Witchy Start (Neighborhood Witch Committee Book 1)

by Nic Saint

  Witchy Start

  Neighborhood Witch Committee 1

  Nic Saint

  Puss in Print Publications

  Contents

  Witchy Start

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Witchy Worries (Neighborhood Witch Committee 2)

  About Nic

  Also by Nic Saint

  Witchy Start

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  Edelie Flummox runs a flower shop in the Haymill neighborhood in Brooklyn along with her two sisters. Not that she’s particularly interested in flowers, or running a store. Edelie is, after all, a witch, and feels she should probably be doing witchy stuff instead of playing store. Unfortunately, the Flummox triplets are not exactly the world’s most competent witches, and their grandmother has decided to strip them of their witchy powers to save an unsuspecting world the aggravation.

  When one of Edelie’s neighbors is murdered, and handsome local cop Sam Barkley proves clueless, she decides to look into the murder herself, and try to catch the killer. Soon she’s in way over her head, hounding suspects and ferreting out clues. And when the houseguests of her grandmother’s new bed & breakfast prove unusually annoying, it looks like Edelie and her sisters don’t even need witchcraft to make life very complicated for a lot of people.

  Witchy Start is the first book in the humorous Neighborhood Witch Committee cozy mystery series. It follows the Witchy Fingers series, which introduced the Flummox triplets, and is complete at four books. You don’t need to have read Witchy Fingers to enjoy this new series, however, as it stands alone.

  Prologue

  Leann Peach pushed the heavy oak door of St. Michael’s Church on Second and Santorini open and shuffled in. As usual, she was the only parishioner to grace the ancient church with her presence. At seven o’clock in the morning, that was not so extraordinary. What was extraordinary was that the lights in the church were ablaze, as if someone was expecting her.

  She grumbled something under her breath about a ‘total waste of church funds’ and ‘damn wastrels’ and shuffled on. Mrs. Peach wasn’t a very pleasant person, and she didn’t care who knew it. She had her own opinions and liked to disseminate them to anyone who wanted to listen—and even those who didn’t. She’d been coming to St. Michael’s at seven o’clock every morning for sixty years and it was a habit she intended to break only when she was lying snugly in her coffin, and even then she’d stipulated in her will she wanted the funeral to be held at seven.

  She glanced left and right at the stained-glass windows depicting a bunch of saints whose names she’d forgotten, and whose stern and reproachful expressions pretty much mimicked her own.

  She’d just been through a most horrific ordeal and urgently needed to unburden her soul. A couple of neighborhood kids had yelled at her and called her an ‘ugly old bat,’ just because she’d insisted they pick up their chewing gum from the pavement. Rotten kids these days. Absolutely no respect for their elders. But she’d show them. She’d ask God to punish them. To give them some mysterious illness that would keep them bedridden for a couple of weeks and have them writhing in excruciating pain. That should teach the little snots.

  So it was with great purpose that she strode to the front of the church, past the rows of pews, along the nave and up to the altar. She quickly made the sign of the cross and then walked around the altar to the apse behind it and knelt with some difficulty on a leather-clad footstool, her head bowed. She folded her hands and directed a keen look up at the giant cross that hung suspended on the wall in front of her. This was her usual spot, the one she imagined was specially reserved for her.

  “Dear Lord,” she croaked softly as she glanced at the face of Christ, contorted in agony, blood dripping down his brow. “I was just affronted by a bunch of little pests. Please do whatever it takes to teach them a lesson in common decency and respect. Please make them break out in hives covering their entire bodies. And make sure there’s a lot of pus and pain involved. And make sure to put the fear of God in their hearts. Thank you.”

  She bowed her head demurely and launched into her usual Our Fathers and Hail Marys for the day. And she’d just launched into her fifth Our Father when a sudden creaking sound had her look up in alarm. She stared at the giant cross for a moment. Was it just her imagination, or was Jesus swaying to and fro? She squeezed her eyes closed for a second, then opened them again. No, there was definitely something funky going on with the savior today. It was almost as if he was looking straight at her, fixing her with an incandescent eye.

  She tried to suppress a sudden shiver. “Jesus?” she asked shakily. “What’s happening?”

  And then Jesus spoke! In a hollow voice, as if straight from the tomb.

  “Leann Peach! You’ve been a terrible pest all of your life! Your sins are so numerous I can’t even begin to recount them all.”

  “But—but—but that’s not true!” she cried, quaking desperately.

  “Do you deny that you’ve pestered your neighbors, talked smack behind their backs, sent a woman to her death and cheated your sister out of her inheritance?”

  “Lies!” she cried feebly. “All lies!”

  “You will pay for your sins, sinner. And you will pay dearly!”

  And with an agonized cry she watched as suddenly Jesus streaked down upon her, and then she was struck down, smote by his wrath.

