A Cauldron of Witch Tricks

by Constance Barker

  A Cauldron of Witch Tricks

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2019 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  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.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Thanks for Reading

  Catalog of Books

  Chapter 1

  “There are so many new places opening up, why Margie’s?” Tink, a shop goblin (sort of cousins to the better-known cobbler variety) leaned her lean six feet against the checkout counter. Zinnia sat in one of the two chairs behind. Zinnia owned the gallery and art school in the same building as Greenpoint Books, Nann’s bookstore.

  “Because it’s almost that time of the month, and I need greasy fish and chips,” Zinnia said. Zin was an artist, teacher, and on full moons, turned into an alligator. By “that time of the month,” she was referring to the oncoming shape-shift. Usually, she rode out the change with a bubble bath in her enormous spa tub. That way, no one got eaten.

  Nann was in a dusting frenzy. She moved around the store with a feather duster, swiping clean every surface she could find. Once she started, she tended to get a little obsessed. Nann hadn’t been in Amity Corners very long, but since she moved upstate from Brooklyn, the depressed little town had come back from the brink. The main employer, a paper mill, now ran two shifts. Businesses were reopening, new ones sprouting up. Once, where the only option was the rowdy Marge’s Bar & Grill, it had become a regular lunch hangout for the three friends. Despite newer, cleaner, higher-quality options, they seemed to end up at Margie’s more often than not.

  “I think I might skip lunch.”

  Zinnia frowned and crossed her arms. “Why, because of your obsessive dusting?”

  “Someone has to do it.”

  “Can’t you just magic the dust away?” Tink asked. “I mean, your Druid powers must have some upside.”

  Nann scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Zinnia shot eyebrows at Tink. Apparently the two of them had discussed this before.

  “Oh, it’s just that you can’t protect yourself from other magic types. Being a Druid just seems to be...”

  “What? Lame?” Nann pointed the duster at Tink. “What’s so great about being Fae?”

  Zinnia shook her head, but Tink went on. “Well, I can make a living at it. I can fix just about anything.” Tink ran an auto repair shop she’d inherited from an uncle. It was true—she could fix nearly anything.

  “Well, Druids don’t work like that. We’re holistic. We work with nature, we nurture, we grow, we encourage that in our surroundings. You think magic is all about ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ reruns?”

  Zinnia jumped in. “It is kinda true, about the nurturing and stuff. This town was a festering pit populated by tweakers and squatters. You’ve made it better, Nann. It feels more like we have a future now.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Tink rolled her eyes.

  Zinnia groaned. “Just agree with me so we can go eat. I’m starving.”

  The three of them turned as a black Mercedes SUV swerved to the curb outside the display window. The vehicle sat at an angle, taking up two parking spots.

  “Nice ride,” Tink said. “I can smell the turbo from here. Who’s the fat guy with the tupe?”

  Nann recognized the fat guy with a tupe. “Oh, no, it’s Blake Simmons, the jerk who tried to swindle me out of my house.”

  “I thought his company was bankrupt,” Zinnia said. “What’s he doing driving a new car?”

  Tink picked her hat up off the counter to cover her pointy ears. “A new car that costs more than most houses around here.”

  “Maybe he’s here to buy art,” Nann looked hopefully at Zinnia.

  She shrugged. “Be the first time.”

  Simmons, over six feet tall and exceeding the weight limit for his frame, waddled to the shop door. He shook it.

  “Doesn’t anybody read anymore? The hours are posted right in front of his nose.”

  Blake gave her an angry stare, lips pressed thin. With a sigh, Nann dropped the feather duster.

  “We close for lunch!” she shouted through the glass.

  Simmons waved a sheaf of papers and muttered something inaudible.

  “Don’t fall for the mumbling, Nann, it’s a trick,” Tink said.

  Zinnia put her head on the counter. “Oh, just see what he wants. It’s not like we can sneak away to go to lunch now.”

  Nann jabbed a finger at the sign. “We close for lunch,” she annunciated. “Come back at one.”

  “We’re trapped in here. Trapped and starving.” Zinnia kept her head down.

  More words were mumbled, Simmons tapping the door with the edge of his paperwork.

  “You see what I’m saying? Barbara Eden could just cross her arms and blink that guy away.” Tink ignored the look Nann shot her. “Just see what the fat blowhard wants already.”

  “He’s running for reelection, or election, or something,” Zinnia’s head remained down. “He won’t do anything too mean or stupid.”

  Nann threw the bolt as roughly as she could. “What?”

  Simmons blinked a few times given the heat of her single syllable. It took a heartbeat to compose himself. “I’m buying your house, Nancy Ann Szymanski.”

  “Not this again. Look, we close for lunch. It says so right here.”

  “This isn’t an offer. I’m saving you from a lot of grief. Fair market value. That way, you don’t have to face the IRS.”

  Nann shifted her stance and rolled her eyes. “You already tried that trick. My taxes are paid and on file.”

  “Ah, but you’re defrauding the government. It’s all right here.” He shoved the papers at her.

