Be Careful What You Witch For (A Family Fortune Mystery) Read online

  Praise for

  Pall in the Family

  “A tightly plotted, character-driven triumph of a mystery, Pall in the Family had me laughing out loud while feverishly turning pages to try and figure out whodunit. This novel sparkles with charmingly peculiar characters and a fascinating heroine, Clyde Fortune, who effortlessly shuffles the reader into her world like a card in a tarot deck. Eastman is fabulous!”

  —Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of the Library Lover’s Mysteries, the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries, and the Hat Shop Mysteries

  “A kooky small town filled with eccentric characters, psychics, and murder make Eastman’s Family Fortune Mystery series a stellar launch. Add a dog-walking ex-cop paired with her old flame investigator, and it’s not hard to predict a brilliant future for this quirky new series!”

  —Kari Lee Townsend, national bestselling author of the Fortune Teller Mysteries

  “What emerges as most entertaining in this mystery by debut author Dawn Eastman is how well she slowly develops her characters and prevents them from being two-dimensional caricatures . . . The paranormal aspect is surprisingly realistic and matter-of-fact amongst the townspeople . . . Clyde proves to be a talented investigator herself with or without her ‘extra’ skills, and she is a very likable heroine with the humor to cope with her eccentric relatives.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “[An] entertaining read . . . The cast of characters is a lovable bunch of kooky psychics.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Dawn Eastman

  PALL IN THE FAMILY

  BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WITCH FOR

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WITCH FOR

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

  Copyright © 2014 by Dawn Mooradian.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60750-3

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2014

  Cover illustration by Daniel Craig; design element © iStockphoto/Thinkstock.

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

  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.

  Version_1

  To my son, Jake, who inspired all the best parts of Seth.

  Contents

  Praise for Dawn Eastman

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Dawn Eastman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is a solitary pursuit, but the production of a novel is a group effort.

  Thank you to the team at Berkley Prime Crime. I am fortunate to work with such a fantastic group. Special thanks to my editor, Andie Avila, whose attention to detail and love for the characters make each book better.

  My agent, Sharon Bowers, will always have my deep gratitude for making a dream reality.

  I would like to thank DP Lyle, MD, for sharing his medical expertise. And thanks to Ramona Valencia for (gleefully) helping to plot a murder and donating old EpiPens to the cause of research.

  I’m grateful to my amazing writer’s group, Wendy Delsol, Kali VanBaale, Murl Pace, and Kim Stuart. Their support and encouragement are priceless.

  Thank you to family members Ann and Bob Eastman, Jim and Alyce Mooradian, Barb Laughlin, Kristin Morton, and Barbara Morton who have tirelessly spread the word about the Family Fortune Mysteries.

  To my webmaster brother, Brent Eastman, for help with all the technology.

  And finally, to Steve, Jake, and Ellie, who make my life a hilarious adventure.

  1

  Black-robed figures circled the bonfire. Their chanting sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Hooded and lit only by the flickering flames and silver moonlight filtering through the naked branches overhead, they were nameless except for their leader, my best friend Diana.

  I felt a sharp jab in my ribs.

  “When’s the good stuff start?” Aunt Vi said, too loudly. Though a skeptic about Wicca she’d insisted on coming to the ceremony when she heard there would be fire and a cauldron. Her silver braid peeked out from under her borrowed robes and she gawked around the circle.

  “Shhh!” I hissed. I felt uneasy anyway, but now several of the hooded figures had turned in our direction.

  Deep in Greer’s Woods on Halloween, we were a good fifteen-minute hike from the road. Diana had trekked her supplies to this spot during the afternoon. Wiccans called this day “Samhain” and she planned to summon the spirits of the dead and the Goddess of Shadows to join us for the Wiccan New Year celebration. Putting a Wiccan in charge of the Fall Fun Fest meant the usual lineup of kids’ costume parade and applesauce-eating contest was joined by a midnight ceremony in the woods.

  Vi tugged on my robe.

  “Clytemnestra, you said we were going to se
e our future in the fire. I don’t see anything.”

  “She just started—give her a minute,” I said through clenched teeth. Vi was purposely using my full name to irk me.

  Nearing seventy, Vi had retained what might be politely called a “childlike enthusiasm” for all things paranormal.

