Witching You Were Here
(A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery)
By Amanda M. Lee
Text copyright 2013 Amanda M. Lee
All Rights Reserved
Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc
We gladly feast on those who would subdue us.
The Addams Family Motto
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Author’s Note
Books by Amanda M. Lee
One
Winter in Michigan sucks.
There’s no other way to put it.
Sure, you have those romantics that think the white powder is beautiful – even when Mother Nature drops two feet of it on you in a 24-hour period. Those are the people that live in warmer climates and only visit an area with actual seasons every once in awhile, of course.
Then there are those people that actually like winter sports. Daredevils that think skiing and snowboarding sounds like a fun afternoon. I don’t know any of those people and, frankly, I don’t want to get to know any of them.
Then there’s that deranged group that thinks snowmobiling through a huge drift at excessive speeds – actually going so fast that they manage to get air when they hit a drift at just the right angle – is a fantastical experience.
Okay, the snowmobiling thing is fun – as long as my Aunt Tillie isn’t the one driving the snowmobile. She’s hell on a Polaris. When the chief of police pulled her over last week for purposely spraying the other denizens of Hemlock Cove’s senior center with the slushy snow that had accumulated in the parking lot (she swears they were cheating at euchre) she retaliated by running over his foot with her brand-new sled. It’s okay, nothing was broken – at least that was her argument at the time.
In any other town, she would have been locked up and sent for a mental evaluation. Since Chief Terry has known my family – and her specifically – for more than fifty years he was easily bribed with a red velvet cake that my mom had made. Aunt Tillie still claims he purposely put his foot under her snowmobile. She’s eighty-five, so you can’t argue with her. And, if you do, you’re taking your fate in a dangerous direction. She’ll curse you – and I don’t mean bad words here – without batting an eyelash.
My name is Bay Winchester, and I’m a witch. Not an evil witch, don’t get me wrong – although Aunt Tillie has been called evil by at least half of the town (and every single member of our family). I come from a long line of earth and kitchen witches that have lived in northern lower Michigan since – well, as far back as I’ve cared to track our family tree.
I’m the editor of the The Whistler, Hemlock Cove’s weekly newspaper. A few years ago I moved down to Detroit to be a “real” journalist – but when that didn’t work out I found myself back home. Now I’m living in a small gatehouse with my cousins, Thistle and Clove, on the edge of the property my family has owned for centuries.
And the rest of my family? My mom lives with her sisters, Twila and Marnie, and they transformed the old family Victorian into one of Hemlock Cove’s most successful bed and breakfast inns. The inn earned that distinction despite the fact that they named it The Overlook – yeah, I tried explaining about The Shining, but they didn’t get it.
My elderly great-aunt Tillie lives with them. She doesn’t exactly help with the day-to-day operations of The Overlook – but she thinks she runs everything, which is a constant annoyance to my control freak mother and aunts. Since you have to respect your elders, though, they often acquiesce to her demands. We all do. That woman can be evil when she wants to be – and she wants to be most of the time.
December has hit Hemlock Cove – and it looks like it’s going to be a doozy. The day after Thanksgiving a foot of snow dropped on the small hamlet. Two weeks later, another foot fell from the sky. In the past two weeks the area has seen another six inches of snow – with very little break in the temperature. In other words: Hemlock Cove is literally a winter wonderland right now. Unfortunately, I’m wondering when spring will hit.
As for Hemlock Cove, I should probably explain a few things about the town. Several years ago, the it was at a tough crossroads. Larger conglomerates forced all of the small industrial businesses in the area out and the tax base was practically non-existent. In an effort to keep Hemlock Cove viable, the town officials decided to rebrand it as vacation destination. Since everything supernatural was all the rage, they rebranded Hemlock Cove as a witch town.
Think of it like a Renaissance Fair, in a way. The storefronts are quaint and specific – pewter unicorns, collectibles, bakeries, tarot cards, and costumes – and there are a variety of townspeople that run tours, hayrides, and moonlit star walks. Almost every month, there’s some sort of fair, whether it be corn mazes, murder mystery weekends or harvest festivals. It’s kitschy, but it’s kept Hemlock Cove alive.
Unfortunately for the townspeople – or fortunately, depending on who you talk to – they have no idea that my family is actually made up of real witches. I think some people have suspicions – especially about Aunt Tillie – but they usually keep those suspicions to hushed whispers when we walk by. We’re not exactly embraced by the town, but we’re not really shunned either.
Most of the business owners in Hemlock Cove make their money in the spring, summer and fall. Winter is more of a relaxed time. We get skiers and other cold weather enthusiasts, but the visitor traffic is a lot lighter. That’s the one good thing about winter in my book.
Now, since we were in the middle of December, though, the weather forecasters (who are only right about fifty percent of the time) were predicting that a blizzard was going to hit later in the week. Snow is one thing, but a blizzard is another. None of us were looking forward to it.
