Wedding Bells And Magic Spells Box Set

by A. R. Winters

  Rick Wellington whipped a white piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “Look at this!”

  I looked. Ah.

  It was an itemized list of what Nina and I had agreed on, so far, for the wedding. The clothing items, the decorations and so on.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right. Play the fool now. First you tell my wife you’re a bigshot businesswoman—then you try and pull the wool over my eyes pretending you’re a ditz!”

  My face had paled except for my cheeks, which I could feel burning scarlet. My hands were squeezed into trembling fists by my side.

  “Would you like a cup of herbal tea? Perhaps lavender...?” My thought was that if he calmed down a little, we might be able to get to the bottom of whatever had upset him.

  His eyes flew wide with incredulousness.

  “Oh, sure, great,” he said, and I began to turn to begin preparing a brew.

  “NO!” he yelled. “I wasn’t serious. I know that’ll just go on the tab too, won’t it? Herbal teas, fifty dollars? Right? Huh?”

  Was that it? Money?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wellington, but are you here about the bill?”

  “God have mercy. Give me strength. Finally some sense out of your mouth. Of course I’m here about the bill. What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You see a couple of rich, successful, good-looking New Yorkers and you decide to try and fleece them? Well, I’ll tell you one thing, us big city folk know when we’re being had.”

  Calm, Aria, calm. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “Mr. Wellington, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. All I’ve done is let your wife know what her options were. She made all the decisions. She chose every item on that list, and I can assure you, none of them have been marked up.”

  “My prices are fixed,” I went on, “and I never, ever, ever rip anyone off. If you have a problem with the prices, perhaps you should have a word with your wife. After all, it’s she who said, and I quote, ‘Give me the best of everything. I don’t care about the cost.’”

  I was breathless when I’d finished, I’d never spoken to a customer like that in all my years in business. Then again, I’d never had a customer like Rick Wellington.

  He cocked his head at me. “She said that?”

  I nodded.

  He sized me up and down as if he was trying to figure out whether I was telling the truth or not.

  “Well, could you, I don’t know, look over this list and try and whittle it down a bit? I mean…” he paused while he ran his finger down the paper, “Five dollars for a single place-setting card? That’s ridiculous!”

  I nodded in understanding. I actually mostly agreed.

  “Most couples use standard stock-card with some calligraphy. That’s only fifty cents per card. But Nina said she wanted the very best, which is heavy stock, embossed and with gold leaf. I could certainly change that item to something more... reasonable,” I said.

  He nodded. “Do that. And look over the rest of it too. I want you to run it by me, understand? After all, I’m the one paying for it, not her. I’ve got better things to spend my money on than dropping a fortune on something that won’t last long.”

  Was he talking about the wedding ceremony, or the marriage, I wondered.

  But more importantly, why was he acting so strangely about it all? When he first came in, he’d been boasting about how rich he was. Now he was back in here fussing over a bill that, although admittedly substantial, shouldn’t be anything to worry about for a man who thinks you can’t live in a house worth less than three million.

  “And what do you want me to do about the dress? Nina wanted me to order in some designer brands, some really expensive stuff.”

  “More expensive? What about the one she was wearing the other day? She looked acceptable in that, don’t you think?”

  “She didn’t look acceptable. She looked exquisite, divine.”

  “Right. Where is it?”

  “The dress?”

  He nodded. “Bring it out. Bring it over here. Let me take another look at it for her.”

  Biting my lip I did as he requested and rolled out the dress rail with all the wedding dresses I had prepared for Nina. I lifted the end one, the one we had agreed looked fantastic, and held it up for Rick to see again.

  “Right. Give it here,” he said.

  Curious, I passed the dress over to him, where he dropped it onto the counter. There was a handwritten price tag hanging from the dress, reading eighteen hundred dollars.

  “Pen.”

  I glanced at him for confirmation and he raised his eyebrows at me in a ‘Well? Hurry up and get on with it’ look, so I did as he commanded and handed over a black pen from the desk.

  He took the price tag firmly in his left hand, laid it on the counter, and carefully adjusted the “1” to a “7”.

  “There. What do you think? Seven thousand eight hundred for the dress. That should please her, right?” he said.

  I stood staring at him, blinking, while I processed what he’d done.

  “So you want me to show the dress to Nina again, and pretend it’s a new one?” I asked. I was not particularly comfortable with that, as I try to make it a point not to lie.

  “You don’t have to lie to her exactly. Just bring it out again next time, let her try it on, and see if she still likes it. You can point her at the tag and let her draw her own conclusions.”

  “Right. But you’ll still be paying—-”

  “I’ll be paying eighteen hundred, of course! This is a mere cosmetic change to boost my future wife’s flagging spirits. All right?”

  I gritted my teeth and frowned. I didn’t really want to take part in his little scheme, but I did need his business. What was it they said in my business course? The customer is always right? Maybe I would play along with this plan, as long as I didn’t have to outright lie.

  “Well, okay, as long as I don’t have to lie to Nina. If she asks me directly I’ll tell her.”

