Potions Are For Pushovers

Book 2: Eleanor Wilde Mystery

by Tamara Berry

Genres: Female Sleuths; Cozy Mystery; Private Investigators

Synopsis

Selling mystical elixirs and tantalizing tonics is a pretty good way for a fake medium to earn a living. Or at least it's Ellie's main source of income—until a villager turns up dead. The cause? Murder by poisoning. And though Ellie's concoctions don't include anything worthy of a skull and crossbones, suddenly she's the prime suspect. Her only recourse is to find the culprit who did do away with Sarah Blackthorne. No one liked the mean old battle-axe. But did anyone hate her enough to kill her?

It's enough of a mystery to make Ellie hang up her witch's hat and take millionaire beau Nicholas Hartford up on his offer to keep her afloat. Except Ellie is not the kind of woman to lean on a man—least of all a man she adores but whose place in her life is uncertain. Besides, Ellie's taken on two young witches-in-training—apprentices if you will—and both of them are convinced a werewolf is the murderer.

Just as Ellie's wondering if there really is something otherworldly going on, animals suddenly begin to disappear—including her beloved cat, Beast. Now Ellie's on the warpath to uncover the wicked truth about the people and the place she's only just begun to call home . . .

Release date: November 26, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Is the cat part of the ritual?” The tall, gaunt man taps his fingertips on the mantelpiece, uneasily eyeing the sleek black feline at his feet. “It keeps looking at me. Why does it keep looking at me?”

“She won’t cause you any harm, Mr. Worthington,” I reply, though I, too, have a habit of treading warily where that animal is concerned. For reasons known only to herself, my cat refuses to leave the room whenever I receive a visit from a client. Like a brothel madam overseeing her domain, Beast—as I’ve aptly named the creature—won’t leave until payment is secure and services are rendered. “Her presence merely seals what is already strengthened between us. Did you bring the money?”

Mr. Worthington pats his breast pocket. “Small, unmarked bills, as you asked.”

I nod once. Small, unmarked bills are my favorite kind. A little bulky to carry around, yes, and a pain when trying to buy anything bigger than a breadbox, but I find them essential for daily living. Not even Inspector Peter Piper, the village watchdog and my ever-attentive nemesis, can raise a hue and cry if I stop by the grocer’s with a purse full of five-pound notes.

With a careful glance at Beast, who has moved to position herself in the doorway to the kitchen, I reach under my couch and extract a small wooden box scratched all over with cryptic markings. Even I don’t know what they mean, so you can imagine the effect they have on my visitor.

“What’s that?” he asks, his voice wavering.

I place the box on the coffee table and push it toward him. “You asked for the most powerful elixir I can make. This is it.”

Intrigued despite himself, Mr. Worthington leans forward and examines the box. He’s careful not to touch it, though. Glancing up at me, he breathes, “And this will do it? If I drink it, she’ll come back to me? Forever?”

I nod. “Forever.”

“When should I do it?”

Considering I’d already cornered his beloved and locked her up while he went on a fruitless errand to plant a handful of flax seeds at the evergreen crossroads, I’d prefer it if he drank the tonic sooner rather than later.

I gesture at the box and begin a low, humming chant that amounts to the Latin version of Annie’s “Tomorrow.” “Cras cras cras te amo,” I say.

Mr. Worthington’s dark, watery eyes fly open. He makes as if to flee from the room, but Beast is sitting perfectly still, blocking the kitchen as she watches the proceedings. Since I’m closer to the front door than he is, my nervous guest is trapped. I nudge the box one last time.

Reluctantly, he lifts the box as if he expects it to burst into flames at the least provocation, then slides it open to reveal a vial of purple-red liquid nestled in a bed of straw. The liquid is composed of vanilla, sage, cinnamon, and a hint of boiled beets for color. It doesn’t taste great—the sage overpowers what might otherwise be quite tasty—but it won’t hurt him any.

“Tu tantum diem,” I continue, accidentally slipping into the song’s catchy beat. At this, Mr. Worthington shoots me a slightly suspicious look, but he lifts the bottle to his lips and, after a tentative recoil, kicks it back.

He pauses, as if waiting for something miraculous to happen. I mentally will Beast to indulge us with a well-timed meow or even a haughty twitch of her whiskers, but she doesn’t move. Stupid cat. The next time I unwittingly adopt a witch’s familiar, I’m getting a dog. A sweet, cuddly, highly trainable dog.

