Witching You Were Here (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 3)
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Authors: Amanda M. Lee
Witching You Were Here
(A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery)
By Amanda M. Lee
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2013 Amanda M. Lee
All Rights Reserved
Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc
We gladly feast on those who would subdue us.
The Addams Family Motto
One
Winter in Michigan sucks.
There’s no other way to put it.
Sure, you have those romantics that think the white powder is beautiful – even when Mother Nature drops two feet of it on you in a 24-hour period. Those are the people that live in warmer climates and only visit an area with actual seasons every once in awhile, of course.
Then there are those people that actually like winter sports. Daredevils that think skiing and snowboarding sounds like a fun afternoon. I don’t know any of those people and, frankly, I don’t want to get to know any of them.
Then there’s that deranged group that thinks snowmobiling through a huge drift at excessive speeds – actually going so fast that they manage to get air when they hit a drift at just the right angle – is a fantastical experience.
Okay, the snowmobiling thing
is
fun – as long as my Aunt Tillie isn’t the one driving the snowmobile. She’s hell on a Polaris. When the chief of police pulled her over last week for purposely spraying the other denizens of Hemlock Cove’s senior center with the slushy snow that had accumulated in the parking lot (she swears they were cheating at euchre) she retaliated by running over his foot with her brand-new sled. It’s okay, nothing was broken – at least that was her argument at the time.
In any other town, she would have been locked up and sent for a mental evaluation. Since Chief Terry has known my family – and her specifically – for more than fifty years he was easily bribed with a red velvet cake that my mom had made. Aunt Tillie still claims he purposely put his foot under her snowmobile. She’s eighty-five, so you can’t argue with her. And, if you do, you’re taking your fate in a dangerous direction. She’ll curse you – and I don’t mean bad words here – without batting an eyelash.
My name is Bay Winchester, and I’m a witch. Not an evil witch, don’t get me wrong – although Aunt Tillie has been called evil by at least half of the town (and every single member of our family). I come from a long line of earth and kitchen witches that have lived in northern lower Michigan since – well, as far back as I’ve cared to track our family tree.
I’m the editor of the
The Whistler, Hemlock Cove’s weekly newspaper. A few years ago I moved down to Detroit to be a “real” journalist – but when that didn’t work out I found myself back home. Now I’m living in a small gatehouse with my cousins, Thistle and Clove, on the edge of the property my family has owned for centuries.
And the rest of my family?
My mom lives with her sisters, Twila and Marnie, and they transformed the old family Victorian into one of Hemlock Cove’s most successful bed and breakfast inns. The inn earned that distinction despite the fact that they named it The Overlook – yeah, I tried explaining about
The Shining
, but they didn’t get it.
My elderly great-aunt Tillie lives with them. She doesn’t exactly help with the day-to-day operations of The Overlook – but she thinks she runs everything, which is a constant annoyance to my control freak mother and aunts. Since you have to respect your elders, though, they often acquiesce to her demands. We all do. That woman can be evil when she wants to be – and she wants to be most of the time.
December has hit Hemlock Cove – and it looks like it’s going to be a doozy. The day after Thanksgiving a foot of snow dropped on the small hamlet. Two weeks later, another foot fell from the sky. In the past two weeks the area has seen another six inches of snow – with very little break in the temperature. In other words: Hemlock Cove is literally a winter wonderland right now. Unfortunately, I’m wondering when spring will hit.
As for Hemlock Cove, I should probably explain a few things about the town. Several years ago,
the it was at a tough crossroads. Larger conglomerates forced all of the small industrial businesses in the area out and the tax base was practically non-existent. In an effort to keep Hemlock Cove viable, the town officials decided to rebrand it as vacation destination. Since everything supernatural was all the rage, they rebranded Hemlock Cove as a witch town.
Think of it like a Renaissance Fair, in a way. The storefronts are quaint and specific – pewter unicorns, collectibles, bakeries, tarot cards, and costumes – and there are a variety of townspeople that run tours, hayrides, and moonlit star walks. Almost every month, there’s some sort of fair, whether it be corn mazes, murder mystery weekends or harvest festivals. It’s kitschy, but it’s kept Hemlock Cove alive.
Unfortunately for the townspeople – or fortunately, depending on who you talk to – they have no idea that my family is actually made up of real witches. I think some people have suspicions – especially about Aunt Tillie – but they usually keep those suspicions to hushed whispers when we walk by. We’re not exactly embraced by the town, but we’re not really shunned either.
Most of the business owners in Hemlock Cove make their money in the spring, summer and fall. Winter is more of a relaxed time. We get skiers and other cold weather enthusiasts, but the visitor traffic is a lot lighter. That’s the one good thing about winter in my book.
Now, since we were in the middle of December, though, the weather forecasters (who are only right about fifty percent of the time) were predicting that a blizzard was going to hit later in the week. Snow is one thing, but a blizzard is another. None of us were looking forward to it.
“I hate snow!”
I glanced up from the couch where I was still happily ensconced in my pajamas and homemade afghan, and regarded my cousin Thistle dubiously. She had just walked back into the gatehouse from outside and her close-cropped hair – this month it was a violent shade of red in honor of Christmas – was dusted with fresh snow.
