Honeysuckle Homicide (Trash-to-Treasure Crafting Mystery) (21 page)

Read the first chapter from Bestselling Forever Charmed

Chapter One

My mother had been downright giddy when I was born on Halloween night. It was honestly like she’d won the supernatural lottery. She’d even
named
me Halloween, as if Halloween LaVeau was an easy name to walk around with. I guess she figured having that auspicious birth date meant my witchcraft talents would be extra special. That I would boost her social status by out-magicking all of the other witches in Enchantment Pointe.  Unfortunately for her—not to mention for me—my skills were nothing to get excited over. In fact they were far from spectacular.

Whatever. I’d always been fine with my so-so magic. Never mind that the local coven had published a pamphlet based on my life entitled “How to Screw Up Witchcraft in Ten Days or Less.” Even my mother had done her best to hide her disappointment. She ignored my botched potions and substandard spell casting until, at the age of fourteen, my painful lack of talent could no longer be brushed under the magical rug.

That was around the time I’d got mixed up in a minor cupcake related incident involving a partially destroyed kitchen and a couple singed eyebrows. My mother’s eyebrows, to be specific. She has to pencil them in to this day, bless her heart. I tried to remind her of the bright side of being eyebrow-free—she never had to use tweezers again—but apparently this wasn’t much consolation.

Despite my witchy failings, my life had been kind of normal, some might even say out-and-out boring. I attended school with the
nonmagical townsfolk, and went to my high school prom with a date conjured up by my mother who turned back into a garden gnome the minute my curfew was up. All things considered, I had a fairly typical upbringing.

But my boring days were over when I inherited
LaVeau Manor.

Several months ago, at the young age of one hundred and twenty, my great aunt
Maddy LaVeau had left this world. She had no children, other than the cat that now owned me, and she’d left a mysterious message in her will about me “taking my place in the world.” Apparently, that “place” required owning her creepy old manor.

It was my mother’s idea to turn the place into a Bed and Breakfast. “Who knows, maybe you’ll snag yourself a husband,” she’d said. She was always trying to snag me a husband, with little success (her prospects were generally
warlocky and covered in warts). I’d assisted in her Bewitching Bath and Potions Shop for many years and she returned the favor by helping me establish my little venture, getting both the licenses from the state and approval from the Coven board who were always sticking their nosy wands into everything.

No matter how imposing and eerie the mansion was, I was thrilled to finally have a place of my own. I’d spent days exploring the various rooms, studying the intricate details, the tall ceilings, and stunning hardwood floors. The Manor had been built by my great, great, great grandfather, a famed alchemist within the witchcraft world. Stories about him had been passed down through the generations, how he just disappeared one day, never to be heard from again. Rumors still floated around town that he was buried in the basement, or his old bones stashed away in a trunk in the attic.

By my third week as mistress of my new home, I’d already cleared out most of Aunt Maddy’s things, saving that spooky attic for last. But with my bed and breakfast about to officially open for business, I could put it off no longer.

That afternoon, I began my ascent up the staircase which led to the upper floor of the manor. Each step was steep and narrow, and creaked auspiciously under my feet. I turned the antique knob and the door creaked open. After taking a deep breath, and blowing it out, I stepped inside the space. The attic was surprisingly empty. It was dim, illuminated only by the small window on the wall across from
me. A stream of sunlight shone through, highlighting the old, scratched floor. Shadows lingered in the corners, waiting to jump out. I looked around for a light switch, but that was an upgrade Aunt Maddy had neglected to add. As I knocked a cobweb out of my way and moved further into the room, dust motes floated through the sunbeam. I gave the window a good heave to air out the musty smell.

It was early autumn, the days warm in the middle, but crisp around the edges. A breeze wafted into the room, carrying the scent of damp soil and burnt leaves. Drooping branches from the tall oak trees shaded the back lawn, and beyond that, the river lay a few hundred feet away. A raven took flight from the treetop, drifting across the sky in rhythm with the water below. The flap of its wings and caws floated across the air. I looked down, watching the river run steadily past. Beneath one of the oak trees, sat a small family cemetery enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence.

The sun dipped toward the horizon, the last faint color of the day lingering in the sky. It would be dark soon, and I needed to sort through the old boxes and get back downstairs before my imagination about discovering my great, great, great grandfather’s bones got the better of me. Instinctively, I looked around for the old trunk.

