Chapter 1The reason I don’t normally bother to plan my schedule is that something unexpected always seems to come up and throw it off. That Friday when I got kidnapped was a prime example.
It was only four days after I’d almost been incinerated and drowned, but I was hopeful that I could balance my new life as a witch with my old life as a pastry chef. I’d accepted a commission— my first ever—from an accountant who donates her time to the Texas Friends of Fish and Fowl. As a celebration of their third anniversary, they were holding a regional fund-raiser in Duvall, and the centerpiece was to be a chocolate sculpture designed by yours truly. They wanted it to involve birds and fish, which was a bit of a challenge to my creativity because although fish are tasty—as anything but dessert—I just don’t see them as art.
I was hard at work on a woodland scene with fish popping out of a brook when the bells chimed, announcing that someone had opened the front door to Cookie’s Bakery. I glanced at the clock. It was twelve twenty, so Cookie hadn’t returned from her lunch break yet. In the bargain we’d struck, Cookie would let me use the bakery, if I covered her lunch hour and one Saturday.
I wiped my hands on a rag and walked out to the glass counter to find my mailman, George. Technically he’s not mine. He belongs to the town, but he’s delivered the mail to our house since I was five, and his route always seems to be expanding. Truth be told, George would like to be the only mailman in town. He considers postal work a calling.
“Hey, George. Are you in the mood for a cinnamon roll or a caramel pecan one?” I asked with a smile.
His bushy silver eyebrows rose. If a hedgehog ever mated with a hobbit, George could’ve had a twin. “I’m not on a break, Tammy Jo. I’m here on official postal business.”
I smiled a little wider. “Okay, then. I’ll take the bakery mail,” I said, holding out my hand.
“No need,” he said, rounding the counter to set the mail into Cookie’s straw mail basket. That was George. Mail delivery with military precision.
“All right, have a good day on your route,” I said, moving toward the back.
“Just a moment, young lady.”
“Yes?” I said, turning to face him again.
“We’ve got to discuss the situation at your house.”
I frowned, thinking about our family home, which had sustained fire damage and was under repair. I was staying at my ex-husband Zach Sutton’s house while he was out of town. I’d had my mail forwarded there. “Well, the situation at my house is being handled. Between TJ’s construction crew and Stucky’s brother-in-law, Chuy Vargas, who’s the best carpenter in a hundred miles, they’ll put it to rights. Chuy did the built-in bookshelves at Bryn Lyons’s house, and I can tell you firsthand, he does the most beautiful work you’ve ever seen.”
“That may be the case, but that still doesn’t address the situation I’m talking about.”
“I had my mail forwarded, George. Filled out all the paperwork two days ago, and the mail already came yesterday. You guys are a top-notch operation.”
George rattled off Zach’s address with a frown.
“Right, that’s where I’m staying.”
“It’s not on my route.”
My jaw dropped a little. “Right, but I’m not moving off your route permanently. It’s just until my house is fixed.”
“Shoreside is on my route. Highest tax bracket in Duvall, and I’m on that route by request. I believe you could stay there if you wanted to.”
“I can’t move in with Bryn Lyons just so you can deliver my mail!”
“You’ve got a package all the way from London, England. Airmail. Express with insurance attached. You going to trust something of that nature to the likes of Jeffrey Fritz?”
“I’ve got a package from England?” I asked, half amused that George couldn’t stand for a high-priority package to be delivered by his rival. “I haven’t ordered anything. And I don’t know anyone there.”
“International mail,” George said with a solemn nod.
“Sounds important. Do you happen to have it on your truck?”
“In my bag,” George said in a grave whisper, as if the package contained state secrets that spies in foreign countries had lost their lives to bring us.
“Well, that sure is convenient. Do I need to sign for it?”
“No. I’ve got my computer. I’ll take care of everything,” he said. He took out the small package and scanned its label, then handed it over. “Zach Sutton’s mailbox isn’t large enough to hold that.”
“George, how did you know I’d be here today? I didn’t arrange with Miss Cookie to use the bakery until last night. I can’t imagine who even knew I’d be here.”
“You’re part of my route,” George said crisply.
I laughed and couldn’t help wondering whether George might have one of the town ghosts as some sort of spirit guide. No one was better informed than the Duvall ghost network.
With his sworn duty fulfilled, George marched out of the bakery, head held high.
I took a pair of scissors and carefully opened the box. There was a double layer of bubble plastic, which I unfolded to fi nd a disc-shaped object, heavily wrapped in white foam packing sheets, making it about three inches in diameter. I raised it. Concealed underneath was a folded piece of thick stationery. I lifted the corner to read the note.
Never let it be taken from you. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
A chill ran down my spine. I turned the paper over. No signature. Nothing written on it besides the three sentences in fancy black script.
I flipped up the box flap to look at the label. No return address. I set the note down carefully and returned to the mystery object. I pulled off the tape and slowly unrolled it. Peeling away layer after layer, I finally uncovered a beautiful antique cameo brooch. It was about two inches tall. The carved white image of a young woman’s profile stood out from the pinkish-red background. There were flowers tucked into her upswept hair, and she had delicate features, angelic and pretty. The oval rim of the brooch was laced in gold and dotted with the tiniest pearls I’d ever seen. So many precious details. It made me feel like factory-manufactured jewelry ought to be outlawed.
Could Momma or Aunt Melanie have sent it? If so, why hadn’t they written a longer message? And why would they be in England? Or, if it wasn’t from them, who else in the world would have sent it to me?
I reached down to touch it, and a jolt of electricity shot up my arm. My brain seemed to rattle in my skull for a moment and then my vision blurred, the bakery receding.
I staggered, blindly catching myself on the counter just as she appeared. A woman with thick chestnut hair and high cheekbones. Her disheveled clothes, a blouse and skirt, flared out as she ran. I heard her panting breath, the clicking of her heels, and I smelled damp, rain-soaked streets. The haunted look in her wide eyes made my heart contract, and her fear consumed me. I reached out to her, to rescue her, but she went past me and disappeared.
I stood, staring at the spot where she’d been, but there was only black. Trying to catch my breath, I sank shakily to the floor.
Who is she?
The darkness faded, and the bakery reappeared around me. The smell of melted chocolate and baking bread. The ticking of the wall clock that was shaped like a country apron. I shook myself. I was safe at home in Duvall. The girl had been part of a premonition—my first ever. Were they always like that? Yikes. I hoped not.
And who or what had been chasing her? She’d been terrified, running as if her life depended on it. I’d felt what she was feeling. I wasn’t sure if that was normal with psychic visions or not, but it didn’t really matter. Only one thing was important; I had to find out who she was so I could save her from whoever or whatever was chasing her.
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