A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery (15 page)

Very carefully I put in two drops of Leilara into the fuchsia-hued bottle. Wisps of magic rose into the air and wafted away.

Angelea said, “Almost done?”

“Almost.” I attached two small tags with directions on how to use the potion and placed the bottles in a purple packing box.

Her head lifted and cocked to one side. “You hear that?”

Muted music—singing—filtered into the shop. I recognized my mama’s voice instantly.

Angelea’s smile this time was genuine. “Your mama’s something.”

“That she is.” I needed to get out there to see exactly what she was up to. As I quickly went about mixing the stress potion, Johnny Braxton’s threat echoed in my head.

Just fair warning. No one messes with my bottom line and gets away with it.

Johnny wasn’t a man to bluff. I could practically smell retribution in the wind. What that would be was anyone’s guess.

I
closed and locked the shop and hung a sign on the door that I’d be back as soon as possible.

Finding my mama wasn’t going to be a problem—I simply followed the noise. Currently, she was belting out “9 to 5,” a classic Dolly Parton song, which perfectly explained yesterday’s costume of a blond wig, sky-high heels, and low-cut dress that revealed bodacious cleavage.

It appeared as though she was having her own country extravaganza, and everyone around here knew Dolly trumped Johnny Cash any day of the week.

Mama had purposely one-upped Johnny Braxton.

He was going to be fit to be tied.

I quickly picked up my pace and as I exited the Ring and rounded the corner, I found sawhorses blocking off Magnolia Lane, the next street over, which housed not only Mama’s chapel but Johnny Braxton’s as well.

With bass pulsing through my veins, I bypassed a large sign that boasted
RONA’S BLOCK PARTY
, and stopped dead in my tracks.

Lordy be,
as Ainsley would say.

A stage stood smack-dab in the middle of the street in front of mama’s chapel. A huge crowd was gathered round it, swaying and clapping as mama finished her song. Tents had been set up on the grounds of the chapel, and it looked a lot like the white-elephant sale except under these tents there were wedding games, like wedding bingo and a
Newlywed Game
–type contest, a dance floor, a reception buffet. There were prizes of free weddings and honeymoons.

Mama had gone all out in upstaging Johnny.

All out.

Mama shook her booty salaciously as she launched into “Jolene” at the top of her capable lungs. She shimmied back and forth, as comfortable in five-inch golden stiletto heels as she was in bare feet. Her ample cleavage was in full view, her bustline enhanced with that quivering fringe.

The crowd ate it up.

Thoroughly amused, I looked around for my father, afraid that he hadn’t been joking yesterday about being sent to an early grave—or, after having seen this whoop-de-doo, he might have opted to put himself in one. Rightly so.

Though he had dramatic tendencies, my daddy wasn’t the attention-seeking type. Not the least bit. In fact, he reminded me a lot of Bashful from
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. Except for the fact that he wasn’t a dwarf, I should say. He was tall and balding with big eyes, round cheeks, and trimmed white whiskers, and was prone to blushing.

At first I had trouble finding him—I’d glanced past him three times before I realized it was my daddy holding up the side of the chapel, looking like he was trying to blend in with the whitewashed barn board. Which wasn’t even remotely possible with the way he was dressed.

Mama had outdone herself decking him out.

My father, my laid-back librarian daddy, had grown out his whiskers, wore long phony braids, a bandana headband, tie-dyed peace sign T-shirt, leather vest, tight jeans, and cowboy boots.

He wasn’t quite the spitting image of Willie Nelson, not with his hooded glower, but it was close. I was impressed.

As I started toward him, my witchy senses suddenly began twitching. I stopped, turned, and found Dylan Jackson hot on my heels. “Your mama sure is something,” he said, coming up beside me.

“So I’ve heard.” He’d changed out of his jeans and into a pair of dress pants and a button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows. A badge and gun were clipped to his belt. He was working. “Are you planning to arrest her?” I was only half kidding.

“Nah. I don’t want to deal with the paperwork.”

He wasn’t fooling me. He adored my mama and would sooner lock himself up than cuff her.

“But,” Dylan looked around, “I doubt Rona has a permit for this party, so someone will probably be along shortly to break it up.”

The crowd cheered as my mama finished the song and then immediately launched into another Dolly classic, “Here You Come Again.”

I figured my mother had never applied for a permit in her life. “I’m guessing Johnny Braxton will see to shutting this down—if he hasn’t already.”

