Hotter Than Spell Read online

  “Yes, he’s definitely dead.” Dr. Abigail Marley stood over the body in the stall of the men’s room and nudged it with the toe of her strappy sandal. You know a town is small and superficial when its medical examiner doubles as a plastic surgeon in the local spa’s world-renowned plastic surgery wing.

  “Thank you for your keen assessment,” I said.

  Abigail faced me. “Speaking of keen assessments, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you made an appointment with my office.”

  I worked hard to suppress my irritation. “And why would I do that?”

  She touched my forehead. “Too much frowning, Kenna. You need to try less expression.”

  “I’m thirty,” I said. “It’s a little too soon to be concerned.”

  “Never too soon, Kenna. A little Botox injection and you’ll be fighting them off.”

  “I don’t want to have to fight anyone off.” That sounded immensely unappealing.

  She shrugged. “Take it from me, your shelf life is shorter than you think. It’s good to take measures to extend it.”

  “Wouldn’t have helped this guy,” I said, gesturing to Pete. “How did he die?”

  “That’s where the examiner part of my job kicks in,” Dr. Marley replied.

  “Looks like a nasty bruise on his head,” I said. The skin was purple and swollen. He must’ve hit it hard on the edge of the toilet.

  “I’m guessing drugs,” Abigail said.

  “You’re guessing drugs? Why, just because he was the drummer in a band?” Talk about biased.

  “No, because of the bag of drugs on the floor there.” She pointed to the floor and I crouched down to see a small plastic bag in the next stall.

  Oh. “He must have dropped it,” I said.

  “Don’t touch it,” she snapped. “We need to preserve the evidence.”

  “I know,” I said quickly. “I wasn’t going to touch it.” Actually, I was going to pick it up off the floor. It was a compulsion, though. If there was a bag on the floor that didn’t belong there, I needed to fix it.

  “Buddy is on his way,” Dr. Marley said. “He’ll want to see the evidence as it was discovered.”

  “Tell him Pete’s drumsticks are there too,” I said. I’d moved to the third stall, where the drumsticks were scattered on the floor.

  “Did someone say drumsticks? Now I’m hungry.” Barnaby Sterling Montgomery, or Buddy as he liked to be called, waddled his way into the restroom. Buddy served as the mayor, the chief of police, the senior center president and the water department chief. He wasn’t necessarily effective at all these jobs, but he liked amassing titles. For some reason, the residents of Eternal Springs allowed it.

  “Not those kind of drumsticks,” I said. “The kind an actual drummer uses.”

  Buddy looked disappointed, and I briefly worried that he would have eaten chicken drumsticks fresh off the bathroom floor if they’d been available.

  “His name is Pete,” I said. “He’s the drummer for Fat Gandalf.” The band was outside with no idea what happened to their bandmate.

  “I recognize him,” Buddy said. “Pete Simpson. His company’s done electrical work in my house.”

  “His company?” I echoed.

  “He owns an electrical company with his brother,” Buddy said. “Must be his day job.”

  “Not anymore,” Abigail said.

  “So what’s the theory?” Buddy asked.

  “He came into the bathroom to do drugs before his performance,” Abigail said. “He got so high on cocaine that he tried to drink out of the toilet and hit his head. Or maybe he was so delusional from the cocaine that he tried to stick one of his drumsticks up his nose instead of the coke.”

  I balked. “Is this how you normally work? There’s no cocaine, only pot.”

  “A minor detail,” Abigail said dismissively. “Drugs are drugs.”

  “Abigail’s excellent at working through her theories,” Buddy said.

  “Shouldn’t she be excellent at working through facts based on the actual medical examination?” I asked. “Last time I checked, you don’t stick pot up your nose.”

  Buddy appraised me. “Sounds like you speak from personal experience.”

  I straightened. “Do I seem like the kind of person who smokes pot?”

  “No, but you seem like the kind of person who definitely should.”

  I whirled around to see Skye hovering near the urinals. “Go away, Skye. This is none of your business.”

