by R M Connor
Title Page
By RM Connor
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Deadly Series
A Deadly Affair
A Deadly Secret
A Deadly Secret
Copyright © 2021 R.M. Connor All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Cover Villain
Editing: Black Quill Editing
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
To Dilly & Dally
It doesn’t matter how much time you spend dilly-dallying as long as you keep reaching for the stars.
Maisie stooped in front of the oven. She opened the door and placed her hand above the top rack. Her long, chestnut-colored hair pulled up into a high ponytail, swept over her shoulder as she shook her head. She closed the door and took a step back to stand next to me.
I crossed my arms and stared at the oven in quiet disdain. The soft ticking of my watch reminding me we were running out of time.
“What are we going to do?” She glanced at me; her brows drawn together.
With a heavy sigh, I untied my apron and tossed it on the small, flour-dusted island in the center of the kitchen. A wave of white powder rushed off to litter the floor as the apron landed. There was one hour until The Witches Brew opened and we had nothing more than wet batter and empty trays.
“I’ll call Eugene,” I muttered, pushing through the swinging half-doors that separated the kitchen from the café.
It’ll be fine, I mocked myself, we still had one oven that worked. What could possibly go wrong?
Behind the counter, I picked up the phone and dialed the number to Fletcher’s Hardware. I leaned against the wall with one boot propped up behind me. The café was dim. The small fairy lights strung from the ceiling reflected warmly off the black countertop. I stared out of the large window at the front of the café while I waited for the recorded message to finish. The sun was peeking through the trees in ribbons of yellows and blues, rising earlier now that it was mid-December.
The machine on the line beeped, and I pleaded for Eugene and his son, Michael Fletcher, to come as soon as possible. I even offered to make each of them a dozen muffins of their choice once the ovens were fixed. Who could resist a fresh batch of muffins?
Maisie pushed through the swinging doors, carrying two large plastic containers of batter. She laid them on the counter. “I’m going to run home and bake the muffins. Hopefully, I’ll be back before we open.” She pulled on her olive-colored, fleece-lined jacket. She smoothed a few loose strands of hair away from her face and then picked up the containers and rushed out of the café.
I glanced at my watch. There was no way she’d make it back in time, especially since she had to walk home. Following her to the wrought-iron fence surrounding the patio, I opened the gate for her.
“Hurry back!” I yelled as she power-walked down the street.
Our black cat—save a white crescent-moon-shaped patch of fur above his eyes—stretched on top of one of the black, round tables outside on the patio. The little bell around his neck jingled as he jumped off, sprinting to catch up with Maisie. The street glittered with early-morning frost and a frigid gust of wind wrapped around me. I pulled the thin, red-and-black flannel shirt tighter around my body and watched until she turned a corner and disappeared.
Walking back into the café, dread washed over me. Soon I would be bombarded with tired and hungry patrons expecting their favorite baked goods, without anything to give them. The door chimed and I spun on my heels toward the sound, instantly kicking myself at my forgetfulness to lock it behind me. My best friend, Tessa Anderson, stepped inside, already stripping her jacket off, and looked at me with a single raised brow.
“I just saw Maisie running down the street.” She walked to the counter and slid onto a black stool. Unwrapping the scarf from around her neck, she pushed her thick, wavy black hair from her shoulders and fixed her bangs to lay neatly on her forehead. She spent more time ‘fixing’ her bangs that I often wondered why she kept them. Her bright green eyes twinkled as a grin graced her lips. “Did the oven finally crap out?”
I grunted a response, leave it to Tessa to rub my nose in it.
She’d warned me about the ovens, but being the stubborn person I was, I had brushed it off. Narrowing my eyes at her, I pressed a finger against my mouth, desperately trying to hide my smile before she had a chance to say “I told you so.” I grabbed a to-go cup and filled it with coffee. She had been stopping by before we opened every morning for the last three weeks. I glanced at my watch—she was even earlier today. I sat the cup on the counter and wrapped my hands around it.
“Evigilo,” I whispered the spell, my fingertips tingled as the magic rushed through them and into the cup. The dark liquid rippled, absorbing the wake-up spell—my secret ingredient in the highly sought-after Hocus Focus coffee.
Tessa had only recently discovered I was a witch, and in return, I had been surprised to learn she was a psychic. She could see the past and the future, but her visions weren’t always clear. Sometimes they were grainy images or just a feeling. Sometimes she didn’t see or feel anything. She had spent the last two months blaming herself over the death of my most recent employee, Leah Crane. Tessa had sold her a necklace from her antique store, Odds ‘n’ Ends, that had been possessed by an evil spirit.