“It’s winter, what do you expect?”
“We’re witches, can’t we just put up a protective bubble around our house,” Thistle grumbled.
“Because no one would notice that,” I laughed.
Thistle’s brown eyes lit up with new indignation. “Why aren’t you dressed? We have to go to the inn for breakfast.”
“Why?” I noticed my voice had taken on a certain whiny quality. I love my family, I really do. They’re just really taxing sometimes.
“It’s homemade cinnamon roll morning,” Thistle reminded me. “You’re the one that promised to go up there for breakfast if your mom made cinnamon rolls. This is all your fault.”
I had forgotten about the cinnamon rolls. I jumped to my feet in anticipation and reached for my coat excitedly. “Let’s go. Where is Clove?”
“She’s still getting ready,” Thistle said. “You can’t go up there in your pajamas. They’ll pitch a fit.”
I glanced down at my yoga pants and tank top and sighed. She was right. I would never hear the end of it. “I’ll be quick.”
Twenty minutes later I had showered and changed into simple jeans and a sweater. Clove and Thistle were waiting for me in the living room. “The rolls are probably going to be cold now,” Thistle grumbled.
I brushed my shoulder-length blonde hair out of my face and regarded her dubiously. “You’re always such a crab in the morning.”
“Like you’re pleasant to be around before you’ve had your first cup of coffee.”
She had a point.
Usually, since the gatehouse is only several hundred yards away from the inn, we would walk. Since there was so much snow, though, we had taken to driving to the inn over the past two weeks. It was easier than wading through huge drifts and then sitting through a meal in wet clothes.
We parked in the front parking lot, which had only three cars in it, and marched into the inn. We clomped our feet on the front rubber mat and pulled off our heavy parkas and hung them on the coat stand by the front door.
“Take off your boots, too.”
I glanced up to the front desk and saw my Aunt Marnie standing behind it watching us. Marnie is Clove’s mother – and they look almost exactly alike. They’re both short – right around five feet tall – and they have dark hair. Clove has been growing her hair out, so it is halfway down her back these days. Marnie, who was getting her color from a bottle these days – something my blonde mom found hilarious – had cut her locks to a more manageable shoulder length.
“You want us to walk around barefoot?” Thistle asked irritably. “That’s not very professional.”
“It’s better than tracking melting snow through the inn and making us clean it up,” Marnie responded pointedly.
Thistle blew out a frustrated sight but did as Marnie asked. It was easier than an argument. Once we were all barefoot, we followed Marnie into the dining room. It was empty – which surprised me. “Where is everyone?”
“Breakfast won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes,” Marnie chided us.
“Then why did you tell us to be here at 8 a.m.?” I could have taken more time getting ready if I’d known the cinnamon rolls weren’t ready yet.
“Because there’s something we need to talk to you about and we knew that if we told you breakfast wouldn’t be ready until 8 a.m. you would be late,” Marnie said, glancing down at her wristwatch. “And look, you’re fifteen minutes late.”
“Menopause has made you mean,” Thistle said as she regarded Marnie.
“I’m not going through menopause,” Marnie bristled. “Your mothers may be going through menopause, but I’m not.”
Clove, Thistle and I couldn’t contain our chortles as we followed Marnie into the kitchen. Our mothers were notorious for their competitive natures. It didn’t matter if it was cooking, gardening, decorating or, yes, menopause. One of them was going to win. In this case, though, I had no idea what winning constituted.
The kitchen at The Overlook is actually my favorite room in the house. No matter how old I am – and I’m in my mid-twenties, if you’re wondering – I revert back to my adolescent years whenever I walk through the swinging doors and inhale the smells of childhood.
For their part, my aunts and mom added on an addition at the back of The Overlook a few years ago to use as their own private residence. The only way to access the residence from the inn is through the kitchen – and the guests would never dare.
We heard a flurry of voices in the kitchen before we actually saw what the most recent catastrophe was taking the form of today.
“I think you’re being unreasonable.”
My mom was the first person I saw when I entered the kitchen. She was standing behind the counter, hands on hips, and regarding Aunt Tillie with her patented “you’re being a child” look. I was familiar with the gesture. She’d used it on me at least once a week for my entire life.
“I think you’re being a pain in the ass, Winnie,” Aunt Tillie barked back.
My Aunt Tillie was sitting in her reclining chair in the corner of the kitchen. A few weeks ago, the aunts had tried to remove the recliner – it had taken on a peculiar smell – and replace it with an antique rocking chair. Aunt Tillie had been so incensed she had taken to sleeping in the chair to make sure that they didn’t try to sneak it out of the house again. Now it really smelled – like angry old lady.
“Let’s try to remain calm,” my Aunt Twila said, nervously wringing her hands as she watched the scene unfold. Just like her daughter, Twila had close-cropped hair that was dyed a bright shade of red. Thistle’s hair was Christmas red, though. Twila’s hair was Ronald McDonald red. She had been dying her hair for so long I had no idea what her natural hair color was. She could have been darker like Marnie or fairer like my mom – but I had no idea which one it was.
