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  Flip the Witch Switch

  A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery Book Fourteen

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2019 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Prologue

  Seventeen years ago

  “I hate camping.”

  Clove Winchester, her black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, screwed up her face in the most petulant of tween expressions and glared at her great-aunt Tillie. It was the snine. The half sneer, half whine. She was good at the snine.

  Aunt Tillie didn’t care how good she was at the expression. The tone of her voice was like vampire nails on a glass window.

  “You don’t hate camping,” she fired back, her agitation coming out to play. “You like camping. Camping is fun. You’re just whining because you like the sound of your voice.”

  “That’s what Mom says about you,” Bay volunteered. Unlike her cousin Clove, Bay was fair and blond. She also wasn’t darting her eyes around the campsite because she feared some unforeseen monster sneaking up on them. She was calm, although pleasant was another story.

  “Your mother says what about me?” Aunt Tillie huffed as she dug in the bag by her feet.

  “She says that you like the sound of your own voice.”

  “Well, that sounds just like your mother,” Aunt Tillie said primly. “Do you want me to tell you something about your mother?”

  “She’s going to tell you whether you want to hear it or not,” the third young girl, Thistle, announced from her spot across the fire. Her hair was blond, wild and unkempt after an afternoon traipsing around the woods to collect herbs. She didn’t seem to care, though, because she had other things on her mind … like seeing how far she could push her great-aunt. “That’s what she does.”

  “You listen here, Thistle,” Tillie snapped, narrowing her eyes. “I’m going to tell you because it’s important to what we’re doing out here.”

  “I thought we were lost,” Clove groused, her eyes going wider (if that was even possible) as something fluttered from one tree to another. “What was that?”

  “I think it was a rabid bat,” Thistle replied dryly. “It’s going to come bite you during the night and it’s going to be all Cujo up in here before the sun rises.”

  “Oh, that shows what you know,” Tillie said, making a face. “It takes weeks for rabies to set in. She wouldn’t turn into Cujo right away. She would froth at the mouth and we would have to lock her in a shed before it got that bad.”

  Clove, eternally miffed, folded her arms over her chest and glared. “I want to go home right now!”

  Tillie was used to her great-nieces making demands. She’d been sharing a roof with them for years — and before that she occasionally volunteered to babysit, but only if she needed the cover toting around three small children could offer should the police come sniffing around asking questions — and she knew exactly how to handle the mouthy little cauldron sniffers.

  “We can’t go home.” She chose her words carefully. “Part of the outdoor experience is sleeping under the stars. As witches, you have to commune with nature. It’s one of those rules that you have to follow even if you don’t want to.”

  Clove was having none of that. “I don’t want to follow the rules! The woods are full of animals ... and monsters ... and animals.”

  “What animal are you worried about?”

  “The big ones.”

  “She’s worried about Bigfoot,” Thistle volunteered, her expression seeming to indicate that she was bored. “She saw this video on some nature show and there was footage of Bigfoot and the lady who was talking said that Bigfoot lived in our area, so ... she’s basically scared of Bigfoot.”

  Clove was officially scandalized. “I am not afraid of Bigfoot!”

  “You are so.” Bay rubbed her hands over her bare knees and stared into the fire. “How long do you think it will be until they send a search party after us?”

  Clove worried about ridiculous things. Bay worried about real things, and Tillie found that far more dangerous. That’s why she opted to address both problems with one breath.

  “First, you don’t have to worry about Bigfoot, Clove. I know what you saw on television, but Bigfoot doesn’t live around these parts, so you’re safe.”

  Clove brightened considerably. “Really?” She flicked her eyes to Thistle. “Is that true?”

  Thistle made a face. “Why are you asking me? I know what you know.”

  “You don’t know jack, Thistle,” Tillie fired back. “But that’s neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is, this isn’t Bigfoot territory.”

  Clove drew her eyebrows together. “Where is Bigfoot territory?” She clearly wasn’t sure if she should believe her great-aunt, but she definitely wanted a reason to tear her thoughts from a huge apelike creature that might rip her from limb to limb.

  “Bigfoot lives in the Pacific Northwest.” Tillie was matter-of-fact. “That’s his home.”

  “And where is that?” Clove gnawed a fingernail as she searched the shadows for hints of movement. “Is that a long way away?”

  “We’re talking Oregon, Washington state and Canada, Clove,” Tillie shot back. “Don’t you pay attention in geography class?”

  “Canada?” Clove’s voice turned shrill. “We’re really close to Canada.”

  “Canada is big like Margaret Little’s behind,” Tillie explained. “It’s huge. The part of Canada we’re talking about is a long way from here. Bigfoot can’t live here, so it stays in the spot where it’s supposed to live.”

