A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery (4 page)

The more I thought about Coach, the more my witchy senses tingled. Something was off with him. Way off—I could feel it in my witchy bones. And if my witchy senses were involved, that meant he was either in danger . . . or he
was
the danger. Could he have had something to do with what happened to Nelson? It wasn’t a possibility I could rule out at this point.

Standing, I grabbed the wig from the desk and put it back on.

“What’s with the wig?” Caleb asked.

“It’s my mama’s.”

“Enough said.”

“I’ve got to go. I have potions to make.”

“I heard about the forecast.” He eagerly rubbed his hands together. “Can’t you skip the potions this once? Or give them fakes or something?”

Technically that’s what I was going to have to do, since I couldn’t use the Leilara. I hoped the potions would have a placebo effect and no one would be the wiser about the concoctions missing the secret ingredient.

Rolling my eyes, I said, “You get enough business on your own.” Divorces were more common here than one would think.

“You’re no fun.”

I strode to the door and turned back to look at him. “When are you going to let me set you up with someone?”

“Let me think.” He tapped his chin. “Never? Save your matchmaking for someone else, Carly Hartwell.”

He was a confirmed bachelor—a hazard of his job. Not because of the long hours he worked, but because of all the marriages he’d dissolved.

But . . . I knew he craved love like I craved peanut butter. He just wasn’t as open to it as he could be. That’s where I could help—if he’d let me.

“One of these days,” I said, “I might make a special love potion just for you. You’ll never know what hit you. Head over heels in love. Married, babies, picket fence, even a dog.”

He turned a bit green, shifted uncomfortably, then snapped, “Don’t people have to be receptive for the potion to work?”

He had me there. There were a couple of glitches with my magic potions. First, a rule called the Backbone Effect. The recipient of a potion had to
want
the change it would bring about, consciously or unconsciously. It was named that way because the force of a person’s willpower, their backbone, trumped magic every time. The rule was the only protection against using potions to trick unsuspecting intendeds, which wouldn’t be fair to anyone involved, and was especially important when love potions were concerned. Whoever drank the potion had to
want
to fall in love, something I made very clear when creating an elixir so no one would expect miracles.

The second rule was the Curatio Principle. My potions couldn’t fully heal chronic or terminal illnesses. They, however, could lessen the side effects and slow the progression of certain diseases. Again, warnings were given so no one would expect miracles.

“I think you’re more receptive to love than you think, Caleb.”

He laughed. And kept laughing.

Crossing my arms, I narrowed my gaze on him. “You know, I have been thinking about brushing up on my hexes. If getting married is such a curse to you, a hex might be just the thing to find you a wife. . . .” I raised an eyebrow. “Since hexing has no rules at all.”

His eyes narrowed, and I saw a hint of the shark he was in the courtroom. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t all that scared of him. I wiggled my eyebrows and adjusted my wig. “You never know. . . .”

I smiled as I walked out into the spring sunshine. But as I turned toward home, I wasn’t thinking about Caleb and his nonexistent love life.

All that was on my mind was Nelson Winston.

And who killed him.

And if his murder
had
somehow been a message for me.

N
elson Winston.

I’d known him for just about forever—mostly in passing, a casual acquaintance. Although he was a good ten years older, he was as active in the community as I and we often bumped into each other around town.

Because he’d always been friendly but reserved, I suspected he subscribed to a version of Patricia Davis Jackson’s views of my potion making and me. In Dylan’s mother’s eyes, I might as well have devil horns sticking out of the top of my head. And, okay, it probably hadn’t helped any that I had worn a sexy devil’s costume to Dylan’s and my engagement party and prodded Patricia with my pitchfork, but dang if the woman hadn’t deserved it. She’d never been shy about her dislike of me.

Maybe Nelson’s opinion of me wasn’t as
devilish
as Patricia’s, but he’d never gone out of his way to chat with me, and I once saw him pick up one of my potion bottles at a charity event and roll his eyes before setting the bottle back down.