“That’s it?” he asks, disappointment drooping the corners of his mouth. “I thought it would feel different.”

I place a hand to my temple, which anyone who’s used one of my potions before would recognize as a signature move. “Don’t be surprised if you and your Regina are restless for a few days. That’s the natural side effect of the binding spell taking hold.”

“Restless, yes.” He looks down at his hands, which are showing a psychosomatic tendency to twitch already. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Only this, Mr. Worthington. You’d better take good care of her from now on. Provide her with extra love, lavish her with extra attention.” My voice picks up a hard note, and I stare at him until he’s forced to blink in return. “A spell like this can only work if your intentions and your actions remain pure. If you mistreat Regina in any way, she could fight the spell. It won’t break—it’s much too powerful for that—but it may turn darker and more sinister than even I can control.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.” He can’t drop the box or the empty vial fast enough after that. After a few muttered promises to provide all the love and care Regina requires, he places the envelope of money on the table and beats a hasty retreat. He tries to leave the way he came in, through the back kitchen door, but Beast still blocks the way. The front door is the only way to go.

Since my cottage is located on a remote road between a bona fide English castle and the small village I’ve only recently begun to call home, there’s little chance of him running into anyone he knows. Still, he casts a suspicious look in either direction before dashing out the door and down the lane, determined to put as much distance between us as possible.

“All this trouble for a runaway pig,” I mutter, standing in the doorway as I watch him go. “He could have saved himself a lot of time and effort if he’d just fixed the fence himself.”

Not that I blame him too much. That fence had been broken in three places. It took me almost as many hours to repair it.

Mr. Worthington’s feet leave a trail through the mud-soaked earth, but I’m sure it’ll be washed away by the rain before the hour is up. I’d been warned that springtime in Sussex was a wet affair, but nothing could have prepared me for just how damp everything would get—or how poorly an ancient thatch roof would stand up to it.

“Well, that’s one more satisfied customer.” I shut the front door and sag against it. When I’d envisioned my life in a quaint English village, I’d pictured long, drowsy days under handmade quilts and cups of tea by the bucketful. Although it’s true that I’ve consumed more caffeine than is wise under current health guidelines, sleep hasn’t been as forthcoming as I’d hoped.

And not just because of the stream of foot traffic at my back door, those hesitant knocks and wringing hands, the whispered requests for health, money, affection, love. No, it’s the other thing that keeps me lying awake at night.

Nighttime is usually when my sister, Winnie, visits me.

My dead sister, I should say.

A not-so-hesitant knock at that same back door almost causes me to jump out of my skin, a tiny scream emitting from my lips. Beast casts a disdainful look at my cowardice, but I ignore her. If I took to heart the judgment of every creature—living or dead—around here, I’d be crying into that bucket of tea right now.

Lifting a hand to my head, I make a quick adjustment to my ornate coil of braids. I also check my reflection in the paned glass to make sure my blood-red lipstick is still intact. One of the most difficult parts of being the resident psychic-cum-village-witch is that I always have to be “on.”

“Enter,” I call in a voice I hope is deep and mysterious. It needs to be both for me to effectively sell my trade around here. The quaint cottage I call home doesn’t exactly exude mysticism, since it’s all cheerful calico and farmhouse chic, complete with an AGA stove taking up most of the kitchen.

Still, I like it. It’s cozy. And since the previous owner had to sell in a hurry, I got a great deal on the purchase price.

“Oh, good. You’re home.” The door flies open to reveal a beautiful young woman so layered up under her raincoat that she barely fits through the door. As soon as she crosses the threshold, she starts shedding those layers, unwinding scarves and shrugging out of sweaters. “Your house is always so hot, Ellie. How can you stand it?”

“Hello, Rachel.” I lean forward and accept the girl’s hug. Her tawny hair tickles my nose, the light scent of my signature lavender water not far behind. “I see you’re wearing the attraction elixir. How’s it working?”

“Like rubbish,” she says and laughs so merrily I can’t take offense. “Not a single boy asked me on a date all week. But I sold three bottles to the other girls at the art gallery. Are you sure you did the spell right this time?”

I heave a sigh. “I danced naked under the full moon for two hours. If that didn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will.”

“Perhaps four hours are required. I’d be happy to help next time.” The other voice that appears at my back door is just as familiar as Rachel’s. It also causes another tiny scream to leave my lips.

