A brushstroke with death, p.1
A Brushstroke with Death, page 1
PRAISE FOR BETHANY BLAKE’S PREVIOUS MYSTERIES
“When murder is unleashed in the idyllic town of Sylvan Creek, it’s up to spunky pet sitter Daphne and her darling duo of misfit mutts to catch the killer. A doggone charming read from start to finish.”—Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author
“Awesome, suspenseful mystery . . . a rollicking adventure!”—Modern Dog
“Amusing and intriguing.”—Mystery Scene
“I had such a delightful and fun time reading this book! . . . The characters are hilarious and quirky and I just fell in love with them and the small town of Sylvan Creek. The mystery was unpredictable, suspenseful and brilliantly plotted. I can’t wait for the next installment! Bethany Blake, the author, has a fan for life!”—Night Owl Suspense
“This is already marked to be on my Best Books of 2017 list.”—Kings River Life Magazine
“Death by Chocolate Lab, is the best first in a new series of 2017. I am calling it now.... Even though I can only give five stars, this book is easily eight paws and two hands up!”—Bibliophile Reviews
“I loved this book.... The book is engaging from the very beginning and kept me entertained throughout.... I can’t wait for book 2.”—Sleuth Café
“Bethany Blake gets a blue ribbon for her ‘paw’sitively charming dog cozy, Death by Chocolate Lab. From the get-go, the pets steal the show.... Adorable dogs, a good murder mystery and a dash of romance make Death by Chocolate Lab a delicious concoction that mystery and dog lovers alike will adore.”—Mutt Cafe
Bethany Blake is the author of:
The Lucky Paws Petsitting Mysteries
Death by Chocolate Lab
Dial Meow for Murder
Paw Prints & Predicaments
A Midwinter’s Tail
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed
The Owl & Crescent Mysteries
A Brushstroke with Death
A Brushstroke With Death
Bethany Blake
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2019 by Beth Kaszuba
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-2453-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2001-6 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2001-6 (ebook)
To my bewitching daughters,
Paige, Julia, and Hope
Chapter 1
“Oh, goodness!” my friend Astrid Applebee cried, chasing her floppy straw hat down the stepping-stone path that led from my cottage to my studio, the Owl & Crescent Art Barn. The batlike wings of Astrid’s unusual poncho flapped as she scooped up the hat, jamming it onto her head and flattening her unruly, dark brown curls. Turning back to me and the third member of our small sorority, Pepper Armbruster, Astrid frowned. “Time to batten down the hatches!”
“It’s definitely going to be a wild night,” I agreed, hurrying after her and daring a wary peek at the darkening sky. Then I looked down at the path again, being careful not to trip, because I was carrying a basket that held freshly cut flowers, a ceramic rabbit, a flowerpot—and three sharp old garden tools, all props I’d use to create a still-life scene that guests to my upcoming wine-and-painting social could re-create in oils.
Joining Astrid at the studio door, I fumbled with the knob, while the wind, which was rising ahead of a storm, jangled the chimes that hung in my apple trees and rattled the shutters on my cottage. The rooster weathervane atop the pink wooden playhouse where my rescue pig, Mortimer, lived was spinning in wild circles. Finally managing to open the door, I gestured for Astrid to dash inside. “It feels like a tornado’s coming!”
“Oh, there’s a tornado headed our way,” Pepper noted dryly, strolling right past me, too. She appeared calm, cool, and collected in a pair of white jeans and a sleeveless black top, and the gusts weren’t even riffling her perfect, blond bob—probably because she was quietly using her skills as an elemental, a witch tuned in to nature’s forces and cycles.
I stepped back, making room for her to pull a red wagon stocked with wine from her family’s vineyard, Twin Vines, and food from her inn, the Crooked Chimneys, through the door, which I closed behind us all, shutting out the gale.
“We should all brace for a flesh-and-blood cyclone,” Pepper added, dragging the wagon toward a mustard-yellow, antique dry sink, where I usually served snacks during parties. “Or should I say, a category six human hurricane?”
“I thought hurricanes only went up to five,” Astrid noted, shaking out her poncho, which featured elaborate zodiac-inspired designs. I suspected the garment came from the clearance rack at her quirky shop, Astrid’s Astral Emporium, located in a narrow purple storefront on the bustling Main Street of our eclectic, artsy hometown of Zephyr Hollow, Pennsylvania.
