Witch at Odds: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 2 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) Read online

  WITCH AT ODDS

  A JINX HAMILTON WITCH MYSTERY BOOK 2

  JULIETTE HARPER

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Juliette Harper

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prettier the flower, the farther from the path.

  ― Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, we would like to thank our readers. You are such an important part of the magic. Special thanks to our beta readers, Brenda Trimble, Larry Trimble, and to our faithful and patient proofreader, Sandra Jackson. To Delia Ruth Williamson for the fairy dust. And to Jennifer Radcliff, for her paging and design work, and for being our first and constant friend and mentor in the self-publishing world.

  1

  “What could go wrong?”

  Let’s just begin with those famous “last” words, shall we?

  This whole thing started when I decided to add a room onto the back of the store I inherited from my Aunt Fiona. Okay, that and a few simple renovations to implement a really great idea for a coffee shop / espresso bar.

  My first mistake was in forgetting to run the plans by the store itself for her approval.

  Yeah, you read that right.

  My store is . . . well, actually I don’t know what my store is, but her name is Myrtle.

  Not to be all anthropomorphic or anything, but she’s very much a “person.”

  In the short time I’ve been in residence, Myrtle has never been anything but helpful, quietly leading me to things in the hopeless jumble that passes for an inventory on request.

  She actually has a pretty good sense of humor, and something of a maternal streak. Of course when I was being thick-headed about something early in our relationship, Myrtle did whiz an arrow past my nose, but my own mother threw a knife at me once.

  (Okay, fine, just in case my mother ever reads this, she claims her hands were wet and the knife slipped. All I know is that a sharp piece of cutlery landed at my feet. I quit arguing and did as I was told. Myrtle achieved much the same reaction from me with her arrow.)

  I should have known Myrtle would prefer to have things done her way, mainly because my deceased Aunt Fiona warned me about it. Yes, Aunt Fiona still pops in from time to time. There’s no reason death has to be a self-limiting experience. For heaven’s sake, think outside the box (or the casket as the case may be.)

  So, long about now, you’re probably wondering if I’m completely nuts. Probably, but I’m also a witch. That was Aunt Fiona’s other bequest to me — magical powers. The fact that I’m a newly minted witch goes a long way toward explaining the story I’m about to tell you.

  But, first, let’s briefly backtrack. Hi, my name is Jinx Hamilton. My business sits on the Briar Hollow courthouse square between Chase McGregor's cobbler shop and Amity Prescott's art gallery.

  Chase is on the fast track to becoming my boyfriend, and Amity is flaky, creative, and anxious for us to do some joint functions once my coffee shop is up and running.

  Then there’s Tori, whose official title in my life is BFF. She’s also my brand new business partner, the fulfillment of a plan we hatched when we were six and set up our first lemonade stand.

  Tori quit her job at Tom’s Cafe and will move into the room out back once it’s finished. It was her idea to do both construction projects at one time, so technically this was all her fault. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

  The paint gave us the first hint we might be in for trouble. Walking in the store’s front door amounts to entering a time warp. Think antique display cabinets, beautifully worn wood floors, and an old, elegant tin ceiling. The walls were a sort of indistinct stucco tannish, white thing.

  Tori thought some color in the coffee area would help give the place a “funky, bohemian vibe.” We’re hoping to bring in local musicians on the weekends, and maybe even serve beer and wine if my license application goes through. The whole planned decorating scheme felt right, so I was onboard.

  Tori drove over to one of the big box hardware places and picked up a variety of paint samples. The palette ran the gamut from aubergine to chartreuse, but no matter what color she put on the wall, Myrtle instantly turned it to aged tan.

  It was all I could do not to laugh, which would have infuriated Tori and encouraged Myrtle.

  Tori stood there with her dripping fuchsia paintbrush and glared at the store, which meant her head was on a swivel since we don’t exactly know where to look when we talk to Myrtle.

  “Knock it off, Myrtle,” Tori demanded. “Don't you want to live a little?”

  Since Myrtle instantly blew Tori a raspberry, we’ll assume the answer to that one was “no.”

  As diplomatically as I could manage, since Tori can be a little . . . firm minded, I said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to annoy the building we’re living in. Why don’t we go for retro funky bohemian and keep the . . . uh . . . current, tasteful vintage appeal?”

  Still brandishing her paintbrush, Tori wheeled on me and said accusingly, “Suck-up.”

  “I’m good with that,” I said earnestly, “totally.”

  We abandoned the painting plan for the moment, which I hoped Myrtle would see as a show of support, or even out and out obedience, but as I was about to find out, this dispute was far from over.