“Nicholas!” I cry and launch myself into his arms. “You’re home early!”

My reward for such an unbridled show of enthusiasm is to be lifted up off my feet and soundly kissed. I’m never sure how appropriate it is to use tongue while in the presence of a man’s niece, so I pull away before our embrace becomes unseemly.

I might be the village witch, but I’m also a lady.

“Why is it that the naked moonlight dancing always seems to take place while I’m away?” Nicholas murmurs as he sets me back on my feet. “Just once, I’d like to witness this particular ceremony for myself.”

“Alas, you can’t,” I say in the same mock serious tone as his. “It’s a sacred ritual conducted between me and the lunar goddess.”

“Pity. The lunar goddess has all the luck.”

I don’t allow myself to be cast into too much alt at this comment. Although the great Nicholas Hartford III’s work means he’s rarely around when one wants him, I’ve been seeing him long enough to know that it’s never a good idea to take him at his word. He sounds solemn, yes. He looks solemn, too, what with his dark suit and tie, his well-lined face drawn into an expression of inscrutability. Even his eyes are a steely, impenetrable gray. But woe to the woman who assumes there’s anything trustworthy about that deadpan exterior. No one commits to irony quite like him.

“If you’re not here to sing my elixir’s praises, to what do I owe this honor?” I ask.

Aware by now that anyone living at Castle Hartford is sadly undernourished, I unwrap a plate of sandwiches and place them in front of Rachel. My neighbors might be wealthier than the rest of the entire village combined, but they’re not known for serving haute cuisine. Or any cuisine, really. Rachel barely waits until Nicholas and I join her at the table before digging in.

Around a mouthful of chicken salad, she says, “Grandmother sent me. She’s supposed to help plan this year’s spring fête, but the first meeting is tonight. She can’t make it.”

I blink first at Rachel, and then at Nicholas. “Um, okay. Are you taking her place?”

Rachel laughs. “Are you joking? Sitting around with all the village biddies, discussing how many tea cozies we need to knit this year? I’d rather be dead.”

Catching Nicholas’s gaze and all the meaning contained within it, she sobers. There’s already been enough death around this place—and in their lives—to make the topic a sensitive one.

“What I mean is, it’s not my style.” She swallows a bite of her sandwich and turns a pair of pleading, violet eyes my way. A striking girl even without the purple-tinted irises, that extra bit of color makes her downright gorgeous. “Besides, I’m busy with my new internship at the gallery in London—I’m up to three mornings a week now. And Uncle Nicholas is always flitting around for work, so Grandmother thought perhaps you’d like to go instead.”

“A family emissary of sorts?” Nicholas suggests dryly.

A smile brightens Rachel’s face. “That’s it! Seeing as how Ellie is one of us now.”

“The last time I checked, my name was still Eleanor Wilde,” I say, repressing a strong urge to laugh. This family can’t even volunteer for a local tradition without turning it into a battle of strong wills. “Not Hartford.”

“Well, obviously, but everyone knows Uncle Nicholas is nutty on you. Well, you are, Uncle Nicholas, so it’s no use looking at me like that. Besides, they don’t actually care which one of us is there, just as long as someone goes. They’ll be glad to have you.”

Her words are kind, but not a single one of us believes them to be true. I’ve only lived in the village for a few months, but one would hardly call my welcome a warm one. Invitations to parties haven’t exactly been forthcoming, and the stream of clients to my back door is really more of a trickle.

But, “If it’s important to Vivian, of course I’ll do it,” I say. I made the decision to move here and embrace the full pastoral lifestyle—adopted cats and leaking thatch roofs and all—and I intend to stick to it. “But I can’t knit, and I doubt they’ll want me to be in charge of making the punch.”

The relief that moves over Rachel’s face wipes a good half a decade off her already young eighteen years. “Oh, you don’t have to do anything but raise your hand when they call for a vote and praise Mrs. Cherrycove’s biscuits when they’re passed around. But no matter how hungry you are, don’t eat them. Grandmother chipped two teeth last year.”

Her errand thus discharged and most of my sandwiches in her stomach, Rachel rises from the table with a bright smile. “You’ll have to leave in ten minutes if you want to make it on time. Uncle Nicholas can walk you.” She waggles her fingers in farewell and heads toward the back door. She pauses long enough to call over her shoulder, “I’ll just leave this open, shall I? We wouldn’t want you to be late to your meeting.”