Certainly there were a few townsfolk who didn’t believe in my magic. Usually there was a telltale look in the eye that gave those people away. A distance, a wariness.

On the whole, most everyone around here accepted me with open arms. And those who didn’t? I didn’t pay them much mind. “To each his own” was one of my personal mottoes. I certainly didn’t have to be best friends with everyone in town. As long as they let me be, I let them be.

And when they poked, I took out the pitchfork.

Nelson had never poked—he’d never so much as nudged. He’d just kept his friendly distance.

Which was why it made no sense whatsoever that he was laid out in my shop with his skull cracked open.

“Good mornin’, Miss Carly,” Mr. Dunwoody called out as I passed by his house. “New hairdo?”

“A diversionary tactic.” Almost home, I dragged the wig off my head, figuring it was safe enough; no one had followed me from the shop. “And it was hardly a good morning for me,” I added, leaning against his wrought-iron fence.

Like most on the street, Mr. Dunwoody’s house was mid-nineteenth century, large, and rambling with additions and add-ons. Grand live oaks, ginkgos, and hickory trees crowded the big yard. The house had been recently painted a nice bright white. Its shutters were blue, the front door red, and it looked every bit as patriotic as the flag hanging limply from the pole attached to the porch column.

My gaze shifted to the right, to the house next door. Mine. It had been my mama’s childhood home, and when she and the Odd Ducks had inherited it from Grammy Fowl almost three years ago they turned around and sold it to me for pennies on the dollar to keep it in the family, since Mama was happy living behind her chapel and the Odd Ducks already had places of their own.

My house didn’t look near as nice as Mr. Dunwoody’s. Sure, it was just as big and rambling with all its additions, but it was a good thing the wind wasn’t blowing, as a stiff breeze might knock it right on over. I’d been slowly renovating, but I was a mediocre do-it-yourselfer at best, and the kind of expertise I needed cost much more than I could afford. At this point, I was so deep over my head that I was either going to have to seriously brush up on my home-improvement skills or move back to the guest quarters above my mama’s wedding chapel—where I’d lived for the ten years after my high school graduation.

“Tee-hee!” Mr. Dunwoody giggled, his dark face alight with amusement. “I saw you sprintin’ down the street this morning. You’re gettin’ faster. Mighty surprised to see you home so early. Did you give them all the slip?”

He sat in his usual daytime spot on his front porch in his fiery red rocker, drinking sweet tea at ten in the morning. Everyone knew the “tea” was really bourbon on the rocks with a twist of lemon, but he liked to keep up appearances. He’d nurse that drink until noon, at which time he’d switch to real tea, then finish up his day with some plain hot tea, specially ordered from a shop in town.

Seemed to me that his days were a bit upside down, and I often wondered (and was surprised I didn’t already know) if he had steak, potatoes, and gravy for breakfast, and eggs, ham, and grits for dinner.

I frowned at him. “They’ll be around soon enough, after the coroner leaves my shop.”

“Heard about that bad bit of bad business,” he said, leaning so far forward in his rocker he nearly tipped right off the porch and into his prized rosebushes. “What’s the full scoop, Miss Carly?”

I wasn’t the least bit surprised he already knew what happened. It was very difficult to keep news like a murder from spreading in a town the size of Hitching Post.

“You think ol’ Marjie got the last laugh on that boy?” Apparently amused, he rocked backward and let out a high-pitched
tee-hee-hee.

I didn’t even bother with saying it was a warning shot. “What do you know about Nelson, Mr. Dunwoody? Did he have any enemies?”

He raised his glass to me. “Just your aunt Marjie.”

Now that I stopped and thought about it, I had to wonder
why
Nelson had been sniffing around Marjie’s inn. Having been born and raised in Hitching Post, he knew what to expect if he did. . . .

“Do you know why he was at Marjie’s the day she shot at him?”

