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  A Witch Before Dying

  A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery Book Eleven

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2016 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

  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

  30. Thirty

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  One

  “Now that we’re roommates, I think we should talk about rules.”

  Landon Michaels, my new live-in boyfriend, rested on my bed – er, I mean our bed (it was going to take a bit of time to get used to thinking that) – and stared at the ceiling.

  “Rules?” I cocked a dubious eyebrow as I folded my laundry so I could put it away in my dresser. “What kind of rules are we talking about here?”

  “Well, for starters, I think you should do all the cooking and cleaning. I will handle all the manly jobs … like taking out the garbage and watching baseball.”

  I pursed my lips, trying not to return Landon’s sly smile when he rolled to face me. He was testing me, trying to see if I would melt down. Now that we were officially living together he expected me to freak out. Well, he wasn’t going to get his way on this one. I was done freaking out … at least about him. Ghosts, the fact that I would be taking over as owner of the newspaper I worked for in a few short weeks, and general family mayhem were another story. I reserve the right to freak out over them. As for Landon? I was comfortable and happy.

  Yes, I, Bay Winchester, am a witch living with her boyfriend, and I’m fine with it. I never saw it coming, but it’s made me downright giddy. Things are going extremely well, which means something bad is bound to happen. For once I’m not worried that bad thing will revolve around my relationship with Landon. It’s … refreshing.

  Landon snapped his fingers to get my attention. “Where did you just go?”

  There was no way I could answer that without looking girly and ridiculous. “I was thinking about The Whistler.” That wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. “In a few weeks I’m going to be in charge.”

  “I know.” Landon sobered. “That’s a big deal. How do you feel about it?”

  “Excited.”

  “Good.”

  “A little nervous.”

  “That’s to be expected.”

  “What if I screw it up?”

  Landon’s lips curved as he ran his hand through his shoulder-length black hair. He looked happy and relaxed – something I couldn’t stop marveling at – and he seemed to embrace the new living situation like a man constantly fed well and bordering on a food coma thanks to my family. Translation: He couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re not going to screw it up, Bay. You’ve been running the newspaper since William Kelly’s death, no matter what his deadbeat grandson thinks. Nothing will really change … except you’ll get the bigger office.”

  “I haven’t been handling the advertising,” I pointed out. “I’ve been handling the content and layout. The advertising end is vastly different.”

  “Is it?” Landon didn’t look convinced. “You once told me that all of the business owners essentially run the same ads every week. So how will it be different?” He adopted an easy tone that managed to be pragmatic without being condescending.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I think you’re just looking for some drama.” Landon rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. “This room feels kind of small with all of my work stuff in here, doesn’t it?” Landon didn’t obsess about much, but cramping my style seemed to be what worried him most. Neither of us had ever lived with a member of the opposite sex. I lived with my cousins Thistle and Clove for years. Now Clove lived with her fiance in a lighthouse, and Thistle would move into a converted barn with her boyfriend Marcus in about six weeks. Until then, we were all sharing the same roof.

  “Once Thistle moves, we can turn her room into your office,” I reminded him. “It really won’t be that long … and with the holidays coming up, I think Thistle and Marcus will be spending a lot of time in town even though the house isn’t finished yet.”

  “You know they’re technically moving into a barn, right?” Landon shot me a cockeyed look. “It’s not a house. It’s a barn.”

  “It’s a very cool house,” I corrected. I’d been watching the work since the beginning. Marcus knew exactly what he was doing when he designed the structure, giving Thistle a big space to work on her art projects and something that didn’t look “normal” so she didn’t feel penned in by expectations. Thistle wasn’t much of a conformist, so the barn fit her personality perfectly. “Thistle will be happy there.”

  “I’m glad she’ll be happy there,” Landon said. “I simply wish she was happy there right now.”

  “Oh, I never noticed,” I said dryly. “I thought all of that sniping between you and Thistle was our new form of dinner theater … only you guys do it over breakfast, lunch, dinner, afternoon snacks, midnight snacks, drink nights … .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Landon waved off my sarcasm. “This place is too small for four big personalities.”

  “Marcus is easy to get along with.”

  “Fine. Three big personalities.”

  “I’m an absolute dream to live with, too,” I supplied.

  Landon narrowed his eyes as he glared. “Are you trying to say this is my fault, Bay?”

  I immediately started shaking my head. “No. Thistle is to blame, too.”

  “Too? How has anything that has happened been my fault?”

  That was a loaded question. Landon had spent every night here for the past two weeks – although he was still moving a few things from his Traverse City apartment – and it had been an exercise in my babysitting skills to keep him and Thistle from killing each other. They had many of the same traits, which was frightening, and they didn’t always play well with one another. It would be a relief when Thistle moved in with Marcus.

