One Potion in the Grave: A Magic Potion Mystery

“What Heather Blake always achieves so skillfully, both in this debut series and in her Wishcraft Mystery series, is the creation of a complete mythology for her paranormal world. . . . The relationships between characters are developed realistically, and the romantic elements are never forced, making this an intriguing novel with a satisfying mix of mystery and the paranormal.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“Heather Blake’s books are always favorites of mine, filled with magic, mystery, and romance, so . . . twists and turns, secrets and lies abound, but all of the loose ends fall into place when the surprising revelation of the killer is made.”

—Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows

“Blake does it again with the debut of another great paranormal mystery series. As witch Carly tries to prove herself innocent of murder, a shocking turn of events makes readers tear through the pages to find out the real story. This reviewer can’t wait for more fun from this talented author.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Heather Blake once again thrills readers. . . . Carly Bell Hartwell is a great heroine. . . . The ending was a surprise, though reading a good book from Heather Blake never is. She is one of the best paranormal cozy writers around, and you’ll not want to miss the beginning of this new adventure.”

—Debbie’s Book Bag

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. . . . Fans of paranormal cozies will look forward to the sequel.”

—
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

The Magic Potion Mystery Series

Book 1:
A Potion to Die For

Book 2:
One Potion in the Grave

The Wishcraft Mystery Series

Book 1:
It Takes a Witch

Book 2:
A Witch Before Dying

Book 3:
The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy

Book 4:
The Goodbye Witch

Published by the Penguin Group

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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 2014

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ISBN 978-1-101-59365-3

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.

For my family, who fill my life with love and laughter.

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.”

—A. A. Milne

I’m a huge fan of
Winnie-the-Pooh
and the simple—yet wise—life lessons the silly old bear and his friends impart to readers. Like Piglet, my very small heart holds much gratitude for all the help and wisdom I received while writing this book.

I can’t thank my editor, Sandy Harding, enough for her patience, support, and guidance. She’s been an invaluable resource who has not only made Carly a stronger character but has helped me become a better writer as well. A huge thank-you, too, to everyone at Obsidian/New American Library who has helped bring Carly’s story to bookshelves, from the cover artist and copy editor to publicists and the marketing department and everyone in between.

Many thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, who’s always the first one to cheer on my crazy ideas.

To my readers, who embrace those crazy ideas . . . I say it a lot, because it’s true: I can’t do what I do without you. Thank you for buying my books, visiting with me on social media, telling friends about my stories, and for being the reason I keep writing. Along with gratitude, my heart is filled with happiness because of you. Happy reading.

Chapter One

M
y nerves rocketed to high alert the moment the woman glided into my shop, her eyes masked by a large pair of black designer sunglasses, a gauzy scarf draped theatrically over sleek blond hair and then loosely wound around her neck.

She looked very Jackie O, and in Hitching Post, Alabama, the official wedding capital of the South, people like Jackie O stood out like peacocks among sparrows.

Despite our wedding flair, we were casual folks.

Her peacockiness didn’t explain the jumpy nerves. That happened only when danger was near. My
witchy senses
—labeled so by my best friend, Ainsley, when we were teenagers—were at work.

The customer didn’t look all that dangerous, but I’d been fooled by people before. Lesson learned. However, I also had to keep in mind that the danger I felt might not be coming directly from her—it could just be associated with her. My witchy senses weren’t finely honed, so
I couldn’t tell which it was. All I knew was that this woman meant trouble to me.

Poly, one of my two cats, lumbered over to greet the customer and assess whether the elegant newcomer had any hidden treats lurking beneath the flowing designer caftan that swished dramatically around her thin body. Poly was forever starving to death, as his twenty-five pound frame could attest. Roly, my other (much lighter) cat, stayed curled up on the counter, basking in a puddle of sunshine, preferring naps to treats. The siblings’ breed was of unknown origin, but I suspected a mix of calico, white-and-gray ragdoll, and lethargy. Both were long-haired fluff balls of orange, gray, and white, their diluted coloring more pastel than bold. Besides their weight, another way to tell them apart was that Poly had more orange while Roly was mostly gray. They often came to work with me here at the Little Shop of Potions, and I adored each and every one of their lazy bones.

I wondered what this customer knew of my shop, a place that on first look appeared to be a blend of an herbalist and a bath and body boutique. On a daily basis, tourists wandered inside drawn in by the colors, curiosity, the allure of the window vignette, and the store’s tagline written on the window:
Mind, Body, Heart, and Soul
.

