Ghost of a Potion (A Magic Potion Mystery, #3)
Heather Blake
For my family, with much love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, many thanks to Sandy Harding for her insightful edits and the whole New American Library/Obsidian/Penguin Random House team for believing in Carly and me. Much gratitude to Jessica Faust and the whole BookEnds crew as well.
A big thank-you to Sabrina H., who willingly shares Southernisms with me, including the mention of the Pig in this story.
As always, I’m extremely thankful for all my readers who continually support me and my books. I’ve recently created a private Facebook group to keep in touch with all of you, and if you’re interested in joining, go to facebook.com/groups/heatherblakewebberbookaholics and click JOIN GROUP. Would love to see you there.
Chapter One
“Carlina Bell Hartwell, you’re not too old for a switchin’,” my mama proclaimed over the phone, her tone sharp and dangerous.
There was very little that struck fear into most Southern girls’ hearts quite like her full name being angrily articulated by her mama.
Fortunately, I wasn’t like most Southern girls, so I wasn’t too worried about my mama’s threat. Besides, in all my thirty years, my mama had never once taken a switch to me. She was a five-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound, blond-haired bundle of bluff and bluster.
The cordless phone—there was no cell phone coverage within town limits—was wedged between my ear and shoulder as I unpacked a delivery of potion bottles. “What did I do now?”
It could have been any number of things, truly. An unfortunate result of my quick temper, inability to filter comments when angry, and my natural mischievousness.
Those were just a few of the many traits that proved I wasn’t quite like everyone else here in Hitching Post, Alabama, but at the very tippy-top of the why-Carly-is-not-normal list, the cherry atop my wackadoodle sundae, was that I was a white magic witch and empath.
There was absolutely no denying that was plain ol’ strange. So I didn’t even try. I embraced my oddities wholeheartedly and used my abilities to make healing and love potions here at the Little Shop of Potions, a shop that’s been in the Hartwell family for fifty years.
“I ran into Hyacinth Foster at the Pig,” Mama said, her voice rising to earsplitting heights.
The Pig. The Piggly Wiggly—the name of our local grocery store.
“And she said you RSVP’d no to the masquerade ball tonight at the Ezekiel mansion. What were you thinking? You know how important this is to your daddy, Carly.”
The black-tie masquerade ball was bound to be as deadly dull as the people hosting it, all stiff and starched, prim and proper.
Everything I definitely was not.
“To Daddy?” I asked as I examined a jade-colored potion bottle, running my fingers along its facets to make sure there were no chips or cracks. Holding it up, I let the light shine through and admired its transparence, which revealed tiny bubbles suspended within the glass. It was a beauty. All the bottles were, really. Specially made by a local glass blower, each was unique, each a work of art.
After making sure the stopper was snugged tight, I walked the bottle over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling shelves, which held bottles of every size, shape, and color, and tucked it in, turning it just so. The bottle wall was the shop’s main attraction, and it was easy to see why as sunshine streamed in the front windows and hit the bottles, blasting brilliant rainbow-colored streaks of light across the walls and wood floor.
Glancing out the window, I noticed the color outside almost rivaled the beauty in the shop. Hitching Post in late October was a glorious sight to behold, with sunlight setting afire the vibrant foliage of the Appalachian foothills in the distance.
“Don’t take that tone with me, baby girl. Yes, your daddy. You know how important this event is to him. The Harpies are a big damn deal, and you know how hard he’s worked to even be considered for a spot on the committee. He’s already got one strike against him, him unfortunately being a man and all.”