Glancing around, I saw him stewing on the side of the road, his jowls quivering in anger. He glared at me, and I tried not to shiver. Abruptly, he looked away and started marching toward my father.

Uh-oh.

Mama must have seen him, too, because she finished her song and cooed, “Come on up here, Augustus, darlin’.” Then she said, “How about a little ‘Everything’s Beautiful’?”

The crowd whistled and crowed at the suggestion of the Dolly and Willie duet. I watched my daddy’s cheeks redden but noticed that Johnny had veered off, out of the limelight. He stood to the side, looking like a big ol’ Johnny Cash–like storm cloud waiting to bust open.

Long Willie Nelson braids convulsed as my daddy shook his head in a vehement no.

“Come on, Gus, honey,” my mama purred. “Don’t be shy.” She turned her charms on the adoring crowd. “Ain’t he cute?”

They started chanting, “Gus! Gus! Gus!”

If my parents had actually been married, this little stunt might have precipitated a divorce. Perhaps Mr. Dunwoody had been wrong with his forecast—maybe he’d meant sunny with a chance of permanent separation.

“Come on, darlin’,” Mama urged, shaking her fringe in encouragement.

Never one to resist Mama’s allure for long, Daddy reluctantly dragged his skinny self onstage. Wild clapping erupted.

Dylan reached over and, using the tip of his index finger, lifted my jaw from where it had fallen. I snapped my mouth closed.

I couldn’t help but smile as my parents launched into the duet. Especially when my daddy started loosening up and enjoying himself, looking slightly entranced by my mama’s fringe.

It had probably been my mama’s plan for that trimming all along.

Both had great voices and had quite the act going. If they wanted, they could probably take it on the road and give the real Dolly and Willie a run for their money. Couples in the crowd started slow dancing, and I figured my mama would have a packed chapel tonight. Unlike Johnny, who still fumed. If eyes could throw flames, my parents would be ashes on the stage. I watched him spit, then he turned and—

“Uhhn!” I grunted.

Dylan spun me around and into his arms. “Hush now,” he said, shimmying to the left.

“What are you doing?” I asked, still struggling as his gun nudged into my rib cage.

“Dancing.”

Tossing my head back, I laughed. “You call that dancing?”

He shimmied to the right. “You never did teach me how to do it proper.”

No, I hadn’t. We’d planned to do a lot of dancing on our honeymoon . . . the one that never happened. I wiggled some more.

“Quit your squirming, Care Bear. I’m not letting go.”

That’s what I was afraid of.

I gave in to his embrace, and he rested his chin atop my head. We continued the pattern of shimmying to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left.

If I had a lick of sense, I’d kick his shin and hightail it out of there. But his arms felt a little too good wrapped around me.

My head rested square on Dylan’s chest and I could hear the steady
whump
ing of his heart, beating hard and fast. I found it as mesmerizing as my daddy did that fringe.

My eyes widened when I spotted Auntie Hazel dancing with John Richard Baldwin, whose eyes were the size of full moons as Hazel’s hands roamed his backside.

Apparently he hadn’t heeded my warning about staying away. Maybe he figured the way to Marjie was through one of her sisters. He was going to learn very quickly that the three stuck very closely together.

My aunt Eulalie stood nearby, singing along to the song, and Marjie was next to her, scowling so hard I thought the top of her head might pop clear off. Although a scowl was Marjie’s usual expression, this one seemed especially fierce. It didn’t seem to be aimed at John Richard, which made me think that she hadn’t recognized the man she tried to shoot the day before.

To her, all suits looked alike—targets.

Shimmy to the left, shimmy to the right.

Above the
whump
s of Dylan’s heartbeats and my parents’ rousing duet rose the thin, plaintive wail of a siren. It grew louder as the sheriff’s cruiser pulled up to the sawhorses.

Auntie Eulalie made herself scarce. She was still convinced the police were after her for sneaking into Birmingham’s Alabama Theatre to see the Miss Alabama Pageant as a teenager—she’d always fancied herself an unfulfilled beauty queen . . . and a fugitive.

Mama was unfazed by the arrival of the law, but Daddy’s Willie impression faltered as the last notes played out—he was probably hoping the police didn’t take him for the real Willie, who’d had notorious brushes with the police.

The deputies looked more amused than anything as they made their way toward the stage, the crowd parting like the Rea Sea.

I reluctantly let go of Dylan. It had been a long time since I’d been in his arms, and much to my dismay I found I’d missed it. Too much.