Early-morning light streamed through the display window, glinting off the treasures I’d collected over the years. The weights and measures, the apothecary scale, the mortar and pestle my grandma Adelaide used in this very store. The sunbeams also bounced off the wall of colorful potion bottles, splashing prismatic arcs across the shop.

I inhaled the various earthy smells from the fresh and
dried herbs I used in my potion-making and absorbed the vibrant colors, the simple charm, and the magic in the air.

That was the most important part. The magic.

Most tourists didn’t know that I hailed from an unusual combination of hoodoo and voodoo practitioners, and was a healer who used my inherited magic to treat what ailed. From sore throats to broken hearts, I could cure most anything—thanks to a dose of magical lily dewdrops (Leilara tears) and the recipe book of potions left behind by my great-great-grandmother, Leila Bell.

The customer bent to scratch Poly’s head, and he flopped onto his back to playfully paw her hand. The big flirt. He lacked basic moral principles and would do just about anything for the possibility of a treat.

Another surge of warning tingles crept up my spine and spread to my limbs. Instinctively, I latched onto the engraved silver locket that dangled from a long chain around my neck. The orb was a protective charm given to me when I was just a baby, not to defend me from others but from
myself
. Being an empath, someone who can experience another’s physical and emotional feelings, was something else I’d inherited from Leila. The locket engraved with two entwined lilies wasn’t foolproof, but in most cases it blocked other people’s emotions so I wasn’t bombarded with everyone else’s feelings. It was also something of a security blanket—offering me solace and comfort when I was troubled.

Like now.

“Feel free to browse around, and let me know if you need any help,” I offered, though really I just wished she’d walk out the door. I didn’t know what had kindled my witchy senses, but those warnings were rarely wrong.
If she stuck around, I had to prepare for the proverbial anvil to drop on my head.

The woman lowered her sunglasses a fraction and peered at me over the dark rim. “Will do.”

A flash of recognition sparked within me but didn’t flame. I had the feeling I knew her somehow, yet I couldn’t place her for the life of me. She certainly wasn’t local.

“Nice shop you have here,” she said, her slow cadence that of a cultured Southern belle, one who’d been raised up prim and proper.

Still alert, I said proudly, “It’ll do.” I just hoped she hadn’t heard about the murder that had taken place in the back room a couple of months ago. There were some things tourists needn’t know. Fortunately, that case had been solved, the culprit brought to justice, my reputation restored, and life went on.

Slowly the woman stood, leaving Poly splayed out on the floor (treatless), his chubby belly the only proof needed that he was well fed. He wasn’t that good an actor to be able to cover the pudge.

Her designer strappy gold high heels clacked on the wooden floor as she wandered over to a display of bath oils and surreptitiously glanced over her shoulder.

Although I usually only read people’s energy to create a perfect potion, I didn’t like waiting for that anvil—I’d had my fill of trouble with that murder and all, thank you kindly—and thought it best to be proactive. I let go of my locket and let down my guard to feel what she was feeling.

I sensed no menace toward me at all, so the danger swirling around was most likely due to the same reason her anxiety level was through the roof. Her stress coursed
through my veins, increasing my blood pressure as surely as it did hers.

Taking hold of my locket again, I let out a breath. If she were interested, I had some calming cures and sleeping potions that might soothe her a bit. Temporary fixes to an obviously bigger issue but helpful nonetheless.

As she continued to wander the store, browsing, touching, perusing, and generally acting suspicious, I eyed the big fancy bag on her arm and wondered if she was a shoplifter. Over the years I’d learned that they came in all shapes, sizes, and pedigrees.

When she picked up a handmade soap, I walked over to keep a closer eye on her and said, “The lilac is nice.”

Sniffing a bar of honeysuckle soap, wrapped in a muslin bag and tagged with a custom label, she said, “I prefer the honeysuckle myself. It brings back sweet memories.”

Clear polish coated her short professionally manicured fingernails. She wore only one ring—an enormous pink star sapphire on her right hand—so apparently she wasn’t in town to get hitched this weekend. Most likely she was a wedding guest. Probably the big Calhoun affair. The town was buzzing from the excitement of those nuptials. Especially my mama. She was in a full-blown tizzy because the wedding was being held at her chapel, Without a Hitch.

Mama in a tizzy was quite the dizzying experience—one I’d get to witness firsthand as she’d roped me into helping her get the chapel ready this afternoon for the big to-do. My arm hadn’t needed much twisting. It was, after all, the Calhouns, and I’d have to be dead not to want an up-close peek at the family.

