Four-Leaf Clover: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short

by Amanda M. Lee

  Four-Leaf Clover

  A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Copyright © 2017 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  One

  “I love this time of year.”

  My cousin Bay, her blond hair wild because of the storm raging outside, fixed me with a bright smile as she scuffed her feet against the doormat upon entering Hypnotic. I made a face, convinced she had to be messing with me, and turned my attention back to cleaning the shelves in my magic shop. “You’re joking, right?”

  Bay shook her head and stripped out of her coat, hanging it on the chair at the edge of the sitting area before rubbing her hands together to warm them. “I was being serious.”

  “You’re soaking wet.”

  “Yes, but I love a good storm. Of course, walking in a big storm is another story. What are you doing?” Bay lazily stretched out on the couch, propping her feet on the table and flashing a smile. She looked to be in a good mood, which I found baffling because it was dark and dreary outside. The occasional flashes of lightning didn’t help lighten my unease. I don’t consider myself a worrier by nature – no, really – but I’ve never been nearly as fond of storms as Bay.

  “I’m straightening the shelves for the big pre-Halloween sale this weekend,” I replied, taking a moment to admire the diamond ring glittering on my left ring finger. It was a recent addition – I’d been engaged for exactly two weeks – and I couldn’t stop staring at the stone whenever I got the chance. “I expect we’ll do a lot of business because there’s a big tour coming from the west side of the state. It’s more than fifty women.”

  Bay arched an eyebrow, surprised. “I knew it was big, but that’s a lot of Halloween enthusiasts hitting Hemlock Cove all at once. I guess I didn’t realize exactly how big the group was going to be when the tourist committee dropped off its ads this week.”

  Hemlock Cove, formerly known as Walkerville, is the only home I’ve ever known. Years ago, when the manufacturing base died off and the town was struggling, the council representatives opted to rebrand in an effort to tempt tourists. Walkerville became Hemlock Cove, a kitschy draw for paranormal fans. It boasts a festival every other weekend and gossip around every corner.

  Essentially Hemlock Cove is a normal town where the business owners pretend to be witches, warlocks and the like so visitors will be entertained by the odd atmosphere and hopefully tell their friends about us. The truly weird thing is that I’m really a witch. No, you heard that right. My name is Clove Winchester and I’m a witch, although I’m not nearly as wicked as the rest of my family.

  So, while Hemlock Cove’s rebranding constitutes acting for a lot of people, it involves a bit of juggling for my family. We’re real witches pretending to be normal humans pretending to be fake witches. Did you get that? It’s totally confusing. I know. Wait, what were we talking about again? Oh, yeah. The group of tourists.

  “They’re due to arrive soon. My understanding is all of the inns in the area are completely booked,” I said.

  Bay pursed her lips. “Halloween isn’t even here yet. It’s going to be a madhouse when it does arrive. The influx of tourists around Halloween and Thanksgiving grows every year.”

  “It’s a madhouse no matter what. I happen to love a madhouse, mind you, because it means more money for the shop, but it also means more work.”

  “Not for me.” Bay ran Hemlock Cove’s weekly newspaper. It was basically two pages of news and three pages of ads and fluff material, but she enjoyed her work. “Still, I feel for you.”

  “How much?”

  Bay cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a trick question?”

  “No.”

  “See, I’m sensing a trick question.” Bay shifted on the sofa. “If you want me to do something, you need to ask … and in your sweet voice.”

  “Will you do it if I ask nicely?”

  “Maybe. Probably. Most likely.”

  That wasn’t the answer I was looking for. “Will you or won’t you?”

  Bay wasn’t an idiot. There was no way she would agree to a favor before she heard what it entailed. She has a cynical quality. Quite frankly, everyone in my family boasts that quality except for me. I find cynicism a waste of time.

  “What do you want me to do, Clove?” Bay asked, her voice firm. “I’m not agreeing to anything without an explanation … and probably some cookies.”

  I narrowed my dark eyes and stared her down. I learned how to bully people with the best of them – my great-aunt is a master when it comes to making rational people do irrational things – but Bay was used to dealing with far worse, so she merely shot me a bored look before turning her attention to her fingernails.

  “There are cookies on a plate on the counter,” I offered.

  “I know. I saw them. Why do you think I mentioned cookies?”

  I scowled, annoyed. “Most cousins would volunteer to help out of the goodness of their hearts.”

  “I’m not most cousins,” Bay pointed out. “If you want a good cousin, ask Thistle.”

  Thistle is the third corner of our cousin triangle, and she’s even more difficult to deal with than Bay. There was no way she would help without a significant bribe. Bay tends to waffle depending on her mood.

  “Thistle isn’t here,” I pointed out. “She’s picking up lunch.” Something occurred to me. “A lunch you’re eating and we paid for. If you want your food, you’ll have to help.”

  Bay snorted, the sound making my stomach twist. “Do you know how many restaurants are in this town?”

