impatiently. Her gaze wandered to the hallway, where she spotted the broken glass. “Lordy be!”

  I was wondering what she was doing here until I remembered my promise to take her to Rock Creek. It was just about time to go if we were going to get there before the pharmacy closed.

  A curious couple wandered into the store, but Ainsley shooed them right back out. “We’re closed on account of a crazy man lost his mind in here. Y’all come back tomorrow.” She closed the door and flipped the lock.

  Dylan said, “What did happen here?”

  I gave them both a quick rundown. When I finished, I said, “I don’t understand why he was so angry.”

  “Could be he’s on steroids,” Ainsley said. “I wouldn’t doubt it, not with a neck the size of a wagon wheel.”

  It made sense. It was called ’roid rage for a reason. It also explained his bad complexion. Part of me felt sad that he was going to be locked up, but my sane self was rejoicing that he was going to be behind bars for a while.

  Dylan ran a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t doubt it, either, but something sure set him off.”

  “The potion bottle.” I flexed my fingers—they were still cramped. “He thought it might be a divorce potion.” I explained Angelea’s visit earlier and how I hadn’t been able to help her.

  Ainsley tsked and shook her head. “He’s done lost his mind.”

  I nodded.

  Dylan said, “And he’s feeling threatened, which isn’t a good combination.”

  “Threatened about what?” Ainsley asked.

  I caught Dylan’s look. “Nelson,” I said.

  “He’s probably heard you’ve been snooping around town,” Dylan asked. “If he’s truly guilty of that embezzling, he might think you’re getting close to proving it. Unlike Nelson, you don’t hold attorney-client privilege with him. You can talk all you want—and perhaps he wants to shut you up.”

  If he thought that was possible, he didn’t know me well at all. “I’m not snooping,” I countered. “I just—”

  Shaking his head, Dylan headed for the door. “Hear things. Yes, I know.” He turned back and said, “Whatever has set him off, he’s clearly snapped. It’s a good thing he’ll be in jail for a while, because in his demented mind, Carly, you’re his number one enemy.” He waved and walked out.

  Ainsley looked around and then leveled an incredulous gaze at me and said, “You’re racking up hot messes these days.”

  “Seems I’ve acquired a knack for it.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling, “we all have our talents. I’ll help you clean up the glass.”

  “Leave it. We need to get to Rock Creek. Cleanup can wait till tomorrow.”

  She nodded once, as if understanding that I just wanted to get out of the shop.

  I grabbed the new set of keys and my pocketbook. As I headed for the door, I stopped and went back to the counter.

  “You forget something?” Ainsley asked.

  “Yep,” I said, opening a drawer and pulling out the necklace Delia had given me. I slipped it into my pocket.

  Just in case.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ainsley had insisted on driving my Jeep, which probably had more to do with my shaking hands than my penchant for driving too fast. She was a speed demon herself and liked to push my Wrangler to its limits on these back roads.

  The radio had been cranked to a local country station Ainsley loved, and a dusty trail and flying pebbles lay in our wake as we made our way eastbound to Rock Creek. The silence between us was welcoming—Ainsley had known me so long that she knew when to push and when to back off and let me stew in my own thoughts.

  I didn’t want to talk about what had happened back at the shop, or what it might mean to Nelson’s murder case. My mind was so jumbled with motives and suspects that I could barely think straight.

  Ainsley glanced over at me and gave me her “it’ll be okay or I’ll make sure someone pays” smile and then started singing along to the radio. It was not, fortunately, a Dolly Parton song, as I’d had my fill for the day, despite how much I loved Dolly—and my mama.

  Rock Creek was normally a fifteen-minute drive along a little-used, tree-lined, two-lane road, but Ainsley made it there in a little less than ten minutes. She slowed the Jeep dramatically as she entered town, switching from her closeted wild-child persona
to that of a pastor’s wife, despite the fact that she specifically came here because of the anonymity this town provided. It was doubtful we’d run into anyone we knew. The big city of Huntsville to the south of us was only a bit farther away and was the go-to place for most of Hitching Post when it came to shopping, doctors, restaurants, and cultural activities.

  But Ainsley didn’t like to take chances where Carter’s reputation was concerned, so she put on her prim-and-proper face.

  Which nearly made me laugh, considering why we were here.

