A Call to Charms

by Denise Swanson

  A CALL TO CHARMS

  A Forever Charmed Mystery

  Denise Swanson

  http://www.DeniseSwanson.com

  A Call to Charms

  Copyright 2019 by Denise Swanson Stybr

  Cover illustration created by Jaclyn Webber, Junco Portraits and Illustrations

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the express written permission of Denise Swanson Stybr, the copyright holder and the publisher of this book, except with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews and where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, organizations or businesses is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9861017-6-2

  Call to Charms

  From New York Times best-selling author Denise Swanson.

  Chocolate, men, and magic.

  Who can turn down that inheritance?

  * * *

  If life had gone as she planned, Lexie Green would have been teaching English at a prestigious university, not persuading spoiled, rich women to buy overpriced clothes they didn’t need and often looked ridiculous wearing. Can you say electric yellow see-through skirts and Torn jeans with unfinished hems?

  Still, although this isn’t the life Lexie would have chosen, all is going well. At least until Lexie is fired and her deranged ex-boyfriend tries to kidnap her.

  Deciding that it’s better to accept a mysterious inheritance from a great aunt she’s never heard of rather than end up kept in a cage as her ex’s pet poodle, Lexie packs up and heads to Kansas. So, what if she has to go by a new name and live in a town that she can’t find on a map?

  Unfortunately, once she arrives in her new hometown, everyone there seems just a tad off-kilter and Lexie’s cousin insists that the citizens are magical. At least there are a couple of hot guys hanging around for eye candy.

  Even though Lexie doesn’t believe the nonsense about her being the Ravenscraft Shield, she does believe her father was murdered—a father she never knew existed, and she investigates his death.

  Too bad whoever killed her father now wants Lexie dead as well.

  * * *

  Series description:

  First in Denise Swanson’s new Forever Charmed paranormal mystery series.

  For more information, please visit www.DeniseSwanson.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  As Fate Would Have It

  Some people think what I do is magic. Others think it’s a trick. Who’s right? Truth be told, I’m not sure anymore.

  In my old life, when I was Lexie Green, I used to laugh at my boss for believing I had special powers, but in my new hometown, where I’m Alexandria Ravenscraft, I don’t find it quite so funny. Maybe it’s because of how I got here, or maybe it’s because in Echo Springs, Kansas the idea of magic doesn’t seem as far-fetched as it did in Chicago, Illinois.

  In hindsight, I wasn’t exactly a stranger to the bizarre. There had been several odd occurrences in my past I’d brushed off as flukes. I should probably have recognized those incidents as early warning signals for the freaky events of the last week... but I didn’t.

  Which was why, when an aunt I had never heard of died and left me her store, I was totally unprepared for what was about to happen. Even when my newfound cousin and my aunt’s attorney tried to fill me in as to the business’s true nature, I’d thought they were crazy and refused to believe them. I’d like to say dismissing their advice was my only mistake, but I’d be lying.

  It all started last Thursday morning fifteen minutes into my shift at Crystal’s Closet. Working at an upscale clothing store, even a shop on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, had not been one of my life’s goals.

  It was a job I had taken purely to satisfy my creditors... and maybe a tiny bit to feed my craving for designer clothing at employee discount prices. But then a funny thing happened. I became famous—at least among the city’s chichi boutique owners.

  Yes, that’s right. I was the top salesperson—oh, excuse me, I mean fashion consultant—in the business. When I waited on someone, she didn’t leave the store without putting a significant dent in her Sugar Daddy’s American Express. Thank goodness, that kind of woman never leaves home without it.

  This type of recognition wasn’t the kind I’d always hoped to achieve. And I certainly never thought I’d be best known for parting vacuous women from their cash. But, hey, fate had dealt me a bad hand, and you couldn’t blame me for using whatever cards I had up my sleeve.

  My ace of spades was a knack for sensing people’s innermost emotions, which allowed me to sell nearly anything to the trophy wives and spoiled daughters of the city’s wealthiest families. Even the monstrosities the fashionistas inevitably come up with to see if we’re paying attention flew out the door if I needed to get them off the rack to earn my bonus.

  Electric yellow nearly see-through skirts: check. Torn jeans with unfinished hems for five hundred dollars a pair: absolutely. Drop crotch pants: sure. Who doesn’t want to look like you’re wearing a loaded diaper?

  No. I don’t put a spell on these women or read their minds. What happens is that I’m able to step into their Jimmy Choos and detect both their needs and insecurities. Back then, if I’d had to guess, I would have said I did it by observation and intuition. But frankly, I never looked too closely at the how or the why and just concentrated on the end result.

  All I was sure of is that I had to concentrate extremely hard and really want to know how they’re feeling. It’s not as if I casually tapped into everyone I pass on the streets. Which was definitely a good thing.

  I will confess that if I had a particularly demanding day at the store, occasionally I connected by accident. It’s as if I’d forgotten to turn myself off and zeroed in on anyone experiencing a strong emotion.

