A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery

Praise for Heather Blake’s

Wishcraft Mystery Series

“An enchanting and thoroughly likable sleuth.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Denise Swanson
“Magic and murder . . . What could be better? It’s exactly the book you’ve been wishing for!”

—Casey Daniels, author of
Supernatural Born Killers

“Blake successfully blends crime, magic, romance, and self-discovery in her lively debut.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Wow! Ms. Blake has taken the paranormal mystery to a whole new fun yet intriguing level. . . . This story is . . . mysterious, whimsical, [and] delightful. . . . Heather Blake makes it
work
!”

—Once Upon a Romance
“Heather Blake has created a wonderful new spin on witches in Salem that is both lighthearted and serious. An all-around wonderful read.”

—The Hive

“Heather Blake casts a spell on her audience.”

—The Mystery Gazette
“A good quick, breezy read.”

—Pagan Newswire Collective
“This stellar, standout series debut has set the bar. High.
Extremely high!
. . . Wickedly delicious.”

—
Blogcritics

Other Mysteries by Heather Blake

The Wishcraft Series

It Takes a Witch

A Witch Before Dying

The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy

A Potion to Die For

A Magic Potion Mystery

HEATHER BLAKE

AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Heather Webber, 2013

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

ISBN 978-1-10159363-9

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I
f there were a Wanted poster for witches, I was sure my freckled face would be on it.

Ducking behind a tree to catch my breath, I sucked in a deep lungful of humid air as I listened to the cries of the search party.

I didn’t have much time before the frenzied mob would turn the corner and spot me, but I needed to take a rest or risk keeling over in the street.

It was times like these that I wished I were the kind of witch who had a broomstick. Then I could just fly off, safe and sound, and wouldn’t be hiding behind a live oak, my hair sticking to its bark while my lungs were on fire.

But
noooo
. I had to be a healing witch from a long line of hoodoo practitioners (and one rogue voodoo-er, but no need to go into that this very moment). I was a love-potion expert, matchmaker, all-around relationship guru, and an unlikely medicine woman.

Fat lot of good all that did me right now.

In fact, my magic potions were why I was in this predicament in the first place.

I’d bet my life savings (which, admittedly, wasn’t much) that my archnemesis, Delia Bell Barrows, had a broomstick. And though I had never before been envious of the black witch, I was feeling a stab of jealousy now.

Quickly glancing around, I suddenly hoped Delia lurked somewhere nearby—something she had been doing a lot of lately. I’d been trying my best to avoid a confrontation with her, but if she had a broomstick handy—and was willing to loan it to me—I would be more than willing to talk.

There were some things worth compromising principles for, obviously. Like a rabid mob.

But the brick-paved road, lined on both sides with tall shade trees, was deserted. If Delia was around, she had a good hiding spot. Smart, because there was a witch hunt going on in the streets of Hitching Post, Alabama.

And I was the hunted witch.

Again.

This really had to stop.

Ordinarily I would’ve ridden my bike, Bessie Blue, to work, but when I saw the crowd gathered on my curb that morning, I snuck out the back door. Unfortunately, someone had spotted me and the chase was on. I’d cut across to the next block over, then doubled back to my street. And now here I was, trying to catch my breath and hoping for a broomstick, of all things.

Pushing off from the tree, I spared a quick glance behind me as the crowd turned the corner.

“There she is!” someone shouted.

Heart pounding, I made a break for it. I jumped the rotting picket fence surrounding my aunt Marjoram’s front yard, skipped over loose stepping-stones, brushed away overgrown shrubs, and then made a dash toward the back gate.

I nearly tripped as I tried to wade through a thigh-high weed patch, and heard the cackle of my aunt’s voice.

“Carly Bell Hartwell, get your skinny ass out of my garden!”

Some garden. “Sorry, Aunt Marjie!” I yelled over my shoulder. “But they’re after me.”

“Again?” she shouted from the steps of her dilapidated deck.

The high-pitched cries of the crowd trying to find me carried easily in the quiet morning. “Mr. Dunwoody made his forecast.”

“Land’s end!” Marjie shouted. “I’ll get my gun.”

I didn’t bother to try to talk my aunt out of it. The townsfolk would be safe enough—most knew better than to trespass in Marjie’s yard. And if they blatantly ignored all the posted No Trespassing signs, they’d get what they deserved.

Just like those Birmingham lawyers who’d been sniffing around Marjie’s place the past few weeks.

I didn’t think those stuffed-shirt businessmen would be back anytime soon.

Shotgun blasts had that effect on city folk.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked open the wooden gate at the back of Marjie’s property. Rusted hinges groaned in agony, and the brambles at my feet didn’t want to give the gate an inch of swing, stubbornly digging their thorns into anything they could grab onto. Including my shins, which made me regret my choice of shorts over jeans that morning.