Headed by patriarch Warren (a U.S. senator who had
just launched a bid for the White House) and his wife, Louisa, the rich and powerful (and somewhat corrupt) Calhoun family was Southern royalty. They were firmly rooted in politics and had recently branched into the entertainment industry via son Landry, who was a rising country music star. News of Landry’s speedy engagement to recent college graduate and former pageant queen Gabriella “Gabi” Greenleigh had sent shockwaves through the whole country, hitting the front pages of every tabloid in the checkout stand. “Little Orphan Gabi,” as she had been called in the press, was the only child of one of the wealthiest couples in the state, both of whom had died in a tragic plane crash several years ago. Gabi’s father, an oil executive, had been one of Warren’s biggest supporters, and her mother had been best friends with Louisa. After their deaths, Louisa vowed to care for the girl, and took her under her wing. During this past year Landry and Gabi had fallen in love. The picture-perfect couple, America’s newest—and wildly popular—sweethearts, were due to be married right here in Hitching Post in two days’ time, this Saturday.

“Can’t go wrong with either.” I handed the woman a small wooden basket so she could shop. Might as well make some money off this strange encounter.

Turning to face me straight on, she said, “Carly Bell Hartwell, do you remember that one time you dared me to sneak into your aunt Marjie’s yard, knock on her door, and run? Only I got all tangled up in her honeysuckle vines and she caught me? My rear still aches sometimes from the switching she gave me. Despite that incident I continue to love the scent of honeysuckle so don’t be pushing your lilac wares on me.”

In a split second the woman’s voice shifted from high class to a local twang. I stared in shock at her and finally said, “Hush your mouth! Katie Sue Perrywinkle? Is that truly you under all that fanciness?”

Katie Sue whipped off her sunglasses, and familiar blue eyes danced with mischief. Throwing her arms wide, she rushed at me, wrapping me in a tight hug.

We spun in a circle, our squeals scaring Poly out of his stupor. His belly hung low to the ground as he dashed behind the counter.

“Just look at you!” I said. “How long’s it been?”

Without missing a beat, she answered, “Ten years.”

“Tell me everything.” I pulled two stools over to a worktable. “Did you get to college like you wanted? Are you a full-fledged doctor now?”

Laughing, she glanced at her diamond-faced watch and said, “I only have but a minute.”

“Talk fast, then.” So, Katie Sue was back. I’ll be damned.

I drank in the sight of her, trying to note the many changes. Her hair had gone from brown to blond, her skin from deeply tanned to pale cream, and her whole countenance from hillbilly to high society. “I’m so shocked you’re here.” I stumbled for words. “You’re . . . unrecognizable. The hair, the clothes, the accent.”

“Everything,” she said firmly. “It took years, too, with thousands paid to a finishing school, voice coaches, a stylist . . . The list goes on. Oh, and my name’s Kathryn Perry now. I had it legally changed right after I left town.” Her voice dropped to a melancholy whisper. “I didn’t want them to find me.”

Them.

Her family.

My stomach twisted at the old memories. Katie Sue had what my mama would call an “unfortunate” childhood. Her daddy had died in prison after being sent there for killin’ a man in a bar fight. Her mama liked the hooch a little too much, and hadn’t been above raising her hand—or any other object in the vicinity—to keep her three daughters, Lyla, Katie Sue, and Jamie Lynn, in line. And when she remarried?
Shoo-ee.
Her new husband had an even bigger problem with addiction and a hair-trigger temper. And after one particularly bad fight with each other, the state stepped in and awarded custody of the girls to Katie Sue’s granddaddy, a hardworking man who lived simply and loved those girls fiercely. It was a move that had probably saved the lives of all three sisters, but eventually tore the siblings apart.

Last I heard, Katie Sue’s mama, Dinah Perrywinkle Cobb, and her husband, Cletus Cobb, had been released from the local pen, having served two years each for cooking up drugs in their trailer near the river. They’d been free going on five months now and had so far managed to stay out of trouble.

With wide eyes, Katie Sue glanced around the shop. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this place. It was more my home than that old ramshackle trailer.”

As a young girl Katie Sue had spent hours and hours here, learning about herbal medicine at the knee of Grandma Adelaide, same as I did. Katie Sue would talk on and on about how one day she was going to become a doctor and use the knowledge Grammy had taught her to help others.

Grammy had always encouraged her lofty goals, though truthfully, I’d never thought Katie Sue would
leave. Hitching Post had a way of holding on to its own. “Did you get your MD?” I asked, hoping her dreams had come true. With no lack of determination or stubbornness, I imagined she wouldn’t have given up on her goal without a knock-down, drag-out fight.