  “Good.” With a grudging nod, Rick gave his assent to my conditions. “I’ve got better things to spend money on than some dress that’ll only get worn once.”

  “I’m sure you do have better things to spend money on. Like the Cypress Estate, right?” I said, figuring it was worth a try.

  He raised an eyebrow. “The old fool should have sold it to me when he had the chance.”

  “I heard there’s going to be an auction next week...” I let my words drift into nothing, inviting him to respond.

  “I suppose you hear a lot of things, do you?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everything.”

  He winced like he was having second thoughts about moving here. Small town life isn’t for everyone.

  “Well, they don’t know everything, do they?” he said.

  “No?”

  “If they did, they’d know who killed old Davenport, wouldn’t they?”

  I felt a tingling in my spine. That was the third time Davenport had come up while talking to Nina and Rick.

  I ran my eyes over him again and tried to sense his emotions, though they seemed to be fairly locked tight. But was that a sense of guilt I could feel, buried under his rash exterior? Or was it fear?

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked.

  “Oh, sorry. I was in a world of my own.”

  He ran his finger up and down the paper he was still holding.

  “So can you deal with this? I want you to get this price down. Change whatever needs changing, but get it done. Capiche?”

  “Eh?”

  “Do you understand?” he said in a booming voice, pausing between each word.

  “Yes, I understand now,” I said, answering slow and loud in turn.

  He gave me a look, one that said he wasn’t to be trifled with.

  I matched it, then he spun on his heels, yanked the front door open with far too much force, and hurried out of the sh
op.

  “Guilty!” came a screeching voice from on top of the bookcase.

  I looked up, startled, not knowing Kiwi had been there all along.

  “Guilty?” I asked him.

  “Guilty of something! He was hiding something,” explained the parrot. “He was afraid.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. But do you really think he’s a murderer? May just be wedding jitters.”

  “Ask him!”

  “What, just ask him if he killed Fletcher? He’d probably cancel the entire order, whether he’s guilty or not!”

  Kiwi hopped up and down three times. “Give him a truth potion!” he said followed by a loud squawk, as if he was agreeing with himself.

  I shook my head no. “You know my rule about controlling other people,” I told him. “I don’t do it. That’s my mother’s realm.”

  He cocked his head at me. “Really?”

  I frowned. He knew that. Why was he asking again? “Really.”

  He bounced up and down, excited.

  “Open the cupboard!” he said with a screech.

  I frowned. “Which cupboard?”

  “MY cupboard,” he shouted.

  By his cupboard, he meant the one under the counter in which I stored his treats.

  “Ha. Nice try. No way.”

  “See! You’re controlling me!” complained Kiwi.

  I snorted. “Am not! And anyway, I said I don’t control other people. You’re not people.”

  Kiwi gave an outraged screech.

  “Control freak!” he yelled.

  Chapter 12

  Mom and I have a great relationship. Well, a grating relationship. She contacts me when she needs something (even if it’s just someone to listen to her bragging), and I call her when I feel like being belittled, made a fool of, or if I just want to add some good old-fashioned annoyance to my day.

  “Hi, Mom,” I chirped into the phone.

  “Oh! Hi, dear! Just the person I wanted to see!”

  Uh-oh.

  “Well... great. Do you want to meet me at Sunflowers? I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”

  “Of course, dear, I’d love to help. I live to give, as I always say.”

  I rolled my eyes. Mom liked helping people only because it meant they’d owe her.

  “I’ll meet you there, say, around three o’clock?”

  “Perfect, I can’t wait to see you.”

  The way she said it made me nervous. She, like me, must have an ulterior motive.

  After some serious consultation with Kiwi, we’d decided that we needed more information about our other suspects, namely the mayor and his property developer friend, and in that regard, my mother was my best bet.

  “Good luck!” yelled Kiwi as I headed toward the door. He added an encouraging shriek for good measure.

  “Thanks,” I said with a wave. “Knowing Mom, I’ll need it.”

  She was already waiting outside the flower shop when I arrived, smiling from ear to ear the moment she saw me.

  I looked her up and down. Yep, definitely collagen injections in the lips. And her hair had been freshly dyed again. Mom didn’t want to admit that she was old enough to, well, be my mother, and did all she could to hide the ravages of age.

  “Notice anything different about me?” she asked with a wicked twinkle in her eye and a hand hanging near her throat.

  “Nice necklace,” I complimented her. “Is that real plastic?”

  She glared at me. “Diamonds, Aria, they’re real diamonds,” she said, running her hand over the necklace. “You should know,” she added with a sniff.

  “Just winding you up, Mom. It’s lovely. Did you treat yourself?”

  She glanced at me sideways. “Of course not. A woman never buys her own jewelry. It was a present from Donovan.”

  “From Donovan? I didn’t realize the mayor-business was quite so profitable…”

  “He’s a very successful man, Aria. You would do well to find someone like him yourself. Of course there’s only one mayor, and you don’t need to set your sights quite so high, but that policeman at least makes an honest living.”

  “That policeman who’s been investigating me for murder? He’s not exactly in my good graces at the moment.”

