POTIONS TELLS AND DEADLY SPELLS Read online

  Praise for the Romaine Wilder Mystery Series

  “The amusing narrative zips along, providing a multilayered plot with loads of plausible suspects and possible motives. Cozy fans will look forward to Romaine’s future exploits.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  “Fiery, fun, and fast. You have everything that Texas provides, from scenery to Stetsons, and that French Creole Auntie who you will absolutely adore.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “Vandiver’s debut, which launches a character-driven series, has plenty of local color and interesting tidbits on Creole history.”

  – Kirkus Reviews

  “With a dash of humor, a dollop of Southern charm, and a peek at current social issues in the mix, it’s a fun romp around East Texas to solve a murder mystery of the cozy kind.”

  – Any Good Book

  “If I could choose my relatives, I would certainly choose 82-year-old Auntie Zanne…Follow along with Romaine and her family and friends as they struggle to identify the victim, find the killer, and restore order to their tiny Texas town...Can’t wait for the next book in the Romaine Wilder series.”

  – Criminal Element

  “A fun new cozy series...I loved the Southern culture, the characters and the small-town location.”

  – Cozy Cat Reviews

  The Romaine Wilder Mystery Series

  by Abby L. Vandiver

  SECRETS, LIES, & CRAWFISH PIES (#1)

  LOVE, HOPES, & MARRIAGE TROPES (#2)

  POTIONS, TELLS, & DEADLY SPELLS (#3)

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  Copyright

  POTIONS, TELLS, & DEADLY SPELLS

  A Romaine Wilder Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | June 2019

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2019 by Abby L. Vandiver

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-503-1

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-504-8

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-505-5

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-506-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  My mother, who always gave me the best advice

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I always want to thank God first, my keeper and my friend. My mother who keeps Him company, as do my sisters. I miss you much.

  And a thank you to my publisher, Henery Press.

  As always, I want to thank my writing group, #amwriting, at South Euclid Lyndhurst Public Library—Rose, Molly, Carla, Melissa, Zach and Nicole—you guys are the best, thank you. And of course, to Laurie and Kathryn, thank you my friends.

  Chapter One

  The Green Fairy had arrived.

  She was intoxicating. Hypnotic. Iridescent. And tonight, she was being served as a frappe.

  It was the opening ceremony for the 100th Boule of the Distinguished Ladies’ Society of Voodoo Herbalist. The menu was casted with liquor-infused foods—pheasant under glass, drunken mushroom soup, and my auntie’s favorite, Bananas Foster. But the green, sparkling absinthe frappe was the star at center stage.

  The once prohibited, hallucination-inducing, clouded liquor referred to fondly as The Green Fairy was a mostly pure botanical drink. Made up of anise, fennel and wormwood and known to represent an unrestricted lifestyle and all things unconventional it was, for the women at this occasion, apropos. Chilled, the tall cocktail sling footed glass brimmed with crushed ice, the condensation glistening as it beaded and slid down the sides of the clear goblets.

  The hundred or so older Society woman that were in attendance bristled over the high-proof spirit as white-gloved gentleman servers brought it in held overhead on silver trays. Eyes lit up, hands clapped in delight, glee imbued the essence of the Voodoo herbalists seemingly more than any potion they could devise.

  “La fee verte,” I heard more than one exclaim among others oos and ahhs.

  I stood with my back against the wall and surveyed the tables and their occupants. I didn’t know why my presence had been required. I was never one to get involved in my Auntie Zanne’s “side business.” But she had insisted.

  Suzanne Babet Derbinay, my distinguished auntie, called Auntie Zanne by me, she answered to Babet for everyone else. She brewed up teas and concoctions to help her clients find true love, used her mortar and pestle to grind dried plants to cure what licensed practitioners deemed incurable, and bottled up nasty smelling swills that she claimed could dispense of any cheating spouse out of the back of our house. Out of the front of it, she ran a funeral home. People came from all over East Texas for her services.

  Tonight, it was her back-door antics that held her in high esteem. Although, Auntie Zanne was usually the one in charge of the many auxiliaries and clubs she proclaimed membership to, whether officially or not, here it was true. Revered and respected, she was the Most High Mambo. The highest honor bestowed on a member of the Distinguished Ladies’ Society of Voodoo Herbalists and one which only a few had held.

  The banquet room of the Grandview Motor Lodge Motel, owned by one Rayanne Chambers, my auntie’s friend and fellow Red Hats Society member, had magnificent mammoth crystal chandeliers hanging from its ceiling with matching sconces along the gold-leaf papered walls.

  The hall was crammed with round tables covered in white table cloths, purple table runners and orange rosebud folded napkins. They were surrounded by gold Chiavari chairs and in the middle centerpieces of soaring sprays of white dendrobium orchids and long curly sprigs of willow branches stuffed into fluted vases. Sitting around—some clad in capes, others in long opera gloves, or feathery hats—were an array of invitation-only herbal healers.