I yanked for all I was worth. The gate swung only a foot, but it was all I needed. I wiggled through the narrow space. Safe on the sidewalk on the other side, I assessed the damage from the brambles (minimal), and wished I had a cell phone to call for backup.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a cell phone. No one in town did because there was no coverage, thanks to the surrounding mountains and the town’s refusal to build an ugly cell-phone tower that would ruin the picturesque landscape. Except for a noisy few, we’d all embraced the quirk as a charming throwback to a simpler time. But right now, a cell would’ve been handy.

I headed for the town center, not having time to admire the sun-dappled view of the Appalachian foothills in the distance. I had lived in Hitching Post, Alabama—the wedding capital of the South—nearly my whole life, with only one brief, somewhat disastrous foray beyond its borders. I loved this town, but right now, I wished it were smaller. Much smaller. Like, a one-stoplight kind of place—because it seemed as if I’d been hotfooting it down side roads and back alleys for an hour now, even though it had been only ten minutes.

The heart of Hitching Post was made up of a large circle, nicknamed the Ring (very appropriate, considering it was a wedding town). In its charming middle was a grassy picnic park with twisting trails, big shade trees, flowers, and a gazebo smack-dab in its center. A wide cobblestone sidewalk (no roadways inside the Ring) connected the park to dozens of shops, offices, and restaurants.

Splintering outward from the Ring were parking areas, quaint neighborhoods, the scenic river walk, and the bread and butter of Hitching Post: the chapels, inns, and reception venues catering to the marriage crowd. People came from all over for quickie country weddings—more intimate and personal and less tacky than Vegas. Hitching Post looked postcard perfect, too, and was consistently named one of America’s most beautiful small towns, which had a lot to do with the mountain backdrop, the river views, and all the effort the beautification committee expended to create the perfect idyllic Southern atmosphere.

Occasionally tossing looks over my shoulder as I stealthily entered the Ring, I zipped down the sidewalk toward Déjà Brew, the local coffee shop. Ordinarily I’d go in and visit with the shop owner, Jessamine Yadkin, pick up a muffin, linger over some coffee.

This morning, however, Jessa waited in the doorway of the shop with a to-go bag dangling from an outstretched arm. I grabbed it—kind of like a marathoner would snatch a cup of water—and kept on going. “Thanks, Jessa!”

“Run faster, Carly!” she yelled in her raspy, used-to-smoke-two-packs-a-day voice. “They’re gaining on you!”

Run faster
. Easy for her to say.

At this rate, I was going to need a defibrillator by the time I reached the safety of my store, the Little Shop of Potions. The crowd was gaining on me; I needed to pick up my pace.

Unfortunately, my shop was on the opposite side of the Ring from Déjà Brew. A good half mile at least if I followed the walkway; less if I cut diagonally across the picnic park and hurdled some shrubbery. The choice was a no-brainer. Thankfully, I had a head start. A small one, but it was enough.

Sweat dripped from my hairline as I dodged picnic tables and flower beds. Behind me, I heard pounding footsteps, along with hollers of “Carly! Carly!”

I ran at a dead sprint and finally my shop came fully into sight. The storefront was painted a dark purple with lavender trim, and the name of the shop was written in bold curlicue letters on the large picture window. Underneath was the shop’s tagline:
MIND, BODY, HEART, AND SOUL
. Behind the glass, several vignettes featuring antique glass jars, mortars and pestles, apothecary scales, and weights I’d collected over the years filled the big display space.

At this point I should have felt nothing but utter relief. I was almost there. So . . . close.

But instead of relief, a new panic arose.

Because standing in front of my door was none other than Delia Bell Barrows.

I could hardly believe it.
Now
she showed up.

I grabbed the store key from my pocket and held it at the ready. “Out of the way, Delia!”

Delia stood firm, neck to toe in black—from her cape to her toenails, which stuck out from a pair of black patent flip-flops that were decorated with a skull and crossbones. A little black dog, tucked like Toto into the basket that hung from Delia’s forearm, barked.

The dog and the basket were new. The cape, all the black, and the skull-and-crossbones fascination were not.

“I need to talk to you, Carly,” Delia said. “Right now.”

I hip-checked Delia out of the way, and the dog yapped again. Sticking the key into the lock, I said, “You’re going to have to wait. Like everyone else.” I threw a nod over my shoulder.

The crowd, at least forty strong, was bearing down.

Delia let out a gasp. “Did Mr. Dunwoody give a forecast this morning?”