  “Are you sure?” Clove clearly wanted to believe, so she unclenched a bit. “Why would people say Bigfoot was hanging around these woods if it’s not true?”

  “People are morons, Clove. They say stupid things all the time.”

  “Yeah, but ... you’re sure, right?”

  Tillie bobbed her head. “I’m completely and totally sure. Bigfoot can’t live in these woods because the Dogman owns them.”

  Clove’s mouth dropped open. “Who is the Dogman?”

  “He’s like Bigfoot’s hairy cousin who wags his tail,” Thistle offered helpfully.

  “Pretty much,” Tillie agreed. “The Dogman is better. He can be distracted with Frisbees and when you do that fake throwing balls thing. He’s cool that way.”

  Clove buried her face in her hands and whimpered. “I hate you. I can’t believe you got us lost.”

  “Hey!” Tillie’s eyes fired. �
�I did not get us lost. I know exactly where we are.”

  “Is that close to the Dogman’s lair?” Thistle asked, feigning legitimate curiosity.

  “Listen, junior mouth, I might not have a room to send you to, but that won’t stop me from cursing you if I feel like it,” Tillie warned. “Just ... shut your mouth.”

  “I would but I’m afraid this is the last time I’ll have to open it and your threats have no power on me, old lady.” Thistle might’ve been only ten but she was worldly in a way most kids couldn’t claim. She was smart beyond her years, which made her a constant thorn in Tillie’s backside. “We’re going to die out here and it’s completely your fault because you got us lost.”

  “I don’t get lost.”

  “Really? Then why did you have to magically make a fire?” Thistle challenged. “How come we’re eating berries instead of tacos? We’re supposed to be eating tacos.”

  “Oh, it’s taco night.” Clove sounded mournful. “I love tacos. How could you get us lost on taco night? That is just the worst.”

  “Oh, suck it up.” Tillie made a face. “You’re being a bunch of babies. Where is your sense of adventure? We’re in the woods, on a beautiful night, and the only thing standing in the way of us and adventure are the stars.”

  Instead of immediately responding, Bay, Clove and Thistle merely stared at their great-aunt. Thistle, per usual, was the first to speak.

  “That is the biggest load of hogwash I’ve ever heard,” she snapped. “You don’t like sleeping outside any more than we do. You just can’t figure out how to get us home.”

  “That is not true.” Tillie was even more annoyed than usual, which was saying something, because she was the queen of agitation on a normal day. “I know exactly where we are.”

  “We know exactly where we are, too,” Thistle said. “We’re lost.”

  “We’re not lost!” Tillie exploded.

  “We’re lost and the Dogman is going to eat us.” Clove openly sobbed. “I’m too young to die. Just think about everything I’m missing out on in life. I’ll never get to date … or wear nice boots that aren’t hand-me-downs … or watch an R-rated movie and actually be able to talk about it without my mother yelling when she finds out.”

  Tillie’s glare was withering. “Listen, drama queen, we’re not lost. I know exactly where we are.”

  “Where?”

  “Where I want us to be.”

  “And where is that?” Thistle challenged. “Where do you want us to be?”

  “We’re in control of our destinies.”

  Thistle narrowed her eyes until they were nothing more than glittery slits. “You are so full of yourself, old lady. I can’t believe you haven’t exploded yet. I mean ... no one should be able to have that much hot air inside of them without blowing up.

  “And, just for the record, I’m not disrespecting my elders when I say that,” she continued. “I’ve heard Aunt Winnie say it, like, ten times. That means it has to be true.”

  “Don’t you worry about Winnie,” Tillie snapped. “I’ll handle Winnie and her runaway mouth just as soon as we get home.”

  “And when will that be?” Clove queried. “Before or after the Dogman eats us?”

  “Clove, the Dogman is not going to eat us. Be practical. He would much rather eat deer and rabbits because they taste better. If he kills us, it’s because he simply doesn’t like us.”

  “Oh, well, that is so much better,” Clove snuffled. “I want to go home!”

  “We all want to go home.” Thistle leaned back on her elbows and stretched her legs out toward the fire. “But we can’t. We’re lost. Aunt Tillie took us into the woods, promised we would be home for the taco bar, and then got us lost.”

  “Oh, there’s never going to be a taco bar again,” Clove wailed.

  “I’m done talking to all of you,” Tillie hissed. “You’re all on my list.”

  “I don’t think that threat frightens us as much as you wish it would,” Thistle argued.

  “Just shut your holes.” Tillie held up her hand and stared into the woods, as if willing herself to hold it together.

  The foursome lapsed into silence for a long time, the only sound the crackling fire. Finally, Bay was the one to break it.

  “If we’re not lost, why did we circle the same tree four times before you decided we should make camp?”

