A Charmed Death Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  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

  About the Author

  The Witching Hour

  “So?” At my inquiring glance, she cocked her head. “Why did you come? I assume you aren’t here simply to witness my rededication to the Goddess.”

  “No. No, I guess I’m not.”

  “Why then?”

  “I’m not sure. Something told me to come here. Crazy, huh?”

  She made a skeptical face. “Maggie. After everything I’ve told you, I’m going to think you’re crazy for having feelings?”

  I laughed at that. “Well, I guess you’re right. Besides, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t starting to listen to those little nudges and hints. So touché to you.”

  “And what are the nudges and hints telling you tonight?”

  “That there might be something witchy that can be done to help the police in their quest for Amanda Roberson’s killer. Got any ideas?”

  “Hmm.” A glint in her eye, Liss leapt to her feet and ran over to a cupboard. She unlocked it and withdrew from its depths a battered leather-bound book the size of a business portfolio. She dragged its sizable bulk with her and plopped back down on the floor with it as though she were a teenage girl about to share a glamour mag with her best friend. “Let me flip a moment. There’s something in here that might help.”

  Praise for The Trouble with Magic

  “This new series is going to be a winner.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “The plotting is tight and the murderer came as a shock. The situations are funny and the characters charming.”

  —Romantic Times

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Madelyn Alt

  A CHARMED DEATH

  THE TROUBLE WITH MAGIC

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  A CHARMED DEATH

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Madelyn Alt.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form with-

  out permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of

  the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21317-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to my family, who put up with an awful lot when I’m on deadline. But most especially it’s for Steve, because he’s always believed in me, even when I couldn’t believe in myself.

  Acknowledgments

  Like most people these days, my life is oft-times crazy and chaotic. But every once in a while, the stars align and problems melt away, and I am given the clarity of thought and vision that I need in order to get through the current work-in-progress. Here are a few people who helped me along the way:

  My wonderful editor and agent, who are my touchstones within the publishing industry and can always be counted on to share in the excitement of the moment.

  My boys, both big and small, for at least pretending to pick up after themselves, even though every last one of them claims not to see the messes.

  My family, for always being interested in how things are really going.

  The whole Pyrotek gang, for their constant encouragement, and occasional harassment.

  GB and all the girrrrrls at GB.Net for the giggles and distractions . . . you all know who you are.

  And finally, you, the reader . . . this book wouldn’t exist without thoughts and dreams of you on the receiving end.

  The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.

  —GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  Chapter 1

  I had been thinking for some time that things weren’t quite right in my little Indiana town. Strangely enough, it had nothing to do with the witches living practically in my backyard.

  Let me back up. Maggie O’Neill here, at your service. I’m coming up fast on my thirtieth birthday, just your average small-town girl, and I’ve lived all my life in the somewhat nondescript Hoosier town of Stony Mill, population 6,841. For those of you picturing the corny hats-off salutes on Hee Haw, you’re probably not far off the mark. Life is simple here. At least on the surface.

  For two and a half months, I’ve been working at Enchantments, an upscale gift shop located in the trendy string of antique stores down on River Street. That’s where the witches come in.

  It’s not what you think.

  The store is owned by Felicity Dow, an English expatriate and follower of the Old Ways—but please don’t hold that against her. I honestly have never met another woman like her. In a way, I owe her my life, though she insists she had nothing to do with it. But more than that, more than anything, it was Liss who opened my eyes and senses to the . . . unusual energy that could be felt in the area, hovering in the shadows, if one but paid attention.

  For better or for worse. There would be no
going back.

  I am Maggie O’Neill, and this is my story.

  December in Indiana is never predictable, and when Saturday greeted me with sudden temps in the fifties, I knew this day would be no different. I was opening the store that morning, so after my usual routine of a quick shower and a simple updo with a giant hair clip, I surveyed my closet with an eye toward the weather.