  I pointed toward the window, the lightning flashing at an opportune time and reminding Bay how nasty it was outside. “Do you want to brave that if you don’t have to?”

  Bay shrugged. “I still haven’t heard what the favor is. The more you avoid answering, the more I believe it’s something awful and it will be worth getting wet to avoid.”

  I let loose a heavy sigh and scorched my cousin with a dark look. “Why do always have to be so difficult?”

  “Why do you always have to be so manipulative?”

  Manipulative? Bay and Thistle trot that word out all of the time. I’m never manipulative. Er, well, mostly. Okay, I’m manipulative some of the time. I can’t help it, though. You either have to be manipulative or bossy to survive in my family. Being manipulative is so much easier. And I trend toward general laziness when given the option.

  I opened my mouth to answer, something acerbic on the tip of my tongue, but my response was cut short when the front door blew open and Thistle stomped inside. She had a box gripped tightly in her hands and her hair – which was a vivid orange this month to commemorate Halloween – stood on end as water dripped from the tips.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Bay called out, amused.

  I shot Bay a dirty look as I moved to Thistle’s side and removed the box of food from her chilled hands. Thankfull
y everything was safely ensconced in plastic containers inside so our diner offerings weren’t ruined.

  “How is it out there?” I asked.

  Thistle shot me a look that could’ve made paint peel and ripped off her drenched coat. “Did you seriously just ask me that?” she barked.

  “Someone is in a lovely mood,” Bay said, holding out her hands and wiggling her fingers. “Gimme. I’m starving.”

  “You have to agree to do me a favor before I give you food,” I shot back.

  Bay tilted her head to the side, annoyed. “Seriously? Are we back to the blackmail?”

  “I don’t consider it blackmail,” I answered. “I consider it … aggressive negotiation.”

  “The only thing that’s going to be aggressive is me if you don’t give me my lunch,” Bay warned. “I’m not joking. I’ll make you eat dirt. It’s raining, so it will actually be mud, and that’s so much grosser because there will be worms … and slugs … and whatever hangs out in mud.”

  “You’ll get wet if you try.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I chewed my bottom lip as I regarded her. She didn’t look worried I would keep her meal from her greedy little hands. “Fine.” I blew out a sigh and handed her the box. “You’re a terrible cousin. I hope you know that.”

  “What did I miss?” Thistle asked, kicking off her shoes. She left them next to the heat vent to dry before braving the elements a second time later in the afternoon. “Why are you guys fighting?”

  “We’re not fighting,” Bay replied. “Clove is merely trying to manipulate me. I refuse to fall victim to her antics.”

  Thistle rolled her eyes, her annoyance obvious. “You’re only messing with her because you’re bored. Landon has been out of town for days because he caught a case out in Kingsley, and you’re going through withdrawal or something. Admit it.”

  Bay averted her gaze. “That is not even remotely true. I am a strong and independent woman. I don’t need a man to complete me.”

  Bay’s boyfriend, Landon Michaels, is an FBI agent. His office is in Traverse City, but he does his best to brave the forty-five-minute trek as often as possible so Bay isn’t forced to sleep alone. I think it’s kind of cute. Thistle calls it co-dependent. Because I live with my boyfriend and Thistle is making plans to do the same, I’m not sure we have a lot of room to talk.

  “You keep telling people that,” Thistle snarked, causing me to cuff the back of her head and make a face. I wasn’t thrilled with Bay, but that didn’t mean I wanted her feelings hurt.

  “I want Bay to do a favor for me, but she won’t agree unless I tell her what it is in advance,” I explained. “I’m pretty sure that goes against the cousin code.”

  Thistle snorted, amused. “What cousin code? The only code I’m aware of is the one in which it’s every witch for herself when our mothers and Aunt Tillie get going. I don’t remember any other cousin code.”

  “Oh, it exists. I’ve read it. I believe the biggest portion of it says that you have to give your help freely and without sarcasm when a cousin is in need.”

  “Yeah, well, I would never agree to that,” Thistle said, taking her food container from Bay and locking gazes with me. “If you won’t tell her what you want, that must mean it’s annoying and ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I said,” Bay interjected, grinning.

  “You didn’t say that,” I argued.

  “I thought it.”

  “That’s not the same thing.” I rolled my neck to loosen the stress building in my shoulders and leaned forward so I could collect my lunch. I didn’t get a chance, though, because the bell over the front door jangled, signifying someone entered the store. With the weather unbelievably scary outside, I figured it had to be one of our boyfriends.

  I glanced over my shoulder and jerked upright when I saw the tall and lean woman standing inside the door. Her long black hair was perfectly in place despite the wind, her ankle-length skirt showing no signs of dampness, and her makeup wasn’t so much as smeared. If I wasn’t already a witch and knew that bedhead and bad hair days are inevitable for everyone, I would think she was somehow magical.

  “I … can I help you?”