Three boxes formed a neat stack to my left and a couple of brown vintage suitcases set to the right. An old wingback chair with a bureau pushed up next to it took up space at the back of the room. I’d have to find someone to help carry them down. After popping open the suitcases, I sifted through their contents. One contained what I assumed was my great aunt’s clothing, velvet and satin with lots of feathers. The other held hundreds of postcards from around the world, some blank and others from people I’d never heard of, addressed to her with indecipherable personal greetings. The boxes were full of old books, dishes, and stuffed animals. She was eccentric like that.

I stacked everything up ready to take it downstairs and started to move toward the door, when something stopped me. I wasn’t sure what that
something
was, but I felt my feet frozen to the spot. A strange force seemed to compel me to look to my left. Out of corner of my eye, I spotted it. An old book, stashed behind a beam. Without waiting for my brain to command them, my feet carried me to it, a peculiar power pulling me to the mysterious tome.

I plucked the heavy volume from its hidden location and blew the dust from the stained and weathered cover. Fear placed its icy arms around me, and cold shivered up my spine when I touched the leather binding. My heart rate increased. A panic attack, I thought. Inheriting the house was a big undertaking and the anxiety had caught up with
me, that was all. Goosebumps emerged on my arms.

As I held the book, a dark sensation, evil just beyond its edge, nagged at the boundaries of my thoughts. But I couldn’t release my grip. I opened the cover and a rich scent of leather stirred in the air around me. An unrecognizable foreign language covered the thick, yellowed pages, not French, definitely not Spanish. With each flipped page, my fingers tingled. Nothing about the book’s contents offered a clue as to what it was about, no owner’s name inside or even initials, but the symbol on the front was strangely familiar: a twisted knot circled by fancy scrolling. Had I seen it before in my mother’s Book of Shadows? If this was a spell book, it was unlike any I had seen before.

“Anyone home?” a familiar singsong voice called out.

I jumped three feet in the air, almost tossing the book across the room. I slammed it shut, as if I’d been caught reading someone’s diary.

“I’m in the attic. Come on up.” My voice wavered. I’d forgotten my friend Annabelle had agreed to stop by.

“There’s no way in hell I’m coming up there! It’s creepy. You come on down here.”

I rolled my eyes. It had been all I could do to convince Annabelle to come over in the first place. She thought for sure the house was haunted. Even so, I told her, ghosts wouldn’t hurt her. But being non-magical, she got a little on edge when around the supernatural and she wasn’t buying my reassurances.

“I’ll be right down,” I called back.

I tucked the book under my arm and made my way to the door. With my hand on the knob, I paused and looked back, sure that I’d heard footfalls behind me.

Now Annabelle’s paranoia was getting the better of me.

My best friend stood at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at me with wide, mascara-rimmed blue eyes.

“I don’t know how you can live in this place all by yourself. At least get another cat or ten, for heaven’s sake.” She looked around for my black cat, Pluto. He’d been scarce since the first day at
LaVeau Manor.

“Great, so then I can officially be the weird cat lady in the big old, creepy house.” I moved down the first few steps.

“Okay, how about a dog?” she asked with hope in her eyes. Annabelle was obsessed with animals. She had two dogs, three cats, a hamster, and too many fish to count. I’d had to stop her from getting a monkey. When I’d told her about the diaper changing she’d changed her mind right away.

I nodded. “Fine. Maybe a dog, but I doubt Pluto will take too kindly to a new resident.”

“What are you doing up there all by yourself, anyway?” She gestured with a tilt of her head. “I’d be afraid I’d get trapped and never get out.”

“I wanted to know what was up there,” I said.

“A trunk full of bones, that’s what’s up there.” She rubbed her arms, warding off a shiver.

I made my way to the last step of the wide, winding staircase. “Sorry to foil the urban legend, but I found no trunk, no bones. Just a bunch of old crap.”

“This place is the epitome of creepiness. I could have sworn I saw a man standing on the front porch when I pulled into the driveway.” Annabelle looked over her shoulder toward the front door.

A bang echoed through the foyer and Annabelle screeched, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Oh my, God, we’re going to die!”