Witchwood Cozy Mystery Bundle Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Jessica Lancaster

  Original text copyright © 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  First published in 2018 under The Midnight Witch Cozy Mystery series.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Your respect and support of the author is appreciated.

  All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are used fictionally and without intent of slander. Any resemblance to actual people are purely coincidental.

  NOTE: Written in British English, utilising the grammar rules of British English. Example; Mr and Mrs - instead of Mr. and Mrs.

  MORE FROM JESSICA LANCASTER

  PARANORMAL MYSTERIES

  Witchwood Cozy Mysteries

  Cryptic Curses in Witchwood (Book 1)

  Secret Spells in Witchwood (Book 2)

  Monster Magic in Witchwood (Book 3)

  Reaper Rituals in Witchwood (Book 4)

  Bad Blood in Witchwood (Book 5)

  Wicked Witches in Witchwood (Book 6)

  Cowan Bay Witches Cozy Mysteries

  Muffins, Magic, and Murder (Book 1)

  Cupcakes, Crystals, and Chaos (Book 2)

  Pies, Palmistry, and Poison (Book 3)

  Treats, Tarot, and Trouble (Book 4)

  NON-PARANORMAL MYSTERIES

  Bree’s Bakery Cozy Mysteries

  A Slice of Disaster (Story 1)

  A Dash of Terror (Story 2)

  A Touch of Madness (Story 3)

  CO-AUTHORED BOOKS

  With Hugo James King

  Murder on Silver Lake (Book 1)

  Murder on Red Rose Drive (Book 2)

  Murder at Maple House (Book 3)

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  CRYPTIC CURSES IN WITCHWOOD

  A Witchwood Cozy Mystery

  JESSICA LANCASTER

  CRYPTIC CURSES IN WITCHWOOD

  A retired witch detective, settling in a sleepy human town, what could go wrong?

  Well – dead bodies appearing in compost heaps, an old woman screaming about zombies, and blood on the ground like slug trails – but only one person has seen it, and she’s signing her one-way ticket out of town.

  Out of retirement to solve one last mystery, witch-in-residence, Evanora Lavender might find herself sucked back into the paranormal investigation game.

  A paranormal cozy mystery set in a small English town, featuring a witch detective and her talking familiar as they sleuth around Witchwood. Written in British English.

  ONE

  Metal pans gave a thunderous applause as they came tumbling from the kitchen counter and crashing against the tiled flooring.

  “Spring cleaning,” I scoffed, stepping away from the mess as my face tightened into a frown.

  Retiring might have been my worst decision—ever, but it wasn’t mine to make. I was in my late forties, but I’d lived what felt like several lives. Granted, I was a witch, and that gave me certain advantages and abilities most could never dream about. That inclued a youthful Hollywood glow, which I assumed meant I’d have some form of work done. I hadn’t.

  Looking at the mess. It was the first time in years I’d been living in Witchwood, a small town in the heart of Kent. My mother had given me the house when I was a young witch at barely eighteen, telling me I forge my own path.

  “What’s all this racket?” Ivory’s claws tapped at the tiles.

  Ivory was my familiar. A witch’s familiar was her confidant and most trusted companion. Mine was a two-foot female grey barn owl. She’d been with me for ten years; an achievement for a barn owl like her.

  “Nothing, nothing,” I replied, pulling my glasses from my face. I pinched at the bridge of my nose between my eyes. “Go back to bed.”

  “Not if you’ll make more noise.” She continued tapping her talons. “Well?”

  “Put some earplugs in,” I chuckled.

  Ivory was nocturnal, and so had I been, but that was back when I worked for the Witches Council as an investigator in magical crimes. The Witches Council were a governing body of all witches, we didn’t have many laws to abide by, you know, the usual – no murder. I loved the job, but it had meant sacrificing many relationships.

  Ivory continued to yap while I stared in a daze over the mess in the kitchen. I pressed my glasses back onto my face, refocusing everything I’d pulled from the cupboards to clean. “Maybe a little magic,” I mumbled to myself.

  A squawk of laughter came from Ivory. “I thought you were going human.”

  I grabbed the yellow marigolds from the counter, snapping them in place on my hands. “I never said that.”

  “Maybe you could use some of it for soundproofing,” Ivory said.

  I waved a hand over the pans as they levitated and piled themselves back on the counter. “Once I have everything clean, we’ll sort your sleeping arrangements out.”

  I’d so far sorted through my clothes, donating everything I no longer wanted or wore to the local charity shop in the town. Tackling the kitchen was the next step, and as any good witch knows, the kitchen is the heart of the home.

  She clawed at the tiles. “It’ll take you forever.”

  “Luckily, I have a lot of patience,” I said. “And forever doesn’t seem too long to wait.”

  I resumed washing dishes in the sink, cleaning sticky residue away from the pots and plates; accumulation from years of neglect.

  My one-storey two-bedroom cottage on Eden Road was large, deceptively large if you were only looking at it from the outside. I had two gardens, one on the back opening out onto the dense forest, but looking out over it from the kitchen window, the long grasses camouflaged the fence; I didn’t know where the garden ended, and the forest began. After years of abandonment, the house needed some TLC. The front garden was another story altogether, Gregory Marston, a neighbour had been taking care of that.