  Bay and Thistle shifted their attention to the woman, seemingly as surprised as me to be interrupted. Thistle plastered a welcoming smile on her face while Bay merely leaned back on the couch and appeared pleasant instead of surly.

  “I was just walking past the store and thought I would stop in.” The woman’s voice was strangely melodic as her odd gray eyes washed over me. “I love shops like this. It’s so … cute.”

  Bay pressed her lips together to keep from laughing as she exchanged an amused glance with Thistle. Because I was standing, I was fairly certain I would be the one helping our new guest as my lunch cooled on the coffee table.

  “We think it’s cute, too,” I said, trying to keep my eyes from traveling to the woman’s sandals. How can she walk around in the rain and cold pelting the town without socks? Seriously, that makes no sense. “Do you need something specific?”

  “Actually, I’m here to offer you something specific.” The woman pulled back the caped hood she wore, revealing a full wrist of metallic bangle bracelets, and extended her hand. “I am Madam Rosa.”

  “Madam Rosa?” I cocked an eyebrow as I shook her hand. “Is that an official name or … something else?”

  “It is my work name,” Madam Rosa replied. “I am psychic. In fact, I’m the most powerful conduit north of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  Huh. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was an important distinction. “Well, um, you came to the right place,” I offered. “Hemlock Cove loves psychics.”

  “And witches and warlocks,” Bay added helpfully.

  “And little old ladies in strange leggings causing mischief and blaming it on everyone else,” Thistle interjected, popping an onion ring into her mouth. Apparently she’d lost interest in putting on a good show for our lone customer. I guess I couldn’t blame her.

  Instead of being offended, Madam Rosa merely smiled. “You’re funny. You’re also lucky you found a man who could double as a saint on Sunday to put up with you.”

  Thistle furrowed her brow, confused by the conversational turn. “Excuse me?”

  “The man you love,” Madam Rosa prodded. “He has the patience of a saint. He needs it to deal with you.”

  Bay snorted, amused. “She pegged you.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Thistle grumbled.

  “And you. You also have the perfect man, don’t you?” Madam Rosa turned her attention to Bay. “He’s not nearly as patient, but he loves with his whole heart. That’s the thing you need most, because you crave reassurance and strength of character when dealing with your man.”

  Bay’s mouth dropped open. “I … um … .”

  “She’s psychic,” Thistle reminded her. “She pegged you.”

  “Shut your hole,” Bay muttered, smacking the back of Thistle’s head and focusing on Madam Rosa. “Have you been talking to others about us? Have you been trying to get information so you can come in and apply for a job?”

  “I don’t need to talk to others,” Madam Rosa replied. “I can see into your minds. That’s my gift. As for the job, I thought I could offer my services for a few weeks. I never stay in one place very long, but I like the vibe here very much.”

  “If you can see into my mind, what am I thinking right now?” Thistle challenged.

  Madam Rosa didn’t hesitate. “You’re thinking that you want me to meet another member of your family – an elderly woman, I believe – because you think she would have a great time messing with me.”

  Thistle wrinkled her nose, dumbfounded. After a few moments of silence she leaned back in her seat and glanced at Bay. “She’s good. I was wondering what Aunt Tillie would make of her.”

  “You were also wondering if you could sucker your cousin into bringing you cookies,” Madam Rosa added, jerking her thumb in my direction. “She’s already standin
g and you’re feeling entitled.”

  I didn’t want to laugh, but the surprised look on Thistle’s face caught me off guard. “That’s fairly impressive,” I said after a beat. “You’re very entertaining. Unfortunately, we do our own cards and readings. We don’t have an opening.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Madam Rosa said the words but she didn’t put a lot of weight behind them. “Perhaps I will see if I can get my own booth at the festival this weekend. I have good timing. I didn’t even know you were having a festival until I saw the preparations underway when I was walking around town this morning.”

  “We always have a festival,” Bay supplied. “I’m sure you could get a tent. I think there’s still an opening or two. Try talking to Mrs. Little down at the porcelain unicorn store. It’s the one undergoing construction, but she’s always in there making sure the work is done correctly. She would know.”

  “I thank you for your time,” Madam Rosa’s expression was serene as she turned to go. She stilled before her hand hit the doorknob. “I have something I want to leave with you.” She dug in her purse and extracted a large coin, pressing it into my hand and giving it a good squeeze before taking a step back. “For … luck.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of the gesture so I merely stared at the coin for a moment, flipping it over. “This looks old.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “Then you should keep it,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s yours. You don’t need to give me anything. You don’t even know me.”

  “Oh, I know you,” Madam Rosa said, grinning. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  I wanted to say something as she walked through the door, but my mind was blank. As soon as she was gone, I shifted to find Bay and Thistle laughing, their shoulders shaking as they swiped at their eyes.

  “She’s very good,” Thistle said. “I hope she gets a tent, because she could be very entertaining this weekend.”

  I balked. “You didn’t believe her?”