  Diana lit the black candles on the makeshift altar and called on the four elements to join the circle. I felt the heavy brown bread we’d shared earlier settle uncomfortably in my stomach. When she reached the part about the God of Darkness and Goddess of Shadows, I moved a little closer to Aunt Vi. Diana doesn’t scare me, but sometimes her ceremonies and spells do.

  Until six months ago, I had been a police officer. I felt guns, criminals, and drunken idiots were business as usual. Magick, ghosts, and séances were another matter. We lived in Crystal Haven, a town known for its psychics and fortune-tellers, so I should have been used to it. But, hosting the Fall Fun Fest that included a Wiccan ceremony was new. In the midst of this spooky group with only a crescent moon and a bonfire for illumination, standing closer to Vi was only slightly reassuring. The flames cast dancing shadows on the trees, accentuating their gnarled branches. Sparks lifted up and disappeared in the darkness.

  Another jab to the ribs. “Nothing’s happening. What about the cauldron?” Vi said, more quietly.

  Just then Diana dropped a match into her cauldron and blue flames leaped out and glowed in the center of the circle.

  “Oooh,” Vi breathed.

  A burning stick of sage was passed around the circle. “Burn and blaze! Into the future we now gaze!” The group chanted, asking to see their future in the fire. Vi joined in with gusto. I thought longingly about séances and tarot cards. Those seemed tame and soothing compared to this.

  Mesmerized by the flames, my mind wandered. Without meaning to, I stared deeply into the fire. I saw a vision of a house. The cottage was covered in vines and set back in a dense forest. I felt myself drawn to it, as if I’d been there before. The atmosphere of the ceremony and the chanting of the circle had breached my wall of protection. I habitually guarded against any messages from other realms. I shook my head to clear it of the smoky fog that had settled over me.

  Vi squeezed my arm through my robe. “You saw something, didn’t you? What was it?” Vi was always on the lookout for any sign that my “gift” was active.

  I shook my head again, although she wasn’t likely to get the signal in the dark, while I wore a hood. “Nothing, I—”

  A scream cut through the chanting. One of the robed figures had fallen into the center of the circle, the face covered by the hood. The voices stopped and the inky figures blended together as they rushed to the crumpled form. Diana arrived first and pulled the hood back. It was Rafe Godwin. He clutched his throat, his face dark in the dim light of the clearing. His huge, terrified eyes made it look as if he were choking himself. Then, grabbing Diana’s wrist, he pointed to his throat with his other hand.

  “Is he having a heart attack?” a hooded figure asked.

  “His lips are swelling, it looks like an allergic reaction,” another voice volunteered.

  “Call 911!” Diana said.

  Gasps and concerned tskings made their way through the circle.

  “Oh my,” said Vi, at my side again.

  “Rafe, where is it?” Diana asked.

  He wrestled with his robe and Diana began pawing through the folds.

  “Diana, what are you doing?” I said. I knelt down to help her.

  “He’s got an EpiPen in here somewhere. I think he’s going into shock.” She continued wrestling with his clothing and a few others knelt to do the same.

  The group began muttering about bees and wasps. But at midnight in October the likelihood that an insect sting was involved seemed remote.

  “Here it is!” Diana held a short tube the length of a pen over her head. She popped the injector out of its plastic holder and jabbed it into his thigh right through the robe.

  Now that I stood closer, I saw the mottled dark color of his face, the swollen lips and eyelids. He fought to take weak raspy breaths.

  The crowd got very quiet. I expected Rafe to take a deep breath, and for his eyes to return to normal size. Nothing happened. He stopped struggling, but otherwise I saw no change. Certainly not the miraculous recovery I had come to expect from watching television.

  Diana shook his shoulders but he didn’t respond.

  One of the people who had pushed through to the front of the crowd began CPR. Someone else announced that an ambulance had been dispatched. As we stood helplessly watching, I realized Rafe Godwin would not be seeing the future.

  2

  Muffled sniffles and sobs punctuated the otherwise quiet clearing. We’d known he was dead a few minutes after CPR had started. Fortunately, one of the group members, a nurse, took over the evaluation and finally made the decision to stop CPR. Visibly shaken, he sat with his back against a nearby tree, head in hands, while the rest of us held vigil and waited for the paramedics to arrive.

