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  Witching Hour Dead

  Colleen Cross

  Witching Hour Dead : A Westwick Witches Cozy Mystery

  Copyright © 2020 by Colleen Cross, Colleen Tompkins

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the copyright holder and publisher. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  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.

  Categories: cozy mysteries, witches wizards, paranormal cozy humorous mystery, cosy mystery, funny mysteries, female lead sleuth women amateur sleuths private investigators, cozy mystery books, suspense thrillers and mysteries best sellers, female detectives

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-989268-64-3

  Published by Slice Publishing

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-989268-55-1

  Contents

  Also by Colleen Cross

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Also by Colleen Cross

  Also by Colleen Cross

  Westwick Witches Cozy Mysteries

  Witch You Well

  Rags to Witches

  Witch and Famous

  Christmas Witch List

  Witching Hour Dead

  Witching for Love on Valentines Day

  * * *

  Katerina Carter Fraud Legal Thrillers

  Exit Strategy

  Game Theory

  Blowout

  Greenwash

  Red Handed

  Blue Moon

  * * *

  Nonfiction

  Anatomy of a Ponzi Scheme

  Witching Hour Dead

  The annual Westwick Corners Wine Festival is a time for popping of corks and, Cen hopes, time for Tyler to pop the question and propose.

  But when a festival goer turns up dead, it’s clear that merlot, magic, and murder don’t mix!

  Chapter 1

  It was an unseasonably cold day, even for October. I was holed up in my office on a Friday afternoon. I had the baseboard heater turned up to the highest setting, half-pretending I was on a tropical island under an umbrella sipping Pina Coladas. In reality, I was racing to meet a deadline. But speed-editing my feature story on the upcoming annual Westwick Corners Wine Festival wasn’t going all that well. My brain kept drifting off to Pina Colada land, so I wasn’t getting much done.

  I am the procrastination queen, which is why I was stuck here in my dingy office on the top floor of a hundred-year-old building. The creaking floorboards, hissing pipes, and all sorts of mysterious noises were the only things that kept me company. It was creepy working alone sometimes.

  I had missed lunch and found it hard to concentrate with my stomach rumbling, so I decided to go out to get a snack before the café down the street closed. I had just grabbed my jacket when the outer office door slammed, stopping me in my tracks. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  A pony wall separates my outer office from the rest of the floorspace. The top part of the wall was frosted glass. It was a 1940s update that I had planned to change eventually, but I’d grown to love it. It reminded me of a Sam Spade detective agency.

  The Westwick Corners Weekly isn’t exactly cutting-edge journalism, so I’ve never had to worry about stalkers or other crazies. Until now, that is, when an unidentified intruder stood one pony wall away from me.

  I don’t lock my doors. Being risk averse, I would like to, but it’s simply not ‘done’ in Westwick Corners. Small towns have their own kind of peer pressure.

  My walk-in traffic was basically zero, especially at this time of day, so who could possibly be in the outer office? There had been a few transients in town lately. Suddenly I felt nervous about my unannounced visitor. I stifled the urge to ask who it was and instead exchanged my jacket for a broom out of the cleaning closet. The element of surprise would give me an advantage.

  I tiptoed toward the door leading to the outer office and waited.

  A shadow suddenly darkened the frosted glass door. A huge shadow!

  Then the door opened.

  A surprise attack was my only chance. I brought the broom down hard and fast.

  “Cen! What the—?”

  “Oh, my goodness, Tyler! Are you okay?” I lowered the broom.

  My hunky sheriff boyfriend crouched on one knee in the doorway, holding one arm above his head in a defensive pose. “This really isn’t how I imagined it.”

  “Imagined what? You could have announced yourself.” My face flushed as I daydreamed again. Tyler and I were on a South Pacific beach. He was down on one knee, asking me to marry him. He opened the ring box and…

  Tyler looked up at me with those warm brown eyes of his. “Cen, we live in a safe town. You know I’ll protect you. Just chill…”

  I always felt safe in his arms, yet I could have easily broken them if I had struck any harder. I put the broom down.

  That’s when I noticed the brown paper bag in his hand that almost blended in with his sheriff’s uniform. The contents of the bag smelled like banana muffins.

  “Are those—”

  “Your favorite muffins, yes.” Tyler pulled himself up to a standing position and offered me one. “You do know that dating a cop does not give you the right to use deadly force.”

