A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery (16 page)

“N
ice braids,” I said to my daddy, kissing his cheek. His facial scruff scraped my lips.

“The things I do for your mama.” He took hold of my hand as though I were a wayward three-year-old and threw a look toward John Richard. “Who’s that?”

“A fool with a death wish.” I explained about the quest for Marjie’s inn as we headed back toward the chapel. After the long tale, I squeezed my father’s fingers. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Carlina Bell Hartwell, you should have told me on the phone what was going on with the trouble at your shop and that buffoon running into your front porch.”

“Buffoon” was about the biggest insult my father would ever utter. He used the term a lot when speaking about Johnny Braxton.

“I can’t justify being angry at him, since the insurance will cover the damage.”

He nudged me with his elbow. “You want your mama to set fire to the place so you can start from scratch?”

The funny thing was he wasn’t joking. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m rather fond of the old place.” As we continued up the hill, my mama’s voice echoed loudly as she started singing once again.

“Did she sweet-talk those deputies?” I asked.

His eyes twinkled. “Well, yes, but she also presented them with her permit.”

“Mama got a permit?”

“Not exactly. I called in a favor this morning to secure the permit when I learned what your mama had planned. I had a feeling that buffoon Johnny Braxton would call the sheriff straight off, and you know how I like to do things by the book.”

“Like asking me to kidnap Mama and offering to burn down my house for the insurance money?”

His cheeks colored. “Mostly by the book.”

I laughed. My parents might seem like complete opposites, but underneath it all they were a perfect match.

“Now tell me all about this business with Nelson Winston,” he said. “What was he doing in the shop?”

We took our time returning to the block party, and I told my father all I knew about the case, and finished with a question for him. “You never made a potion for Nelson, did you?” He could still make potions—he just chose not to do it full-time. But he did help me out by working a few times a month on the cheap.

“No. He never came in the shop while I was there.”

That’s what I had figured. Nelson just wasn’t a potion kind of guy. Whoever put that empty potion bottle in his hand must have done so to hurt me somehow. I purposely didn’t tell my Daddy about Delia selling potion bottles. I thought his heart might have had enough excitement for one day. I changed the subject. “Daddy, Mr. Dunwoody overheard gossip in the library about Nelson Winston taking a job in Birmingham. Did you hear the same news? I’m trying to figure out why Nelson would want to leave town. He has a successful business here and was apparently well liked by most everyone.” Except for whoever killed him, but I thought that a little insensitive to point out.

Daddy scratched his chin. “I do recall something of the sort.”

“Do you remember who you heard it from?”

“Let me think. Let me think.”

Ahead, I saw Dylan sitting on the stone wall that abutted the sidewalk in front of Mama’s chapel. His long legs were stretched out, and his arms were folded across his chest.

It appeared as though he were waiting for someone.

Someone like me.

“I do believe it all began with Earl Pendergrass,” my father finally said.

Earl was the local mail carrier, and I doubted anyone knew more about the goings-on in town than he.

“Apparently he mentioned to his daughter that Nelson had asked him about change-of-address forms.”

Felicity Pendergrass was a reference librarian and a chatterbox. No doubt it was she who told Mr. Dunwoody of Nelson’s impending move.

“Did he happen to say if anyone else requested change-of-address forms, as well? A female someone?”

Daddy’s eyebrows lifted. “Not that I heard. You think he was leaving town with a woman?”

“It’s the going theory. I can’t verify it, though.”

“Me, either.” Daddy squeezed my hand before releasing it. “I don’t suppose that helps much, does it?”

“It can’t hurt to ask Earl if anyone else is planning to move,” Daddy said.

“I suppose not.”

“Now, Carly,” he began. “I know you’re the independent sort and all, but remember it’s okay to ask for help once in a while.”

My parents had always let me make my own choices. Sometimes they worked out; sometimes they didn’t. “If I need someone to help me set my house on fire, I know who to call.”

“You get your impudence from your mama.”

“I know.”

His eyes softened. “I think you have company.” He nodded to Dylan, who came over to us and shook hands with my father.

“It’s good to have you back in town, where you belong.” Daddy shot me a look when he said this.

He’d never made it a secret that he thought Dylan and I should have kissed and made up a long time ago. It was the hopeless romantic in him.