  “This doesn’t strike me as your usual hangout,” Skye said.

  “Why don’t you escort your nosy friend out of here, Kenna?” Buddy said. “I’m sure the bands out there are in dire need of direction from you about now.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Not to mention the restroom was becoming a bit too crowded for my taste.

  I grabbed Skye by the elbow and steered her out of the men’s room.

  “What are you doing here, Skye?” I eyed my coven sister carefully. She owned and was the sole reporter for The Town Croaker and a general busybody. The last thing I wanted was for word to get out about Pete. It would freak out the participants.

  “Heard there’s a meeting in the ladies’ room,” she said. “And I’ll be back real soon.”

  At the sound of ’80s lyrics, my gaze narrowed. Skye knew how I felt about funk music. I was more of a power ballad girl.

  I drew a deep breath of fresh air in an attempt to steady my nerves. “Feel free to use the ladies’ room,” I said. “Nowhere else should be of interest to you.”

  “Is it true there’s a dead body in there?” She moved to get around me, but I blocked her path.

  “Leave it, Skye,” I ground out. “There’s nothing to report.” Yet.

  Skye stood on her tiptoes to try to peer over my shoulder. That was the benefit of being a good three inches taller than her.

  “I know Buddy’s in there,” she said. “Not that you can miss him. It’s like watching an eclipse. Did I see the fancy shoes of Dr. Abigail Marley in the stall?”

  “Go away, Skye,” I said, wriggling my fingers. “Or I’ll singe off those beloved eyebrows of yours. They’re so pale, no one would notice anyway.”

  Skye twitched. When I threatened to use my magic, she knew I meant business. We’re elemental witches and my specialty is fire. Skye’s specialty is air. Technically, she could suck all the oxygen away and destroy my fire, but, most of the time, she didn’t react fast enough. My reflexes gave me a distinct advantage over her.

  “Fine,” Skye said, relenting. “I’ll go back and cover the bands. For now.” She blew a short blast of air in my direction for good measure, just enough to mess up my hair.

  “Witch,” I hissed.

  Skye smiled. “And don’t you forget it.”

  I followed her back to the sandy area where Fat Gandalf had been replaced on the stage by a band called Pigs in Blankets.

  I spotted the lead singer and the other bandmates by the bar. Keith’s arm was slung around the shoulders of a blond woman. His brow lifted when he saw me.

  “You find him?” he asked. “Eric and Steve have a bet going.” He pointed to the bassist and lead guitarist, respectively.

  “I saw Dr. Marley rush through,” Steve said. “Is he hurt?”

  Holy Olivia Newton-John. No one had told them yet. I assumed word had leaked out, especially with the arrival of Abigail and Buddy. Then again, those two were seen together under a variety of circumstances—the resort, the golf course, the municipal building. The duo didn’t automatically signify ‘death.’

  “Steve has twenty bucks on a slip and fall,” Keith said.

  “He is the clumsiest one of us,” Steve said with a laugh. “I keep waiting for him to electrocute himself at work.”

  “My money’s on sleep,” Eric said. “He’s been running himself ragged between the band and his day job. That guy can sleep anywhere. I’ve woken him up in the middle of a rave.”

  “Um, I found Pete, and he definitely wasn’t asle
ep.” I flagged down Mack. “Could I please have an Aperol spritz?”

  Mack frowned. “You sure about that?”

  The bartender knew I rarely drank on the job. “Just one, Mack. Thank you.”

  “So where is he then?” Keith polished off his beer and focused on me.

  “I’m afraid he’s…” Mack handed me the drink and I downed it. “Dead.”

  Everyone gaped at me.

  “What do you mean?” Eric asked.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m really sorry. Pete’s dead. The medical examiner and the chief of police are with him now. I’m sure they’ll release a statement when they have enough information. In the meantime, please keep this to yourselves. We don’t want to upset people.”

  Rachel burst into tears. “This isn’t real. We were just with him earlier this morning.”

  Keith squeezed her against him. “It’s okay, honey. We’ll find out what happened.”