  Tillie slowly tracked her eyes to her oldest great-niece. Bay was the dangerous one of the trio. Clove was the whiner and manipulator. Thistle was the plotter with more bravado than brains. Bay, however, was the thinker. She worked things over in her mind until there was nothing left but the truth.

  “If we’re not lost, why are we camping without equipment?” Bay persisted. “You love tacos. You would never willingly miss out on them. That means we have to be lost. That’s why we’re stuck here with a fire and berries instead of at home with tacos and that tequila Mom doesn’t think we know about.”

  “Tequila she stole from me,” Tillie muttered, shaking her head.

  “That wasn’t an answer to the question.” Bay refused to back down. “If we’re not lost, what are we doing?”

  “We’re camping.”

  “There are tents when we camp, sleeping bags. There’s bug spray and food. There’re s’mores.”

  “Oh, why did you have to bring up s’mores?” Clove whined. “I’ll never get another s’more. Why, Goddess, why?”

  Tillie rolled her eyes at Clove’s diminutive form. “You’re seriously on my last nerve, Clove. One more word and I’ll take your berries away. How do you feel about that?”

  “What I don’t get is that if we’re lost, why aren’t you using magic to lead us home?” Thistle challenged. “You’re a witch. Why not just snap your fingers and make one of those orb things and have it lead us back to the house?”

  Clove straightened. “Yeah. Why not do that? We might not miss taco night if you can conjure one fast enough.”

  “I can’t do that.” Tillie avoided three curious gazes. “Go back to eating your berries.”

  Thistle was instantly suspicious. “And why can’t you do that?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “Why really?”

  “Because your mothers will see if I do that and I refuse to explain myself to them,” Tillie supplied. “They think they’re so smart. They warned me before taking you out that I should be careful because the foliage was extra thick this year and they were worried I would get turned around. I mean ... I’ve been hanging around in these woods since before they were born. Who are they to tell me what to do?”

  “Right,” Bay said. “We wouldn’t want that. Especially if they were right.”

  “Stop flapping your gums,” Tillie ordered, her expression darkening. “You’re fine. The light just got away from me. In the morning I’ll be able to see where we are and we’ll be home before breakfast. This is not the end of the world.”

  “And how will you explain to our mothers about our unscheduled camping trip?” Bay pressed. “Don’t you think they’ll be wondering about that?”

  “I’ll just tell them you girls needed to be toughened up. They’ll believe it because ... well ... look at you.” She gestured at Clove, who was still fake crying over the taco bar.

  “Why can’t you just conjure an orb that gets us close to home?” Thistle suggested. “Then you can hide it before they see it.”

  “I thought about that, Thistle, but you have a big mouth and will tell them what happened, so there’s no way I’ll get away with it.”

  “So ... you’d rather sit out here in the dark all night even though we’re going to tell them regardless?” Bay asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “You suck,” Thistle lamented, flopping on the ground. “I mean, you really suck.”

  “You’re an absolute delight, too, Thistle.” Tillie stared at the fire. “Now, how about we make the best of this situation? Let’s tell ghost stories.”

  “I know a ghost story,” Thistle
announced. “Once upon a time, there were three pretty princesses and they were lost in the woods with their great-aunt, the cave hag.”

  “And Thistle is cut off from telling stories,” Tillie announced. “I ... .” She trailed off at the sound of a twig cracking.

  Clove squealed as she hunched over and Thistle bolted to a sitting position.

  “What was that?” Bay asked, her eyes peering into the darkness.

  “It’s the Dogman,” Clove announced. “He’s coming ... and he’s hungry.”

  Tillie rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you that the Dogman doesn’t eat people? He just plays with them with his teeth until they die.”

  “I don’t think that’s better,” Thistle complained. “In fact ... .”

  Whatever she was going to say died on her lips when another twig cracked.

  “It’s the Dogman,” Clove wailed. “We’re all doomed!”

  “Don’t get carried away, Clove,” Tillie snapped. “I have everything under control. Trust me. No one will dare cross into our campground as long as I’m alive.”

  “Oh, well, now I’m torn,” Thistle said. “On one hand I want to kill you for making us miss the taco bar. On the other, I want to throw you at the Dogman so he can play with you while we make our escape.”

  Tillie’s eyes flared. “You’re definitely on my list.”

  “Bay?” A distinctly male voice drifted into the clearing from the east. “Tillie?”

  Bay hopped to her feet. “Detective Terry.” She raced into the darkness before Tillie could stop her, throwing her arms around the broad shoulders of the man who emerged from the trees. Terry Davenport was dressed in a police uniform, the lines on his face deep and pronounced as he hugged the girl and let his eyes drift from face to face.