Mama, on the other hand, had offered to burn his house down.

We had a thing for fire in my family, apparently.

Neither had happened—Dylan had packed up and left town, leaving me to lick my wounds in relative peace. Relative, because his mama still lived round these parts. Unfortunately.

“I agree,” Dylan said, narrowing his eyes at me.

Daddy smiled, kissed my cheek, and said, “I better go make sure your mama’s not getting into any more trouble.”

“That’s a full-time job,” I said.

“Don’t I know it?” he muttered.

Once Daddy was out of earshot, Dylan wasted no time in getting down to business. “What did John Richard want?”

I sat on the stone wall. “He wanted me to help get him a meeting with Aunt Marjie.”

“Did you pull out your pitchfork?”

It was amazing how well he knew me. “No, but I thought about running home for it.”

As he settled in next to me, his thigh brushed mine. I wiggled a little to the left, but he simply stretched his leg a little farther so it rested against my skin. I scooted a bit more.

“You’re awfully fidgety,” he said.

“Stop touching me, and I could sit still.”

A smile lit his eyes. “Does my touching bother you?”

I glared. “You’re aiming for a poke from that pitchfork, too. Now, what did you want to talk about? I have to get back to work.”

“A little poking never bothered me much.”

Jumping up, I said, “I’ll see you later.”

Being here with him in front of Mama’s chapel was getting to me, bringing back bad memories. It had been here that our first wedding was to take place almost a year and a half ago.

My side of the chapel had been full of my friends and family.

Dylan and his family and friends were nowhere to be found. Because they were at a small church across town, waiting for me. Turned out his mama had changed the location of the wedding without telling the bride.

She’d won that battle. With no cell phones, we’d been powerless to figure out what was going on for a couple of hours. By then the hurt and anger had set in on both our sides. We’d had a huge fight, one that had taken months to forgive.

Then we’d tried to elope, running off to that chapel in Georgia. The chapel that had gone up in flames.

Much like our relationship.

He pulled me back down. “Settle down, Care Bear. I need to talk to you about your potions.”

Crossing my arms, I frowned. “What about them?”

“Remember the bottle Nelson had in his hand in your shop?”

“The violet one?”

“Yep. The toxicology report came back on it. There was nothing in it but traces of bleach. Someone washed it clean as a whistle and wiped off any fingerprints, too. That person went to a fair amount of trouble to leave no trace of him-or herself.”

“At some point that bottle belonged to a woman, but I don’t know who or when.” I filled him in on my color-coding system and how Delia had been selling used potion bottles.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked pensive as I spoke, as if he were processing every word. Finally, he said, “The tox report also came back on the potion bottle Coach had in his hand when he crashed into your porch.”

I didn’t like his tone. “What about it?”

“What did you put in it?”

“It was supposed to be a sleeping potion for Angelea, but when I sniffed it, there was nothing familiar about it. It smelled strange. Why’re you asking?” I pressed.

The noise from Mama’s party reached a fever pitch when she and Daddy started singing “Islands in the Stream.” I was surprised she hadn’t dressed him as Kenny Rogers in the first place, but I supposed that would have been a harder costume for Daddy to pull off.

Dylan nudged my elbow. “Let’s go somewhere a bit quieter.”

I eyed him. “You’re not just trying to get me alone, are you?”

His eyes twinkled. “Why would I do that?”

Oh, he knew why.

Reluctantly, I stood up and headed toward the river. Dylan fell in step beside me as we strolled along the river walk. I tried to ignore how he kept brushing up against me, his body heat firing up my inner temperature faster than the scorching midday sun.

I gave up on avoiding contact, hoping he’d grow tired of trying to get my goat. So far that plan wasn’t working so well. He was glued to my side.

The Darling River splashed and gurgled as we continued to walk in silence, putting distance between ourselves and the block party. It was a hot but gorgeous day, and couples were out by the dozens—most of them headed in the direction of my mama’s chapel.

Once the noise quieted down, Dylan said, “There were traces of strychnine in Angelea’s sleeping-potion bottle.”

Stopping short, I searched his face for any sign of joking. He was dead serious. “Strychnine, the poison?”

“Along with whiskey remnants.”