“You Hartfords,” I mutter, rising to shut—and lock—the door behind her. “All alike, commanding every situation to suit your own needs and then making it look like you’re doing me a favor. She gets that from you.”

Nicholas watches me from his seat at the table, a smile playing on the edge of his lips. “You don’t have to go. It would serve my mother right for sending Rachel to do her dirty work.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. Not really. It’ll be a good opportunity—I need to drum up some more business if I want to pay the gas bill next month.”

Nicholas opens his mouth to speak, but I forestall him with a glare and a shake of my head. “Don’t say anything. That was an exaggeration. I’m fine.”

“It does seem a pity for all that space in the castle to go to waste.”

I cross my arms and glare harder. “I like it here, thanks.”

“And my mother is always saying how much she misses having you around.”

“I had tea with her last week, and she literally told me how much better she likes me when she doesn’t have to see me every day.”

He chuckles obligingly, but his expression is one of painful—and rare—earnestness. “You’ll tell me if that changes? I mean it, Eleanor. After everything you’ve done for the family, offering you sanctuary is the least I can do.”

The sanctuary he’s speaking of is both literal and metaphorical. Literal, because he would gladly coerce his poor mother into having me as a permanent houseguest up at Castle Hartford despite her protestations. Metaphorical, because all it would take is a few firmly worded hints, and every home in the county would fling its doors open to me.

In a way, I suppose it could be considered a bonus—an extra payment for the job I did last year removing a ghost from his home. Nicholas Hartford III had little idea what he was getting into when he hired me to travel from New York to England and rid his castle of its restless undead, but there’s no denying I accomplished what I set out to do . . . even if his ghost did end up being nothing more than your usual, garden-variety murderer.

I had little idea what I was getting into, either, especially since I’ve given up my wandering lifestyle for a taste of something more sedate. Not too much more sedate, obviously, but there’s no denying that my life has undergone a drastic change. I’m no longer Madame Eleanor Wilde, spiritual medium dedicated to eliminating the world of its phantasmagoric plagues. Now I’m just a potion-pushing village eccentric everyone is a little wary of during the full moon.

It’s not a bad change. Just new. I’m not used to permanence.

I am, however, used to taking care of myself—a thing I intend to continue even without the inordinate ghost-exorcising fees to support me in the manner to which I’m accustomed.

“I’ll have you know that business has been booming lately.” I give a haughty toss of my head. “In fact, I helped Mr. Worthington tame his runaway pig today. They’re bound body and soul now.”

Nicholas laughs, the harsh lines of his face relaxing into their usual calm. “Regina? Impossible. That animal has been escaping her pen for years. Nothing short of chains will keep her in one place.”

“Nonsense. She needed a sedentary spell, that’s all.”

“You fixed the fence, didn’t you?”

When I don’t reply, Nicholas laughs again. He also glances at his watch and rises to his feet. I can read his elegant body language well enough to accept that however glad he is to see me, we’ll need to get going if I’m going to make it to the fête planning committee on time. Punctuality is bred into his uptight British soul.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you’ve just committed yourself to a lifetime of fence repair,” he says. “Everyone around here knows she eats through the posts.”

I halt in the middle of wrapping myself up in a warm woolen shawl. “She what?”

“Bites through them like they’re butter. My poor Eleanor.”

He leans forward and presses a kiss on my forehead, but I push him away. I’m not fooled by that romantic gesture. He’s mocking me. “You laugh now, but how will you feel when the whole village knows I’m a fraud?”

“My dear girl, I’ve been telling them that for months.” He adjusts the shawl, his hands lingering reverentially on my shoulders. “Maybe now they’ll finally start to believe me.”

I’ve lived here long enough to know that any community event, from AA meetings to CPR classes, will be held at the large, imposing stone church in the village square.

My first few visits to those hallowed walls brought a quake to my knees, since I wasn’t sure how the church would react to a woman who makes a living as a traveling medium and then decides that practicing witchcraft offers better long-term stability. However, I’ve since come to look at that ancient Anglican structure as home.

Strange, I know. But my entire life is nothing if not a testament to the weird and wonderful.

“Ellie! How good to see you!” Annis, the vicar and one of my dearest friends, is standing in the church antechamber when we arrive. She wraps her arms around me in a hug and holds me in place much longer than a fête committee meeting necessitates.

I like it, though. There’s something about that short, round, sunny woman that makes me feel as if everything is going to be okay.

