Witch Way to Murder (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 4) Read online

  Witch Way to Murder

  (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 4)

  by

  Karen Chester

  Event planner Emma Cassidy moves into a cottage in the woods, where she soon discovers her new neighbor Isadora is more than just an herbalist, but also a self-styled witch, albeit a rather chaotic one.

  Isadora has become more scatterbrained of late, with muddled spells and a failing memory. But the situation turns dire when her long-time friend and New Age millionaire Marshall dies after drinking one of her potions, a potion that turns out to be poisoned.

  Marshall’s son is quick to point the finger at Isadora, but before the police can arrest her, the herbalist goes missing. Emma can’t believe her shy neighbor would commit murder, but she’s more worried by her sudden disappearance. As she searches for the truth, she discovers that both Isadora and Marshall have antagonized several people. Which one of their enemies is the murderer? And did Isadora run away or was she abducted?

  The Emma Cassidy Mystery series:

  Book 1: Throw a Monkey Wrench

  Book 2: Pushed to the Limit

  Book 3: Murder Most Likely

  Book 4: Witch Way to Murder

  Copyright © 2016 by Karen Chester

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design © 2016 Simon Mann

  Cover photo © kostins / Bigstock.com

  Table of Contents

  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 One

  On a crisp autumn morning, Emma Cassidy opened her front door to find a small black cat sitting on her porch. Some people might have taken it as a symbol of bad luck, but Emma smiled at the animal in welcome.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jinx.” Emma knelt down to stroke his sleek fur. This was the third time in a week she’d found the feline on her doorstep. “Is this becoming a habit of yours?”

  Mr. Jinx arched himself into her palm, whisking his tail against her.

  “You can’t stay here, you know. I was just about to head out.”

  Since moving into her new rental a month ago, Emma had taken to exploring the woods that surrounded her cottage, and autumn, with its cool air and brilliant foliage, was a perfect time for walking. A large section of the woods belonged to a client of hers, Marshall Gibson, with whom she had a meeting at nine-thirty. She’d planned to take a leisurely stroll down to the shores of Shamrock Lake before heading to Marshall’s home, but now with Mr. Jinx to consider, she decided to return him to his owner, Isadora, who happened to be her nearest neighbor, a few minutes’ walk away.

  Returning inside, Emma found a basket and lifted the black cat into it. He purred and poked his head out, settling in for the journey. As she set off, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder at her tiny, gingerbread cottage and smiled in satisfaction. Her widowed father thought it too isolated and that she ought to be closer to Greenville, where he lived and where her office was situated, but she loved it, and the rent was reasonable, which was important since her event planning business, A Perfect Party, was still in its infancy.

  The air was fresh and sweet as she strolled through the quiet woods, her boots crunching on fallen leaves. October was waning, and winter was just around the corner. Minutes later, Isadora’s home appeared among the trees, looking like something out of a fairytale. With its steep, shingled roof, bent chimney emitting wisps of smoke, and mullioned windows festooned with cobwebs, it exuded picture book quaintness. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the porch, along with wind chimes and crystals dangling from bits of twine. Completing the picture, a huge marmalade cat—who went by the name Orville—slumbered on a chair near the front door, barely opening an eye as Emma mounted the porch stairs and knocked on the door.

  “Ah, Emma!” Her neighbor smiled when she opened the door.

  Isadora, a comfortably plump herbalist in her mid-fifties, didn’t pay much attention to appearances. Today, she wore a shapeless, tie-dyed caftan, her curly gray hair untamed, a few clips lost in the wild mane. Her bare feet were shoved into ancient sandals, one of them held together with duct tape.

  “Good morning. I brought back my visitor.” Emma held up the basket.

  “Oh, Mr. Jinx, hello there.” Isadora lifted the cat and stroked him briefly before the animal jumped out of her arms and sauntered away. “I didn’t even realize he was gone.” Isadora laughed sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind him hanging around your cottage.”

  “Of course not. In fact, if you ever need someone to mind him and Orville, I’d be happy to do it.”

  “Why, that’s so kind of you! Um, would you like to come inside?” Isadora asked uncertainly. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Emma replied, following her inside.

  While Isadora was rather shy and reclusive, she had gradually warmed to Emma, becoming less wary with each visit, and Emma was glad they were becoming good neighbors. They walked through to the kitchen, where Emma paused at the windows to admire the view. Isadora’s home was situated on long ridge, with gorgeous, uninterrupted views of Shamrock Lake. Beyond the kitchen lay Isadora’s garden filled with every variety of herb, from lavender to fennel and many others Emma didn’t recognize. The cottage and its garden stood on Marshall Gibson’s land, which extended from the lake shore all the way up the gentle slope, stopping just before Emma’s own house.

  Isadora clattered about her untidy kitchen, muttering to herself as she rummaged through a cupboard. “Why isn’t there a clean mug when you want one? Ah, this might do.”