“Yes.” The lock tumbled, and I pushed open the door and scooted inside. Much to my dismay, Delia snuck in behind me.

I had two options: to kick out the black witch—which would then let in the crowd . . . or keep Delia in and the crowd out.

Delia won.

I slammed the door and threw the lock.

Just in time. Fists pounded the wood frame, and dozens of eyes peered through the window.

I yelled through the leaded glass panel, “I’ll be open in half an hour!” but the anxious crowd kept banging on the door.

Trying to catch my breath, I walked over the cash register counter, an old twelve-drawer chestnut filing cabinet. I set down my to-go bag, opened one of the drawers, and grabbed a small roll of numbered paper tickets. Walking back to the door, I shoved them through the wide mail slot. “Take numbers,” I shouted at the eager faces. “You know the drill!”

Because, unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

Turning my back to the crowd, I leaned against the door and then slid down its frame to the floor. For a second I rested against the wood, breathing in the comforting scents of my shop. The lavender, lemon balm, mint. The hint of peach leaf, sage, cinnamon. All brought back memories of my grandma Adelaide Hartwell, who’d opened the shop more than fifty years before.

“You should probably exercise more,” Delia said. Her little dog barked.

My chest felt so tight, I thought any minute it might explode. “I think I just ran a 5K. Second time this month.”

“What exactly did Mr. Dunwoody’s forecast say?”

“Sunny with a chance of divorce.”

Delia peeked out the window. “That explains why there are so many of them. I wonder whose marriage is on the chopping block.”

The matrimonial predictions of Mr. Dunwoody, my septuagenarian neighbor, were never wrong. His occasional forecasts foretold of residential current affairs, so to speak. On a beautiful spring Friday in Hitching Post, one might think a wedding—or a few dozen—were on tap. But it had happened, a time or two, that a couple had a sudden change of heart over their recent nuptials (usually after the alcohol wore off the next morning) and set out to get the marriage immediately annulled or file for a quickie, uncontested divorce.

And even though Mr. Dunwoody was never wrong, I often wished he’d keep his forecasts to himself.

Being the owner of the Little Shop of Potions, a magic potion shop that specialized in love potions, was a bit like being a mystical bartender. People talked to me. A lot. About everything. Especially about falling in love and getting married, which was the height of irony, considering my mother’s side of the family consisted of confirmed matrimonial cynics. Luckily, the hopeless romanticism on my father’s side balanced things out for me. Mostly.

Somehow over the years I had become the town’s unofficial relationship expert. It was at times rewarding . . . and a bit exasperating. The weight of responsibility was overwhelming, and I didn’t always have the answers, magic potions or not.

Because Southerners embraced crazy like a warm blanket on a chilly night, not many here cared much that I called myself a witch, or that I practiced magic using a touch of hoodoo. But the town did believe I had all the answers—and expected me to find solutions.

My customers cared only about whether I could make their lives better. Be it an upset stomach or a relationship falling apart . . . they wanted healing.

And when there was a divorce forecast, they were relentless until I made them a love potion ensuring their marriage was secure. I had a lot of work to get done today. Work I’d rather not do with Delia around.

“Why are you here?” I asked her.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

If one was especially myopic and viewing us from afar, we might pass as sisters. The blond hair, the same height, the same nose and jawline. Which made sense. Seeing as how we were first cousins. Delia’s mother, Neige, was my father’s sister.

Delia (Hartwell) Bell Barrows was a snowy-white blonde with shoulder-length hair, ice-blue eyes, and creamy, pale skin. I was a cornfield blonde with golden wheat–colored hair, big milk chocolate–colored eyes, and dozens of freckles. Where I was the very image of a girl next door, Delia was ice-princess striking.

“You’ve been calling?” I asked, straight-faced.

My cousin was persistent, I’d give her that. I had been ignoring her phone calls for the past two days. I could only imagine what she wanted as she looked around the shop—it was the first time she’d been in here. Just as I’d yet to step foot in her shop, the Till Hex Do Us Part boutique, a mystically themed gift shop that featured her personalized liquid hexes.

“You know I have.” She used minimal makeup, and that was the only thing that kept her from looking as though she’d completely lost her mind, with all the black she wore. “It’s quite rude of you to make me track you down.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been called rude. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

Our businesses were yet another thing that set us apart. I used our hoodoo roots to heal people, and Delia used our voodoo roots to create hexes.

It was a divide that had defined our heritage, really, harking back to our great-great-grandparents, Leila Bell and Abraham Leroux. The legend of what happened to them was infamous in Hitching Post as one of those bittersweet stories of star-crossed lovers that was retold over and over again as a warning to young girls as to why they should never,
ever
marry a bad boy.