  I reached into the bag and closed my hand on a still warm muffin. “I know…sorry. I just—uh, this building is a bit spooky now that I’m the only tenant.” The building had once housed lawyers, accountants and other professionals. Our almost ghost-town had seen better days and now barely eked by. Most people shopped and did business an hour away in Shady Creek. In fact, that’s where most of them were right now this Friday afternoon.

  Tyler leaned in and kissed me. “I realize you’ve got a deadline and all, but you seem a little edgy. You know everyone in town. What are you so afraid of?”

  I bit into the muffin, unable to hold off any longer. “Nobody, I guess. I just have this weird feeling that…I don’t know. Maybe I’ve had too much coffee or something.”

  “Maybe.” Tyler smiled. “Anyway, I was wondering if you have plans for tonight.”

  “Uh…only with you. Why are you asking? We always spend Friday nights together.” We had spent almost every weekend together for over a year without either of us asking the other for a date. It was kind of assumed. At least I thought it was. So why was he asking all of a sudden?

  “It’s just that, uh…I want tonight to be special. A cl
ear your calendar, no peeking at your laptop kind of night. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. What time?” I felt pressured by the enormity of finishing my edits and then dealing with whatever catastrophe awaited me at my family’s cozy bed and breakfast inn. And then I had promised to help my neighbor get ready for the wine show…

  “Is eight okay? I’ve got a case I need to wrap up.”

  “It’s perfect.” It wasn’t nearly enough time but I’d figure it out somehow. “What are we doing?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Tyler said. “I hope you’ll like it.”

  Tyler’s surprise was all I could think about for the rest of the afternoon. Good thing I hadn’t killed him with a broom.

  I managed to finish my article and called it a day at 4 p.m.

  I stepped out onto Main Street. There wasn’t a soul in sight. A few cars were parked along the two blocks that counted as downtown Westwick Corners.

  I tucked the latest edition of the Westwick Corners Weekly newspaper under my arm as I cinched my collar against the cool breeze. It was unseasonably cold for October and the wind swirled leaves around my feet as I walked to my car. Tyler was right: Westwick Corners was a safe town. On the other hand, I’d have felt better if there were more people around.

  My feature article about this weekend’s Westwick Corners Wine Festival flashed through my mind. The annual festival was one of my bigger issues because the wineries always bought extra advertising dollars in advance of the festival, which I desperately needed.

  I had purchased the small community newspaper several years ago from the retiring owner, basically buying myself a job so I could stay in my hometown. As the sole employee, I handled everything from reporting, photography, advertising, and circulation. It barely paid enough to live on, but it was one of the few ways to earn a living in this quaint town, which was slowly being revitalized after decades of neglect.

  I also thought about Tyler’s surprise. A boyfriend surprising a girlfriend limited the possibilities. What could it be? A proposal? It had always seemed weird to me that the man got to decide where and when that happened. At the same time, I was excited because I had known for a while now that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

  I finally reached my forlorn-looking Honda CRV parked a few doors down the street. I fished for my keys in my pocket and unlocked the door. Although I wanted to drive straight home and snuggle in front of the large hearth at my family’s Westwick Corners Inn, it would have to wait. I had previously committed to helping a neighbor in need.

  Antonio Lombard was a second-generation winemaker who had fallen on hard times. His problems became obvious when I interviewed him for my community newspaper. I was writing one of the several articles I ran every year in the lead-up to the wine festival that attracted many vintners from around the state, including a half-dozen local winemakers. The articles featured local wineries, their latest wines, and winemakers who produced them.

  As I interviewed each contestant to learn more about their wines, the conversation often devolved into gossip about the competition, most of which I printed. The locals devoured the stories and often chose favorites based more on salacious details—of which there were plenty—instead of the wines themselves.

  Competitors vied for a number of awards and the stakes were high. Winning meant more than bragging rights. It guaranteed more sales from the public through increased publicity and name recognition. Top wines also attracted the attention of regional and national wine buyers who could dramatically increase sales volumes and profitability. In short, it could make or break business success.

  All that seemed to have finally broken Antonio Lombard, who, with his brother Jose, operated Lombard Wines down the road from me and my family of part-time witches and innkeepers. We operated a fledgling winery too, nurtured by Mom thanks to a couple of years of guidance and oversight from Antonio. My lending a hand was more than neighborly concern; we truly owed him a lot.

  You’d think that because I’m a witch I could simply cast a spell to dissolve Antonio’s troubles, but there are strict rules about interfering into other peoples’ lives. I am a rule-follower. I don’t lie, cheat, or use witchcraft frivolously. Okay, I’ll admit that I do cheat on diets, but when it comes to witchcraft, I always follow the Witches International Community Craft Association’s rules to the letter. Breaking WICCA rules could cost me my witch license. I would never risk losing something that had been so hard to earn.