“But you said it was a diabetic reaction that caused the crash.” My mind whirled. What little I knew of strychnine was enough to scare me silly. The poison was potent and almost always fatal.

“Fortunately, Coach didn’t drink the potion. He still claims the bottle was empty when he found it in Angelea’s car.”

My eyes narrowed, and my tone hardened. “That wasn’t a
potion
in that bottle. Stop saying so.”

Dylan dragged a hand down his face and started walking again. “What exactly do you put in your sleeping potions?”

My dander was up, and as much as I wanted to be flippant, I kept thinking about
why
there was poison in the bottle. “Chamomile, lemon balm, valerian, and a little lily extract,” I said, including Leilara origins in case that, too, had shown up in the report. “Certainly no whiskey or poison.”

We’d reached the end of the river walk and turned, retracing our steps. A jogger zipped past, and I wiped dampness from my forehead.

“When did Angelea order the potion?” Dylan asked.

“I made it for her on Wednesday. She told me earlier today that she never drank any of it, so it should have been full when Coach found it while cleaning out her car. When I asked about it being empty when Coach found it, she got a little flustered and was being evasive. Angelea knows something about that potion she’s not saying.”

“I’ll talk to her,” he said.

We walked in silence for a few minutes before I said, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here. Can we even be sure that the bottle Coach had in his hand was the same one I gave Angelea the other day? I mean, someone clearly planted the bottle found in Nelson’s hand. Maybe someone planted the one in Angelea’s car, too?”

“We can verify it was Angelea’s, actually.”

“How’s that?”

“Fingerprints on the bottle. There were mine, yours, Coach’s, and Angelea’s.”

“Oh.” Well, I guess that settled that.

“There was also another set of prints on the bottle.”

At the sound of his strange tone, I shaded my eyes as I looked at him. “Whose?”

“Nelson Winston’s.”

Dropping my hand, I squinted against the bright sun. I searched my brain for something to say, but I was too shocked to form any words.

Dylan, on the other hand, had no such trouble. “I also received the toxicology report from Nelson’s autopsy this morning. Do you want to guess what killed him?”

Swallowing over a large lump in my throat, I said, “I’m guessing it wasn’t a blow to his head.”

“He died from acute strychnine poisoning. There was also alcohol in his system.”

“Whiskey?”

Dylan nodded. “That poisoned potion killed Nelson Winston.”

T
he Darling River churned—much like my stomach. I dragged my feet as Dylan and I walked along. His hands were in his pockets, his gun nestled against his body in its belt holster.

I said, “If the poison killed Nelson, then why was his head cracked open? Did that happen when he hit the ground?”

“Unlikely. The coroner found splinters in the wound. Most likely from a stick or a base—”

“Baseball bat?”

He confirmed this with a nod of his chin.

I knew who had access to baseball bats. Lots of them.

Coach Floyd Butts.

“Nelson was still alive when hit, too.”

“Dang,” I whispered. Someone really had it in for him.

“What now?”

“I have a few loose ends to look into before I bring Coach and Angelea in for questioning. At some point that bottle was in Nelson’s hands. I want to know the circumstances.”

“What kind of loose ends?”

“This and that,” he said evasively, then let the silence linger a beat before drawing to a stop. Bracing his elbows on the safety rail, he stared at the water. “Before yesterday, when was the last time you saw Coach?”

I racked my brain. “I can’t even recall a time recently. Maybe a few months ago at Déjà Brew.”

“Did you exchange words?”

I leaned on the iron railing. “Nope. We went to great pains to avoid acknowledging each other.”

“You’re fairly good at that.”

I had the grace to smile. “I was until recently.”

“Probably safer for you now that you were forced to talk to me, what with the fire ants and all.”

The water below us was flowing downstream, dragging a twig along for the ride. We weren’t all that far from the bushes I dove behind to escape talking to him that one day. “Probably.” I watched birds forage on the riverbanks before saying, “It’s starting to look a lot like Coach might have been involved in Nelson’s death, but I can’t figure out a good motive why. It doesn’t make sense, unless Coach had a fit of temper, but that doesn’t seem likely. Poison means premeditation, right?”

“Figuring it out is my job.” He tugged my arm and we started walking again. Bass thrummed right through me the closer we got to Mama’s stage.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “I spoke with Bernice Morris this morning, and there’s a chance that on the day he died Nelson received that handwriting analysis on Coach’s checks,” I said. “Maybe you overlooked it at his house. . . .”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Care Bear.”