  “So, do you want to order in, go to The Overlook for dinner or head out on the town and do the whole schmaltzy romantic thing?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  Landon was having none of it. “How is any of this my fault?” he pressed. “Thistle is always picking fights.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Thistle tends to dig in and torture people whenever the chance arises. She gets that trait from Aunt Tillie, although if you ever point that out to her be prepared for Armageddon. Thistle doesn’t like being compared to Aunt Tillie, another trait she got from Aunt Tillie. Yes, it’s a vicious circle.

  “Thistle is a royal pain in the butt,” I agreed, moving the stacked laundry I folded to the dresser. “You’re a saint co
mpared to Thistle.”

  “That’s not really saying much,” Landon pointed out. “Compared to Thistle, prison rioters look like saints. Gang members look like angels. Heck, serial killers look misunderstood next to Thistle.”

  That assertion was a bit overzealous. It was also kind of correct. “Well … .”

  “I heard that.” Thistle, her dark hair dyed a vibrant green color to celebrate the upcoming Christmas season, appeared in my open bedroom doorway. She wore an ankle-length skirt that jingled when she walked. Even her toenails were painted green. “I am much better than prison rioters.”

  “Of course you are.” I forced a smile as I worked overtime to calm my cousin and head off a fight. She looked agitated. That’s nothing new, mind you, but it’s always cause for concern.

  “I’m much more dangerous than serial killers, too,” Thistle added.

  “There’s something to brag about,” Landon said dryly. He didn’t move from his spot in the middle of the bed, instead cocking his head so he could look my cousin up and down. “Did you use my electric razor to shave your legs this morning?”

  Thistle adopted an innocent expression. “Why would you think anything like that?”

  “Because the battery was dead when I got out of the shower, and I know I plugged it in to charge last night,” Landon replied. “Also, there were little hairs stuck to it when I tested it. They were hairs I know I didn’t put there, because I always properly clean my razor when I’m done shaving.”

  And here we go. This wouldn’t end well. Of course, none of Landon and Thistle’s spats ended well. They were not designed to share a roof. In Thistle’s mind, Landon was the brother she never wanted, and she often wanted to kick him as hard as possible … or at least make him cry. In Landon’s mind, Thistle was a big bully and needed to be taken down a notch or two … or ten. Now, Thistle was definitely a bully. I wasn’t sure Landon had the power to take her down, though. She’s too strong, like a kraken … or a professional wrestler without the spandex fetish.

  “Why would I use your razor to shave my legs?” Thistle adopted a sweet expression. “An electric razor doesn’t even get a close shave on legs.”

  “It’s a closer shave than I got this morning.” Landon gestured toward his stubble. “I had no juice to shave anything thanks to you.”

  “I happen to like your stubble,” I offered helpfully, smiling in an attempt to draw Landon’s attention. “It makes you look sexy and handsome.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” Landon never moved his eyes from Thistle’s face. “You’re always my biggest fan. That’s why I love you.”

  The fact that he glared at Thistle while simultaneously flirting with me didn’t do much for my nerves. “Landon … .”

  Thistle cut me off before I could suggest … um … whatever I was about to suggest. I didn’t have a clear plan.

  “I didn’t use your razor.”

  “It’s fine,” Landon said after a beat, his mind clearly busy. “I moved it in here so it won’t be a concern again.”

  “I said that I didn’t touch your razor,” Thistle hissed, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “That sounds like something Aunt Tillie would say,” Landon noted, making a big show of studying his fingernails. “Is there a right answer to that question, Bay?”

  There was no way he was yanking me into this argument. Marcus and I did our best to be official representatives of the Neutral Zone where Landon and Thistle were concerned these days. It didn’t always work, but there was no need to be lured into a fight that wasn’t about me.

  “What did I tell you about dragging me into your fights?” I challenged.

  “That you’re the Neutral Zone and should be treated as such,” Thistle automatically answered. “Just for the record, are you Kirk or Picard when zipping around the Neutral Zone?”

  “What do you think?”

  Thistle spared me a withering glance. “You’re Wesley Crusher.”

  Now it was my turn to be offended. “I hate Wesley Crusher!”

  “If the annoying character fits … .” Thistle was haughty as she flicked her eyes back to Landon. “Now, about your razor … .”

  “It’s finished,” Landon said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pulling himself to a sitting position. “I will keep my razor in the bedroom until you move out.”

  “I believe that’s what I suggested from the beginning,” Thistle pointed out sweetly.

