by Tegan Maher
Tegan ☺
Sweet Murder, Witches of Keyhole Lake 1
USING THE HEM OF MY apron, I pulled the last batch of blueberry turnovers out of the oven and slid them onto the counter to cool. They were an even, golden brown, and a quick poke with a fork assured me the crust was light and flaky. Perfect. The customers at Brew4U, my best friend and cousin Raeann's coffee shop, were going to eat them up. That was good, because right now every few bucks mattered.
Speaking of money, I glanced at the clock on the microwave and that cold, I’m-gonna-be-late feeling swept over me. As it always did, time had gotten away from me while I was baking and I had less than fifteen minutes to get to work. Panicked, I turned the oven off with a wave of my hand, then bolted into the laundry room and pulled my server's apron and work shirt out of the dryer. I changed into the tank top on my way through the living room, grabbed my purse, and made my way out the front door, nearly face planting when I tripped over our miniature donkey Max, who was napping at the bottom of the steps.
"Watch it, you big clod! Mayhap I shall kick you in the head the next time you’re napping," he grumped, then yawned wide, taking most of the intimidation factor out of the threat.
"If I were sleeping at the bottom of the steps, I'd expect to get kicked in the head," I said over my shoulder as I recovered and made my way toward Bessie, my faded blue, shabby-chic 1984 F150. Yes, shabby-chic is code for "POS." Don't judge me—it's paid for. And yes, the donkey talks, but we'll get to that a little later. Trust me - after you meet him, you'll be glad for the delay.
I slid into the truck, yelping and lifting my hips when the sensitive skin of the back of my legs hit the searing cracked leather seat. I pushed my apron under my legs and settled back gingerly, then, with an encouraging pat to the dashboard, I cranked the key. She coughed and wheezed a little, but surprised me yet again when she caught and roared to life. Yes! Another check in the win column for the day. I backed out of the yard and headed down the driveway to the main road, admiring the late-morning view as I did.
Even with my window down, the temperature inside the truck was just this side of hellfire, so I reached across the seat and cranked the passenger window down, too. Mid-summer in southern Georgia was brutal, and the AC had gone out on the truck a few months back. Unfortunately, fixing it didn't even make the top twenty on the laundry list of priorities that demanded a chunk of my check.
Still, as I rumbled out of the yard and drove past the horses grazing in the pasture, I figured I didn’t have a whole lot to complain about in the scheme of things. No matter how many times I travel our mile-long driveway, I never got tired of it. Ancient oak trees draped with Spanish moss lined both sides, forming a canopy of leaves and limbs that speckled the shaded dirt road with sunspots. I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the tunnel of shade and the interior of the truck finally dropped somewhere below the melting point of flesh.
Just as I turned onto the main road, I spotted a couple of deer out of the corner of my eye. When I tapped the brakes in case they decided to run out in front of me, the pedal felt spongy. Since the house sat on an overlook outside of town, much of my drive was a steady, winding descent; brakes weren't exactly optional, so I tested them again.
I was coming up to the first of several hairpin turns, so when the pedal went clear to the floor, so did my heart. Cold fingers of panic raced down my spine as I stomped on it again, and a third time, to no avail. The truck picked up speed, and as I bounced and rattled toward my demise over potholes that now felt like craters, I had only one thought: How on earth was Raeann going to finish raising my hellion of a little sister without strangling her or hexing her into a convent?
You heard right—I said "hex." We're witches, which you’d think would have come in handy right about then. You'd be right, except I was too freaked out—and busy trying not to die—to pull any magic together.
I managed to make it around the first curve, but there was another coming up a quarter-mile ahead. If I dropped off the road there, I would have careened about three hundred yards down a steep slope then flown over a cliff into a granite quarry, assuming I didn't meet my maker by smashing headlong into a tree before then.
Adrenaline flooded my body, making my hands feel like I was wearing boxing gloves as I did my best to wrangle the truck into the turn. I was almost home-free when the passenger-side tire dropped off the steep berm, blew with a tremendous bang, and jerked the truck off the road. After that, it was all over but the crashing.
The truck plowed through the brush at the edge of the road and kept rumbling right on over the edge. My skull thunked off the doorframe and the forward momentum shoved my knees into the dash—in the ’80s, seatbelts then weren't quite what they are now. The sound of rocks and bushes scraping the undercarriage harmonized perfectly with the terror raking over my nerves.