  Generally, it wasn’t a problem, unless it happened with people who were close to me, which is why I was mostly a loner. And my one attempt to have an intimate relationship taught me that a boyfriend was out of the question.

  Gil Osborn, the man I’d tried dating, just hated it when I tuned into him. He claimed it was weird. Although, I don’t know why he cared because he always denied that I’d read his feelings correctly, anyway.

  He was an attorney with a prestigious Chicago law firm, and considering I have a couple of college degrees I’m not using, at first, I found his ambition and drive a turn on. His OCD tendencies simply added to his initial appeal.

  Anyway, that’s what I told myself, so I didn’t have to admit the idea of his ginormous salary and massive future earning potential weren’t the real reasons I was going out with him.

  Don’t judge! Just because I mentally made fun of my customers didn’t mean that I didn’t want to be them. Or at least have their money. Prada suits, Ferragamo shoes, and Gucci purses don’t grow on trees, at least not the elms lining Michigan Avenue. And Chicago is an expensive city to call home.

  Still, my conscience nagged me until I ended up admitting to myself
that Gil was not my Knight in Custom-Tailored Armani, and it was time to stop seeing him. To my surprise, he didn’t take the breakup at all well.

  Who knew he was that into me? He sure never showed it. If I’d any idea he’d be so upset, I’d have handled the situation differently. Say a message in a bottle thrown into the ocean from a beach in Hawaii.

  However, it had been a month since his last pleading, cajoling, somewhat creepy text, and I thought he was a problem I could mark solved. Not that there weren’t plenty of others waiting to take his place. Problems that is, not boyfriends.

  In fact, if the look on the face of the woman who had just marched into the shop’s door was any indication, I was about to add a new problem to my list before I even had my first coffee break. Although Ms. Ticked-Off wasn’t one of my regulars, she looked somewhat familiar, but the motes of anger floating around her like fluff from a cheap feather boa made it hard to come up with a name.

  Thankful that I was already serving someone, I quickly averted my gaze and focused on my current client. He was trying to pick out a birthday present for his wife or niece or secretary. I wasn’t entirely clear who the gift’s recipient was since his story kept changing, and truthfully, I really didn’t give a hoot. As long as it had a four-figure price tag, he could give it to his pet monkey for all I cared.

  As I held up various Hermès scarves, Vuitton belts, and Alexander Wang handbags for Mr. Evasive’s inspection, I could feel Ms. Ticked-Off’s glare burning a hole between my shoulder blades. And when out of the corner of my eye, I saw her wave away the three other consultants who approached her, I knew I was in trouble.

  I wasn’t at all surprised that as soon as I had rung up my customer’s purchases and walked him to the door, Ms. T-O stomped towards me. She was still moving forward when she thrust a silver and black garment bag at my chest. She had the handle of the hanger aimed at my heart, and to save my brand new, silk, Roberto Cavalli blouse from being torn, I snatched the bag out of her hands and hung it on a rack near the closest register.

  Once she was disarmed, I said, “May I help you, madam?” I thought the “madam” was a bit much, but my employer, Crystal Van Dyne, insisted, and you never knew if she was watching you on one of the spy cams she had hidden around the store.

  “Yes. You can take this back and give me a refund.”

  I peeled the plastic off of a tomato red Valentino evening gown. As I examined it, I watched its owner fidget—smoothing the sides of her ash blonde chignon, tugging at the skirt of her Chanel suit, and toying with her Harry Winston pink diamond ring.

  Why was Ms. Ticked-Off suddenly so nervous? Crystal’s Closet had a liberal return policy. The only stipulation was that the customer had not removed the security tickets attached to the garments, which was to ensure they weren’t worn before being returned.

  Duh! That was it! She was trying to scam us. She had worn the dress, and either taken off the tag or it had come off when she tried to tuck it out of sight. Now that I had figured out her scheme, I could see a trace of deodorant under the gown’s sleeves and faint wrinkles across the lap.

  When Ms. Ticked-Off first appeared, I hadn’t wanted, or for that matter needed, to tap into the woman’s feeling. It was abundantly clear she was in a bad mood. But now I concentrated, and I could see there were guilt and confusion mingled with her fury.

  Furthermore, for some reason, she resented me. Where was that coming from?

  In a way, I was sorry for her, and the women like her, who spends thousands on a gown they can only wear once or twice. But not sorry enough to face the wrath of Crystal and take the dress back.

  Trying to keep any hint of accusation out of my voice, I said, “I’m sorry, madam, the tag seems to be missing.”

  “Then put on another one and credit my charge card.” She flung the receipt on the counter.

  A quick peek at it told me her name was Caryn Underhill—I didn’t want to slip up and call her Ms. Ticked-Off to her face. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Underhill, but the store policy doesn’t allow me to take back garments when their tags have been removed.”

  Eyes shiny with tears, the woman shrieked, “You young beautiful girls think you can get away with anything, but you can’t. You’d better take it back, or I’ll blackball this shop.”

