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  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Other Mysteries by Heather Blake

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Excerpt from GONE WITH THE WITCH

  PRAISE FOR THE MAGIC POTION MYSTERIES

  One Potion in the Grave

  “Blake is unstoppable! She crafts a story that pulls readers into the book. . . . The characters are so real and the situations so well written that readers will have a hard time putting this book down.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, top pick)

  “The delight in reading the novels by Heather Blake stems from the characters she creates.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “A great new series. . . . Blake seems to have hit her stride with this one, and I look forward to seeing what happens in Hitching Post next.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  “A brilliantly executed and finely tuned tale that enthralled me from beginning to end . . . a delightfully engaging, entertaining, enchanted story that will lift your spirits and leave you smiling.”

  —Dru’s Book Musings

  “Blake’s writing makes it hard to put the book down. Filled with interesting characters and the main endearing heroine, Hitching Post, Alabama, is one crazy town filled with heart.”

  —Lily Pond Reads

  “I loved every minute of reading this book. When a mystery novel can transport me to another place and put me right in the midst of the drama and have me rooting for my favorite characters while trying to puzzle out the clues from the red herrings, I am one happy reader.”

  —MyShelf.com

  A Potion to Die For

  “What Heather Blake always achieves so skillfully, both in this debut series and in her Wishcraft Mystery series, is the creation of a complete mythology for her paranormal world. . . . The relationships between characters are developed realistically, and the romantic elements are never forced, making this an intriguing novel with a satisfying mix of mystery and the paranormal.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Heather Blake’s books are always favorites of mine, filled with magic, mystery, and romance, so . . . twists and turns, secrets and lies abound, but all of the loose ends fall into place when the surprising revelation of the killer is made.”

  —Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows

  “Blake does it again with the debut of another great paranormal mystery series. As witch Carly tries to prove herself innocent of murder, a shocking turn of events makes readers tear through the pages to find out the real story. This reviewer can’t wait for more fun from this talented author.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Heather Blake once again thrills readers. . . . Carly Bell Hartwell is a great heroine. . . . The ending was a surprise, though reading a good book from Heather Blake never is. She is one of the best paranormal cozy writers around, and you’ll not want to miss the beginning of this new adventure.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  PRAISE FOR HEATHER BLAKE’S WISHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES

  “An enchanting and thoroughly likable sleuth.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Denise Swanson

  “Magic and murder . . . what could be better? It’s exactly the book you’ve been wishing for!”

  —Casey Daniels, author of Supernatural Born Killers

  “Blake successfully blends crime, magic, romance, and self-discovery in her lively debut. . . . Fans of paranormal cozies will look forward to the sequel.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Wow! Ms. Blake has taken the paranormal mystery to a whole new fun yet intriguing level. . . . This story is . . . mysterious, whimsical, [and] delightful. . . . Heather Blake makes it work!”

  —Once Upon a Romance

  “Heather Blake has created a wonderful new spin on witches in Salem that is both lighthearted and serious. An all-around wonderful read.”

  —The Hive

  “Heather Blake casts a spell on her audience.”

  —The Mystery Gazette

  “A good quick, breezy read.”

  —Pagan Newswire Collective

  “This stellar standout series debut has set the bar. High. Extremely high! . . . Wickedly delicious.”

  —Blogcritics

  Other Mysteries by Heather Blake

  The Magic Potion Mystery Series

  Book 1: A Potion to Die For

  Book 2: One Potion in the Grave

  The Wishcraft Mystery Series

  Book 1: It Takes a Witch

  Book 2: A Witch Before Dying

  Book 3: The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy

  Book 4: The Goodbye Witch

  Book 5: Some Like It Witchy

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Heather Webber, 2015

  Penguin Random House 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 Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  ISBN 978-1-101-59367-7

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  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

  Contents

  Praise

  Other Mysteries by Heather Blake

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ch
apter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Excerpt from Gone with the Witch

  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.”

  Poor Daddy. I reckoned she hadn’t minded a whit about his being a man before this Harpies madness started up.

  The Hitching Post Restoration and Preservation Society, the Harpies for short, was a small group of five influential townsfolk, who were well-known for their successful fund-raisers, restoration projects, and elitism. Primarily consisting of uppity women, it had taken twenty years for them to admit the first man into their folds—Haywood Dodd had joined six months ago. And if the rumors were to be believed, he had been allowed into the group only because of his relationship with Hyacinth Foster, the long – standing president of the Harpies who, despite being an off-the-charts philanthropist, was more well-known for having buried three husbands. There were whispers around town about her being some sort of Black Widow, but no one had ever dared to out-and-out accuse her of wrongdoing.