“What?”

“Remember a few seconds ago when I reminded you about this being
my
job?”

“I have short-term memory problems.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Okay, you’re right. I don’t. But like I told you earlier, I can’t help it if I hear things around town.” I waited a second before saying, “I tapped into Dudley Pritcherd’s energy this morning while asking him about the embezzling. . . . I wanted to see if he was guilty of forging Coach’s name on those checks, as Bernice Morris keeps suggesting.”

Dylan let out a sigh. “And?”

“He’s innocent.”

“Could you have
misinterpreted
his energy?”

I wanted to punch him in the arm, but said, “I don’t think so. He has a bad ulcer, so his focus was mostly on that, but he’s not feeling the least bit guilty about that missing money.”

Ahead, I spotted John Richard Baldwin looking at his watch, then glancing around suspiciously. What was he up to?

Dylan said, “It could be he’s not feeling bad enough about it to have any guilt.”

John Richard stole another look at his watch, then over both shoulders. He started walking quickly down the river walk, farther away from us.

“I don’t think so. It was neutral energy.” Curious to see what John Richard was doing, I picked up the pace.

“Why are you walking so fast?”

I grabbed his arm. “Come on.”

“Are you trying to get me alone?”

“You wish. Look.” I pointed at John Richard, who scurried along like he was up to no good.

“So?”

“He’s acting funny.”

“As funny as you?”

I pinched him.

“Assaulting an officer. For shame, Care Bear. I might have to handcuff you and bring you in for that.”

My gaze shot up to his. Sparks flew. Heat flooded my cheeks at the thought of the things we used to do with his handcuffs.

Time stood still. The sun in his eyes made the green sparkle like wet grass. Or maybe that wetness was coming from my own eyes—I wasn’t sure. For a split second, I wanted to tap into his energy and find out what he was truly feeling.

But I didn’t dare. I’d been down that road once, and I still hadn’t recovered.

My chest ached with the grief I’d been carrying around since we broke up. I’d done my best to shove the pain into places deep inside me so I didn’t have to feel that sorrow every day. But here with him and that look in his eye, every muscle in my body ached.

I latched onto my locket and forced myself to look away. Just past the Snack Shack, John Richard slowed. I dragged Dylan down onto a bench and snuggled in close to him as John Richard looked around.

“I don’t think he sees us,” I said, peeking over Dylan’s shoulder.

Dylan’s hand came up and cupped my face. His thumb slid across my cheek.

My heart hammered as I once again looked into his eyes. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m not sure.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent on my lips.

His scent, his touch, his everything overwhelmed me. I jumped up just in time to dodge his kiss—and to see John Richard suddenly veer off the path.

I started after him when Dylan’s grip on my arm stopped me short. “He’s getting away,” I said.

“Carly, we have to talk about—”

“We will.” For some reason, his using my real name instead of Care Bear sliced right through me. “Later. Come on.”

“Where?”

“We have to follow him.”

“Why? Are your witchy senses acting up?”

They weren’t, but I didn’t want to admit I was just plain nosy, so I nodded.

Dylan narrowed his eyes but stood up and followed me. We hurried down the river walk and slowed at the spot John Richard had turned. It was a well-traveled dirt footpath through the woods that led up to the Ring.

Ordinarily, there’d be a handful of people on this trail, but it was empty and I figured everyone was at Mama’s block party. She was still singing her heart out, her voice echoing among the dense trees. It was cooler but buggier under the leaf canopy. I swatted at gnats and tossed a look over my shoulder. Dylan was right behind me.

As I searched for any movement ahead on the trail, I tried to tamp down the ache in my chest, swallow the lump in my throat.

How could being with Dylan feel so right . . . and so wrong at the same time?

I wasn’t sure. And I hated not knowing.

We were near the end of the trail, where it opened onto the sidewalk near the church, when Dylan’s hand latched onto my shoulder, drawing me to a stop. “Dy—”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Listen.”

I strained to hear anything other than my mama’s voice and the rhythmic pulsing of my out-of-control heartbeat. Focusing intently, I finally picked up threads of angry male voices.

