One Hex of a Wedding Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Full Moon Bridal Ritual

  PRAISE FOR THE

  Chintz’n China Mysteries

  “The perfect book to curl up with.” —The Mystery Reader

  “A truly charismatic, down-to-earth character . . . Don’t miss this charming first book in the series. I look forward to the next one.”—Rendezvous

  “A very appealing series with some very scary stuff. Thank goodness there’s a charm included!”—Mysterylovers.com

  “This paranormal mystery has enough romance in it to keep readers of three genres very happy . . . The audience will adore Emerald, a bright, shining, and caring soul who wants to do right by everybody and use her powers to make the world a better place.” —Midwest Book Review

  “For those who love paranormal mysteries, Murder Under a Mystic Moon . . . will not disappoint.”—MyShelf.com

  Chintz ’n China Mysteries by Yasmine Galenorn

  GHOST OF A CHANCE

  LEGEND OF THE JADE DRAGON

  MURDER UNDER A MYSTIC MOON

  A HARVEST OF BONES

  ONE HEX OF A WEDDING

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ONE HEX OF A WEDDING

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Yasmine Galenorn.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-03428-6

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Daniela, who was my

  matron of honor at my wedding.

  You stuck with me through all the crazed planning,

  you championed Samwise before

  the rest of our friends accepted him,

  and you did everything a blood-oath

  sister is supposed to do.

  Love ya, babe!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, love and thanks to my supportive husband, Samwise, and our four cats, who are the joys of my life. Thank you to the usual crew: To Christine Zika, my editor. To Meredith Bernstein, my agent, for believing in me and being there when I need to talk. To my sister, Wanda. To Margie M., Vicki St. C., Siduri, Theresa S., Tiffany M., and Brad R., Lisa DDC, Linda W.—good friends all. To my Witchy Chicks blogging group: You’re all warped women and I love you.

  Thanks to my readers, old and new. Without you, we authors would be lost. And of course, Mielikki, Tapio, Rauni, and Ukko, my spiritual guardians.

  If you wish to contact me, you can via snail mail through my publishers or the address on my website (please enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope for reply), or via e-mail through my website, www.galenorn.com.

  Bright Blessings to all,

  the Painted Panther

  Yasmine Galenorn

  Anger and jealousy can no more bear

  to lose sight of their objects than love.

  —GEORGE ELIOT

  One

  THE PARTY WAS in full swing when Harlow grabbed the microphone and motioned for the Barry Boys to take a break from the ’80s retro dance numbers they were playing. The strains of “Burning Down the House” fell silent as she stepped up on the stage and clapped her hands for attention, although she needn’t have bothered. My ex-supermodel buddy was tall, gorgeous, with golden blond hair braided à la Bo Derek’s cornrows, and the mere sight of her standing there in a gold mini-dress and red stilettos stunned the room into silence.

  “Welcome, and thank you for coming. As you know, Emerald and Joe will be taking that last leap of faith and making it official. Countdown is T-minus two weeks! And we’ll all be right there with them, cheering them on. Until then, let’s bring down the house!”

  The crowd erupted in a roar and Jimbo, who was standing next to me, swung me up to sit on his shoulder. I grabbed hold of his shirt collar with one hand—I’ve never been one for high-wire acts—and he braced my legs against his chest and paraded me around the room. I waved as a volley of friendly catcalls rang out from our friends, and then he stopped in front of Joe and tossed me into my fiancé’s arms. I gasped as I sailed through the air, but Joe caught me without so much as a grunt. As he set me down on the floor, I looped my arm through his.

  Harlow’s voice rang out again. “Be careful, Jimbo. Remember she head-butted you to the floor once before. I’m sure she can do it again.” Another round of laughter from the crowd. “Okay, let’s show these two just what we’re made of. Get your butts in gear and bring on the music!”

  Joe and I found ourselves unceremoniously pushed into the middle of the dance floor while the band began a frenzied rendition of “Whip It.” He grabbed my hand and spun me out to the center, where I let go with a shimmy that brought yet another round of cheers, and then the room was filled with dancers, clapping and head-banging to the beat. As the band segued into “Don’t You (Forget About Me),” by Simple Minds, I rested my head on Joe’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around my waist as we swirled around the floor, lost in the music. Would we still be dancing like this in fifty years? I couldn’t see that far ahea
d, but something inside told me we would.