  While her neighbor fussed over the mugs, Emma glanced about the kitchen. She’d only known the herbalist a month, but even so she couldn’t help noticing that the house—and Isadora—looked more disheveled than usual. Several large pots bubbled on the stove, emitting curious odors, not all of them pleasant. Burnt pans cluttered the sink. Jars were scattered everywhere, some tipped over, spilling their contents of seeds, leaves, and spices. Tattered books and stained papers littered the kitchen table.

  “Here you go.” Isadora handed a chipped mug filled to the brim with a thick, black brew to Emma.

  “Thanks.” Emma took a cautious sip and only just managed not to spit it out. What in heaven’s name was this?

  Picking up her own mug, Isadora took a gulp, and instantly screwed up her face. “Ugh! What is this?” She sniffed at the liquid and grimaced. “Oh, no. I—I usually add a dash of cinnamon in the pot, but I think I’ve used garam masala instead. I’m so sorry, Emma. Please don’t drink that.” Her face beet red, she took the mug from Emma and tipped the contents of both mugs into the sink. She pushed her fingers through her unruly hair, biting her lip in deep embarrassment.

  “Well, that’d wake you up for sure,” Emma said lightly.

  “I don’t know how I could’ve made such a mistake!” Isadora wailed.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

  But even as Emma tried to assure her, she wondered why her neighbor seemed so wound up. Was she stressed out from her work as an herbalist, as evidenced by the blackened pots and scattered ingredients? Despite the short duration of their friendship, Emma could see a change in her neighbor. Isadora was more distracted, more forgetful, and her house, always filled with character, now teetered toward resembling a tip. What could be causing this change?

  “Everyone gets muddled on occasion,” Emma said, trying to be reassuring. “Look at me. I’m always forgetting my sunglasses.”

  “Oh?” Isadora picked up a jar of dried herbs and sealed it with a cork stopper. “Rosemary oil is good for memory loss. Not that I need any,” she hastily added before changing the subject. “Um, how did your meeting go yesterday?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.” Emma had met a couple of potential clients yesterday to discuss their family reunion but had failed to win them over. “In fact, it was a disaster. I managed to spill a glass of water on the wife, and then I somehow knocked the husband’s hair piece off.”

  Instead of chuckling, Isadora looked horrified “Oh, no! That’s awful. I—I must have done something wrong…”

  “Well, I don’t see how it could be your fault.”

  “But I’m afraid it is.” Isadora twisted her hands, her face growing even redder. “You—you see, I wanted to help you because you’ve been so kind to me, so I cast a spell to assist you, but it seems to have backfired.”

  Emma gaped at her. “You cast a spell? But…you don’t mean…I thought you were an herbalist.”

  “Yes, I am an herbalist, but I also believe in, um, the old religion, the wiccan religion.”

/>   Emma nodded. “Guess I shouldn’t be that surprised, given your choice of decorations.” She gestured toward the pentagrams on the walls, the forest of candles on the windowsill, and the oil burners on the counter. “So you’re a...wiccan? Is that the right term?”

  “Wiccan, yes. You’re not…offended, are you?” Isadora clutched at the crystal necklaces on her bosom. “Personally I don’t like to call myself a ‘witch’, though there are plenty who are proud of that term. I keep my beliefs to myself. Generally, I don’t cast spells for others unless they specifically ask for my help.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have cast that spell for you. You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Emma slowly replied. “I’m just surprised that you would, er, cast a spell for me.”

  Rueful, Isadora lifted her shoulders. “Well, I like you, and Mr. Jinx is never wrong about people.” She ruffled her hair and groaned again. “But oh, I shouldn’t have attempted the spell from memory. If only I had that…” She hunted through a stack of books that threatened to topple over. “Did I use the wrong ingredient? Mugwort instead of feverfew? Where is it? Where did I leave it?” She shuffled through a second pile of books with increasing desperation, her hands unsteady.

  Emma put a hand on the other woman’s arm. “Please stop worrying, Isadora. I’m sure it doesn’t matter.” Because she didn’t believe in spells, so it didn’t matter if the ingredients had been muddled, but it did matter that Isadora seemed unduly agitated about the mix up.

  “I’m not losing my mind, I’ll have you know,” Isadora snapped, uncharacteristically testy as she stepped away from Emma.

  “I never thought you were.”

  “My memory is excellent. I just have a lot to think about at the moment.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Puzzled by the sudden change in mood, Emma decided it might be better to change the subject. “Are you looking forward to Marshall Gibson’s party? I’m heading there now to see to a few last minute things.” She had been hired to organize Marshall’s sixtieth birthday party at his home that night, which was why she was meeting him this morning.

  Isadora blinked several times, seeming distracted, “I always enjoy Marshall’s company, though I’m not much of a party person.”

  “You and he must go way back.” Emma had been surprised to learn that Isadora lived in her cottage rent-free, courtesy of Marshall’s generosity and a long-standing friendship.