  Diana sat next to Rafe on the ground and seemed to be in a trance. Her hood lay flat on her back, her orange curls reflecting the glow of the bonfire. I knelt next to her, murmuring reassuring platitudes and feeling helpless. I knew how close Rafe and Diana had been.

  Vi stood nearby. Her eyes glittered in the flickering light and the shadows accentuated the furrows and creases on her face.

  The wail of a siren intruded on our stunned group and then we heard the EMTs crashing through the trees.

  Two men burst into the clearing. One looked about fifty, red faced and breathing heavily from the sprint through the woods. The other could have kept running all the way into Crystal Haven. Surely just out of his teens, he’d need to show ID every time he bought a beer. They quickly assessed the mood of the crowd and let their equipment slump to the ground. After verifying that Rafe was dead they moved the stretcher toward Rafe’s body to carry him out of the woods. Diana looked confused at their approach and leaned over as if to protect him from attack.

  “Diana, he’s gone,” I said. I touched her shoulder.

  She looked at me with wet eyes.

  “But I gave him the epinephrine. Why didn’t it work?”

  I shook my head and helped her stand so the EMTs could do their work.

  “Let them get him to the hospital,” I said.

  “Is there any next of kin?” the older man asked as he scanned the crowd. I saw his eyes grow wide as he took in the cloaks and hoods, the cauldron and altar.

  Several people shook their heads, and turned to Diana.

  “No, I’m the closest thing he’s got to family.” Her voice broke, and she rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. Rafe Godwin was Diana’s father’s oldest friend. He’d been like an uncle to her and her brother growing up, and a source of support after their parents died.

  The younger EMT had shuffled closer to his partner and scanned the crowd as if he were a rabbit who had stumbled into a fox den.

  “What’s going on here?” the older one asked.

  “It’s part of the Fall Fun Fest,” I said. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Clyde Fortune, and this is one of the scheduled activities.”

  He took my hand in a warm grip. They both relaxed at this—festivalgoers were apparently less threatening than free-range witches.

  After they lifted Rafe onto the stretcher, a couple of the men in the group stepped forward to help carry it. We filed out of the clearing after them, making a procession of dark-robed figures through the woods.

  3

  The next day, the crisp, clear November air held just a threat of the winter to come. It brought back my best memories of growing up in Western Michigan, spending time in the woods, and it was a welcomed feeling after experiencing last night’s tragedy there. I closed my eyes to let the sweet, sharp smell of the fallen leaves block out all other sens
ations. The midnight ceremony was meant to kick off the weekend Fall Fun Fest. So far, the great weather and promise of good food had overshadowed the pall of a death in the woods. I was helping Diana at her vendor’s stall, which was doing a brisk business selling everything from herbs to jewelry. When I’d driven her home the night before, I’d offered to cover for her that morning, but she’d insisted she would feel better if she stayed busy. As the organizer of the Fall Fun Fest, she said she would go crazy sitting at home wondering if there was anything she should be doing. I’d learned over the years that arguing with Diana when her mind was set led nowhere.

  Diana owned Moonward Magick, the busiest Wiccan supply store in the area. She had also worked from mid-August to set up the Fall Fun Fest. In past years it had been held in Grand Rapids but the organizer was getting older and had health issues. Diana had been talked into running it this year and decided to move it to Greer’s Woods outside of Crystal Haven. I wondered if this would be her first and last time organizing it. Based on the muttering and swearing that had occurred since early September, I was glad she didn’t believe in curses.

  Everyone was talking about the sudden death at the ceremony. The stories I overheard in the crowd varied widely, from seizure, to heart attack, to spirit possession. The one thing they all agreed on was that Rafe and Diana had always been close, and that she had tried to save him. I saw that she was wearing her mother’s rose quartz pendant. She only wore it when she was stressed or upset, but her warm and caring manner with her customers gave no indication of her feelings.

  She refused all questions about the death, and would not engage in any conversation that wasn’t directly related to her business or the festival. She was a master at putting off an emotional outburst until the appropriate time, unlike me. I was a master at putting off emotional outbursts forever. I could tell it was depleting her energy.

  “What’s good around this place?” I stiffened as a familiar voice floated through the crowd.