One Potion in the Grave: A Magic Potion Mystery (4 page)

On me, the black would have made me look like I’d done lost my mind, but on Delia it just made her look more mysterious.

“Impossible not to love,” I said, laying the groundwork for my matchmaking. I reached in the bag for the fudge brownie—my appetite was back now that we weren’t talking about death anymore.

“Gag me.” Delia scratched Roly’s head, who twisted her head for easier access to her chin.

Okay, so I had my work cut out for me. I broke the brownie in half and handed a piece over to my cousin.

“What was with the neck thing?” she asked. “Did someone really die?”

Ainsley dusted herself off. “Possibly a murder in the making.”

“There’s no murder in the making,” I said. But even
as the words left my mouth, a tingle slid down my spine. I wished Dylan would call me back as I gave up for good on the brownie. What a waste of perfectly good chocolate.

“Is that why you hung up on me?” Delia asked, narrowing her eyes. “Like I said, I could forgive you if it was a matter of life and death.”

Ainsley picked up the feather duster and went back to work on the potion bottles. “Nah, it was because Gabi Greenleigh came in.”

Something dark flashed in Delia’s eyes.

“What?” I said.

“What, what?” she countered.

“What was that look?”

She lifted a shoulder. “She’s why I wanted to talk to you. I had a dream about you, and she was in it. Or maybe I had a dream about her, and you were in it. Either way . . .”

Delia’s dreams were often premonitory and akin to my witchy senses—they were to be taken very seriously. Another warning tingle slid down my spine. “What was the dream about?”

There was caution in her clear blue irises. “You two were together at your mama’s chapel . . .”

“And?” Ainsley prompted.

Delia shifted uncomfortably. “Carly was trying to calm her down, but she was screaming to wake the dead.”

“Why?” I asked.

Delia said, “It could have had something to do with her being covered in blood.”

Chapter Four

A
couple of hours later, I left the shop in Ainsley’s capable hands. She couldn’t diagnose ailments as I could, but she could sell premade potions better than anyone I knew, and she’d call me at my mama’s chapel if any help was needed.

I set Roly and Poly in the basket of Bessie Blue, my turquoise bike, and took a look around the Ring. Tourists roamed the stone walkway, window shopping at the shops that lined the cozy circle. An idyllic park was set in the middle of the Ring, with picnic benches, pathways, and a gazebo that was often used for weddings.

Hitching Post was consistently named one of America’s most beautiful small towns, and it was easy to see why. In the distance, verdant Appalachian foothills overlooked the Darling River, and the town’s landscaping committee went above and beyond with its colorful flowerbeds and hanging flowerpots. Everything was neat and clean, picturesque and quaint.

The discordant image of a blood-covered Gabi
Greenleigh didn’t mesh with the peaceful setting, and I hoped that Delia’s dream had been just that . . . a dream, or rather, a nightmare. Not a premonition. But I couldn’t shake the tingles of my own internal warning system and feared that all hell was about to break loose in this charming little town.

What I wondered was if I could prevent it from happening . . . or if the trouble had already been set in motion.

I was pondering that as I pedaled toward home to drop off the cats before heading to my mama’s chapel. As I passed Dèjá Brew, I did a double take when I spotted my curmudgeonly aunt Marjie, one of the Odd Ducks, and her new boyfriend, Johnny Braxton, sitting at an outside bistro table.

Along with a host of other businesses around town, Johnny owned the Little Wedding Chapel of Love and was my mama’s biggest competitor. Their rivalry knew no limits, and neither was opposed to fighting dirty. My mama had recently one-upped him in a big way, and he was undoubtedly looking for retribution.

Johnny knew my mama’s Achilles heel was her family, and I didn’t think it was any kind of fluke that he’d started dating Marjie not long after Mama bested him. An added incentive for wooing Marjie was that he wanted to buy her inn, and would do just about anything to get it from her, including trying to slip her one of my love potions. Fortunately, I’d thwarted that plan.

Marjie knew all this.

So
why
she had agreed to date him was still a bit of a mystery. However, my aunt was no one’s fool, so I wasn’t too worried about her getting hurt. She had her own
motives, and though I didn’t know what they were, I was curious about the game they were playing with each other.

I rolled up to their table to say hello.