  “Nora,” Ivory said, pulling my attention.

  I sucked back a deep breath. “I thought you’d gone to bed,” I said, rinsing off a bowl. “What do you need?”

  She fluffed at a wing, gnawing at a feather with her beak. “What are we doing?”

  “When? Today?”

  “Here.”

  Oh–I knew what she meant. “Retirement,” I said, trying to sound upbeat about it. “We can do whatever we want.”

  “It sucks,” she said, turning in a huff.

  Ivory was currently living in the darkness of an old storage closet near the front door. It wasn’t ideal, but there was a perch in there; water, food, everything she needed for the time being.

  I sighed. Ivory was perfect while I was working for the Witches Council, she was hungry for adventure. The familiar before her wasn’t quite a thrill seeker.

  As I cleaned the kitchen, thoughts of adventure filled my mind. I’d done so much with my life, I’d seen so many things. I’d witnessed demons rise from the ground in plumes of smoke, and witches turn bad from too much power. I’d even helped with missing children cases and ghostly hauntings. Plus, I had a ninety-three percent success rate.

  And they let me go.

  They told me I’d burn out if I continued.

  Pulling away the plastic gloves, I looked at my hands. I had two rings on each hand, each with a different jewel, and each tapped with power. A jet stone ring gave me sight to see things that went unnoticed by many, an amethyst for protection and luck, a deep orange citrine stone for confidence and strength, and chrome blue and green chrysocolla for intuition.

  Being an investigator for the Council brought great wealth to my life, not only monetary but through experienc
e as well. The downside of dedicating my life away was that I didn’t have a husband or children.

  “It’s never too late,” I said, hearing my mother’s voice in me.

  I turned sharply, the voice had been eerily close to hers. My heart screeched like car tires at the thought she was here. I relaxed back on the kitchen counter. I combed back stray red hairs behind my ears. I’d so far made more of a mess.

  Primrose Lavender, my mother, lived in Scotland. A stretch away from where I was, but it hadn’t always been like that, she used to live in Kent too.

  With a vice-like grasp, I clutched the metal teapot, pouring water into it before slamming it on the hob. I rarely found myself alone with my thoughts and nothing on my mind to occupy them. While the water boiled, I added a sprig of mint.

  Once the teapot released a whistle of steam, a relaxing rush came over me.

  “Keep it down,” Ivory squawked; her voice muffled through the walls.

  “I’m making tea.”

  “Quietly!”

  The logistics weren’t something I’d thought too much about. Ideally, I think we both preferred it if Ivory had a small shed out on the back, but by the way it was looking, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Not while it meant treading through the minefield of weeds.

  “One day,” I muttered to myself. I was sure I had a spell somewhere in my book of shadows, but that was currently locked away in my bedroom.

  Pouring the tea into a clean mug from the draining board, I added a heaped spoonful of honey, stirring it until fully dissolved.

  Three loud thuds collided with the front door.

  I jerked my head toward the sound, spilling hot tea down my white blouse, not like it wasn’t already dirty from dust. What caught me was that nobody ever visited… nobody knew I was back in Witchwood.

  Thud. Thud.

  TWO

  Between the heavy force knocking against the door and Ivory as she complained. I was about ready to call it quits and head off out where nobody would bother me. Somewhere peaceful, perhaps the forest.

  “Ms Lavender,” a voice came moments later.

  Gregory Marston stood at the front door dressed in green corduroy overalls and knee-high wellies.

  “Gregory,” I said, ready to put up a fight with whoever dared make such a commotion.

  “Greg,” he said with a soft chuckle. “I heard you’ve moved back, forever.”

  Forever. The way he said it, it sounded like an awfully long time. “Well, I’ve been back a week now.”

  “Ah, of course,” he said. “I just wanted to pop by and say ‘hello’. It’s been a while.”

  “It has,” I said, looking behind him at the garden he’d been taking care of. “I can’t thank you enough for the work you’ve done in the garden.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said with a wink.

  I didn’t know what he meant by that. “Haven’t you been maintaining it?”

  “I have, I have,” he said, turning to look around. He rubbed his hand on the nape of his neck, flashing a smile. “The other women on the street would’ve complained if it got out of hand. Anyway, I’m glad you’re back.”

  I was surprised the woman from the neighbourhood hadn’t complained already, from the way the back garden looked, it was a surprise nobody had called to have the place condemned. “Would you like to come in for tea?” I asked. “I’ve just made a pot of mint tea.”

  He glanced out across the garden again. “Sure,” he said.

  I stopped him in the doorway. “It’s nice out, I’ll bring the tea and we can sit on the bench.” The last thing I wanted was for someone to come inside and see the mess, he might think I was the victim of a robbery.

  “Perfect,” he said, slapping his knees.

  “You can catch me up on all things Witchwood.”

