Hotter Than Spell Read online

  Hotter Than Spell

  An Elemental Witches of Eternal Springs Cozy Mystery, Book 3

  Annabel Chase

  Red Palm Press LLC

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Also by Annabel Chase

  Chapter One

  “Where’s my day planner?” I demanded, scouring the tabletops of the living room. When that search failed, I began lifting couch cushions. It was worse than hunting for the remote control. My house was only eighteen-hundred square feet and organized to the hilt. There was no excuse for anything to go missing.

  The blue one or the orange one, miss? Gerald asked, fluttering into the room. Unlike most pink fairy armadillos, Gerald was an actual fairy version, complete with tiny pink wings. My familiar’s main problem was that, thanks to a steady diet of hardboiled eggs and bacon, his body was slightly too heavy for his wings to lift him more than a foot or so off the ground. It wasn’t unusual for me to find unpleasant evidence of Gerald’s bottom dragging across the living room floor.

  “The blue one,” I said. “This is for work.” My orange day planner was devoted solely to my social calendar. One was decidedly fuller than the other, but I won’t say which one.

  I believe it was on the kitchen counter last time I saw it. Next to the refrigerator.

  “What were you doing in there?” I asked, hurrying into the kitchen to check. “Aha!” The blue planner was right beside the kettle on the stovetop. I should have known. Tea was usually my first port of call in the morning.

  I may have been in the mood for an egg before bed last night, Gerald explained, trailing after me.

  “Gerald, I told you before, we need to get you back to an insect- and plant-based diet. I will make you as many kale smoothies as you like, but you have to cut back on the eggs and bacon. It isn’t good for you.”

  My familiar lowered his head in shame. I do try, miss.

  “I know you do.” I patted his head. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad about yourself.”

  Of course not, miss. You’re much too kind.

  I flipped to the tabbed page of the planner and scanned today’s listings. “Eleven o’clock. That’s what I thought.”

  Today was the first practice session for the big Battle of the Bands competition. As the island’s director of tourism, I’m responsible for brainstorming ways to bring in more revenue from visitors. The jewel in the island’s crown is the Eternal Springs Resort and Spa. Tourists come from far and wide to experience the famous mud pits. I’m not an all-eggs-in-one-basket kind of gal, so I was determined to expand our offerings during my tenure. Hosting a Battle of the Bands meant full hotel rooms, busy restaurants, and enormous bar tabs. If the competition went well, it would be the first of many. I also entertained grand visions of holding concerts in the canyon near the mud pits to rival Colorado’s Red Rocks amphitheater. One goal at a time, though.

  A suit today, miss? Gerald queried. Are you sure that’s the best choice?

  I glanced down at my navy blue suit. “You know what? You’re right. It’s band practice. I should wear something more appropriate, to blend in.” My brow wrinkled. “Do I own any T-shirts, Gerald?”

  No, miss, but I’m sure you can borrow one from Skye. She seems to have an endless supply of such garments.

  I groaned at the mention of Skye Thornton. Skye and I are two of four witches left behind by our coven as the caretakers of the island. The other two—Zola and Evian—aren’t nearly as irritating as Skye, though I wouldn’t say they’re my friends by choice. We were thrown together at St. Joan of Arc for our education and then, afterward, due to unfortunate circumstances. The “unfortunate circumstances” being the destruction of the school after a devastating fire, which may or may not have been the result of our negligence. Well, certainly not my negligence. Everybody knows I’m a stickler for rules and order. I would never have abandoned my post as a watcher of the other side. Some terrible creatures could—and sometimes did—enter our world through that gap if we aren’t careful. And I’m always careful.

  “I still need to look professional, Gerald. Half of Skye’s wardrobe looks like it came straight from a high school locker.” Complete with sweat stains.

  Agreed, miss. Perhaps try your Helmut Lang silk tank and a pair of capris. Stylish yet casual.

  “The black one?”

  Silver, miss. With the ruched armholes. Pair them with your black capris.

  I fist bumped my armadillo. “Good call, Gerald.” I ran up the steps to my bedroom to change. I don’t know what I’d do without my familiar. He’s a fashion guru, spiritual advisor, best friend, and butler rolled into one chubby package.

  I yanked open my closet door and scanned the floor for the right shoes. Ballet flats or sandals?

  Depends on the state of your toenails, miss. You haven’t been to see Sara in three weeks, by my calculations.

  Ballet flats, it is.

  I swapped my suit for more casual fare, ran a brush through my long dark hair and hustled downstairs.

  Cup of tea? Gerald asked.

  The alarm on the counter buzzed, indicating it was time for me to go.

  “No time, but thanks,” I replied. “Vegetable lasagna for dinner?”

  I’m happy to do the necessary preparations, miss.

  “You’re the best.” I grabbed my cross-body bag from the hook by the front door. “Hold down the fort, Gerald,” I called over my shoulder.

  As always, miss, he called back.