My head whipped forward and cracked on the steering wheel before my ancient seatbelt finally caught. I came so close to a giant oak that it ripped my mirror off and flung it into the truck. I scrunched my eyes shut and threw my arms up to defend my face from the incoming debris. Then, just when I'd resigned myself to a bone-crushing demise, the truck lurched to an abrupt stop.
For a few seconds, I was afraid to open my eyes, but then I was afraid not to. Metal groaned and I reached forward with shaking hands to shut the truck off. I poked my head out the window to see what had stopped my descent to certain death—or at least extreme agony and disfigurement. A little maple tree about eight inches thick was wedged between my rear bumper and the body of the truck.
Bessy slid a bit, so I didn't waste any more time. I opened the door and jumped from the cab, releasing a sigh of epic proportions as I landed relatively unscathed in the soft grass. I grabbed my purse from the floorboard and just left the door hanging open, too spent to shut it, and too scared the movement would send the truck the rest of the way over the hill. The last thing I needed was to completely lose my transportation and there was no way I had enough magical mojo right then to pull it back up the hill. That trick would have been a stretch on my best day, and that definitely wasn’t it.
I bent over and placed my palms on my knees, waiting for my body to stop shaking enough to make the trek back toward the road. Once I had a modicum of control over my limbs, I walked up the hill a bit and collapsed onto a butt-sized rock, staring in disbelief at the sight of my beast of a truck dangling half way down the hill from that one scrawny little maple tree. Something trickled down the side of my face and when I touched my eyebrow, my fingers came away sticky with blood. I hadn't even felt the pain until right then.
I put my head between my knees and thanked the universe for giving me a pass, and sent a grateful push of energy to the little tree. When my hands stopped shaking and my head cleared enough to allow me to think beyond surviving, I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for Skeeter's Garage and Appliances. Don't let the name fool you; he meets all three of my gold-star requirements: he's good, he's honest, and he's cheap.
After three rings, Skeeter himself answered and I'd never been so happy to hear his cheerful twang in all my life.
I gave him the 411 on what had just happened and told him where I was at, grateful for once to live in a small town where the only directions required were, "the curve right above Old Man Bailey's quarry on the way to my place."
I ended the call and turned to make my way the rest of the way up the hill when the feeling of being watched made the hairs on my nape stand up. I searched the trees and caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off something a hundred yards or so up the hill on the other side of the road. My gaze darted toward the glint and I scanned the spot for any other sign of movement. Freezing in place, I watched for further movement, but all stayed still. I decided to stay right where I was a, figuring it would be a whole lot harder for some ax-wielding serial killer to drag me up the hill than to just shove me in a van if I was standing conveniently by the road.
Yes
, I'm a capable witch and I live in BFE, Georgia and the odds of a random serial killer just happening by were about the same as going to Walmart without seeing at least one hairy butt crack, but I wasn't feeling particularly rational at that point. Pulling as much defensive magic into my hands as I could manage in my frazzled state just in case, I leaned on a pecan tree and hoped Skeeter would hold true to his promise to get there in "two shakes of a coon's tail" before my paranoia got the better of me. Little did I know then that just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're wrong.
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Books by Tegan Maher
Books in the Witches of Keyhole Lake Series
Sweet Murder
Murder to the Max
Murder so Magical
Mayhem and Murder
Murder and Marinade
Hook, Line, and Murder
Murder of the Month
Witches of Keyhole Lake Shorts
Bubble, Bubble, Here Comes Trouble (Book 2.5)
Witching for a Miracle (Book 3.5)
Moonshine Valentine (Book 4.5)
Cori Sloan Witchy Werewolf Mysteries
Howling for Revenge
Dead Man’s Hand
Enchanted Coast Magical Mysteries
The Deadly Daiquiri
The Surfboard Slaying
The Lethal Luau
About the Author
I was born and raised in the South and even hung my motorcycle helmet in Colorado for a few months. I've always had a touch of wanderlust and have never feared just packing up and going on new adventures, whether in real life or via the pages of a great book.
When I was a little girl, I didn't want to grow up to be a writer—I wanted to raise unicorns and be a superhero. When those gigs fell through, I chose the next best thing: creating my own magical lands filled with adventure, magic, humor, and romance.