  Eric lowered his head. “The timing sucks. How are we supposed to get another drummer on short notice? The competition is just around the corner.”

  “Eric, show some respect,” Steve said. “The lady just told us Pete died and you’re upset about a music competition.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Can we see him?” Keith asked, craning his neck as though he could glimpse Pete in the distance.

  “The area is cordoned off now,” I said. “They’re preparing the body for transport.”

  Keith buried his head in his hands. “This is a nightmare. Poor Pete.”

  Rachel gripped her husband’s arm. “Oh, God. Someone needs to tell Tiffany.”

  “His girlfriend?” I queried.

  “His wife,” Eric corrected.

  “And Mike and Lizzie,” Steve added. “This is unreal.” He appeared as dazed as he sounded.

  Eric grimaced. “We sounded awful without a drummer up there. We’ve got to find someone quickly.”

  “Eric, if you mention another drummer again, I’m going to knock your teeth out,” Steve warned.

  Rachel laid a perfectly manicured hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Let’s not turn on each other. We need to come together now more than ever.” Rachel turned to me. “That being said, we’ll find another drummer in time. Please keep us on the roster.”

  “Pete would want us to compete,” Keith said, his head bobbing. “He thought our chances of winning this were high.”

  Steve sniffed. “He believed in us.”

  Rachel squeezed his shoulder. “I still believe in you guys, but let’s take a moment, okay? We just lost our Pete.”

  Keith nodded slowly. “We did. We lost our Pete.”

  The husband and wife put their arms around each other and the other bandmates followed suit.

  “I think this calls for shots,” Eric said. “I’ll get the first round.”

  That was my cue to excuse myself. There was far too much to do to get sucked into a grief-inspired drinking spiral.

  I said my goodbyes and turned back toward the stage, where the next band was setting up. As I crossed the sand, I spotted the hot shirtless guy from the parking lot, only now he looked freshly showered in shorts and a T-shirt. He grinned when he saw me.

  “That last band sounded pretty good,” he said, coming toward me.

  “Did they?” I said vaguely. “Oh, I’m glad.”

  He frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be paying attention? I thought this was your event.”

  “Where’s Leia?” I asked.

  “I took her home and grabbed a quick shower before I came back to check things out.” He folded his arms and gave the place an approving nod. “Looks like everything’s going well.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. Wait. Why was I admitting this to a stranger? I wanted to keep Pete’s death as quiet as possible.

  The hot guy focused on me. “Is everything okay, Kenna?”

  I opened my mouth to respond and then snapped it closed. He knew my name? “Do we know each other?”

  “I’m Lucas Holmes,” he said. “We graduated high school together. You came senior year with your three friends.”

  Lucas. Leia. My brain was ready to explode. “Skywalker?” My voice was a near whisper.

  Lucas chuckled. “I haven’t heard that name in years. It’s pretty much Lucas 24/7 now.”

  I wasn’t sure I ever knew his real name. The other witches and I had dubbed him Skywalker when we caught him in the Cottonmouth Copse playing alone with his lightsaber…and, no, that’s not a euphemism. He was actually battling trees with a glowing lightsaber. We still attended St. Joan of Arc at the time—it was before the fire. When we arrived at the local high school, we recognized him and proceeded to torment him during our brief tenure. We used our magic to leave photographs of Darth Vader that read ‘I am your father’ everywhere he went—his locker, the gym locker room, even the urinal in the boys’ bathroom. By the time we graduated, everyone was calling him Skywalker. He was so gawky then, nothing like the Adonis that stood before me now. To this day, he had no idea that we were responsible for his humiliation.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Skywalker was the first name that sprang to mind.” Yet he knew my name. That fact somehow made it worse.

  “I didn’t love the nickname at the time,” he admitted. “But I’m thirty now, so I’ve kind of embraced my inner geek. And I’m still a Star Wars fan.”

  “Leia,” I said, and he nodded.