  “Yes, and I said that was a pain because I prefer my razor being close to the sink,” Landon said. “Then we had a big fight – which I won – and I thought the matter was settled. Obviously not.”

  Thistle snorted. “You didn’t win. I won. I always win.”

  “Another saying you get from Aunt Tillie,” Landon muttered. “You’re practically her clone.”

  Thistle extended a warning finger. “You take that back.”

  “I don’t believe I will.”

  My stomach twisted at the strife. It wasn’t that I worried either of them would kill each other – that would almost be a blessing at this point – but the constant fighting wore me down. I knew Marcus felt the same way. Occasionally we slipped outside to share a bottle of wine when Landon and Thistle really got going, because it was simply too loud to remain in the guesthouse. The final weeks of our forced cohabitation – a foursome desperate to become two twosomes – would be downright unpleasant. There was no doubt about that.

  “Decide what you want to do for dinner, Landon, and text me,” I suggested, getting to my feet. “I’m up for anything … including peanut butter sandwiches next to the fire if that’s what you want.”

  Landon finally dragged his eyes from Thistle and focused on me. “We’re not having peanut butter sandwiches. I’ll take you out.”

  We eat out a lot. We also order in a lot. That was on top of the free meals we scored at The Overlook, the inn my mother and aunts operate, which is on the same parcel of family property as the guesthouse. The only thing we don’t do is cook for ourselves. Wait … brewing coffee isn’t cooking, right? By that measure, neither is mixing chocolate martinis. So, no, we really don’t cook.

  “That sounds nice.” I slid past Thistle and moved to the living room, ignoring the way my cousin puffed out her chest as Landon approached. She was baiting him. Actually, she was constantly baiting him. It was another irritation under what felt like a shrinking roof. The problem was, Landon always rose to the bait.

  “Where are you going?” Landon followed, using his hip to move Thistle out of the way.

  “Hey,” Thistle barked. “I’m pretty sure that was assault.”

  “And I’m pretty sure you’re trying to drive me insane,” Landon shot back. He was one snarky comment away from losing it. That’s why I had to get out of the guesthouse. When he lost his temper – and it was inevitable – it was only a matter of time before Thistle lost her head. Then, when they both went crazy, I had no choice but to follow. I never want to follow, just for the record, but I always do. I think it’s biological or something.

  “I don’t have to try to drive you insane,” Thistle countered. “You’re crazy all on your own.”

  “You’re crazy,” Landon snapped. “You used my razor to shave your legs and completely ran down the battery. You’re short, by the way. Your legs aren’t long enough to run down that entire battery.”

  “Who says I shaved only my legs?” Thistle challenged.

  Landon’s expression twisted. “You’re sick.”

  Thistle balked. “Not that. I was talking about my armpits.”

  “So was I,” Landon said. “Wait … what did you think I was talking about?”

  I heaved out a sigh as I grabbed my coat from the closet by the front door. “Landon, text me in a few hours and you can meet me downtown for dinner. I don’t think I’ll be long.”

  Landon recovered his faculties, at least temporarily. “Where are you going?”

  “They’re adding a new
festival to the rotation,” I explained. I was fairly certain we’d already had this discussion, but Landon was easily distracted when Thistle decided to push his buttons. “They’re trying to stretch out the fall season. I have to attend the planning meeting to coordinate coverage and offer any ideas for the Thanksgiving-to-Christmas stretch.”

  “Oh, well … another festival?” Landon was dumbfounded.

  Thistle chuckled, genuinely amused. “Pretty soon Hemlock Cove will be one big festival. At this rate, they’ll take over every weekend on the calendar before 2020.”

  “I know, right?” Suddenly Landon and Thistle were on the same side. This, also, was not new. Their allegiances swung wildly. It was almost worse when they were on the same side because then they ganged up on everyone else.

  “I don’t decide when they schedule the festivals,” I reminded them. “I simply have to coordinate coverage. With Brian being around another few weeks it’s difficult being in the office, so I figured I’d go to the meeting instead of asking Mrs. Little to come to the office.”

  Brian Kelly was my former boss. A few weeks ago he tried to stage a takeover that ended badly – for him. Landon helped me arrange a buyout, and after the first of the year I’d officially be the sole owner of The Whistler, Hemlock Cove’s lone weekly newspaper. It was a daunting task. Until then, though, Brian was still hanging around the office, making things tense.

  Landon’s expression turned somber. “Do you want me to talk to him? If he’s being mean to you I’ll … .” He broke off, leaving the rest of the statement hanging.

  “He’s not being mean to me,” I replied. “He’s simply being … standoffish.”