  I stepped onto the front porch of my purple Craftsman house and was greeted by an albino raven perched on the edge of the Adirondack chair.

  I gave him the stink eye. “What are you doing here, Stuart?”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m doing here,” Stuart replied. “Same as every other time.”

  “You need a hobby,” I said. “Have you considered taking up knitting? I hear the needles don’t even hurt if you stab yourself with one. You should try it.”

  He ignored me. “You’re an amazing witch, Kenna, and you deserve an equally amazing familiar.”

  “And I suppose that’s you.” I continued down the porch steps to my white Vespa parked in the driveway. There are no cars on the island in order to preserve its character, so the only motorized transport available to residents are scooters and golf carts.

  The pale raven flew after me. “That armadillo is useless. He can barely fly, whereas I’m able to leap tall buildings in a single go.”

  “We don’t have any tall buildings on the island,” I pointed out. I strapped on my matching white helmet. I’m all about color coordination. “So I’m afraid your skill isn’t really a selling point.”

  Stuart perched on the handlebars of my Vespa and cocked his head. “It’s because I’m white, isn’t it? If I were black like the other ravens, you’d be all over the idea.”

  “I wouldn’t be all over anything because, as you are well aware, I already have a familiar.” I started the motor, a signal to Stuart that I was ready to end the conversation.

  “Gerald doesn’t deserve you,” he yelled.

  But I was already halfway down the street.

  Anchors Away is a beachside tiki bar with enough outdoor space to accomodate the bands as well as the anticipated audience. Although I’d received several bids from local bar
s to host the competition, Anchors Away ticked the most boxes, and was rewarded with the contract.

  I was about to pull into the parking lot when I caught sight of a red and blue customized golf cart in the distance. The distinctive WW logo stood out clearly on the back.

  “Waffle Wagon,” I whispered. The Waffle Wagon is my white whale. The delicious liege-style Belgian waffles are only available on wheels, but there is no rhyme or reason to the schedule, which makes it impossible to pin down.

  I glanced longingly at the wagon. If I gunned the engine of my scooter, I could make it before the wagon got away, but then I would be late for the practice session. I was the one in charge of the session, so I knew what my decision had to be. With an irritable grunt, I turned into the parking lot and parked my scooter next to the cleanest golf cart I could find. I tried to keep my white Vespa in pristine condition, and that meant parking far away from those who clearly didn’t take pride in their vehicles.

  “What’s the occasion?” a deep voice asked.

  I whipped around and stared right into a bare chest. Granted, it was an incredibly nice chest, with defined muscles and admirable pecs, but it was still a naked man chest. At eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “The occasion?” I repeated. My gaze traveled up to his attractive face. His dark blond hair caught the sunlight, and, for a brief moment, I forgot where I was and what I was doing.

  The bark of a dog brought me back to earth. A huge black and white Great Dane stood beside him.

  “Aren’t you stunning?” I said, admiring the sleek body of the dog. “Her coloring is so unusual.”

  “She’s a harlequin Dane,” he said. “Her name’s Leia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Leia. You’re a beauty.”

  “She certainly is,” Naked Man Chest said.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look back at him and his flawless body. “I need to get to work. There’s a practice session today for the Battle of the Bands competition. Have you heard about it?”

  “No, but it sounds great. I’ll bet it was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  I wasn’t usually shy and reserved, but I found myself staring at his running shoes. “It was, actually. How’d you know?”

  “Kenna,” someone called from the bar area. “Thank God you’re here. We need you. One of the speakers isn’t working.”

  “Duty calls,” I said. “It was nice chatting with you.” As much as I would have loved to continue my conversation with Naked Man Chest, I had work to do.

  Despite the morning hour, the bar teemed with people. I caught sight of Captain Mack Shakes working up a sweat behind the bar. I had warned him to hire extra help for the event. Hopefully, he’d decide to listen to me after this practice session. There was no guarantee, as my recommendations often fell on deaf ears. It was amazing I managed to do my job as well as I did. I was the island’s very own Cassandra, my warnings of doom and disaster summarily dismissed. I’d also advised Mack to skip his usual drunken Johnny Depp shtick that he lapsed into whenever tourists were around. The bands weren’t interested in anything except music, alcohol and attractive women.

  “Good morning, Mack,” I said, resting my elbows on the bar. “How’s everything going?”

  “Busier than I’d expect for a Tuesday morning,” he said. “We don’t ever see this kind of crowd so early, not even during the high season.”

  I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  “I think you’re right about the extra hands,” Mack said. “I’ll definitely have extra help here for the actual competition.”

  “Good plan.” I surveyed the scene. “Looks like all the bands that signed up for the practice session are here.” A few bands weren’t coming to the island until closer to the competition due to scheduling conflicts.

  “Oh, they’re here,” he said. “And very thirsty.” He pulled a few pints and slid them down the end of the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.” I pretended to roll up my sleeves. “I’m here to work.”