  “Babe, you look gorgeous,” he whispered.

  And in truth, I felt gorgeous. I had shaped up a lot over the past six months as I advanced my practice of yoga, and while I vowed never to give up my caffeine or chocolate, I had managed to cut back on the sugar. As for my outfit, I’d found the perfect lilac gauze and lace skirt for the party, thanks to Harlow and a trip to Seattle. It floated a couple inches above my knees, and I’d paired it with a plum camisole and a Victoria’s Secret demi bra.

  I’d also succumbed to vanity at long last, and dyed the silver out of my waist-length mass of curls. When I told Harl I intended to go to Bab’s Salon down the street from my teashop, she whisked me away to Seattle. We stopped at the Gene Juarez spa for the works. As an early shower gift, she paid my way through a trim, color job, manicure, pedicure, and massage, and I didn’t put up a fight. Then we hit her favorite boutiques, where I found my outfit and the perfect pair of shoes.

  As Joe danced me around the floor, I glanced down at the open-toe, sling-back black pumps, still aghast both at how high the heels were and at how much they’d set my credit card back. My toenails, painted a brilliant fuchsia, stood out against the rich fabric. Suddenly overwhelmed by the whimsy of the situation, I pushed aside my worry over their cost and laughed as Joe dipped me. The back of my head almost touching the floor, I raised one leg into the air, toe pointed, in a kick that would have made Catherine Zeta-Jones proud.

  After the song ended, the band took a break and everybody headed for the buffet. I rested my head on Harlow’s shoulder. “Thank you,” I said. “Even with my family here, I’m having so much fun. Thank God, I don’t have to entertain them tonight. The buffet will take care of that. It’s been crazy since they showed up.”

  Harl’s eyes twinkled. “Relatives can be a bitch, can’t they?” She threw her arm around my shoulder and wrinkled her nose. “I’m so glad you let me plan everything. Murray’s knee-deep in work right now, and I love playing hostess. You shouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

  I frowned. She’d just touched on a point that had been bothering me all day. “Harl, does Murray seem different to you lately?”

  “What do you mean?” Harl cocked her head to one side.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It seems like she’s been moody and distant for the past couple of weeks. I know things are okay with Jimbo, so I don’t think it’s anything to do with their relationship. I’m just a little worried. She doesn’t seem herself lately.”

  Harlow shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. To be honest, I’ve been focused on other things. Like this party.” She looked around. “Everybody seems to be having fun, don’t you think? And the room looks gorgeous.”

  She was right, on both counts. Everyone—including my easily offended Grandma McGrady—had a smile on their face. And the banquet room at the Forest End’s Diner had been decked out in full glory. A huge photograph of Joe and me blown up to poster proportions graced an easel near the buffet. Roses, both pink and red, filled vases on every table. Streamers in sparkling metallic hues of purple, green, blue, and gold spiraled from the ceiling, and the walls had stick-on hearts plastered on them.

  I had a suspicion the latter was Kip’s idea. He’d developed a romantic streak ever since he realized that I’d be marrying a man who would be there every day to hang out with him and treat him like his father should have, but never did. Add in the fact that I’d seen the hearts peeking out of my ten-year-old’s backpack before he and Miranda headed out to help Harlow get things ready, and I was pretty sure my guess was on track.

  “Speaking of Murray, where is she?” Harl asked. “I wanted her to lead the toasts.”

  Anna Murray, my best friend in the whole world and my maid of honor, was nowhere in sight. I glanced around, wondering where she’d disappeared to. “I don’t know. Last I saw she was dancing with Jimbo. Whoever knew he could do the twist? And I’d have lost my shirt betting he wouldn’t know the difference between the Hustle and a waltz.” Jimbo, it turned out, was not only a biker extraordinaire, but also quite the star on the dance floor.

  “You and me both,” Harl said. She glanced around and a smile filtered over her face, a smile I recognized instantly. I followed her gaze to find myself staring at her husband, James. He was a lean, muscular, dark-haired man who was a good three inches shorter than Harlow. James carried himself with a quiet dignity. He was holding their daughter, Eileen, who was only a couple months shy of her first birthday. The look on his face said everything was right in his world. Harlow and Eileen were lucky ladies. He was one of the good guys.