  Here unseasonal weather might best be compared to a fickle lover—it never sticks around for long. A Hoosier born and bred, I knew as well as anyone that the real key to comfort meant dressing in layers, so I threw on a pair of navy wool slacks, a thin mock turtleneck, and a nubby sweater in a medium peacock blue that brought out the green in my eyes before I grabbed my coat, purse, and the stack of receipts I’d been working on over the weekend, stuffed a bagel between my teeth, and headed out the door.

  I was in a hurry. I’d almost come to terms with the strange things that had been happening in my three-room basement apartment in the aging Victorian on Willow Street. Almost. Lately, the faint thrumming I heard all around me as I lay quietly in bed at night had grown so reliable that I no longer questioned whether it was real or imagined. I knew. Just as I now recognized all the other signs that I was not alone. The flickering lights. The sudden scent of lavender. The fingerprints that appeared on windows and mirrors from the inside after a good cleaning. The way the tuner on my old, beat-up stereo always seemed to roll over to an oldies station best known for its big band sound, no matter that I preferred soft rock. This weekend, however, the high jinks had been so frequent that it had begun to eat away at my hard-won acceptance of my newfound powers as an empath. That’s right, people, I’m sensitive to the feelings of others, as well as a whole host of other phenomena that sometimes spooked me senseless. I closed the door to my apartment behind me that morning with the feeling that I had escaped.

  Just. In. Time.

  In time for what, I didn’t know. I could only hope that whatever was causing the increase in activity would find some kind of harmless release—and soon—so that things could go back to the way they were. Before everything started to go wrong.

  Because then maybe I could go back to normal as well.

  It was a lovely, impossible dream, and I knew it. And to be truthful, I couldn’t swear that was what I wanted. For it all to end. I sighed as I started up Christine—my cherished but slightly unpredictable 1972 VW Bug—and began to maneuver my way through quiet residential streets. That was part of the problem. I didn’t know what I wanted at all. Some days, I thought it might be better to be oblivious to the threads of magic I sensed weaving their way through my life, quietly and without fanfare. But a part of me thrilled at my newfound ability. A part of me wanted to believe that for some reason I had been chosen to receive this strange gift, and I could not deny a growing desire to know the why and how of it.

  Patience . . .

  The word floated into view inside my head, focusing my attention and soothing me at once. Yes. Patience. As Liss would say at her most Confucius, there is a time for everything, and everything a place. And I was learning. In the last two months, with my boss’s blessing and occasional guidance in the selection, I’d inhaled more than twenty books on the supernatural. Yet in spite of all the unexplainable things I’d experienced myself, live and in person, I’d considered the concepts ridiculous at first and still found myself snickering and rolling my eyes over some of the more “Out There” notions. Until the morning I’d chanced into Felicity Dow’s world, high school science class had pretty much served to kill any vestiges of awe I felt for the workings of the everyday world. To go back to such an archaic way of thinking, that magic and the strength of a person’s will could affect the natural order of things, seemed so . . . backward. So superstitious. And yet, the more I read, the more I recognized bits and pieces of my own past experience. Little things. Things I’d never before thought to question.

  So I wasn’t normal. I guess deep down I’d always known that. It was just that I thought it had more to do with the real me, the everyday me, than with experiencing the Otherworld. How was I to know that the two would turn out to be so intimately connected?

  Shaking off the uneasiness that had settled down around my shoulders, I turned onto River Street and popped Christine out of gear, allowing her to coast downhill toward Enchantments. There were a few cars ahead of me, other shopkeepers making their way in to open their stores in preparation for holiday shoppers, but it was still too early for the marauding hordes. Thank goodness. There were a few finishing touches I wanted to put on the new window display before we opened, and then there were the boxes of new stock that had come in the day before yesterday that I hadn’t gotten around to unpacking. If last week was any indication, there would be still more unpackaged inventory by the end of this week. The Christmas season meant nonstop sales and return customers, as I was fast learning. Good for the store’s bank account, but awfully hard on the feet. Not that I was complaining.

  Felicity had been out for several weeks, taking some much-needed and much-deserved time off. For personal reasons, she’d said. Grieving was probably closer to the truth. Mere months ago, Felicity’s sister, Isabella Harding, had been murdered. At first, the police had suspected Liss—an outrage if there ever was one. But the killer had turned out to be Felicity’s niece Jacqui, so angry at her own mother for sleeping with her fiancé that she’d taken her life.