“Can’t rightly say.” This morning Mr. Dunwoody also looked the picture of gentlemanly perfection in his Sunday best, complete with suspenders and polka-dot bow tie. He’d been an eccentric math professor at a local college until he retired ten years ago, and at seventy he still dressed as though he were going to work every day. His wife had passed away almost thirty years ago, and as long as I’d known him he’d been a bachelor with a busy social calendar, never lacking a female companion. Though he was a bit of an odd duck himself, his quirky charm and natural good looks never failed to land him a date. He always insisted his forecasts were based on statistical calculations, but I suspected something else. . . . There was an air of magic about him.

“Most everyone else who goes snooping wants to buy her inn,” he added. “Maybe he did, too?”

I supposed it was a possibility—Nelson was a successful lawyer who might have wanted to spread his wings as an entrepreneur. Which wasn’t all that easy in Hitching Post. Town bylaws prohibited new construction without jumping through a million hoops (in an attempt to preserve the small-town charm), so buying a preexisting building was the only real option. Aunt Marjie had a prime location and an already established inn.

Kind of.

I glanced down the street. Each of my aunts owned her own bed-and-breakfast inn on this road, and each place reflected the personality of each aunt. Next door to the left, I spotted Eulalie hanging her clothes on the line behind her inn, the Silly Goose, which was light and airy; across the street, the Crazy Loon, Hazel’s place, was brightly colored, with all kinds of whirligigs and lawn decorations in the front yard; across and farther down the road, the Old Buzzard was Marjie’s place, aptly named indeed, as it was painted a dull, dark brown and had little ornament, not so much as a flag or a flower box. No surprise that she’d never ever, not once, had a guest in her inn. Which was just the way she liked it, reflected by the No Vacancy sign posted on her rickety fence.

Once when I was little, I’d asked her why she’d opened the Old Buzzard in the first place if she never intended on filling it with guests, but she’d only grunted. Later I’d learned that the triplets had a pact: What one did, they all did. When Eulalie and Hazel had opened inns, Marjie had no choice but to open one as well. Majority ruled with the Odd Ducks—but it didn’t mean they had to like the verdict.

Marjie obviously objected.

One would think that at sixty-five one of them would break the pact at some point, but so far I hadn’t seen it happen and wondered if it ever would. The Odd Ducks were pretty set in their ways.

I noticed a note taped to the door of the Old Buzzard. Probably another No Trespassing sign aimed at keeping solicitors, possible guests, and just about anyone who was breathing away.

Marjie took eccentric to extremes.

Auntie Eulalie (also known to some as the “normal” sister) spotted me, smiled, and paused in her hanging of a washcloth to wave at me like she was fixing to take flight, her bejeweled pastel turban nearly slipping off. She was theatrical, to say the least, mostly because when she was younger someone had mentioned she had an uncanny likeness to Meryl Streep. It was true—she did, even now. Eulalie, however, had taken the compliment to heart and spent her life being as dramatic as possible.

Meryl had nothing to fear—there was no competition, except in my aunt Eulalie’s head.

Blue jays cried overhead as I looked across the street at the Crazy Loon. Auntie Hazel with her frizzy, flaming red hair was engaging in the same task as Eulalie, except on her line amid the towels were pinned brightly hued undergarments for all the town (and her guests) to see. Flashy bras and tiny G-strings.

Lord help me.

“Now that I think on it, there was a bit of gossip going on about Nelson the other day at the library,” Mr. Dunwoody said, leaning forward. Sunbeams caught the silver streaks in his dark hair, making them sparkle.

The library automatically made me think of my daddy, who’d been working there since he was a little boy running errands. Now he was the director—and openly admitted there were times he wished he could simply shelve books all day. Although he technically should be the one running the Little Shop of Potions, he knew early on that he wanted to stay with the library and abdicated the potion making to me, at Grammy Adelaide’s okay.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Nelson had been talking about taking a highfalutin job in Birmingham.”

“A lawyerly job?”

“I heard tell.”

“From whom?”

He scratched his chin. “Can’t recall. If I do, I’ll let you know.”