  Auntie Zanne tapped a butter knife on the side of her water glass turning the ladies’ attention onto her.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” she chirped. “Welcome!” She swung out her arms, spreading them like an eagle with such force I thought she was going to topple over.

  She stood dead center at the fourteen-foot long dais table, dressed in an all-black sheath dress and matching dress coat. Her head, however, was another story. It was a plume of colors—literally. Her five-foot-three body was topped with a two-foot-high headdress that had to weigh at least seven pounds. Red roses adorned the band of the cap that went around the crown of her head and down in front of her ears. Sequins and lilies were stuck in the midst of a mass of rooster, peacock and pheasant feathers. They were sticking out everywhere. I had to wonder whether the pheasant feathers and the night’s entrée had ever been acquainted.

  And that headdress may just as well have been a crown. She had been floating among her adoring subjects all evening. In return, they appeared to be enamored and enthralled by whatever attention she bestowed as she
passed their way.

  I zoned out listening to the rest of her welcoming address, she had everyone else’s rapt attention, she didn’t need mine. I moved along the wall to the back of the room and stilled myself in a corner near the swinging, black vinyl padded kitchen doors. Servers regularly going in and out, I had to duck out of the way a few times.

  I kept getting dragged further and further into my Auntie Zanne’s big time life in the small town I’d grown up in. Something I had been running from since the day I moved in with her at the age of twelve, but, as of late, was learning to appreciate. But even with the growing positive acceptance of being back home, I still tried to steer clear of being drawn into her world of hocus pocus, magic, potions and spells.

  I cringed at the thought of the American Medical Association finding me at the fore of a Voodoo event. I was sure they’d summarily revoke my license to practice.

  Auntie Zanne waltzed over after her speech ended. In trying to stay incognito, I hadn’t noticed she’d headed my way. Her one arm loaded with bangles and bobbles, she held on to her headdress with her other hand as she floated down the aisle toward me.

  “Great turnout, huh, Romaine?” she said, sidling up next to me and looping her arm through mine. She smelled airy and floral.

  “Did you expect anything less?” I asked.

  “Not for a minute, kiddo. Not for a minute.” She poked her elbow in my side. “We’ve got quite a few young herbalists in the Society. Did you see?” she said, a proud look on her face.

  “The old corrupting the young, huh?”

  “They’re easy to corrupt,” she said giving me a wink. “Oh!” She stuck her arm up in the air and started waving at two women entering on the other side of the room. They were dressed in goddess-styled sheer, empire waist gowns. One carried a black box in her hands. “Time to take the vote,” Auntie Zanne turned back to me and whispered. “I’ll be right back.” She patted my arm. She went a couple of feet, turned and walked back to me. “They’re serving the salads now, but we’ll get the main course soon.” She nodded. “Good thing, huh? You look hungry.”

  I looked “ready,” I thought. As in ready to go.

  “I was just going to head into the kitchen to find me something to eat. A quick bite,” I said. “Hang out back there.”

  “Nonsense, Sugarplum,” she said and kissed my hand. “I have a place for you at the table with me. So, hurry and come take your seat.”

  She floated away just as the bile rose from my stomach into my throat. Just the thought of being in the midst of her dais was enough to make me ill.

  But before she could catch up with the goddesses, there was a clamor from a table that sat in the center of the room.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake!” I heard a woman shout. She pushed her chair back from the table. I couldn’t see who she was, her face hidden underneath the angled, wide-brimmed canary yellow cartwheel hat she sported, but her irritation was clear as day.

  One of the servers, probably having sampled too much of the alcohol laced food in the kitchen, spilled something in her lap. From where I stood, it didn’t seem like it was a large amount. All the ladies around the table wide-eyed, mouths covered, watched without lending a hand.

  The woman, trying to soak up the liquid from her pantsuit that was the same hue as her hat, grabbed one of the orange napkins from the table. It, in turn, snagged a glass full of absinthe, causing it to tumble over and splash into her lap making even more of a mess.

  “Ahhh!” she squealed and stomped her foot, hitting the table and making all the glasses atop, quiver. With that, the women on either side of her hopped up, decidedly not wanting to be included in the slosh fest.

  That frustrated Ms. Canary Yellow even more. And she turned her anger on the server. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  “I’m so sorry,” the server said, stepping back from the woman, her face not showing one bit of remorse. The plastic cup still laying on its side atop her tray.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” the woman said.

  I saw Auntie stop, her eyes searching the scene then finding and locking in on mine. It seemed she was beseeching me to go and help.

  I shook my head gesturing I didn’t need to get involved. Auntie tilted her head, catching the mountainous headdress before it went sliding off with one hand, and slapping the other hand on her hip. I guessed that was her way of telling me to do what she’d asked.