  The next day, Mark’s guys started trying to relocate the floor-to-ceiling wooden cases currently occupying the corner between the staircase and the east wall, which was the area destined to be the coffee bar.

  Tori was nowhere to be seen. Earlier in the day, she had run a few errands, and then excused herself to continue her research into proper espresso preparation. That was a fairly adult way to say that she was still ticked off about yesterday and was, frankly, pouting.

  Now, understand, I would never actually use the word "pout "with her, but as my mother would have so eloquently put it, if Tori’s lower lip had been pushed out any further, she would've tripped over it.

  I felt vaguely like a kindergarten teacher attempting to forestall a playground riot.

  So, as the men started to move the cabinets, I was the only official witness to what happened next, which was a lot of nothing.

  After an impressive amount of grunting, groaning, and suppressed swearing, Mark stood back, scratched his head in obvious puzzlement and said, “The dang things won’t budge. Looks like we’re going to have to take a crowbar to this situation. It’s a shame, because we’ll probably destroy the cabinets, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  When he used the word “destroy,” Myrtle let out a menacing rattle.

  “What the heck was that?” Mark asked, looking around with alarm.

  “Just air in the pipes,�
� I lied smoothly.

  “Maybe we need to get a plumber in here,” he said with concern. “The last thing you want is a flood.”

  “No, no,” I said. “We’re good. Give us the night to think about the display cases. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Okay?”

  As soon as he was gone, I put my hands on my hips and said, “Okay, Myrtle, you and I have to talk about this situation now.”

  Even I have a hard time taking myself seriously when I'm speaking to thin air, which is why these conversations only take place when the store is empty. That and the fact that if anyone witnessed one of my exchanges with Myrtle, I’d be fitted for a snug jacket with really, really long sleeves.

  “Myrtle, look,” I said, “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about our plans before the work started. We’re not trying to do anything to hurt you.”

  Then it dawned on me.

  Did the renovations cause Myrtle actual pain?

  “Oh my God, Myrtle,” I said, a note of panic coming into my voice. “Are we hurting you?”

  To my immense relief, the rack of Briar Hollow souvenir sun visors by the counter bobbled back and forth in the generally recognized sign for “no.”

  “Ok, good,” I said. “We don’t want to hurt you, but we really need you to not be all set in your ways. I need you to not be set in your ways. Everything changes, Myrtle, including interior decorating schemes.”

  Myrtle blew out a long, drawn out exhalation of air. She sounded wearily patient.

  “Fine, I'll give you that one,” I admitted. “We don’t really have a decorating scheme. The whole eclectic thing worked for Aunt Fiona. She kept this place going because she was such a character. I’m a whole lot more ordinary than that, which you apparently like, but Tori isn’t ordinary at all.”

  Case in point. Right now, the ends of my BFF’s short, spiky, blond hair are a kind of glowing shade of magenta.

  “Tori is going to be living with us,” I continued. "She is part of the family. She will come up with crazy ideas. It’s just who she is. Come on, Myrtle. You lived with Aunt Fiona for years. How can you not be used to crazy?”

  Out of nowhere a Polaroid picture of my aunt fluttered down and landed at my feet. I picked up the snapshot and studied it. That was Aunt Fiona alright. Although she was smiling into the camera with her usual impish expression, the rest of her was remarkably plain. My aunt was wearing what my mother derisively referred to as her “winter uniform.” A gray sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and running shoes.

  "Are you trying to tell me that Tori is a little bit too colorful for you in the actual sense of color?” I asked Myrtle.

  A small shower of gold stars fluttered down around me, the kind that teachers give children who cut straight lines with their blunt nosed scissors.

  "Okay,” I said, ignoring Myrtle’s obvious condescension, "how about we compromise. I'll get her to tone down the color, if you'll relax and not be worried about us moving a few things around.”

  Myrtle answered with a little hum that indicated she was thinking about it. I decided to press my slim advantage with more groveling.

  “I know I should have asked your opinion, and I will from now on, but will you please let the guys move the display cases in the morning? They’re just going right over there,” I said, pointing.

  A drawer in one of the cases slid open with remarkable defiance, releasing a paint brush that floated briskly in front of my face and snapped neatly in two. I couldn’t help myself; I laughed.

  “I get it, I get it,” I said. “No painting. But are we good to go on the work to put in the coffee bar? It’s just a sink, a work surface, a fridge, and a counter. And there will be some tables right in here.” Again, I gestured with my arms.

  After a minute, the sun visors nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I felt like a diplomat who had just avoided a missile launch.