Without waiting for instruction, because my friends often helped with my gatherings, Astrid grabbed a matchbox from a shelf near the door and began to light the many candles I kept tucked around the barn. The power at my property had been unpredictable lately—handyman George Van Buskirk was somewhere working on the problem at that very moment—and as the studio shook from floor to rafters, I thought the nonelectric light might come in handy.
“Can a storm really be worse than five?” Astrid asked again, striking a match and lighting a sage-scented candle I’d placed on a windowsill. She shook out her hand, extinguishing the flame. “And who is this terrible person who’s about to blow us away?”
As if on cue, the wind howled angrily, and a petite gray cat with a white crescent-shaped mark on her chest—one of the inspirations for my studio’s name—yowled in protest and jumped up onto the long farmhouse table where I planned to create the still life.
I smiled at the sleepy feline, who didn’t like her naps to be interrupted, even by forces of nature. “It’s time you woke up for a few minutes, Luna,” I reminded her, setting the basket on the table. “You’ve probably been sleeping all day.”
Luna flicked her tail and blinked her yellow eyes, seeming to ask why that might be a bad thing.
Over by the dry sink, where she was arranging a tempting display of treats, Pepper grinned wickedly and waggled her fingers, which were heavy with silver rings. “You know I could probably calm this tempest so poor Luna can get her beauty rest.”
“Please, no messing with the weather,” I begged, smoothing my white spaghetti-strap blouse back into place. “Put those fingers away!”
Pepper laughed and waved off my concerns. “Oh, I can’t really banish a storm.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Of me, Astrid, and Pepper—the sole members of the world’s least organized coven—Pepper was by far the most powerful witch. Female members of her family could trace their interest in magic and divination back to the Mayflower’s arrival, and I suspected the Armbrusters’ ancestral fortune was tied to the women’s special abilities more than to the men’s business acumen.
Meanwhile, most of what I, Willow Bellamy, knew about witchcraft came from a tattered family journal that contained a mishmash of recipes for everything from healin
My grandmother, Anna—quite the brewer of powerful, sometimes misfiring, teas herself—had given me the Bellamy Book of Spells, Lore & Miscellany when, at age eighteen, I happened to rest a hand on a painting and found myself accidentally sucked into the artist’s soul, making me, apparently, a witch of the arts-and-crafts variety, just like Pepper was an elemental.
I could vividly recall how Grandma Anna, who’d also handed down the genes for my thick, black hair and unusual green eyes, had pulled me aside and said, “Your mother hates what she calls ‘hocus pocus.’ But, given that you obviously have gifts, I’d take a gander at the stuff in these pages before you get yourself killed”.a world
I’d taken that advice and come to embrace a world that my mother, Mayor Celeste Bellamy Dinsmore Crockett Bellamy—who had a winding history of divorce and remarriage—did consider suspect.
In spite of lacking maternal support, I still had a stronger background than Astrid, who came from a family of determinedly mundane accountants, and who learned most of what she knew about her chosen path—astrological—from questionable Internet sites. However, what Astrid lacked in knowledge and experience, she made up for with clothing and jewelry.
Every so often, Pepper and I had to tactfully let her know that she looked a bit too much like a cartoon version of Merlin. In fact, we’d secretly taken away Astrid’s purple velvet pointed hat, the ashes of which would forever rest at the bottom of my backyard fire pit, surrounded by a cozy circle of Adirondack chairs that overlooked a bubbling stream called Peddler’s Creek.
To quote a questionably wise axiom my Great Aunt Edith had added to the Book of Miscellany, “It’s not a crime if it’s a favor”.
“Is anyone going to tell me who the hurricane is?” Astrid repeated, while I began to unpack the basket.
Glancing over, I saw that she was eating one of the watermelon-and-feta skewers Pepper had just arranged on a white platter. Pepper had also supplied bruschetta, topped with basil and heirloom tomatoes from my garden, and a pasta salad with grilled vegetables. I’d baked plum tarts finished with a drizzle of honey, the fruit and nectar gathered from my own trees and beehives. I was probably a borderline garden witch, if there was such a thing as borderline witchcraft.
As thunder rumbled in the distance, Astrid reached for a tart. “Should I be worried about more than getting struck by lightning on the way home?”