  Mother gave me a wicked grin. “Shall we put a hex on him, then?”

  I poked her in the side. “Mother! You know I never mix myself up in trying to control other people’s lives.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t be so dismissive. We have our gifts for a reason, and—“

  “And that reason is poking our noses into everyone else’s business?” I finished her sentence a little more honestly than she was going to.

  Mom shifted uncomfortably. “You do have a way with words, Aria. You make even the most honest little nudges sound like we’re doing black magic curses.”

  “Didn’t you just propose that?”

  “I was joking! I only try and help with my magic.”

  “Help yourself,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Come on. Let’s go inside. I need your advice.”

  Mom had a pleased look on her face as we entered.

  “Good afternoon to the Misses Whitmore,” said Marion Foxglove when we entered through the door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sisters!”

  Mother giggled while I gave no response.

  Mrs. Foxglove knew just as well as I did that Mom’s youthful appearance was due to hair-dye magic, collagen-injection magic, fake-tan magic, and of course a glamour spell which she kept weaved tightly around her, fooling people into seeing a more youthful visage than an honest viewing would reveal.

  “Now, remind me, which one of you is the senior Miss Whitmore…?”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, but it was lost under the explosion of laughter that came out of my mother’s mouth like a burst pipe.

  “So what can I do for you two young ladies today?” Mrs. Foxglove said, pushing up the horn-rimmed spectacles that had slipped down her long nose.

  Marion Foxglove had run Sunflowers since before I was born. She, like many of the women around here, was a witch.

  Mother and I were water witches, but Mrs. Foxglove was, unsurprisingly, a plant witch. This gave her a great advantage in her line of work, as she treated all of the flowers she sold with a little bit of magic that made the blooms more vivid. She could also keep her flowers fresh far longer than was natural, thus allowing her to run her business more profitably and sustainably than most florists.

  “I’ve got a wedding coming up, and I’m looking for some inspiration,” I said, addressing both of the older women—though neither would like to be referred to as such.

  “Oh? You normally know exactly what to order,” said Mrs. Foxglove in surprise.

  This was true. I normally did know exactly what would look best, or in the case of pushier customers, I would be told what to order no matter what my advice. It was rare for me to be at a loss.

  “The thing is, this couple is a bit different than my usual customers. They’re from New York, and I’m not really used to dealing with... those kind of people.”

  “Oh! That awful couple who’ve been nosing around the Davenport property?”

  If I’d been drinking tea, I would have spit it out. Mrs. Foxglove was one of the most mild-mannered women I knew. “Awful people” was not a phrase you’d normally hear her use.

  “Yes. The very same,” I said. “You’ve met them, then?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly meet them. But I saw them in the Black Cat Café making a scene about a bagel.”

  “How odd. They don’t usually sell bagels at the Black Cat Café.”

  “That’s why they were making a scene.”

  I shook my head. Mother tutted. Marion shrugged her shoulders and put her palms up like the couple was completely inexplicable. Which, to be fair, they were.

  “I’ll let you girls have a look, and if you’ve got qu
estions or need a guiding hand, just let me know.”

  As the three of us walked around looking at the blooms, I imagined the two little Manhattanites in my head complaining about each flower: too expensive, not expensive enough, too pink, not pink enough, too gaudy, not beautiful enough...

  “So, things must be getting pretty serious with you and Donovan again,” I said, nodding my head at the diamond necklace.

  Mom grinned. “I suppose so,” she said, her fingers once again running over the gemstones.

  “I saw him talking to a developer, the other day,” I said, watching her carefully.

  She didn’t rise to the bait. “I thought you didn’t get involved in other people’s affairs?”

  “Well, I don’t, but they were speaking exceptionally loudly that I, and everyone else, couldn’t help but overhear.” A little mild exaggeration never hurt.

  “I don’t know about his work. We’ve got a strictly romantic relationship.”

  “Right, of course.” I took a breath, preparing to dig in further. Before I could, the door swung open and another customer came in. I paused my inquisition and glanced over at the newcomer.

  “Hello, dear. The usual?” asked Mrs. Foxtrot.

  “Good afternoon.” Margaret Honeywell briefly nodded her head toward me and my mother, extending the greeting to the whole store. “Yes, the usual.”

  Margaret stood by the counter, facing the stockroom while she waited. I guessed she didn’t want to make conversation with an alleged murderer, or indeed the mother of an alleged murderer. Judgmental old... battle-ax.

  While Mother and I continued to browse, I watched as Mrs. Foxglove assembled ‘the usual’ for Mrs. Honeywell.

  It took her only thirty seconds to collect the various stems, sprays, and blooms. First she picked off some lupine, followed by a spray of chamomile, then half a dozen stems of snapdragons, finishing it off with wild geranium. Then, she took it all behind the counter where she expertly trimmed it down, prepared the ends, wrapped it in glittery paper, and taped a little packet of flower food to the paper.

  “Did you see what she got?” I asked my mother under my breath.

  “My eyes are still as good as yours,” Mom snapped, annoyed at the implication that something may have slipped by her.