  I scanned the table to assess the damage. It seemed to me nothing more than a harmless interruption and an unfortunate destruction of what had been a beautiful table setting. I sighed as I glanced back at Auntie Zanne, she was now narrowing her eyes at me. Perhaps that was why I was there. To keep the ladies calm and clean. I decided to heed my calling and take a closer look at the kerfuffle.

  Once tableside, I realized I knew a few of the women around it, including the spillee under the brim. It was Eugenia Elder, an herbalist that had visited our house many times while I was growing up.

  Miss Eugenia, a usually pleasant woman, was tiny in stature with a big personality. I’d never seen her without makeup or a fresh perm. Time had given her a few wrinkles, but like my Auntie Zanne, she wore her age—somewhere near seventy—well. She looked exactly the same as the first time I’d seen her.

  Mrs. Eugenia Elder, I’d always been told, had lots of money and a scoundrel husband who spent as much of it as he could. None of that seemed to interfere much with her demeanor, though. Each time I’d seen her she’d been humble and always had a smile to share.

  Except for at that moment.

  Out the corner of my eye, I could see Auntie trying inconspicuously to get my attention. I turned, looked at her and hunched my shoulders. What was I supposed to do? Eventually, I was sure, Miss Eugenia would dry off.

  Then I saw a woman from the other side of the table turn and give Auntie a nod, signaling, I assumed, she’d handle it. She popped open a bottle of hand sanitizer sitting on the table in front of her, dumped a blob in her hand, and as she rubbed it in, she rose from her seat to head around the table.

  Good, I thought, I can go back to my place against the wall. But just as I was set to leave, I heard Miss Eugenia moan and saw her put a hand up to her head like she was going to faint.

  “Miss Eugenia,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh wow,” the server said, her eyes wide, as she put her gloved hand up to her face. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt.”

  “I don’t think she’s hurt,” I said. I looked down at Eugenia. “Are you hurt?”

  “Of course she is,” the herbalist who had nodded to Auntie she would help said. She came floating around the table. Petite she looked like a 1950s Hollywood star. She reminded me of Rita Hayworth. A black Rita Hayworth. Her hair, falling into her face, was blondish, thick and wavy, too blonde and too thick for a woman of her age or color. She had on teal green cigarette pants that had ball skirt attached to it. She wore a matching green sheath top that was sheer along the neckline and down the arms. Her entry into the foray was gracious but commanding.

  “She’s a mess!” Miss Rita Hayworth said, she looked at me and pointed a finger at Miss Eugenia. “Can’t you see?”

  “Here,” the server said, picking up another napkin off the table and offering it. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t touch her! You’ve done enough,” Herbalist Helper said, scoffing, her penciled-in eyebrows rising to meet her furrowed brow. “Shoo!” And with that, Miss Helper Herbalist grabbed ahold of the petite waitress’s shoulder, turned her around and placing her hands on the server’s back, pushed her on her way. But I could see out the corner of my eye, the server didn’t go far. She turned around and watched. She’d only gone a far enough distance away not to have to suffer any more of the herbalist’s scoffing.

  Eugenia grabbed my arm and looked up at me, distress in her eyes.

  “Are you alright?” I said.
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  She drew in a breath and hastily blew it out. She was shivering from the ice that clung to her and was melting in her lap. “Yes. I’m fine,” she said. “But that absinthe kind of stings and…” she looked down at herself. “Oh dear, I’m a mess.” Miss Eugenia’s voice got shaky. “My pants are ruined.”

  “Of course they are,” the helper herbalist answered in my stead. “That incompetent girl has made a mess!” Sympathy rising in her voice, Helpful Healer leaned in close to Miss Eugenia. “And you can’t sit through the entire dinner and ceremony like that.”

  “Let me help you,” I said, reaching for the cloth napkin she was holding. “We can go to the restroom and see if we can’t get cleaned up.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Dr. Wilder,” Herbalist Helper said, looking at me with disdain, she swatted my hand away. She evidently knew me, but I still didn’t know who she was. “Eugenia can’t take care of this mess here. She has to change out of that.” She looked down at Eugenia in the chair. “Don’t worry, Dear. I’ll have my driver take you home. You’ll feel better once you get out of those clothes.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Eugenia said. “But I hate to miss…” her voice trailed off as she looked around the room.

  “Not for you to fret,” the woman leaned down and spoke into Miss Eugenia’s ear. “I’ll tell you everything that happens tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two

  The rest of the night went off without a hitch. Herbalist Helper orchestrated a move for the occupants of the entire table where Miss Eugenia had had her mishap to a new, unadulterated table. Then had the fledgling server, still donning her gloves, clear the table. She watched over her like a cobra studies its prey before it strikes. The waitress wasn’t too pleased.