  Chapter 1

  I opened one tentative eye to see what all the fuss was about. There was movement all around, and noise, and people screaming. Had World War III finally broken out? Had an earthquake struck Haymill? Was the house on fire? What? Something was going on, that was for sure.

  I opened the second eye, and almost cried out in surprise when I saw that a small boy sat staring at me, studying me as if I was a bug.

  “Barnum!” I cried. “What the heck?!”

  “I thought you were dead,” he said, and he sounded disappointed.

  “I was sleeping.”

  “You looked dead.” He took a whiff. “And you smell dead, too.”

  Nice. “Thanks. Aren’t you just a peach?”

  “No, I’m a boy,” he said seriously. “Not a peach.”

  I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Father Reilly kicked me out of his room, Auntie Cassie kicked me out of the kitchen, and my brothers kicked me out of their room. So I just figured I’d go explorin’.”

  “Well, I’m going to kick you out of my room, too, so you better go explorin’ someplace else.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t dead?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. So beat it, buster.”

  He heaved a deep and dramatic sigh. “This place sucks.”

  “Why don’t you go play outside?”

  “Auntie Cassie kicked me out of the garden, on account of the fa
ct that I destroyed her flowers.”

  “Why did you destroy her flowers?”

  “I didn’t. I was digging a trench.”

  “A trench? Why?”

  He gave me a look that spoke volumes about his estimation of my intellectual capacity, and said, “Because the Germans are coming—duh.”

  “Oh, right.” We’d all watched War Horse together last night. The movie must have made an impression on my cousin. I could imagine my grandmother wouldn’t be too happy about his sudden desire to dig trenches in her rose beds, though. Gran is crazy about her flowers, and if anyone so much as dares to point a finger at them, she goes ballistic.

  “Why don’t you keep your brothers company?” I asked.

  “But they don’t want me!”

  “Then why don’t you keep your cousins company?”

  He gave me a suspicious look. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Why?”

  “Cause you are my cousin, and you just told me to beat it.”

  “I meant your other cousins.”

  “They kicked me out, too,” he said with another sigh. “Estrella wasn’t happy when I told her she sings worse than my cat, and Ernestine kicked me out after I cut up her books.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You cut up her books?”

  “I was making paper soldiers.”

  I was afraid to ask why, but I did it anyway.

  “Duh. To help me defeat the Germans, of course. We’re going to need all the soldiers we can get, Edie.”

  “Of course,” I said, patting him on the head. “I knew you were too young to watch War Horse. I told your brothers but they wouldn’t listen.”

  He swiped my hand away. “I’m not too young. I’m six!”

  “So you are. Now shoo.”

  I ushered the little pest from my room and rubbed my eyes. Another day in paradise. And to know that Safflower House used to be such a peaceful place. But that was before Gran had decided to take in paying guests, and before my three cousins had arrived. Bancroft wanted to catch a show on Broadway, Busby had tickets for some bodybuilding competition he wanted to see, and Barnum… well, Barnum just came along for the ride, presumably because nobody else wanted him.

  My name is Edelie Flummox, by the way, and Safflower House is the home where I live with my two sisters Estrella and Ernestine and my grandmother Cassandra. Located in the Haymill neighborhood in Brooklyn, I’ve lived here all my life, and so have my sisters. At least since our folks died, which happened such a long time ago I don’t even remember them.

  I opened my closet door and checked my face in the mirror attached to the back of the door. I had a bad case of bed hair. My red mane looked like a Mohican, my round face was pasty and covered with sleep marks, and my green eyes were all gunked up. Gah. No wonder Barnum thought I was dead.

  Too bad we don’t have en-suite bathrooms in our rooms. In spite of the fact that Gran has turned this place into one of those Airbnb places, she only had the third floor redone. My sisters and I still have to share a bathroom. So I squeezed myself into my jeans, pulled a black sweater over my head and slunk out of my room. Used to be that we could all prance around in our underwear for breakfast, but those days are gone. And since our most recent guest is an actual Roman Catholic priest, I’d rather not tempt him. I don’t know much about priests, but it is my understanding that women are still an alien species to most of them. And I may look like something the cat dragged in, but as far as I can tell I’m still a woman.

  I yawned and shambled over to my sister’s room. I entered without knocking. “Strel? Are you awake?”

  Estrella and Ernestine looked up. They were both sitting on Strel’s bed and looked as if they were in conference.

  “What are you guys doing?” I asked as I stumbled over and dropped down on the bed, immediately closing my eyes again.

  “We’re in an emergency meeting,” Strel said. She’s the pretty one. Whereas I look like a female Shrek, she’s blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous.

  “What’s the emergency?” I asked. She gave me a poke and I groaned, snuggling into her pillow. “What?”