If Bluto from
Popeye
had a grandfather, he would look like Johnny Braxton. Barrel chest, white hair, trimmed white beard, permanent scowl, and a hint of villainy. He was one of the richest and most successful businessmen in Hitching Post, but his sour personality had kept him a bachelor all his life.

Johnny eyed the cats with disdain (they returned the look), and said with a measure of judgment, “Quittin’ early today. Some might question your work ethic, Miss Carly.”

“I’m off to help my mama at her chapel,” I said, sugar sweet. “There’s some kind of big wedding there this weekend.”

The vein in his forehead pulsed. He’d just about busted a gut when he found out the Calhouns had chosen Mama’s chapel over his, a fact my mama had managed to mention each and every time she’d run into him. My mama wasn’t above a little gloating.

Marjie lifted an eyebrow, and I swear her eyes were twinkling.
Twinkling.
Then she said to me, “You’d best get on with yourself then.”

I noticed that she’d actually tried to tame her brown Brillo-pad brown hair into some semblance of a style, and that there was a smear of blush on her cheeks.

I lifted my own eyebrow. My aunt was taking this dating game very seriously indeed if she altered her normally nonexistent grooming habits.

Johnny’s cheeks reddened. Just the sight of me tended
to have that effect on him, but I also knew he had heart troubles.

I couldn’t help but prod him. “You’re looking a little flushed, Mr. Braxton. Are you feeling okay? How’s the ol’ ticker?”

Steam practically billowed from his ears. “I’m fine.”

“Right as rain,” Marjie said, shoving his buttery scone closer to him.

His jaw set as he eyed the pastry. “I was just about to ask your lovely aunt to go on a nature hike this afternoon.”

I nearly choked. First, the only thing growing in nature my aunt liked were weeds, and
hiking
? The word wasn’t in her vocabulary.

“The wildflowers along the river are mighty pretty right now. But not nearly as pretty as she is,” he said through clenched teeth, patting her hand. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

I gazed at my aunt. I wasn’t sure she’d been called beautiful a day in her life, but when you looked beyond the bad attitude, the scowl, and the unfortunate hair, her skin was perfection, and her eyes were big, brown, and absolutely enchanting. She
was
beautiful. “Yes, she is. Really lovely.”

Surprise flared in her eyes before her jaw clenched, making her lips pucker like she’d been sucking on a sour candy. “A hike sounds wonderful. Just perfect. I’ve been aimin’ to get back on the Lover’s Leap trail for a while now. It’s been years. I think today’s the day. We can pack a picnic and make an occasion of it.”

Johnny blanched. “Splendid.” His lips pressed into a tight smile.

“It’s a bit hot for a hike,” I said. With these high temps it would be easy to get heat stroke.

“Nonsense, Carly,” my aunt replied. “It’s merely a little warm.”

Johnny tugged at his collar. “Perhaps we should wait until evening, when temperatures are a bit more tolerable for a long walk. And we’ll be sure to pack extra water.”

Marjie shrugged. “If you think you need it . . .”

His brows furrowed, making him look even more cantankerous.

“Maybe while we’re there, we should jump off the leap,” she suggested. “Us being loverly and all.”

Lover’s Leap was a spot high atop one of the bluffs overlooking Darling River. It was accessed via a three-mile looped trail that started—and ended—smack dab between Mama’s and Johnny’s chapels. The “leap” was a thirty-foot drop into a deep section of the river that was particularly popular with teenaged couples who had a bit of a daredevil side. It was a risky jump—because one false move and the leaper could miss the water and land on a rocky section of riverbank. There had been more than a few deaths there over the years.

His chest rumbled as he attempted to laugh. “I think my days of leaping are long done, Marjoram.”

“For shame,” she mumbled.

He narrowed his eyes on her, but she paid no mind.

I was suddenly reminded of the movie
War of the Roses
, and wondered if that was what was going on with them. They were out to kill each other.

Johnny didn’t stand a chance.

“You two have fun. I’ll see you later.” If they survived.
I smiled and waved and headed into the neighborhoods that branched out from the Ring and soon turned onto my street, which had only five houses—three on one side, two on the other. Old quintessential Southern homes, with big porches dripping in ferns, gabled roofs, dormers, and prerequisite fences, some wooden, some wrought iron.