“And Nicholas.” Annis pulls away and makes to embrace the great Nicholas Hartford III with the same loving ebullience. “Don’t tell me you’re coming to help plan the festivities. The last time anyone saw you inside this place . . .”

Nicholas accepts Annis’s hug with complaisance but shakes his head at the rest of her greeting. “I’m here merely as convoy. My mother regrets that she’ll be unable to participate this year, so she’s sending Eleanor in her stead.”

Since Annis has known the Hartfords from her cradle, she’s not fooled by this formal speech. “Oh, dear. What did they do to force this on you, Ellie?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’ve always believed myself to be a woman of fierce independence, but ever since I met this sorry lot, I find myself doing the exact opposite of what I intend.”

“Alas, it’s part of their charm. Come in, come in. Everyone is gathered in the basement. I’ll keep the doors open for five more minutes, and then we’ll get started.”

Although I’ve become inured to the fact that I’m now friends with a vicar, I haven’t yet grown accustomed to performing public displays of affection in front of one. I restrict myself to smiling up at Nicholas and saying good-bye.

He suffers no such qualms and leans down to press a kiss on my cheek, his telltale scent of bergamot wafting over me. “I’ll be back at nine to walk you home.”

It’s a sweet gesture—if slightly archaic—but I decline. “Thank you, but there’s no need. I have one or two things to do around the village afterward.”

One of Nicholas’s heavy brows comes up. “Fence repair, perhaps?”

“Very funny,” I mutter. And, because checking on Mr. Worthington’s pig is precisely what I intend to do, I point a warning finger at him. “For your insolence, I bring a pox down upon your household.”

“Excellent. Should I expect something along the lines of chickenpox, or are you going full smallpox?”

“Chicken, of course. I’m not a monster.”

This kind of exchange is one we often share. Nicholas believes in magic, mediums, and mysticism even less than I do—in fact, it’s what drew him to me in the first place. Although my worldview has shifted since our initial meeting, and while I’ve come to learn that there are many things about our universe that defy rational explanation, he remains steadfastly disbelieving.

Considering what he went through this past winter, I can understand the chip-sized burden he carries on his shoulders. It took me a long time to come to terms with the loss of my sister and believe in the miraculous again. I’m not going to rush him.

Unfortunately, our playful exchange is witnessed by one of the more respectable families in the village. Standing a few feet away are Mr. and Dr. MacDougal, the local schoolmaster and family physician, respectively, along with their preteen daughter. They take one look at me cursing Nicholas’s entire household and give us a wide berth as they enter the church doors. Annis flashes me an amused look and goes to greet them with her calm, friendly air, but the damage has already been done.

“Now look what you made me do,” I say irritably. “All my credibility is gone, and the meeting hasn’t even started yet.”

“Don’t be absurd. You never had any credibility to begin with.”

Though true, it’s not very gentlemanly of him to say so, so I send him off with a glare. He makes no mention of when he’ll see me again, but it doesn’t bother me—at least, not much. Our arrangement is that we have no arrangement. I’m living in his home village because I like the setting and the people. He comes and goes as his work and family demands dictate. We’re nothing more than ships passing in the night. Ships that occasionally share waters, yes, but all attempts at defining our romantic entanglement stop there.

It has to. Women in my profession can’t afford stability. An air of mystique is our most valuable asset.

Familiar with the church’s layout, I make my way past the rows of heavy wooden pews toward the basement. Like many of the structures around here, the lower level is the most modern one, updated from the dark, dank hold of centuries past to display fluorescent lighting and high-traffic beige carpet. The scent of percolating coffee assails my nose as I walk in to find about a dozen local residents settling into a ring of folding chairs. Some of the women have brought knitting with them; others sit chatting as they wait for the meeting to start.

After grabbing a paper cup of coffee and stirring enough sugar and cream in to dilute the burned taste, I decide to sit between the gently snoring General von Cleve, who can be trusted not to recognize me even though we’ve met several times before, and Mrs. Brennigan, a fifty-something woman with brindled hair who’s one of my regulars.

“Oh, Madame Eleanor!” she cries, shifting her chair over to make room for me. She bears the lightly floral scent of my lavender water. She’s also glowing with the kind of vitality that can only come from regular visits to the marriage bed. I hate to boast of my own success, but there’s no denying she looks, well, happy. “I had no idea you were interested in village affairs. Isn’t this a little . . . tame for someone like you?”

. . .