She had grown up with her grandmother telling her tales of the Wildewoods and what their magic could do. As well as stories of a curse placed upon them, which happened to be true. From the moment we met, Tessa had suspected I was one of the Wildewood witches.
Our heritage ran deep in Wildewood. Our magic was directly tied to the town, and because of the curse, only within city limits could our magic be used. Having grown up in foster care since infancy, I had just learned what I was.
I pushed the cup toward her and she perked up, her waves bouncing around her shoulders. “I might need you to double that. Odds ‘n’ Ends is nowhere near ready for the Christmas sale tomorrow.”
“I c
an come by during the break and help,” I offered, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
Wildewood usually hosted a Christmas Festival in which all the shops had big blowout sales. Town Square would be lit up, Christmas music playing, and dozens of activities to entertain children. Our ‘beloved’ Madam Mayor decided to skip it this year, probably having something to do with the murder of her almost son-in-law at the Halloween Festival. But she would still be hosting her annual Christmas party. (Yippee). The shops around town were still trying to get rid of their inventory, but there would not be the large crowds of out-of-towners this year.
I curled my lips, watching as Tessa poured an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee. “You sure?” She tasted it and then added another spoonful. “I could really use the help.”
I handed her the lid to her cup as she scooted off the seat. “I’ll be there.”
“Thanks, Riley. You’re a lifesaver.” She put her coat back on and stuffed her scarf into a pocket. “Maybe you’ll even find something for Ethan while you’re there.”
Waving goodbye, I dismissed the thought with a chuckle. Ethan Mitchell and I had been dating for almost two months now. This would be our first Christmas together. Do I make a big deal about it? Would he? Or should I play it cool and act like I’d spent many Christmases with different boyfriends over the course of my life?
This was also going to be my first Christmas with my sister. What if I got us all matching pajamas? I laughed out loud at the image of the three of us and Bean sitting around the living room in matching pajamas Christmas morning as we exchanged presents. The image faded as I remembered Maisie and I still hadn’t decorated our tree. Hell, we didn’t even have a tree.
This was a Christmas of firsts, and we all seemed to be doing a piss-poor job.
I wanted to do everything I imagined we would’ve done together as children—gingerbread houses, hanging stockings, decorating the house, and, well, a tree. I wanted us to start making our own traditions, but I hadn’t expected those traditions would be doing absolutely nothing. Maybe I was putting too much pressure on it.
I checked my watch again. Twenty-five minutes until the café opened. It was official, Maisie would not be back in time. I grabbed the leftover muffins from the fridge and placed them in the small, glass, domed cake stands on the counter then wiped the tables down one last time.
Spinning in a slow circle, trying to find something else to do, I sighed. We usually spent the hour before The Witches Brew opened baking.
Wait—there was something I could do.
I walked into the kitchen and opened the oven door, thinking of one last-ditch effort to make the oven work. Why hadn’t I thought of this earlier? I snapped my fingers. “Accendere.”
The light above the stove turned on. Okay. That didn’t work. I snapped my fingers again and it turned off. I narrowed my eyes, focusing on the heating element.
Take two: I repeated the spell and the element glowed an orange-red.
“Yes!” I shouted into the kitchen.
I said the spell again; the third time would be the charm, right? I did a little happy dance, a wiggle of my bum and my hands waving over my head, and then heard a pop. I stopped dancing. The smell of smoke wafted toward me, a spark glittered in the dark oven, and then it grew into a flame. Shit!
I ran toward the back door and grabbed the fire extinguisher. Spraying the white foam into the oven, it doused the flame until it was nothing more than tendrils of smoke. I lowered the extinguisher to my side and placed a hand over my racing heart. After a few deep breaths, I set the extinguisher on the floor. The oven was a mess, coated in the white film. I should have just left this to the professionals. With even more wreckage than before, I walked back into the café and grabbed the phone. Pressing the redial button, I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Hey. It’s Riley, again. I think I need a whole new oven.”
Weaving through the crowded café, I stumbled over a foot sticking out from under a table. The coffee in my hands sloshed from the cups onto the saucers and dripped down, burning my fingers. I wiped them on a rag slung over my shoulder then ran back behind the counter to grab a full carafe to refill the lost liquid.
The door chimed. Maisie burst into the café with the same containers in her arms, except this time they were filled with muffins. I had never been happier to see her. Though we had only been open for a half-hour, the café was far too busy for one person to handle gracefully. I apologized to the customers in front of me and rushed behind the counter to help load the large display case.
“Are you ready to hire another person now?” Maisie said for the hundredth time since we lost Leah.
I opened my mouth to respond but snapped it shut when Ethan walked through the door. He wore a dark-blue pair of scrubs with a white, long-sleeved thermal shirt underneath that hugged his broad form in all the right places. I stood, wiping my palms on my apron. I could already smell his musky, vanilla scent. His smirk reached his eyes, having caught me staring, and his dimples deepened.