“I would never let you get struck, Astrid,” Pepper promised, uncorking a bottle of wine. I had no idea if she was joking. I didn’t see a twinkle in her blue eyes as she poured three tumblers full of the award-winning Pinot Grigio that was adding to the Armbruster fortune. Joining me at the table, Pepper slid a glass toward me, then gave Luna a quick scratch behind the ears. Luna tipped her head, practically grinning. “Unfortunately, I can’t protect you from Evangeline Fletcher’s lightning-sharp tongue tonight,” Pepper added. “She is a force beyond my control!”
At the sound of my cantankerous next-door neighbor’s name, Luna yowled and ran off. Astrid was also clearly stunned. Her brown eyes grew wide, and she thumped her chest, like she was choking. “No!” she cried, when she could finally speak. Her worried gaze darted between me and Pepper. “She’s not really coming here, is she?”
Before I could respond, I heard a loud rustle of feathers above us, and I looked up to the exposed beams to discover that the Owl & Crescent’s other namesake—a majestic, suitably wise barn owl named Rembrandt—also seemed displeased to learn that our surly neighbor planned to join the gathering, which was sponsored by the Zephyr Hollow Small Business Alliance.
Narrowing his dark, intelligent eyes, Remi rattled his wings again, letting us all know that he’d be keeping an eye on the woman who’d once called a wildlife officer to trap the “pet” I was “illegally keeping” at my place of business.
Given that Rembrandt had lived in the barn before I’d renovated it, and came and went as he pleased, the accusation had, of course, been ridiculous. Just like Evangeline’s claim that the pig who lived in a pink playhouse, complete with flower boxes, was “livestock,” and therefore also suitable for seizure and relocation.
Evangeline had even called the authorities on Luna, insisting that my feline companion was feral because she sometimes napped on top of my potting shed.
And then there were the shadier rumors she’d spread about me . . .
“I can’t believe Ms. Fletcher has the nerve to show up here,” Astrid said, interrupting my thoughts and puffing her poncho indignantly. “I know she’s responsible for that crazy tale about ‘blood ceremonies’ being held at the Owl & Crescent!”
Pepper shook her head. “Such a shame that you had to spill red paint all over yourself, Willow. If only it had been blue!”
Astrid’s cheeks were pink with outrage on my behalf. “And such a shame that Evangeline was, as always, spying when you went to the cottage to clean up, because that rumor cost you business for a good six months. I swear, Evangeline Fletcher wants to get rid of all your poor animals and force you to move, too!”
While Astrid was speaking, the door had opened, ushering in a gust of wind and Mr. Van Buskirk. “Don’t mean to eavesdrop, ladies, but Astrid’s right,” he said, stomping his work boots on the rug just inside the door. He set down a box of tools. “But I suppose you knew that already, Willow.”
Of course, I was well aware that Evangeline wanted to buy my house and paint the pink, yellow, and aqua Victorian cottage some dull shade, like brown. She also hated Mortimer’s playhouse and wanted to raze the barn, too. My small colony of bees were another source of aggravation, although they mainly just buzzed around my own gardens—which, if Evangeline ever did succeed in wresting my home away from me, would probably be replaced with the uniform, short grass that surrounded her much larger home, known locally as “Fletcher Mansion.”
“Well, I’ll never sell,” I told everyone, as I continued arranging my scene, adding a rustic trowel, a hand rake, and an ancient, but wickedly sharp, pair of pruners. Then I looked up at Rembrandt. “No one’s going to throw a net over you again,” I promised him, turning to Luna. “And no one’s sending you to the pound, either, or—heaven forbid—turning poor Mortimer into pork.”
Glancing out one of the barn’s windows, I saw that the black-and-white pig in question had ventured out of his house, which was like a miniature version of my cottage. He trotted around his enclosure, his snout raised as he watched the weather vane spin in the wind. I made a mental note to bring him inside the barn if the storm got too bad.
“I’d keep an eye on that piggy,” Mr. Van Buskirk said, looking out the window, too. “Poor little guy is in Evangeline’s sights. Who knows what she might do.”
I rested one hand on my chest. “You don’t think she’d really harm him . . . ?”
“I don’t know, Willow,” Astrid fretted. “She is unpredictable.”
“Yes,” Pepper agreed, giving Mr. Van Buskirk a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry she let you go, after so many years!”
Of course, everyone in Zephyr Hollow knew that Evangeline had recently fired Mr. Van Buskirk, after decades of loyal service to the Fletcher family. Having known him since my childhood, I was trying to find odd jobs for him—which wasn’t difficult, given my home’s age. Everything needed tweaks, from my roof to the fence around Mortimer’s enclosure.