“I hate snow!”
I glanced up from the couch where I was still happily ensconced in my pajamas and homemade afghan, and regarded my cousin Thistle dubiously. She had just walked back into the gatehouse from outside and her close-cropped hair – this month it was a violent shade of red in honor of Christmas – was dusted with fresh snow.
“It’s winter, what do you expect?”
“We’re witches, can’t we just put up a protective bubble around our house,” Thistle grumbled.
“Because no one would notice that,” I laughed.
Thistle’s brown eyes lit up with new indignation. “Why aren’t you dressed? We have to go to the inn for breakfast.”
“Why?” I noticed my voice had taken on a certain whiny quality. I love my family, I really do. They’re just really taxing sometimes.
“It’s homemade cinnamon roll morning,” Thistle reminded me. “You’re the one that promised to go up there for breakfast if your mom made
cinnamon rolls. This is all your fault.”
I had forgotten about the cinnamon rolls. I jumped to my feet in anticipation and reached for my coat excitedly. “Let’s go. Where is Clove?”
“She’s still getting ready,” Thistle said. “You can’t go up there in your pajamas. They’ll pitch a fit.”
I glanced down at my yoga pants and tank top and sighed. She was right. I would never hear the end of it. “I’ll be quick.”
Twenty minutes later I had showered and changed into simple jeans and a sweater. Clove and Thistle were waiting for me in the living room. “The rolls are probably going to be cold now,” Thistle grumbled.
I brushed my shoulder-length blonde hair out of my face and regarded her dubiously. “You’re always such a crab in the morning.”
“Like you’re pleasant to be around before you’ve had your first cup of coffee.”
She had a point.
Usually, since the gatehouse is only several hundred yards away from the inn, we would walk. Since there was so much snow, though, we had taken to driving to the inn over the past two weeks. It was easier than wading through huge drifts and then sitting through a meal in wet clothes.
We parked in the front parking lot, which had only three cars in it, and marched into the inn. We clomped our feet on the front rubber mat and pulled off our heavy parkas and hung them on the coat stand by the front door.
“Take off your boots, too.”
I glanced up to the front desk and saw my Aunt Marnie standing behind it watching us. Marnie is Clove’s mother – and they look almost exactly alike. They’re both short – right around five feet tall – and they have dark hair. Clove has been growing her hair out, so it is halfway down her back these days. Marnie, who was getting her color from a bottle these days – something my blonde mom found hilarious – had cut her locks to a more manageable shoulder length.
“You want us to walk around barefoot?” Thistle asked irritably. “That’s not very professional.”
“It’s better than tracking melting snow through the inn and making us clean it up,” Marnie responded pointedly.
Thistle blew out a frustrated sight but did as Marnie asked. It was easier than an argument. Once we were all barefoot, we followed Marnie into the dining room. It was empty – which surprised me. “Where is everyone?”
“Breakfast won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes,” Marnie chided us.
“Then why did you tell us to be here at 8 a.m.?” I could have taken more time getting ready if I’d known the cinnamon rolls weren’t ready yet.
“Because there’s something we need to talk to you about and we knew that if we told you breakfast wouldn’t be ready until 8 a.m. you would be late,” Marnie said, glancing down at her wristwatch. “And look, you’re fifteen minutes late.”
“Menopause has made you mean,” Thistle said as she regarded Marnie.
“I’m not going through menopause,” Marnie bristled. “Your mothers may be going through menopause, but I’m not.”
Clove, Thistle and I couldn’t contain our chortles as we followed Marnie into the kitchen. Our mothers were notorious for their competitive natures. It didn’t matter if it was cooking, gardening, decorating or, yes, menopause. One of them was going to win. In this case, though, I had no idea what winning constituted.
The kitchen at The Overlook is actually my favorite room in the house. No matter how old I am – and I’m in my mid-twenties, if you’re wondering – I revert back to my adolescent years whenever I walk through the swinging doors and inhale the smells of childhood.
For their part, my aunts and mom added on an addition at the back of The Overlook a few years ago to use as their own private residence. The only way to access the residence from the inn is through the kitchen – and the guests would never dare.
We heard a flurry of voices in the kitchen before we actually saw what the most recent catastrophe was taking the form of today.
“I think you’re being unreasonable.”
My mom was the first person I saw when I entered the kitchen. She was standing behind the counter, hands on hips, and regarding Aunt Tillie with her patented “you’re being a child” look. I was familiar with the gesture. She’d used it on me at least once a week for my entire life.
“I think you’re being a pain in the ass, Winnie,” Aunt Tillie barked back.
My Aunt Tillie was sitting in her reclining chair in the corner of the kitchen. A few weeks ago, the aunts had tried to remove the recliner – it had taken on a peculiar smell – and replace it with an antique rocking chair. Aunt Tillie had been so incensed she had taken to sleeping in the chair to make sure that they didn’t try to sneak it out of the house again. Now it really smelled – like angry old lady.