Ethan worked at the animal clinic on the street behind us. His father owned it and wanted him to take his place when he retired. He had moved away from Wildewood to gain a degree in Veterinary Science, but Ethan aspired to be a photographer, which was a big leap from all the schooling under his belt.
He pushed his honey-colored hair behind an ear as he reached the counter. Leaning on his elbows, he pressed his lips to mine. As he pulled away, his baby-blue eyes glimmered. He looked me over, causing my cheeks to heat up.
“Can I get two to-go cups of Hocus Focus?” His lips were close enough to mine I could almost taste them.
Maisie handed me the cups; her attention fixated on Ethan—completely unaware of the moment we were sharing. “Will you please talk to her about hiring another waiter?”
Ethan gave Maisie a playful wink, then turned his attention back to me. His lips were drawn in a thin line, and I could tell he was trying not to smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched, giving him away. “Still arguing about that?”
I filled up the paper cups. “We aren’t arguing.”
“I’m arguing,” Maisie retorted as she moved around the display case. “She’s ignoring me.”
Ethan looked around the room, returning his gaze to me with a raised eyebrow. “It might not be a bad idea. It’s been pretty busy.”
I rolled my eyes with a huff, then stuck my tongue out like a proper adult. “I don’t need you two ganging up on me.”
“I’ll see you tonight.” He kissed my cheek, picked up his to-go drinks, then exited the café.
Maisie elbowed me. “See? Even Ethan agrees, we need help.”
Flicking my eyes to the ceiling, I sighed. “Fine. I’ll stop by The Tribune and place a help wanted ad.”
“No need. We can place one in the window.” Maisie clapped her hands in triumph.
I folded my arms over my stomach as I watched her grab an already-made sign from underneath the register that read Help Wanted. She’d evidently been planning on me saying yes this whole time.
The phone rang, and with a satisfied look on her face, Maisie answered it. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered, “It’s Eugene. They’re coming over.”
Handing a muffin across the counter to someone who had been waiting patiently, I mouthed “Thank God.” It was bad enough that we were down both ovens for the regular shifts at The Witches Brew, but we were catering coffee and cakes at the Mayor’s Christmas party tomorrow night. We could bake at home, but the café was much closer.
The bell chimed and Officer Pete Kelley waddled inside, pulling his pants up by his tactical belt. I waved, smiling. Pete had been my late father’s partner on the Wildewood Police Force and had become something of a surrogate uncle to me.
“Morning, girls.” He looked into the almost-empty display case and his smile faltered. “Slim pickings this morning, huh?” Pete could never resist a muffin, or anything sweet for that matter.
“Don’t worry. I saved your
favorite.” I grabbed the very last espresso chocolate chip muffin from the back of the case. Maisie poured him a cup of Hocus Focus and placed it in front of him before busying herself at the register.
The door chimed again and Pete’s partner, John Russell, walked in. He removed his hat, showing a fresh crewcut, and placed it under his arm as he weaved through the café. John and Pete were polar opposites. Where Pete was friendly and chatty, John had a perpetual frown and didn’t say much.
Russell, with his tall, thin frame, sat next to short, round Pete.
“Officer Russell,” I gave him a slight nod and a strained smile. “What will you have?” He rarely came into the café, so he didn’t have a ‘usual.’
“Earl Grey, to go,” his tone was less than pleasant. He never drank coffee, that much I knew. I poured hot water into a to-go cup, dropped a teabag in, and placed the lid on to hold the drawstring in place.
“You really should try a muffin.” Pete pushed his plate toward John, who looked at it and shook his head, pushing it back.
I crossed my arms, thinking: one day, I’ll win you over, John Russell. One day. Hopefully, that day would be soon because Pete was about to retire, and then who would give me juicy details about things going on around town?
“Come on, Pete.” Russell patted him on the back. “We don’t have time to gossip.” Ah, Russell was fully aware of Pete’s chatter. I stifled a laugh as both men stood. “Thanks for the tea, Riley.”
A few minutes passed and Eugene and Michael Fletcher walked through the door. Built like a bull, Eugene had scars all over his arms and a few on his face, most likely from work-related injuries. His thinning white hair gave away his age, though you’d never notice since the man rarely stopped tinkering with something that needed “fixin’.” His son was taller by a few inches, his onyx-colored hair buzzed short. The smell of lumber mixed with grease became stronger as they moved closer to the counter.
Eugene patted me on the shoulder, puffing out his chest. His voice boomed over the chatter filling the café, “Having a rough time with appliances, are ya?”