No sooner had I taken a step toward my parents than a hand reached out and latched onto my arm, spinning me around.

“Broom-Hilda, could I have a word?” John Richard Baldwin asked.

“Broom-Hilda?” Dylan echoed, a smile in his voice.

I didn’t feel the need to explain. “I’m surprised to see you back in town so soon, John Richard.”

Dylan straightened, obviously recognizing the name. I felt the shift in his air as he switched from flirting ex to interested investigator.

Multiple thin red scratches marred John Richard’s determined face. The brambles had really done a number on him.

He said, “I’m not giving up until I explore all possibilities.”

“So I saw. Hazel seems to have taken a liking to you.”

He glanced at my aunt, who smiled and waved. “I think we’re going steady now,” he joked, waving back to her.

In this case, I wasn’t sure who was manipulating whom. Hazel’s always had a thing for younger men. I figured John Richard deserved whatever she had planned for him. That’s what he got for playing with fire.

“Do you have a sec?” He tossed a look at Dylan. “Alone?”

“I don’t think—,” Dylan began.

“Sure,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Dylan, you might want to go help my mama deal with those deputies, or you might have a riot on your hands soon.”

The crowd was starting to get rowdy, chanting, “Doll-y! Doll-y! Doll-y!”

“Don’t go far, Carly,” Dylan said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, too.”

“Well, aren’t I the popular witch today?”

Dylan strode off, and John Richard and I walked away from the crowd, down toward the river walk. Sunbeams glittered off the Darling River, the water sparkling like stars on a pitch-black night.

“What is it you wanted, John Richard?” I asked, dodging a hand-holding couple who had eyes only for each other.

Shrugging out of his suit coat, he slung it over his shoulder and ran a hand over his face, then winced at the contact with the scratches. “I could use your help. I’m looking for any hints or tips that will get me a meeting with your aunt. All I need is a few minutes of her time to explain the situation.”

“And what exactly is the situation?”

“That she has a very interested, motivated buyer for her inn. A cash offer.”

Chapel bells rang in the distance. “What kind of cash are we talking?”

His cheeks colored, and it looked like he waged an inner war on whether he should divulge the information. He must have finally decided that the number would help his cause. Solemnly, he said, “Millions.”

I tried to keep a straight face and not gasp. “How many millions?”

“I’ve been authorized to offer up to four.”

I whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a run-down inn.”

“Tell me about it. I think the client is nuts, but now the firm has upped my bonus amount if I get your aunt to sell. A bonus I’m generously willing to split with you if you help me. The money will go a long way toward fixing up your house.”

“I see.” Indeed, I saw very clearly that he had a death wish. If Aunt Marjie didn’t get him first, I might have to drag out my pitchfork. Did he actually think I could be bought?

Instead of giving him what-for right there on the river walk, I decided to see if I could pry more information out of him before I told him exactly where he could put his
generous
offer.

I leaned on the safety railing. “About this client . . . Do you know who it is yet?”

He hedged. “It’s confidential.”

Hmm. “Well, do you know if the client asked for Nelson Winston specifically to talk to my aunt?”

Confusion flashed in his eyes. “Nelson Winston? Oh, right. The dead guy.”

That was one way to describe him.

He pulled a fancy cell phone from his pocket, and held it high in the air as if trying to find a signal. I didn’t bother telling him it was of no use. There wasn’t coverage within miles. “I don’t know who brought him on. All I know is that the firm offered the guy a full-time position if he convinced your aunt to sell.”

I still wondered why Nelson wanted a new job in the first place. Was Caleb right? Was there a woman involved? The mystery girlfriend? At this point, I didn’t know how to find out. It seemed like no one knew who she was. I would think she didn’t even exist, except for what happened with Delia and how Nelson dumped her.

“So, what do you say about helping me?” he asked.

I scrunched my nose. “I don’t know, John Richard.”

“Come on. Is there anything I can buy for your aunt that will help sway her? Like I said, all I need is five minutes of her time. Flowers? Chocolate?”

The thought of Marjie with flowers and chocolate nearly made me laugh.

I glanced up the hill and saw my daddy walking toward us, his braids swaying. I patted John Richard on his shoulder. “I need to go. Do you really want to know the way to Marjie’s heart?”

Eagerly, he nodded.

“Guns, John Richard. That’ll get her attention. Oh, or bullets.”

As I left him staring in wonder I went to meet my daddy.

“Bullets?” he called after me. “Are you sure?”

Smiling, I yelled back, “All the better to shoot you with.”