  For an instant, I was distracted with her description of me. I’m neither young nor beautiful. My thirtieth birthday was already rearing its ugly head in the rearview mirror—and you know they say that those reflections are much closer than they appear.

  Also, I’m not beautiful. While I have long copper-colored curls and unusual variegated green eyes, my generous curves were not what the magazines and movies tell us is attractive. Heck, half the designer lines the shop sold didn’t have clothes in sizes large enough to fit me because most of the fashion world doesn’t recognize any size beyond a ten, sometimes smaller.

  “You forced me to buy this dress.” Ms. Underhill screech drew my attention back to her. “It’s all your fault.”

  Despite both her complimentary assessment of my physical attributes and my good intentions to remain nonconfrontational, I blurted out, “How could I force you to buy anything? Did I wrestle you to the ground, steal your AmEx from your wallet, and sneak the dress into your car when you weren’t looking?”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, the English muffin I’d had for breakfast turned into a hockey puck in my stomach. Up until then, though I’d had a bad feeling about the situation, I had clung to the belief that I could dissuade the woman from full attack mode. Now that hope fizzled out like a used up sparkler.

  Ms. Underhill’s first reaction was shock, but she recovered quickly and screamed, “I don’t know how you did it, but I’ve been talking to my friends, and they all say they end up buying more than they intend to when you help them.”

  Damn! “What in the world are you talking about?” I had been extremely careful not to nudge someone into purchasing a garment she didn’t really want, but I hadn’t taken into consideration the effect of buyer’s remorse.

  “You put some kind of spell on us.”

  Ms. Underhill’s voice had reached the level of an emergency siren, and I knew Crystal would be flying out of her Batcave any minute now. Thank goodness, at the moment there were no other customers in the shop.

  I took a step closer to her, intending to try to calm her down, but Ms. Underhill put her two index fingers together in the shape of a cross and held them toward me, squealing, “Stay away from me, you, you, sorceress.”

  There haven’t been many times in my life I’ve been speechless, but this was one of them. How could I go from a successful fashion consultant to a wicked witch in less than a minute? Had there been a tornado I somehow missed?

  I knew my mouth was hanging open and I should say something, but no words came to mind.

  “See! See!” My inability to speak seemed to both infuriate Ms. Underhill and convince her she was correct in her assessment of me. “I’m right. You are putting some kind of hex on us.”

  “Are you nuts?” Her crazed expression got my tongue moving—that, and the fact I was afraid she was about to burn me at the stake. “Of course, I’m not a witch. If I had those kinds of powers, would I be wasting my time waiting on parasitical women like you?”

  Oops! I shouldn’t have added that last part.

  Ms. Underhill’s carefully microbladed eyebrows shot into her hairline, but before she could explode or accuse me of being Dracula or Tinker Bell or ET, Crystal glided up to us and asked, “Can I be of any help?”

  Crystal had been a model and had maintained her slender figure, mane of thick blond hair, and beautiful complexion. I knew her body was due to extreme diet and exercise, and her smooth skin had Botox to thank, but I wasn’t sure if her hair had any helpers or not. And I sure wasn’t ever in the position to ask her.

  Ms. Underhill’s face now matched the gown she had been trying to return, and she pointed at me and screeched, “I demand you fire this, this demon righ
t now. She forced me to buy a dress I didn’t want, and she refuses to take it back. And,” the irate woman finished triumphantly, “she was extremely rude to me.”

  “I beg your pardon, but that’s not what happened.” I was determined to make sure Crystal knew my side of the story. “For some reason, Mrs. Underhill thinks I have superpowers that compelled her to make a purchase she didn’t intend to, but that’s just ridiculous.”

  “Lots of us think that.” Ms. Underhill stuck out her chin, which made her look like a sulky two-year-old.

  “And I wouldn’t take the garment back because she removed the tag.”

  Crystal narrowed her eyes, and I could see she was starting to take my part until Ms. Underhill played her trump card. “Furthermore, she called me a parasite.”

  “Well, she called me a witch.”

  Crystal turned her death-ray stare on me, and said, “I know you’re both upset.”

  “Upset? I’m way past upset, possibly into stroke territory.” The pulse beating wildly in my throat reminded me I wasn't exaggerating.

  Crystal went on as if I hadn’t spoken, “But, Miss Green, there is no excuse for being rude to one of our treasured clients.”

  She paused, and the three of us stood in a curious tableau. Sort of like the scene from Gone with the Wind when all the society ladies glower at Scarlett for daring to dance with Rhett while she was still officially in mourning.

  Crystal’s glare had been known to wither roses at two hundred paces, but I could see the tug-of-war going on in her mind. Who would triumph? Valued customer or ace salesclerk? Surely, I sold more than Mrs. Underhill bought.

  Just when it looked as if I would win, Ms. Underhill’s voice cut through the silence like Zorro’s sword carving a Z on his enemy’s backside. “If you don’t fire her immediately, not only will I tell all my friends to stop shopping here, I will mention how awful this store is when Chicago magazine interviews me tomorrow for their ‘Stylish Chicagoans’ article.”