  We sat on the underused bench looking over the front garden. The street was quiet, other than the sing-song of birds as they flew around in the air. The spring breeze was calming. It had been a while since I felt this type of calm, alongside the obvious effects of the tea I was drinking, perhaps retirement would suit me.

  “And the house is still empty beside you,” Greg said, slurping from the mug. “But I’ve been mowing the grass every couple of weeks to keep property values high.” His voice petered into a chuckle.

  “Has anyone lived there?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, once upon a time,” he said. “Someone does own it, I think they were trying to sell it for a while.”

  The house to my right was identical to mine, in most ways, other than the obvious additions I’d added myself, such as the wards, and the chartreuse curtains in the front window. I’d been meaning to replace those for a while, and now that I was Spring cleaning, I’d have all the time in the world to do it.

  “And are you still working?” I asked, knowing that most of the bungalows on Eden Road were occupied by older people who’d retired. There were a few two-storey houses at one end of the road, aptly named starter homes by estate agents.

  “Absolutely,” he said, his grip on his cup turning tight. “I do gardens, mostly. I have a couple contracts with some of those large manors too. Kingsway House.” He nodded like I knew who he was talking about. “They pay good money.”

  “That’s great.”

  “And you? You’ve retired now?”

  “Yep,” I said, pressing my thin lips together, trying to force a smile on my face. “Almost two weeks now.”

  “Quite young for it,” he said, shuffling to turn and face me head-on. “What work did you do?” he asked. “I mean, I—I—well, some people in the neighbourhood heard you were into witchcraft.”

  They weren’t wrong. “I investigate the paranormal,” I said. “And I do, myself, identify as a witch.”

  He grinned at what I could only assume was relief. “I won’t say anything to anyone.” He tapped his nose. “I’m not into idle gossip.”

  And yet, here we were, talking about the people we lived near. “I don’t know how I’ll occupy all my free time.”

  “When Penny retired, a woman across the road from me,” he said. “When she retired, she began knitting, and made all sorts of stuff, and even opened one of those online shops. She makes a fortune now.”

  I wasn’t looking to make a fortune. I had everything and enough to live comfortably from. “I think I’ll take up gardening.” I definitely knew I needed to do something to occupy my idle hands, and I certainly wasn’t going to take up reading palms for the neighbours or doing tarot from the spare bedroom—ugh, reminding me it needed a huge clean out.

  “Good idea.” He stood and knelt near a small patch of grass, pressing the back of his hand against it.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Checking the soil,” he said. “It looks a little dry over here.” He stood and approached me, adjusting a white fabric strap around his wrist.

  “I’m sure it’ll rain soon.” He watched as I eyed the bracelet on his arm.

  Pulling it close to his face, he read. “Take every chance.”

  “I like that.”

  “Penny made it, actually. She does all sorts.” He continued to fiddle with it. “My mother would say it all the time. She passed a couple years ago, and I’ve worn it ever since.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear.”

  He sipped more of the tea. “She loved life, and she passed peacefully.”

  That’s how I wanted to go. Not that I was thinking about going anytime soon. My heart fluttered at how morbid the thought was. “That’s—”

  A shrill scream cut me off, slicing the air in two.

  THREE

  I stood in a panic; my hands clenched around the mug of tea. I pressed my fingers hard against the rings to activate a surge of power. Force of habit.

  Gregory stood beside me, placing a hand on my forearm, mumbling words at me, but the power surge from the rings jolted through me all at once and without anywhere to go, clouding my mind in a haze.

  �
�Nora,” he said, waving a hand in front of my face.

  I snapped out of the trance, settling myself in the frame of the front door. “Who was that?”

  Gregory didn’t seem too phased by the whole situation. He smiled, continuing to support my arm. “It’s probably just Maureen,” he said.

  “What? Why?” My feet wavered back until my legs touched the bench. I drank the rest of the tea in one gulp.

  “It started a couple of weeks back, she called the police, telling them there was a body in her compost heap. They searched through everything but found nothing. She called them twice after that. I don’t think they’ll even answer her calls anymore.”

  “A body?”

  “Yeah, but there wasn’t one,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “They think she made the whole story up.”

  I pushed my glasses up on my face. “And she lives close?” I asked.

  “Crescent Road,” he said. “Two roads down. The cul-de-sac.”

  Most of the streets and roads looked the same in Witchwood. I’d grown to distinguish them by what they had on them. Eden Road had a small fish and chip shop, run by a woman who’d lived in Witchwood her entire life, Lorette Richards. The next one down on Opal Street had a pub, The Queen’s Inn, run by Albert Smith. Crescent Road had a newsagent, I’d been there a couple times; small, but it had everything, and it was run by a lovely family.

  “I’m going to see her,” I said.

  He smiled and nodded. “I’d offer to come with you,” he said. “I’ve been already, it might be a cry for help.” His eyes rolled white.

  “What like?”

  “Some people just want attention,” he said. “If you ask me, I’m sure the door will be open and she’ll have coffee cake waiting for whoever turns up.”

  Perhaps he was right, but perhaps Maureen’s issues weren’t entirely human.

  “What number?” I asked.