  Rock Creek was vastly different from postcard-perfect, picturesque Hitching Post. This was a tiny working-class town that didn’t have the budget to gussy up public spaces, but it was clear the people of this town took pride in it. It was clean. And safe. Crime rates were low and there hadn’t been a murder here for as long as I could remember. Hitching Post couldn’t say the same.

  Stores lined one main street and there were a few strip malls along the outskirts. Ainsley pulled my Jeep into a parking spot around the corner from Bixby’s and grabbed her pocketbook. “Do you want to stay here?”

  “I’ll come. I need to pick up a few things.” Roly and Poly needed kitty litter, and I was almost out of peanut butter, a staple in my pantry.

  Bixby’s was an old-fashioned pharmacy, and its smell always reminded me of my daddy’s library. There was a hint of mustiness and dustiness in the air along with a charm that time hadn’t been able to fade.

  An older woman at the cash register was shelving cigarette packs as we walked in, and she smiled when she saw us. She didn’t know our names, only our faces, but we’d been coming in once a month for a few years now.

  As Ainsley headed to the pharmacy counter, I wrestled a buggy from its corral and set to shopping. The pharmacy was small, the aisles so narrow two people could barely stand side to side, and every space on the shelves was full of merchandise. I’d already put the kitty litter and cat food in the buggy when Ainsley found me in the peanut butter aisle.

  She held up her bag, its receipt stapled to the top, and smiled. “Success. Safe for another month.”

  We’d been coming here for many years so she could anonymously buy her birth control pills under a fake name (for which she even had a license), and she paid cash, full price, as well. If she had her way, we would’ve taken her fake prescription (I didn’t ask questions) down to Birmingham, but the four-hour round trip was too much to explain away.

  I was fairly certain Carter knew what Ainsley was doing. Fairly.

  Being a pastor’s wife had placed her in a precarious situation, despite the fact that Carter’s church held no negative positions on birth control. The people within the church, however, had many opinions on the subject, all of which Ainsley had to listen to at length. For her, this subterfuge was simply a matter of privacy—one that Ainsley took very seriously.

  “Thank goodness,” I joked, grabbing two jars of peanut butter from the shelf.

  She gave me a playful nudge as I wheeled the buggy down the aisle. I’d turned down the next aisle to grab a new toothbrush and nearly hit the woman blocking the way.

  “Sorry!” I cried. “I didn’t see—” I went silent as I recognized the woman—and the item she held in her hand.

  “Angelea?” Ainsley said, automatically shoving her bag behind her and into her pocketbook as if Coach’s wife had X-ray vision. “What are you doing here and not at . . .” She trailed off when she saw what Angelea was holding.

  Crimson that matched her hair flooded Angelea’s face. “Hey. I, uh . . .”

  My gaze didn’t leave the blue box in her hand. A pregnancy test.

  I immediately tapped into her energy to see if I could feel two, and was surprised that there was another energy present, strong and healthy. I hadn’t picked up on it earlier, probably because I’d been so focused on Angelea’s anxiety.

  Anxiety that I now understood a whole lot better.

  Angelea was pregnant. A little boy, if I was reading the energy correctly.

  Yet she’d told me that Coach couldn’t have children of his own. . . . My eyes flew open wide as the realization hit.

  This wasn’t Coach’s baby.

  Angelea watched me carefully, and she swallowed hard at my facial reaction. She had to know the conclusion I’d reached after our earlier conversation.

  No wonder she was here at Bixby’s—she’d come for the same reason as Ainsley. Anonymity. Except, unfortunately for her, we’d run into her—almost literally.

  Her gaze darted around as she dropped the pregnancy test into the basket on her arm. “I, uh, should go. I best get home and get supper on the table before Floyd notices how long I’ve been gone.”

  Ainsley said, “Home? You didn’t hear what happ— Ow! Carly!”

  I’d stomped on her foot. If Angelea hadn’t heard that Coach had been arrested for assaulting me, I didn’t want her hearing it from us.

  “Happened?” Angelea said, color still high in her cheeks. “What happened?”

  Ainsley coughed and said, “Happened? Nothing happened.”

  “But you said . . .” Angelea frowned.

  “So,” Ainsley said, deflecting. “You think you’re pregnant? That would be wonderful!”

  It was my turn to cough. I wasn’t sure how wondrous Angelea deemed this monumental event.