Dylan ducked ahead of me and grabbed hold of my hand as he passed, towing me along with him as he left the trail and plunged into the woods.

“I don’t need an escort,” I whispered.

“Don’t want you to get lost.” He smiled, and my heart nearly flopped to the mossy ground right then and there.

Dang. I needed to get a grip. I let him tug me along, from tree to tree. The raised voices grew louder and louder. I couldn’t see who it was that arguing with John Richard.

“They’re behind the church,” I whispered. “But I can’t see them or hear what they’re saying. Can you?”

He shook his head and maneuvered us closer to get a better view. Trying to stay hidden, we ran from tree to tree like two characters in a cartoon.

“Get low,” Dylan said, as we duckwalked to the next tree.

It was a narrow maple, and Dylan tugged me tight against him so neither of us stuck out.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I whispered and squirmed as his arms wrapped tightly around me.

He didn’t say a word but I swore I heard him smile.

“Failure is not an option, Mr. Baldwin,” a voice said loudly.

I tipped my head.

“What?” Dylan asked.

“I know that voice,” I said, my heartbeat kicking up a notch.

“Who is it?”

I wiggled out of his grasp, crouched, and made for the next tree, where I would hopefully have a good view behind the church. Behind me, twigs snapped as Dylan followed.

“Who is it?” he repeated as he leaned around me to get a look for himself.

His breath was hot on my neck and completely distracting. I pushed him back and peeked out behind a red oak. Sure enough, my ears hadn’t deceived me.

Johnny Braxton had John Richard cornered. The poor lawyer looked side to side as if trying to gauge how best to escape. He wiped his brow and said something back to Johnny that I couldn’t hear.

“What’s he doing with Johnny Braxton?” Dylan asked.

I glanced back at Dylan. “Stop breathing in my ear like that.”

Johnny Braxton started pacing, and some of the hair coloring he’d used had begun to drip down his cheeks. “You had one job to do!”

“Like what?” Dylan said, purposely aiming for my eustachian tube.

I shoved him and he fell back onto his rear.

Both Johnny and John Richard snapped their attention toward the woods. I dove on top of Dylan, pushing him flat to the ground. “Don’t breathe,” I whispered, hoping the tall scrub around us would block us from view.

“Bossy,” he accused quietly.

And flustered, too. Having myself pressed against Dylan stem to stern was throwing my senses out of whack. My heart beat wildly against his sternum.

He reached up and pushed his fingers into my hair.

“Dylan,” I started.

“Hush,” he said, revealing a leaf that had been stuck to my head.

I leaned up, checking to see if either of the arguing men was going to investigate the noise in the woods.

Neither had budged.

I settled back into my spot.

“Carly,” Dylan began.

“What?”

“For the love of God, stop wiggling like that.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I wanted to make a joke about whether that was his gun I was feeling, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I rolled off him.

We stared at each other for a long second before I couldn’t stand the overwhelming emotion anymore. Dragging myself up, I crawled back to the tree.

Peeking around, I saw that Johnny and John Richard had gone.

“They left,” I said, checking my hair for more leaves.

Dylan sat up. “Why were they arguing, do you think?”

I grabbed my locket and thought about what little I’d overheard. Pieces slid into place. About how John Richard had been hired by a mysterious client. And about how Johnny Braxton had made that elusive comment about owning more of the town . . .

“I think Johnny was the one who hired the fancy Birmingham law firm.”

“He wants to buy Marjie’s inn?”

I stood up. “That’s my guess.”

Dylan’s fingertips brushed my calf. I jerked back.

“There was an ant on your leg,” he said, smiling as he rose.

I’d had just about as much closeness to Dylan today as I could handle. “Why are you so calm about this?”

“About what?”

I gestured toward the church. “Them!”

He shrugged. “Should I care?”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “If Johnny Braxton hired that law firm, then he was probably the one who recommended Nelson Winston to them. And if Johnny is that mad at John Richard, imagine how mad he must have been when a local failed to get Marjie to sell. It could be what they were fighting over when Jessa saw them.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t seriously think Johnny had something to do with Nelson’s death. . . .”

As I met his gaze, I felt the wall that I’d built up around my heart when he left town starting to crumble. I thumbed a speck of dirt from his cheek and told it how I saw it. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”