  “Truth be told, I am, too,” I said. “My friend Skye and I used to have the movies on constant rotation. We annoyed Zola and Evian to no end.” I smiled at the memory. Sometimes the other witches and I got along; at least we had our moments. With four different personalities in the mix, we were bound to get on each other’s nerves. Not to mention our banishment to the island. I think we often took our frustration out on each other because we could.

  “Kenna, someone’s looking for you,” a reedy guy said. I didn’t know his name.

  “Be right there,” I said, my gaze still fixed on Lucas.

  “Looks like you need to get back to work,” Lucas said. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  I gave a dismissive wave. “No, it’s fine. It’s already been a horrible day and it’s barely begun.”

  Lucas appeared genuinely concerned. “Anything I can help with?”

  I inclined my head, touched by the offer. Another wave of guilt threatened to overwhelm me. We tortured this gorgeous guy for months out of pure bitchiness, and here he was, offering himself as a knight in shining armor.

  “No, thank you,” I finally said. “That’s kind of you, though.”

  He grinned and my heart skipped a beat. “I like to make myself useful,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I said. “I get itchy if I have nothing to do.”

  “How would you know?” he asked good-naturedly. “You seem to always be in motion.”

  Wow. He seemed to be pretty observant. How on earth had I missed seeing him around town? At six foot four and full of handsome with a Great Dane sidekick, he couldn’t be invisible if he tried.

  “Do you…work on the mainland?” I asked. It didn’t seem likely, but that was the only conclusion I could reach.

  “Sort of,” he said. “I’m a pilot.”

  My mouth formed a tiny ‘o.’

  He must have sensed my apprehension. “You have something against pilots?”

  “No, I have something against leaving the ground,” I said. “I’m a big fan of gravity.” I didn’t even fly on a broomstick, though I could if I were so inclined. Skye was the most willing. Then again, she was a witch of the wind. It suited her more.

  “Kenna.” My name echoed around us. Someone was using the microphone to summon me.

  “I need to go,” I said. “It was nice talking to you.”

  “See you around.”

  On my way to the stage, I glimpsed the covered gurney as it was carried out of the bar. Fortunately, people were so caught up in the buzz of activity around them that they failed to notice. My stomach dropped. A
man died at my event. If I hadn’t arranged the practice session, he might still be alive. I couldn’t pretend that it didn’t bother me. I was an overachiever since the day I was born with a full head of hair and set of teeth. An incident like this on my watch was unacceptable.

  I needed to know what had happened to Pete Simpson and why.

  Chapter Three

  You seem out of sorts, miss, my observant familiar said. Did the practice session not go as planned?

  I’d arrived home that evening and immediately plopped onto the couch, ready to sink into a coma.

  “You could say that. Someone died today,” I said.

  Forgive me for stating the obvious, miss, but someone dies every day, Gerald said. It’s the cyclical nature of living things.

  “I found him,” I said quietly. “Buddy and Abigail want to pretend it was accidental for the sake of the town, but he was definitely murdered.”

  I’d spoken to both of them later in the day, and they were insistent on sticking with the story that it was a drug-related accident. At least they had to run a toxicology report. If the results came back clean, they’d be forced to launch an investigation. The problem was that it could take a week for the results. In the meantime, there was a murderer running loose on the island. Naturally, it had to be the week leading up to my big event.

  Oh, dear. That’s dreadful. Gerald fluttered over to rest on the adjacent couch cushion. A murder at Anchors Away? How is it even possible?

  “I don’t know, but I have to find out,” I said. “There’s no way he did this to himself. The position of the body…It looked like he was attacked from behind.”

  So you don’t believe it was an accident? Perhaps a drug overdose?

  “No way. The bag of pot was unopened. We don’t even know if it was his. Maybe he was holding it for someone.” Now I sounded like the teenager who blames her friend when she gets caught with a half-empty bottle of vodka.

  Are you certain you’re equipped to investigate a murder, miss? Gerald squinted his little armadillo face at me. I mean, I’m the first to praise your capabilities, but this is far different from organizing a tour of the mud pits for visiting dignitaries.

  “I know, Gerald, but I can’t let laziness win the day.”