Roly and Poly cautiously eyed a swooping cardinal as though afraid of an air raid (they were scaredy-cats) and tolerated the bumpy ride on the brick road fairly well. They were used to it. Old live oaks lined the street on both sides, creating a continuous canopy that made it look like the road wound through a leafy tunnel, and flowerpots filled with colorful annuals hung from lampposts. More cars than usual dotted my charming lane, most likely due to the Calhoun wedding and its numerous guests. But all was not scenic here, oh no. There were two blights on this lovely little stretch: My aunt Marjie’s inn . . . and my house. My place was under heavy renovations, and Marjie’s place . . . well, it was a lot like she was: contrary.

Her inn, the Old Buzzard, sat at the end of the street closest to the Ring, and looked like squatters lived there, with its peeling paint, weed-infested yard, and rotting clapboards. A N
O
V
ACANCY
sign swung on a leaning post. The inn hadn’t seen a guest for as long as Marjie owned it, which was how she wanted it. She owned the place only as a result of a bizarre pact with the other Odd Ducks: What one did, they all did. So when the other sisters wanted their own inns . . . Marjie had to get one, too.

The thing about the Old Buzzard was that it was a diamond in the rough—something a businessman like
Johnny recognized. A little TLC would turn the inn into a gold mine.

Right next door to Marjie’s, Aunt Hazel’s Crazy Loon was the epitome of Southern charm yet was as eccentric as she was. Across the road, my aunt Eulalie owned the Silly Goose, which was absolutely lovely with its touches of whimsy.

I eyed the Crazy Loon and my thoughts turned to Katie Sue and why she was in town. I’d waited all afternoon to no avail for Dylan Jackson to return my calls, and as soon as I turned my attention to my house at the end of the lane, I knew why he hadn’t gotten back to me.

I’d been looking for him in all the wrong places.

The butt end of his beat-up pickup truck stuck out of my driveway.

As I passed my neighbor Mr. Dunwoody’s house—his place was sandwiched between my house and Aunt Eulalie’s—I wished he weren’t out of town this weekend. His portentous weekly relationship forecasts were the marital barometer around here. He might know if Gabi and Landry’s nuptials would go off without a hitch . . . or if they were doomed. But unfortunately, the retired math professor was visiting his brother in Mobile this week. I rolled up to the mailbox and took out the small stack of mail and set it my basket. He’d put me in charge of watering his plants and collecting his mail while he was gone. The mail I could handle just fine, but his plants were already starting to droop. I was a menace in the garden.

I pedaled on with Delia’s dream nagging my subconscious. Living in a wedding town, I’d pretty much seen it
all. Breakups, makeups, runaway brides, grooms having flings with maids of honor, bridezillas . . . you name it. But I’d never seen a blood-covered bride-to-be. And
mercy
, I didn’t want to ever see one.

Trying to push aside the thoughts of Delia’s disturbing dream for now, I admired my newly built front porch. It was so much prettier than the one that had been here before—the one that had come crashing down after an out-of-control truck rammed into it months ago. My tires bumped over the curb and onto the sidewalk, and I parked my bike next to my garage. As I plucked the cats from the basket I heard hammering coming from within the house and smiled. Dylan had adopted the role of handyman, and was helping me repair my fixer-upper. He was hoping to be paid in kisses. Instead, I paid him in suppers.

As I climbed the back steps, I knew I shouldn’t accept his help but I really needed it. Plus he looked mighty fine wielding a hammer, very easy on the eyes.

And, okay, I liked having him around.

There. I said it.

I knew people thought we’d get back together no questions asked, but there were a couple of big things keeping us apart, the biggest being his mama, Patricia Davis Jackson, who couldn’t abide the sight of me. Then there was the dark cloud of two broken engagements hanging over our heads.

Not too long ago Dylan had suggested that I wasn’t so different from my mama’s side of the family—that I was just as opposed to marriage as they were.

A big part of me scoffed at the notion. After all, I’d been ready and willing to walk down the aisle twice with
him, but the first attempt was ruined by his mama, and the second by his doubts.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

And until he’d suggested I hadn’t fallen too far from the Fowl family tree did the thought even occur to me that he might be right.

So now, a small part of me wondered. Did I take after my cynical mama and aunties? Because I certainly hadn’t taken after my daddy, who believed his happily-ever-after was just a trip down the aisle away. He’d been waiting thirty-some years for my mama to marry him—and vowed to keep on waiting.