“Let’s try to remain calm,” my Aunt Twila said, nervously wringing her hands as she watched the scene unfold. Just like her daughter, Twila had close-cropped hair that was dyed a bright shade of red. Thistle’s hair was Christmas red, though. Twila’s hair was Ronald McDonald red. She had been dying her hair for so long I had no idea what her natural hair color was. She could have been darker like Marnie or fairer like my mom – but I had no idea which one it was.
“What’s going on?” Clove asked curiously.
“Your Aunt Tillie is being impossible,” my mom said.
“So? What else is new?” Thistle asked, jumping up on and landing on the kitchen counter in a sitting position.
“You have a smart mouth,” Aunt Tillie warned Thistle. “Someone should research a spell on helping you shut it.”
Thistle regarded Aunt Tillie coolly. They had been in something of a cold war for the past few weeks (well, years really). Thistle had been getting bolder and bolder in her disagreements with Aunt Tillie, who had been getting more and more creative with the curses she cast on Thistle as retribution. The problem was, depending on the day, Aunt Tillie’s curses weren’t always relegated to Thistle alone. Clove and I were often collateral damage in their ongoing fight.
“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” I interjected quickly. I didn’t want to go a week without being able to talk. Again. Aunt Tillie had stolen our voices for a week when we were teenagers because she thought we were gossiping about her. We had actually been gossiping about the fact that Twila was sneaking around with the gardener, but that didn’t matter to Aunt Tillie.
“Your mothers are trying to kill me,” Aunt Tillie said dramatically.
“They should try harder,” Thistle grumbled.
“How are they trying to kill you?” I ignored Thistle, while hoping Aunt Tillie hadn’t heard her. She was getting old. She missed a lot of things – or at least pretended she did.
“They took away my room.”
“Your bedroom? Why? Because you’re sleeping in this chair now?”
“We did not take away her bedroom,” my mom said with a horrified look. “We would not take that away from her. We took away her wine room.”
Uh-oh. Aunt Tillie’s wine room was actually a closet in the basement where she illegally brewed some of the strongest wine in the county. Chief Terry looked the other way – even though he knew what she was doing – because he thought she wasn’t selling it. That wasn’t exactly true, though. Aunt Tillie had a thriving side business selling the wine. She just didn’t make it public knowledge.
“Why did you take away her wine room?”
“We have to get a new furnace,” my mom explained. “That’s the only place it will fit.”
“Can’t you just move the wine room?” Thistle asked.
“We offered to build her a new shed in the spring, but she doesn’t want that,” Marnie explained.
“You want to make an old lady walk that dangerous path to a shed?” Aunt Tillie only called herself old when it benefitted her. When anyone else called her old it was wise to duck and cover in anticipation of the explosion that would surely follow. For someone that resembled a wizened hobbit, she had a fiery temper.
“Isn’t there anot
her room she can have?” Clove asked.
“Why don’t you just use the kitchen?” Thistle interjected.
“My recipe is secret,” Aunt Tillie sniffed. “You just want me to use the kitchen because you want to steal my recipe.”
“We’re family,” Marnie reminded her. “It’s not stealing when it’s family.”
“You may share my genes, but you don’t share my wine recipe,” Aunt Tillie countered. “If you want to make wine, make up your own recipe.”
“Maybe I will,” Marnie said.
“Good. Do it. It won’t be as good as my wine, though.”
Thistle cocked her head to the side as she regarded Aunt Tillie’s words. “That actually sounds like a good idea,” Thistle said. “I’ll help Aunt Marnie. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make wine. I bet it will be even better than Aunt Tillie’s recipe.”
Aunt Tillie narrowed her eyes in Thistle’s direction. “I would expect as much from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thistle asked, a challenge flashing in her determined eyes.
“You know what it means,” Aunt Tillie sniffed. “But go ahead. Make your wine. We’ll see who makes the better wine.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to give up your wine room?” My mom asked Aunt Tillie hopefully.
“I said no.”
“Grow up and use another room,” Thistle muttered.
Aunt Tillie glared in her direction. “Someone obviously needs another reminder of exactly who the matriarch in this family is.”
Thistle visibly blanched. “That’s not what I meant. . .”
“Oh, it’s too late now.”
“What are you going to do?” Thistle asked angrily.
“I’m just an old lady,” Aunt Tillie said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Crap. We were all going to pay for this one. I just knew it.
Two
Aunt Tillie managed to sit through a pouty breakfast, although I caught her casting thoughtful – and decidedly evil – glances in Thistle’s direction throughout the meal. Even though there were only a few guests at the inn we all knew better than causing a scene in front of paying customers. That had been ingrained into us at a young age. You never made a scene in front of the guests. It wasn’t a rule that always stuck, but it was a rule that had stiff retribution if you broke it.
Witching You Were Here (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 3) Page 1