As I pondered why Nelson was thinking about a new job, I heard a shrill voice echo down the street.

“Carleeeee! Caaarleee! Yoo-hoo! Yooooo-hoooo!”

Dang, I should have kept the wig on.

I glanced at Mr. Dunwoody, who was wincing at the noise—much as I was. “Do you think I can pretend I don’t hear her?” I asked.

“Miss Carly, I do believe my half-deaf brother in Mobile can hear Emmylou Pritcherd.”

Mr. Dunwoody made a good point, despite Mobile being a good six hours to the south.

“Carleee! Yoo-hoo!”

Daring a peek, I saw a flash of bright purple bearing down on me. As I braced for impact, I looked back at Mr. Dunwoody, who had scurried into his house so fast his chair was still rocking violently in his wake. Chicken.

“Whoo-eee,” Emmylou exclaimed as she bustled up. “Didn’t think you heard me!”

Her restaurant, Emmylou’s Café, was three doors down from my shop, and she’d been a frequent customer since moving to town two years before from California, on a quest to immerse herself in Southern culture because she’d loved the movie
Steel Magnolias
.

I often wondered why Emmylou hadn’t moved to Louisiana, where the film had been set, but had never dared asked. Once Emmylou got to talking, one rarely snuck in a word edgewise, and rare was the conversation with her that didn’t include a Southern expression she’d memorized . . . or twenty. Only her sincerity made Emmylou the least bit tolerable.

“Good morning, Emmylou. You feeling well?”

She looked a bit red in the cheeks, and there was a controlled wildness in her bright blue eyes. In her early forties, she was tall and trim, with bottle strawberry-blond hair, a button nose, and naturally plump red lips. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was pretty, and had immediately caught the eye of Dudley Pritcherd, the accountant who kept the books for her café and catering business. One of my love potions later . . . and they’d been happily married for more than a year now.

She fanned her face. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s Dudley I’m worried about.” Her eyebrows drew downward, and her voice dropped as she added, “I finally had a chance to give him the potion you made, but so far I can’t hardly see any effects, despite my pulling out all the stops. All. The. Stops. I don’t hardly know what else to do. You have to help me!”

Two days ago, Emmylou had stopped into the Little Shop of Potions, looking for a potion for Dudley, who’d suddenly gone from Dudley Do-Right in the bedroom to Dudley Do-Wrong. Very wrong. Very, well, dud-ly.

I had concocted a virility potion, one of my lowest doses. I’d found it was better—much better—to start off on the mild side, or risk side effects that rivaled those of the popular little blue pills men of a certain age took to combat bedroom . . . dudliness.

Although some potions (and liquid hexes, too) could be splashed on another person or worn like perfume, Dudley’s potion had to be ingested. And, trust me—a little went a long way.

“You don’t think that . . .” Color rose high on her cheeks.

“What?”

Her nose wrinkled. “You don’t think he’s fallen out of love with me, do you? Could that be the cause?” Waving a hand, she shook her head. “No, that’s crazy. The potion you gave us guarantees love, right?”

“Well,” I began, “people can fall out of love, but I don’t think that’s the case here. Dudley loves you.”

She nodded. “Of course he does! I was just being a little neurotic because it’s been so long since—”

I held up my hand to cut her off. I did not need to know. Even at a low dose, the potion should have worked—my potions were, after all, magical.

Unless . . . Was this a case of the Backbone Effect at work?

If so, since force of will was more powerful than the Leilara drops, the potion wouldn’t have worked because Dudley
wanted
to stay dud-ly.

But that didn’t make much sense, so I searched for another reason why the potion might have failed. “Did you give him the whole bottle?”

“Oh yes. Poured it straight into his after-dinner beer.”

Aha!
“That particular potion wasn’t supposed to be diluted.” Some potions could be mixed with other liquids, but not that one. “It lessens the effect. Remember?” No wonder he’d been such a dud. Emmylou and I talked about the necessary steps to take before she left the shop yesterday. Plus, the instructions had been printed on a nice, neat little tag.