  Nann glanced over them. There were a couple photocopies from a book. She knew the book in question, as the author, Nick O’Broin, had staged his first author event in her store. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

  “Over the years, Founder’s House, the home you inherited from your Great-aunt Nancy, has been afforded a great many tax breaks, based on the fact that is an historic landmark.” Simmons’ face went smug. “But according to recently published information, that rather large Victorian is hardly historic. It was constructed after the founder in question, one Captain Argent, passed away. This!” He triumphantly tapped a copied photo. “This is the true Founder’s House, a tiny log cabin.”

  Nann gave it a squint. “Oh. That’s a garden shed now. It’s still on the property.”

  Simmons’ mouth was open, but no words came out for a moment. Nann’s sense of victory was momentary.

  “Regardless, if you don’t agree to my terms, I will file an offic
ial notice of protest with the Internal Revenue Service unless you sell. You have until the end of the week to make your decision.”

  Zinnia finally lifted her head. “That’s blackmail.”

  Simmons’ rounded shoulders lifted. “I don’t see it that way. Let’s call it leverage.”

  “Let’s call it what is it—illegal.” Zinnia’s face darkened. Nann kept an eye on her. If she went from “darkened” to “greenish,” there could be trouble.

  “This is all based on published information, available to the public. I’m only doing my civic duty. Or... maybe I’m not?”

  “You’re pulling this crap during an election year? Wait ’til the paper hears about this,” Zinnia stood. It wasn’t much of a show, given that she stood about five foot nothing.

  Blake actually smiled. It made Nann’s guts turn to jelly a little. “Oh, all I’m doing is buying a property. This conversation isn’t going any farther than the four of us. That is, unless you want the parents of your students learning that you undergo some odd changes on the full moon.”

  Zinnia made a sound, something between a gulp and a gasp.

  He turned his ugly smile on Tink. “Or that they’re bringing their cars to a shop run by an inhuman monster.”

  Tink was the most solid, most unflappable person Nann knew. To see her face go pale was akin to hearing a knell of doom. Nann took in the faces of her shocked friends, and reached for the papers in Simmons’ hand.

  “Like I said—end of the week. Here’s my card.” With that, Blake Simmons turned on his heel and marched (actually, he sort of waddled) back to his shiny new car.

  Chapter 2

  Ten minutes later, they took a seat at Margie’s. “Well, you sure got the blackmail part right.” Nann eyed her friends, both of whom were uncharacteristically quiet. Blake Simmons had scared them, probably a lot more than he’d scared her. She cast around for something to break the tension. She saw posters on the walls and windows, all advertising the same thing.

  “AMN Golf Tournament. What’s AMN?”

  “Charitable organization.” Margie, the owner, stalked over with an order pad. “Like Kiwanis, Rotary. The Lions Club. But small.”

  “Happy Hammers?” Tink said.

  “Helping Hammers,” Margie corrected. “Auxilium Malleo National. Their shtick is helping poor homeowners improve their properties. All I care about is the tourney. It, uh, brings in customers. Let me guess, two chocolate milkshakes, extra sugar, cheeseburger and fries and an order of fish and chips, double fish.”

  “Maybe we come here too often,” Nann mused.

  “You have to talk to Keith,” Tink said when Margie walked their order back. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Deputy Keith Schwenk was fast becoming Nann’s squeeze, deny it or not.

  “That fat politician can’t do that to you.”

  “Hold up.” Zinnia put up her palms. “I don’t want Deputy Schwenk knowing about my... issue. Do you want him to know you’re a shop goblin, Tink?”

  “Deputy Schwenk already knows a lot more than he lets on,” Nann said.

  “Maybe he knows something, but Branden doesn’t.”

  Branden was Zinnia’s sort-of boyfriend. Tink gave her the hairy eyeball. “He doesn’t?”

  “I haven’t figured out how to tell him yet.” Zinnia’s gaze fell.

  Tink switched gears. “Maybe Fat Boy is bluffing.”

  Nann opened her conjure bag and took out the cover letter from Simmons’ offer. “According to this, the state of New York passed a law offering huge tax deductions for owners of historic properties. The house is also on the National Historic Landmark list. Plus, I get a fat reduction in the school tax, and a write-off on my income taxes. According to this letter, the house isn’t any kind of landmark. I’d have to pay all those deductions back if the IRS decided it was true.”

  Tink blew a raspberry. “You pay your taxes, Nann. I mean, how much more could it be?”

  “That state law was passed a long time ago. Simmons estimates about a hundred eighty thousand dollars.”

  “No frickin way, Nann. You can fight this.”

  Zinnia’s face lit up with understanding. “Ah. You could. But you’d have to retain a tax lawyer.”

  Nann’s mouth twisted into a moue. “Either way, I’m probably screwed.”

  “No way. Talk to Keith,” Tink said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Nann nodded absently. “What I’d really like to know is, how does Simmons know you’re a shop goblin and you—”

  “Don’t say it!” Zinnia’s face was a landscape of mortification.