  “We do.” Isadora’s features relaxed as she sank into her chair. “We met in a commune when we were in our twenties. We were both passionate about spiritualism, healing, all those things people call New Age these days.” She smiled at the memories. “Of course, Marshall was always more entrepreneurial than the rest of us. I guess that’s why he figured a way to make millions from selling fruit juice whereas the rest of us are happy with what we can get.” She lifted her hands to indicate her small, messy kitchen. “I’ve never been materialistic, but life was hard ten years ago, and I was practically homeless when Marshall offered me this place. It’s nothing but a hovel to a man like him, but to me, it’s everything. Yes, I’m looking forward to his party, although I don’t have much in common with the friends he has these days. And as for that son of his, well, he’s definitely not my kind of person!”

  “Oh?” Emma’s interest was piqued by this candid comment. “I haven’t met his son yet.”

  “You won’t be able to avoid him tonight. Patrick Gibson is a dark soul if ever I met one.”

  “I’ll watch out for him,” Emma said diplomatically.

  “You do that.” Isadora’s usually friendly face was clouded with distaste.

  Emma was just thinking of leaving when a loud banging on the front door had them both on their feet. Mr. Jinx shot out of the room. A worried frown creased Isadora’s forehead as she hurried out of the kitchen.

  Emma followed her to the front door. They had barely reached it when a voice started yelling from the other side.

  “Isadora! I know you’re inside. Answer this door before I break it down!”

  ***

  A short, thin, fierce-looking woman stood on the front porch, her fist raised as if she were about to make good on her threat and bash down the door.

  “N-Nora, good morning,” Isadora stuttered.

  Seeing Isadora’s shoulders tremble, Emma moved to stand next to her.

  “Hello,” Emma said mildly, hoping her placid demeanor would help calm the situation. “I’m Emma Cassidy, Isadora’s neighbor. I just moved in about a month ago.”

  Nora frowned. With her short, dark, no-nonsense hair and plain shirt tucked into denim jeans, she looked like someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Pursing her lips, she refocused her attention on Isadora.

  “Have you seen Jennifer?” she demanded, propping her hands on her hips.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Isadora chewed on her lower lip. “If I had, you know I’d contact you straight away—”

  “Huh!” Nora snorted. “That’s debatable. You’re more likely to fill her head with another load of rubbish.” She glanced at the crystals dangling from the porch, her lip lifting in a sneer. “All this hocus-pocus nonsense. How dare you brainwash my daughter? She’s just sixteen!”

  Isadora gulped audibly. “I never set out to brainwash anyone. Oh, Nora, it’s so terrible that Jennifer’s run away, but she’s a good girl. She’ll come home soon, I’m sure of it.”

  “I didn’t come here for sappy reassurances,” Nora snapped. “I want to know if Jennifer’s contacted you recently. Well, has she?”

  “No, no, I just said that, haven’t I?”

  Nora flexed her hands, her angry eyes swinging back to Emma. “Since you’re new around here, I’d better warn you. Don’t get sucked in by her harmless little old lady act. She’s a witch! The worst kind. She lures in vulnerable kids with her pagan gobbledygook and turns them against their parents.”

  Isadora gasped and clung to the door, looking like she was about to collapse. Alarmed, Emma stepped forward and confronted the furious woman. “Your daughter isn’t here, so perhaps you should leave now.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Nora swept her hostile gaze over the trembling Isadora. “You turned Jennifer against me! You made her run away. You’re to blame, and I’m going to make sure you pay.”

  She marched away, climbed into a battered old station wagon, and took off, leaving Emma feeling like they’d been sucked through a wind turbine.

  “Are you okay?” Emma asked Isadora as the older woman sagged against the door.

  “I think I need to sit down,” her neighbor murmured as she hobbled toward an ancient bench on the porch.

  Emma helped her to the bench and sat beside her. “Who is this Nora? How dare she come to your house and hurl accusations at you like that?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t be too hard on Nora.” Isadora flapped a limp hand. “She comes across as hard as nails, but she’s just a desperate mother worried sick about her daughter.”

  “You’ve known them long?”

  Isadora shrugged. “About a year or so. Nora used to come to me for herbal remedies because she couldn’t afford to see a doctor, and we were on friendly terms. She and Jennifer live not far from here. Then, Jennifer started having issues with her mother—you know what teenagers are like—and she began to visit me. Not for advice, but probably because I didn’t lecture her and I just let her be. I might have shown her a few of my herbal remedies, but I never cast any spells for her, and I most definitely was not indoctrinating her in wiccan ways. I believe in the old religion, and it’s helped me in my journey through life, but it’s a very personal creed, and I would never try to influence anyone.” She gazed earnestly at Emma. “You do believe me, don’t you? I mean, I’ve never tried to convert you, have I?”

  “No, you haven’t,” Emma agreed. Not that it would have worked on her; she had never been attracted to the paranormal, had never even been to a fortune teller or had her horoscope read. She would be a hopeless convert to the Wiccan way. “Until today, you never even mentioned your beliefs. I thought you were an herbalist.”

  Isadora let out a sigh. “Anyway, a couple of weeks ago Jennifer had an argument with Nora. She packed a bag and hasn’t been seen since. Nora blames me for her disappearance. She’s stopped by several times, demanding to know where Jennifer is.” She rocked back and forth, kneading her hands in her lap. “I don’t know where the poor child is. I’ve tried locating her through some of my spells, but nothing seems to be working.”