  If Haywood had heard the whispers, he paid them no heed. He was head over heels for her.

  Hay and Hy. The cuteness factor was enough to make me a little nauseous.

  In addition, gossip had been circulating all week about a big announcement Haywood planned to make at tonight’s event. Speculation ranged between his popping the question to Hyacinth in front of God and everyone to announcing his resignation from the group.

  Admittedly, I was quite curious about it myself, as Haywood was rather shy and not one to seek a spotlight. It had to be something really big. Enormous. And I wanted to know what.

  I was nothing if not nosy.

  All I knew was that the announcement was giving him anxiety, as he’d come in earlier for a calming potion. I’d tried to wheedle information from him, but he hadn’t given me so much as a hint to go on. He had just kept saying, “You’ll find out tonight.”

  Running low on air, Mama sucked in a breath and started on me again. “As you darn well know, tonight’s masquerade ball is an audition of sorts to see how your daddy fits in, and how’s it going to look if you don’t attend to support him? His only child! His flesh and blood! I’ll tell you how it’ll look. Bad. Horrible. A slap in the face of all that is good and righteous!”

  My mama was in quite the tizzy, and Veronica “Rona” Fowl in a tizzy was quite entertaining, let me tell you.

  But no matter how fiercely she tried to spin it, I knew this was all her idea. She was jumping through these Harpie hoops for one reason and one reason only.

  Daddy was driving her batty.

  Ever since his hours had been slashed at the public library, he’d been a bored, mopey mess of a man, and my mama was ready to sell his soul to get him out of her hair.

  She’d filled out all the Harpie paperwork and forced Daddy to fork over an enormous donation to the Ezekiel mansion’s restoration fund . . . and browbeat him until he made one in my name, too.

  It was the only reason I’d been invited to the masquerade ball, which was being held to celebrate the recent completion of the project. All donors were expected to attend. Otherwise, my name would not have made the cut on the invitation list due to my contentious relationship with the vice president of the Harpies.

  Patricia Davis Jackson, the most uppity of them all.

  Oh, fine. I suppose she had the teensiest bit of a soft side. After all, her nearest and dearest called her PJ—and had done so since she married Harris Jackson at age twenty-two, when she was fresh out of college.

  I called her Patricia Davis Jackson.

  Or plain ol’ Patricia.

  Or the Face of Evil.

  It was a toss-up most days.

  She’d almost become my mother-in-law (twice), and we had a long history of hating each other. I’d once poked her in her butt with a pitchfork, and she’d retaliated by ruining my first attempt to marry her son, Dylan Jackson, and had played a big role in the fiery failure of the second marriage try, too.

&n
bsp; My mama knew all this, which spoke volumes about her desperation for my father to find a hobby.

  “You know how I feel about the Harpies,” I said.

  “Carly, this isn’t about you. It’s about your daddy. And you know very well that you don’t have issues with all the Harpies. Only one. You can suck it up for one night, buttercup.”

  Her sympathy was heartwarming.

  But she was right about my feelings for the group. As stodgy as the Harpies might be, their work was quite beneficial to the community, as evidenced by the refurbishment of the historical Civil War–era Ezekiel mansion. Before they’d gotten their hands on the place, it had been destined for collapse one crumbly brick at a time. Now it was a showpiece.

  Patricia Davis Jackson made my blood boil, however, and I couldn’t easily overlook that fact. “She is enough.”

  After our second failed attempt at getting married, Dylan and I had split up. He’d moved away, and I was left trying to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

  I vowed revenge on Patricia, but hadn’t been able to come up with a good plan to bring her down a notch that wouldn’t send me to jail. I’d been arrested once before (I was cleared of all charges, I swear!), and I didn’t care to go through that again.

  In the end, it was fate that had delivered the ultimate comeuppance to Patricia. Eight months ago, Dylan had come back to Hitching Post, and this past summer we’d rekindled our relationship.

  Patricia had been beside herself when she found out. And she was still beside herself now, three months later.

  Bless her heart.

  After dropping the cardboard box that the potion bottles had been delivered in onto the floor, I then gave it a gentle kick, sending it sliding to the center of the room. Like a mythological siren that called to unsuspecting sailors, it took only a second for the box’s enchantment to awaken two of the laziest creatures on Earth from their slumber.

  Roly and Poly, my fluffy gray and white cats, raced to investigate this new and exciting addition to the shop, slipping and sliding and tumbling over each other to be the first to lay claim. Poly, with his considerable girth, never stood a chance at winning that contest. Slender Roly leaped into the box and immediately flopped on her back to roll about in ecstasy. Never one to be left out, Poly plopped in next to her, and I lowered the top flaps of their new fort. They’d be occupied for hours.