  THE LEAVES WERE CHANGING, still fully on the trees, a few blowing down the sidewalk. Nann had been looking forward to a big Samhain celebration at Willamina Root’s place. Now, she had Blake Simmons and his blackmail scheme to deal with.

  It wasn’t the first time. Simmons, along with the Port Argent town council, pulled a similar trick when she first moved to the little town. Along with real estate agent Barb Buford, all were members of a company called Lakeshore Properties LLC, a firm bent on redeveloping this part of the Lake Ontario shore. They had made an offer on her house, and then, with their access as town supervisors, destroyed all records of tax payments on the house. But bookstore owners are meticulous record-keepers. A quick FedEx package from her mom was all it took to thwart that scheme. But when Nann looked into the shady company, she’d found that they had vastly overextended themselves and filed for bankruptcy.

  So why was Blake Simmons still after her house? Where had he come up with the money? That Mercedes he drove sure didn’t look like a bankrupt developer’s car. Something wicked was afoot. Nann needed some help.

  “Law office.”

  “Mr. Greenbaum, please.” Mr. Greenbaum had been Aunt Nancy’s lawyer. Nann had never met the man. In fact, she was beginning to believe he might not exist. Her only hope was that he was in town for that golf tournament thing. Mr. Greenbaum played a lot of golf.

  “Mr. Greenbaum is not available.”

  Nann pushed. “Is he playing golf?”

  Did she catch a chuckle? “Of course he is.”

  “Is he playing in the local tournament thingie?”

  “No, he’s playing golf in Florida. Some other golf tournament thingie. Mr. Greenbaum is not a member of Auxilium Malleo National. He should be back Tuesday. Would you like to speak to another attorney?”

  Tuesday? This was Friday! Nann let out an explosive sigh, holding the phone away from the sound of her breath. “I don’t think another attorney would understand my problem.”

  “Shall I leave a message?”

  Nann didn’t bother. Maybe she could find a way to solve this herself. She had before. If not, she would call back. Out the windows, the light dimmed. The Wheel of the Year was turning toward the dark. Nann decided to call it a day.

  As she drove from Amity Corners to Port Argent, Cricket, her little Suzuki, snapped on her turn signal. Oh, right. Groceries. “Thanks, Cricket.”

  The Tops supermarket was pretty packed for a Friday after work. Nann stood in the checkout line with a cart full of vegetables. She would’ve used the self-check, but she didn’t know how to do it with produce. Besides, this way maybe people could keep their jobs.

  “How we doing tonight? Nancy, right? The bookstore?” Despite looking harried, the checker gave her a smile.

  “Nann,” Nann said, “with two Ns. But right on with the bookstore.”

  “You sure buy a lot of veggies. Are you Vegan?”

  “Oh, heck no. But I have a potbelly pig. He doesn’t want to be vegan, either, but that’s too bad.”

  The cashier, her tag read Meg, chuckled. “Oh, potbelly pigs are cute. What’s his name?”

  “Pokey.”

  They prattle on, small talk condensed by the few moments it took Meg to check her out. Fifteen minutes later, Nann started up the winding bluff road to the big Victorian. She caught a glimpse of the changing leaves in the big ceremonial garden below the house bef
ore she pulled Cricket into the garage. Entering the kitchen through the side door, she put heavy bags on the counter. Minuscule hooves sounded across the floor.

  Pokey, an undersized (even for a potbelly) pig grunted at her. Nann had moved one of the many antique radios into the kitchen. When she turned it on, she heard Pokey’s voice.

  “You’re late.”

  “Nice to see you, too.” Nann dragged vegetables from the bags. “It took forever at the supermarket.”

  Pokey rubbed his bristly head against her ankles. “Maybe you should’ve gotten something else. I’m starvated.”

  “You’re in a mood. Really, winter is coming. You should enjoy the fresh produce while you can.”

  The pig gave her a sideways look. “Pizza would be good.”

  “You know you’re not supposed to eat pizza.” Nann chopped some sweet potatoes.

  “Oh, c’mon, Nann. I’m an omnivore. We should get a pizza.”

  She found herself putting way too much force into her chop, squishing the orange tubers. “You mean I should get a pizza. No one delivers way up here.”

  Pokey sat on his haunches, giving her big eyes. Well, as big as a pig could. “It’s Friday night. Friday night is pizza night. Everyone knows that.”

  Nann threw the knife down. “Enough.”

  Pokey shied away, but just a little. “Man. You seem edgy. Sounds like you need a pizza.”

  “And what did you want on your pizza?” Nann felt a spark of anger. She snatched up the knife, pointing it Pokey. “Sausage? Pepperoni? Ham and pineapple? Are you a cannibal as well as an omnivore?”

  “Whoa, Nann, where is this hostility coming from?”

  Nann wanted to shout that it was his terrible attitude. She saw Pokey looking at the knife. They had this discussion more often than not. Was this thing with Blake Simmons really upsetting her that much? Knife in the sink, she turned back to her pig. “Okay. You’re right. I probably could use a good pizza right now.”

  “Probably,” Pokey said. “I hear that chocolate chip cookie dough works really well on stress, too.”

  Chapter 3