  “Do you ever do anything else?” Mack queried.

  I shot him a look of surprise. “Of course.”

  He wore an amused look. “Name something.”

  “I…watch television,” I said. I hoped he didn’t ask me what shows because Mitzi’s knitting program was really the only one I ever watched, and that was in order to zone out.

  Mack dropped his voice. “Maybe it’s time you start dating. A relationship might be good for you.”

  I flashed a smile. “Mack, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I’m not one of your barflies. You don’t need to counsel me or offer me sage advice. I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you are, Kenna, but wouldn’t it be nice to let someone else take care of you, if only every once in a while?”

  A noise from the makeshift stage grabbed my attention. “Ooh, the first band is about to start.”

  Mack peered over my shoulder. “I recognize the lead singer. That’s Fat Gandalf. They’ve played here before.”

  I studied the tall, lean man on stage. He wore a sleeveless top that showed off his sinewy muscles.

  “They’re local, right?” I asked.

  “Sure are. Favorable odds for winning the competition, too,” Mack said. “Not that I’m a betting man.”

  The lead singer tapped the end of his microphone. “Pete, you out there?”

  Heads swiveled as everyone scanned the area for Pete.

  “We can’t start without you,” the singer said. “Kinda need those drums.”

  My body tensed. Fat Gandalf was first. If their set started late, that would throw off the schedule for the entire day. A disaster in the making.

  “I can’t have this,” I muttered. I strode toward the stage, my jaw set. As my feet sank into the sand, I was grateful to Gerald for suggesting ballet flats. Heels would have been a problem.

  The lead singer continued to call for the drummer, Pete. The bassist and lead guitarist were on the stage as well, staring absently at each other.

  “I need you guys to start,” I said, tapping the imaginary watch on my wrist. “Otherwise, you’ll throw off the whole practice schedule.”

  A woman hurried to the stage, her blond ponytail swinging behind her. It seemed too early for groupies to rush the stage.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” I said. “The stage is for band members only.”

  “This is my wife, Rachel. She’s the manager for Fat Gandalf,” the lead singer said.

  She extended her hand. “Rachel Simonson.”

  As a self-proclaimed feminist, I was mortified to have mistaken her for a groupie.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “The stress is already getting to me.”

  “I know how you feel,” she said. “I was under the impression we were fourth in the practice session. It was Keith who insisted they were first.” She rifled through her tote bag and produced a blue day planner identical to mine. “I usually make very detailed notes of the band’s schedule.”

  “I have the same planner,” I said, brightening.

  “I can’t live without mine,” Rachel declared. “Keith thinks I’m ridiculous, but it generally keeps everything running smoothly.”

  “Speaking of running smoothly,” I said, “we really need to get started.”

  “We can’t start without Pete,” Keith said. “The drummer is the backbone of the band.”

  I glanced around in exasperation. “What does he look like? I’ll find him. You just start and do the best you can without him.”

  “Brown hair, wearing a Charlie Brown T-shirt,” Keith said.

  “Okay, Gandalf,” I said. “I’m on it.”

  “It’s Keith,” he replied. “Keith Simonson. The band is called Fat Gandalf.”

  “Oh, right.” I shook my head in an effort to get my thoughts in order. “I’ll be back with Charlie Brown.”

  “Let me know if you need any help,” Rachel called after me. “I hate being idle.”

  I hustl
ed off the stage and began combing the outdoor area before moving to the interior of Anchors Away. I asked anyone I passed if they’d seen a man in a Charlie Brown T-shirt. What passed for fashion these days was disappointing.

  “I saw that guy in the bathroom,” a longhaired, bearded man said.

  “When?”

  The man scratched his beard. “Earlier.”

  “How much earlier?” I asked impatiently. “Ten minutes ago? An hour?”

  The man nodded slowly. “Time is a manmade construct, you know?”

  Oh boy. We had a live one. “Charlie Brown T-shirt,” I repeated.

  “In the bathroom,” he said again.

  I kept walking, poking my head in and out of places and calling Pete’s name. Finally, I decided to check the restrooms, just to be thorough. The ladies’ room was clear, so I headed to the men’s room.

  “Pete,” I called from the open doorway. No answer. I really didn’t want to go inside. The mere thought of the germs and filth was enough to make me reach in my cross-body bag for an antacid.

  There was no one around, so I couldn’t ask for help. I inhaled deeply before holding my breath and venturing inside.

  “Pete?” There was no one at the urinals—thank Goddess. I checked the first stall. Empty. I inched over to the second stall, but the door was closed.

  “Excuse me,” I said, knocking. “Are you Pete?” The door swung open but stopped short, like something was blocking it. There was no response from inside.

  “Pete?”

  I pushed harder and the gap widened as something collapsed onto the floor in a heap. I recognized the telltale yellow and black shirt of Charlie Brown.

  “Oh, no. Pete, is that you?”

  There was no answer because, of course, the dead don’t speak.

  Chapter Two