  Losing two members of her family in such a terrible way can’t have been easy. If it meant working double shifts to see that things got done, I was happy to do it, so long as it allowed Felicity the healing time she needed.

  I parked Christine in the usual place behind the store and stepped out onto the crushed limestone. A brisk wind picked up the instant I did, lifting my hair off my neck and pushing it in my face. I shivered in spite of the weather broadcast and clutched my jacket closed at the throat while I unlocked the back door and stepped inside.

  The scent of cinnamon closed around me, spicy sweet as always. Breathing in deeply, I fumbled for the wall switch, blinking at the sudden transformation of the back office space from shadow to light. A light that also revealed a stack of corrugated boxes four deep and five high. Without further ado, I hung my coat and purse in the closet and pushed up my sleeves. Time to get to work.

  Well . . . maybe a cup of English Breakfast first.

  I deftly performed my morning ritual of filling the water vat in the industrial-sized coffeemakers at the coffee bar. Though our customers, many of whom worked in bustling downtown Stony Mill, favored the various specialty teas, lattes, and cappuccinos we offered, I took delight in the tried-and-true. Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe. Simplicity at its best and most comforting.

  While I waited for the water to heat, I wandered through the unlit aisles, straightening glossy-papered books, plumping up froufrou pillows, testing the many shelves for dust. Though I’d worked at Enchantments only a couple of months, I derived great personal satisfaction from tending to the store and its inventory. I couldn’t have felt prouder had I owned it myself.

  Assured that the orderliness of the stock had not degenerated overnight, I wandered to the front of the store and gazed out at the nearly empty street. Directly opposite, Randy Cutter was out, sweeping the sidewalk in front of his antique store, Something Olde. He nodded when he caught sight of my upraised hand, but didn’t pause in his undertaking. If tea was my morning ritual, sweeping the sidewalk with all due diligence was Randy’s. Out with the old, and in with the new.

  The only other person in sight was a boy, a half block away, chasing after a giant red ball. I smiled to myself as I watched him. His baseball cap flipped backward off his sandy blond head, falling unheeded to the freshly swept sidewalk, yet no matter what he did, the ball bounced along just out of his reach.

  His laughter floated in on the morning breezes, audible even through the same closed front door that I’d fallen through just a few months back. Ah, to be eight again. He belonged to one of
the shop owners, I supposed. Still, it was awfully early for an eight-year-old to be out on the street alone, wasn’t it?

  I frowned as my heart suddenly chugged to life. Enchantments stood in a strand of reclaimed warehouses on the last block of River Street, the oldest thoroughfare in the county. River Street teed into the Wabash River. The ball showed no sign of stopping, and where the ball went, the boy seemed to follow. What if he wasn’t paying attention to where he was headed? What if he chased the ball right into the river? My hand opened, splayed against the cool glass in supplication. Too quiet a gesture that would help no one. I thundered my knuckles against the glass, then my fist. Much better.

  “Randy! Mr. Cutter! The boy! The boy!”

  Cutter looked up at the sound. Too slow! I gestured frantically toward the boy. Cutter turned toward the river, then looked back at me, his brow furrowed. My heart in my throat, I looked myself. The boy was right there, still running, still . . .

  He blinked out. The boy, the cap, the ball all just faded away, right in front of my eyes. And from the look on his face, Cutter hadn’t seen a thing.

  Damn it.

  Knowing I must look like the world’s biggest idiot, I gritted my teeth into some semblance of a smile and gave Cutter a sheepish shrug. He looked puzzled when he went back to his sweeping. As for me, I slunk over to the coffee bar and made myself the fastest cup of tea in the history of Enchantments. I drank it down even faster, my hands trembling.

  It had been happening more often. The creepy sensation of being watched. That heart-stopping, get-away-fast feeling. Trouble was, the episodes weren’t relegated solely to my apartment anymore. I couldn’t be sure that they ever had been.