  Now for phase two. I had to go upstairs and deal with the other half of the stand off, my BFF who was no doubt sulking on the couch with the cats.

  Color me right. That's exactly where I found Tori, but she was not in her happy place.

  Now, my cats, Zeke, Yule, Xavier and Winston looked like they were having the time of their lives — the comatose time of their lives. All concerned were snoring.

  “Hi,” I said, claiming the big easy chair. “Myrtle and I had a summit conference. We’re good to go on moving the cabinets, but it’s thumbs down on the painting still.”

  “Harrumph,” Tori grumbled, scratching Zeke’s ears and staring at the TV.

  Covering my eyes with my hand and shaking my head, I said, “Seriously, Tori, I think you’re outgunned this time. Is going to war with a magical building really the battle you want to pick?”

  Tori grabbed one of the sofa pillows and held it defensively against her chest— the same way she used to clutch her teddy bear, Rufus, when we were kids. “I guess not,” she admitted glumly. “But my color scheme rocked.”

  “It did,” I said soothingly. “There was rockage. And you can use any color you want in your own room.”

  “I didn’t expect Myrtle to act so freaking old,” Tori grumbled.

  Since this did not seem to be the time to point out that we hadn’t expected the store to do anything but sit there and be a building, I opted for Plan B: red wine, popcorn, and repeat binge-watching the last season of Scandal.

  By three episodes in, Tori was far more interested in debating the merits of Team Jake v. Team Fitz than she was in Myrtle’s frame of mind.

  (For the record, I have so had enough of Fitz. Dude, just run the country already.)

  Sometime around 11, I looked over to see that Tori had joined the feline snooze-fest. I quietly turned off the TV, threw a blanket over her and the cats, and carried my laptop into the bedroom.

  Time for class.

  2

  No, I wasn’t taking a class online, although if I could have found the one I needed, I would have signed up in a heartbeat. You see, Aunt Fiona left me the store and her magic, but neither one came with an owner’s manual. But hey, it’s the 21st century, so when in doubt, Google!

  Yes, I will admit that doesn't have the same metaphysical gravitas as saying that I found her grimoire, a spell book with parchment pages and a dramatic leather cover emblazoned with some occult symbol, but it is the truth.

  If I'm going to be completely honest, I was initially so thrown for a loop by the idea that I’m a witch that if I had found a book like that, I probably would've run backwards. Instead, my need for information drove me to much less threatening sources: a search engine, online used bookstores, and eBay.

  That night, after settling things with Myrtle about the renovation work, I got back to my other major project — emancipating a cemetery full of ghosts to freely live their afterlives.

  After Aunt Fiona showed up post-mortem for the first time, I found out that I can interact with other spirits as well. Technically, I think that makes me a psychic, but the magical semantics are a little too complicated for me to be ordering business cards just yet.

  Anyway, the short version of that long story is that I now visit the local cemetery one or two nights a week to hang out with a whole gang of pretty cool ectoplasmic peeps — and one coonhound named Duke. His master loved him so much, the faithful dog was laid to rest in the family plot and now gallops through the graveyard after sundown, usually chasing a ghostly tennis ball thrown by a Confederate colonel.

  (No, I don’t know how a tennis ball becomes a ghost. Focus, people.)

  The officer in question, Colonel Beauregard T. Longworth, functions as something of a graveyard governor. The tall, dignified old soldier says he must remain at his “post” until the South rises again, so basically, he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

  As far as I can tell, that’s a matter of individual choice, but truth be told, Beau couldn’t leave the cemetery even if he wanted to. He and all the other spirits in residence are contained by an invisible barrier
so strong that if I’m outside the graveyard fence, I can’t see the ghosts on the inside or even hear their voices.

  Jeff Kirk, a Briar Hollow High football star killed in a bus crash on a mountain road in 1956, demonstrated this fact for Tori and me on our first visit. He charged the fence, attempting to launch himself over the barrier, only to run smack into a transparent, but very solid surface that threw him backwards.

  (Thankfully, they buried Jeff with his helmet.)

  When Tori and I subsequently found ourselves smack in the middle of a series of unsolved murders, Beau and the other ghosts helped us, in part because one of the victims is a graveyard resident.

  Not helping the spirits by doing something for them in return didn’t feel right, so I started researching ways to release them. Since all of my powers have come in spontaneously, doing some kind of spell or ritual or something along those lines felt beyond daunting, hence the crash course in Being a Witch 101.

  Oh. Wait. I haven’t told you what I can do besides talk to ghosts.

  So far, I can move objects with my mind. That one is called telekinesis.