  “What’s the emergency? Really? Where have you been for the last week?”

  “Um… trying to get some sleep?”

  “Exactly! This place has turned into a hellhole and we haven’t even been consulted!”

  “I think hellhole might be a strong word,” Ernestine said, always a stickler for le mot juste. She’s the intellectual in the family, and looks the part with her narrow, pale face, thin lips and overly large glasses.

  “Hellhole is the right word,” said Estrella, getting fired up. “Ever since Gran started this Airbnb business this place hasn’t been the same. It’s like we’re strangers in our own home!”

  “I think Father Reilly is nice,” I said, speaking into Strel’s pillow. I could have used a few more hours of sleep.

  “It’s not Father Reilly,” said Strel. “It’s the general principle of the thing.” I glanced at her and saw she was flapping her arms like a chicken, usually a sign she was upset. “I can’t even walk around the garden in my bikini anymore!”

  “Why would you want to walk around in your bikini?” I asked. “It’s seventy degrees out.”

  “I don’t want to walk around in my bikini—but if I wanted to, I couldn’t!”

  “I don’t see the problem,” I muttered, and almost drifted off to sleep again. But that was before Strel pulled my hair. “Ouch! What did you have to do that for?”

  “To get your attention! Don’t tell me that this endless parade of guests doesn’t bother you.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” I said, checking my hair for a bald spot.

  “Well, it bothers me. And Stien.”

  “I’m fine with Father Reilly,” said Stien.

  “Yeah, and I think it’s good to have a priest in the house,” I said. “It’s good for our karma or something.”

  “The Catholic Church isn’t into karma,” said Stien. “That’s more a Hinduism concept.”

  “Whatever,” I muttered, dunking my head back into Strel’s pillow.

  Strel groaned. “It’s not about Father Reilly! I like Father Reilly too!”

  “I’m sure he won’t mind you prancing around in your bikini, Strel,” I said, my voice sounding muffled through the pillow. “Maybe he’ll even like it.”

  “It’s not about my bikini!” she cried, hitting the pillow with her fists and making me sit up.

  “So what is it about?”

  “This is our home! And now it’s not ours anymore!”

  “Yeah, and it’s not as if Gran needs the money,” said Ernestine. “She doesn’t.”

  She was right about that. Gran used to run a small franchise of flower shops, and when she sold them to a national chain, she pretty much cleaned up.

  “I think she does it because she likes it,” I said. “She likes the company.”

  “She’s got us,” said Strel. “Aren’t we enough company for her?”

  “She told me she did it because she felt she needed to give something back to the community by opening her house,” said Stien. “She felt the house was too big for just one family and she wanted to share it with others.”

  “She told me the same thing,” said Strel, “and I don’t believe her. I think she’s doing it to punish us. Same way she took away our powers.”

  Oh, didn’t I mention this before? Yes, Estrella, Ernestine and I are witches. And so is our grandmother. Though to be honest we’re not very good at it. Our spells have a habit of backfiring big time. Which is why Gran has forbidden us from ever using magic again. She’s wiped all the spells we ever mastered from our minds and has taken away our powers. Not very nice of her, but if you know that we once almost flattened the White House and all of its inhabitants, you can understand where she’s coming from.

  “She turned Fallon Safflower’s attic into a guest room, locked up all of Fallon’s artifacts, and even Fallon’s Book of Secrets! It’s clear she wants
to erase all traces of magic from Safflower House, and from our minds.”

  “Strel has a point, Edie,” said Ernestine. “It does look like Gran wants to erase our entire witchy heritage. To make sure we never perform witchcraft ever again.”

  I shrugged. “So? Maybe she’s right. We did mess up one time too many.”

  “We were improving,” Strel said. “The last time we used witchcraft we even managed to raise a boat from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “And wake up a bunch of nasty ghouls in the process,” I reminded her.

  “Maybe Edie is right, Strel,” said Ernestine. “Witchcraft only ever brought us trouble. Maybe we’re better without it.”

  “I loved being a witch,” said Strel stubbornly. “I could straighten my hair without having to use a straightener. I could disentangle my earphones. I could do lots of useful stuff. And now I can’t!”

  “Yeah, and I could always find my glasses,” said Ernestine wistfully as she took them off to polish them with the hem of her shirt. “Or put all my books back on the shelves without having to pick them up and do it myself.”

  “You used to make your Barbies dance, remember?” I asked Strel.

  She smiled at the recollection. “Yeah. That was fun. So what right does Gran have to take our powers away? We’re witches. It’s our heritage, our birthright. We inherited our powers from our mother, and Gran, and up and up along the family tree all the way back to Fallon Safflower herself, one of the most powerful witches who ever lived. It’s just not fair.”