  Angelea looked like she wanted to melt into the 1950s linoleum. “Yes, it would be,” she murmured. “I should go. If you two could . . .” She wiggled her hand so that we’d move aside.

  Ainsley stepped back just as someone said, “Well, I’ll be! What are y’all doing here?” Behind Angelea, Emmylou Pritcherd came flouncing down the aisle, her own pharmacy bag in hand. “It’s like a regular Hitching Post reunion in here.”

  Her gaze went from face to face and finally to Angelea’s basket, where that bright blue box practically transmitted look-at-me waves like a homing beacon.

  “Oh!” Emmylou said, covering her mouth with her hand.

  I tried to cut off any comments by saying, “What are you doing here, Emmylou?”

  She held up her pharmacy bag. “Just picking up some medicine for Dudley’s stomach.” To Ainsley and Angelea, she said, “He’s been feeling puny lately. The doctor said it was an ulcer.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t go to Huntsville,” I said, as Angelea shifted nervously on her feet.

  “Dudley’s cousin works at the clinic here in Rock Creek. We always come here. Why are y’all here?”

  “Carly needed kitty litter,” Ainsley blurted. Then added, “The Hitching Post market was out.” She shrugged.

  “Did y’all come together?” Emmylou asked, her gaze once again on that blue box.

  “No,” Angelea said, “and I was just leaving. I need to get home.”

  Ainsley and I parted to let her squeeze through, but she faced a new obstacle: Dudley.

  “Darlin’! What are you doing in here?” Emmylou said. “You were supposed to wait in the car.”

  He cleared his throat as he glanced from Angelea to the item in her basket. It may as well have been ticking like a bomb set to explode. “I came to see what was taking so long.” His eyebrows dipped, his cheeks colored, and he couldn’t take his gaze off that pregnancy test. “What are all y’all doing?”

  I wondered at his strange reaction. Was it possible he had been having an affair with Angelea? Emmylou had hinted that Coach’s wife wasn’t over Dudley. . . . I didn’t even dare look at Emmylou, afraid of what her expression might be. “Shopping,” I said cheerfully as though there weren’t tension as thick as glue.

  “Kitty litter,” Ainsley mumbled.

  “But we’re finished now,” I said, giving Angelea a nudge.

  “Right,” she said. “I have to go.” Giving a little wave, she hurried down the next aisle, headed for the cash register.

  “I have to get back, too,” Ainsley said.

  “Me, too,” I added, though I had nowhere in particular to go. I finally glanced at Emmylou. Her eyes were b
lank, and there was a bright smile on her lips. I had a feeling she was holding in an emotional hissy fit, but I definitely didn’t want to read her energy to find out for sure.

  Ainsley gave me a push to get going, and said, “I hope you’re feeling better soon, Dudley.” He murmured his thanks, and as we headed to the register, she leaned into me and said, “That was weird, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  At the counter, Angelea was still paying. We got in line behind her as the clerk said, “Do you want to pay cash, Mrs. Butts, or add it to your husband’s account?”

  Two things struck me at once. One was that Angelea came here often enough to be known by name (which meant that Ainsley was going to start dragging me back to Birmingham), and the other was that this was the kind of place that still ran tabs. That was amazing in this day and age.

  She glanced over her shoulder at me. “The tab, thanks.”

  The clerk slid a slip of paper and pen to Angelea. “Just sign here.”

  As I watched Angelea sign her husband’s name, a small pit formed in my stomach. How often did she sign Coach’s name? If it was a lot, she could probably produce a good replication. She slid the paper back, said a few more words to the clerk, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door.

  I had to act quickly before she walked out. I casually (yet loudly) said to Ainsley, “How about this Nelson Winston business? Did you hear that Nelson had a handwriting analysis done for the upcoming trial? The report was sent to his house just a couple of days ago. . . . The police haven’t found it yet, but I heard they were going to be searching his house until dark tonight.”

  Angelea paused a step before walking out the door.

  The clerk looked at me like I’d grown two heads, and Ainsley gave me an eye roll. “Subtle,” she said.

  I loaded my items on the counter. “I had to do something,” I whispered.

  “Something, like what?” Ainsley asked. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what you’re up to.”

  “Laying a trap,” I said as I paid and gathered my items.

  “For?”

  As we walked out into the warm evening, I said, “Angelea, of course. I bet she signs her husband’s name real well. She could be our embezzler.”