  As I got in the driver’s seat and buckled up, I wondered if it was already too late to help Antonio. Everything had been in such chaos yesterday when I had arrived to interview him. Antonio was barely coherent, even though I’d interviewed him so many times, he could have done it in his sleep. The winery was in complete disarray, with empty boxes and crates covering every surface. Even worse, he hadn’t yet bottled his wine for tomorrow’s wine festival! It was pretty obvious that my neighbor was in deep trouble.

  Despite all that, I managed to write my feature on Lombard Wines by lifting a few phrases and photos from last year’s article. I changed a few details and was vague on the latest happenings at the winery and the wines in this year’s contest.

  In reality, nothing was happening because Antonio was stuck in some sort of mental paralysis.

  Since I was the reporter, editor, and publisher of my one-person paper I could take small liberties with the facts. Besides, as Aunt Pearl liked to say, nobody read my paper anyway. They only wanted the flyers and coupons inside.

  I had to do something to help Antonio. Maybe I could salvage enough wine to ensure that Lombard Wines at least made an appearance at the festival. I had just turned the key in the ignition when cold hands gripped my shoulders from behind.

  Chapter 2

  “Help!” I screamed but only a croak came out.

  Nobody would hear me on the deserted street. Was this a carjacking, a kidnapping, or both? I had always felt safe in Westwick Corners.

  Until now.

  “Shut up and drive,” the voice whispered. The grip on my throat loosened slightly.

  It was hard to tell from a whisper, but the voice sounded strangely familiar. Although my hands shook, I managed to put the car in gear. I kept my foot on the brake and racked my brain for a way out of the situation.

  Should I try to fight off my assailant? Honk the horn? I had never been taken hostage before. I stalled for time, trying to figure out what to do.

  “For crying out loud, Cendrine! Do you really have to shoulder-check twice?”

  I sighed in relief as I pried the bony fingers from my neck. Aunt Pearl only called me by my full name when she was mad at me. I had no clue what I had done to anger her.

  Probably nothing.

  “How did you get in my car?” I asked.

  “Don’t act all surprised. I’m a witch, after all. And you’re late, as usual. I’ve been freezing my butt off waiting for you for almost an hour. What took you so long?”

  “I had work to finish up. We never made plans, did we? Why did you break into my car? I hope you didn’t wreck the—”

  “Stop interrogating me, Cen. We’ve got a job to do and it’s not going to take care of itself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aunt Pearl. I’ve already got plans.”

  “Not with that sheriff boyfriend of yours, you don’t. You know he’s not working late at the office like he said, don’t you?”

  “Stop trying to stir up trouble. Too bad if you don’t like him. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, I know where he is, Cen.” Aunt Pearl held a finger to her lips. “Don’t ask me because I can’t tell you. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of asking. “Anyway, I’m on my way over to Lombard Wines to help Antonio bottle his wine for tomorrow.”

  “Don’t make like saving Antonio was all your idea. You know that’s why I’m here.”

  “Uh, no…I didn’t.”

  “You always
take credit for everything. Put this junk heap in gear and let’s go.”

  Aunt Pearl now sat beside me in the passenger seat, looking larger than usual in her puffy down jacket. Underneath she wore her purple velour tracksuit, and on her feet were running shoes. She stared straight ahead.

  I had no recollection of her climbing into the front seat so I suspected she had placed a spell on me. That was a blatant violation of WICCA rules, but Aunt Pearl could care less.

  I was also certain that I had come up with the idea to help Antonio on my own but decided that it wasn’t worth arguing about.

  I sighed. “I’m not taking credit for anything, Aunt Pearl. I am glad that both of us are helping Antonio. That should make things go a lot faster.”

  Ten minutes later we were at Lombard Wines, freezing half to death inside the huge cavernous building that doubled as a tasting room and a fully functional winery. The heat had been turned off, and it was so cold that my breath formed vapors as I talked.

  The winery appeared to be in even worse shape than when I had visited yesterday. Overturned barrels and stacked wine cartons were scattered throughout the tasting room, some blocking the aisles that led to the winery’s large stainless-steel wine vats. Trails of muddy footprints soiled the polished cement floor. Footprints led to and from the front entrance and to the rear of the building, where stairs descended down to the basement wine cellar.