  “You, my dear, have a beautiful family,” I said. “So, what’s next on his agenda?” James was a photographer and was often away for several months at a time on photo shoots. A childhood sweetheart of Harl’s, they’d reconnected years ago when he was assigned to photograph a layout where she was the star supermodel. They’d rekindled their romance and—aware of the fleeting life expectancy of her career—Harlow decided to get out while she was on top. She had socked away most of her money, after a brief dip into the cokehead-party lifestyle, and they were set for life.

  Harl shrugged, her smile fading. “He said he’s staying close to home, but I know for a fact he’s being talked up by one of the big adventure magazines. Other than that, he’s got a three-day shoot coming up at the end of the month for the Seattle tourism board. We’re all going and turning it into a minivacation. But that’s after your wedding, so don’t worry about us skipping out on you.”

  Just then, I noticed Murray slip back into the room from the double doors leading to the restaurant proper. When she saw us, she motioned with her head. I didn’t like the look on her face.

  I touched Harl on the arm and she followed my gaze. “She looks upset.”

  “Yeah, she does, doesn’t she? Come on, let’s go see what’s up.”

  As we made our way through the crowd, I fielded congratulations from all sides. The party was one last bash before the wedding, for my relatives, my customers, and all of our friends. The ladies who frequented my tea and china shop would have felt slighted if they weren’t offered the chance to congratulate their tea-monger. Jimbo and Joe were planning a family-and-friends-only barbecue for tomorrow after my bridal shower, and Harl would be holding a formal dinner a few days before our wedding.

  Murray impatiently gestured us over to the doors. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you’d want to know in advance.” Her gaze fastened on my face and a shiver ran up my back. Yeah, something bad was coming.

  The kids were here, my family was here, and Joe was here, so there couldn’t be anything wrong with any of them. A sudden sweep of panic rushed over me. “The cats? The house? Did something happen?”

  “No . . . nothing like that,” she said.

  “Then what? A ghost in the attic? A murderer on the rampage? Don’t tell me Cathy Sutton’s decided to film my wedding for KLIK-TV?” As far fetched as they sounded, those possibilities were all too real for my comfort.

  Mur grimaced. “Worse. Okay, here’s the deal—” But before she could tell me, a voice interrupted our conversation and I knew she was right. This was worse than almost anything I could dream up.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello or are you playing the little snob today?”

  Tone on edge, slightly patronizing. Oh yes, I knew that voice only too well. It was one I despised and dreaded every time it winged its way into my ears. I held my breath, hoping that I was wrong, but in my heart I knew I wasn’t. I glanced at Mur, swallowing. She gave me a sympathetic smile, and I knew that there was no help for it. I had to face my nightmare come to life.

  “So, you’re getting married again. My feelings are hurt; you didn’t invite me to your little shindig. I had to find out through our son. But then again, you always did specialize in playing the martyr, Emerald.”

  I slowly turned around, gritting my teeth. Please, oh please let me be wrong. But luck was a fickl
e mistress. There, in the doorway behind Murray, uninvited and unwanted, stood my ex-husband. Roy. And the smirk on his face told me we were in for a bumpy ride.

  WHO AM I ? Well, I’m Emerald O’Brien, I’m thirty-seven years old, and I own the Chintz ’n China Tea Room, where we sell china, tea, cookies, jams, and gift baskets, and where the local matrons meet for a quiet cup and scone amidst their busy afternoons.

  I’m also the mother of two incredible children—Kipling, my ten-year-old computer whiz, magic-loving, tumbling-his-way-onto-the-gymnastics-team son, and Miranda, who’s fourteen going on thirty, and who can out-stargaze any astronomer she meets. She’s going to land on the moon someday. Or Mars. I’m counting on it, and I have all the confidence in the world that she won’t stop there. No, if there’s a warp engine to discover or a new comet heading our way, Randa will be the first in line for accolades. To round out our family, we share our house with four cats—Samantha, a gorgeous calico, and her now-grown kittens, Nebula, Nigel, and Noël. We almost lost Samantha last year, so now they are all indoor-onlys, safe from predators and interdimensional rifts in time.

  And then there’s Joe. Joseph Ethan Files, to be precise. My fiancé, who happens to be ten years younger than I am. We fell in love a little over a year ago, and on Halloween—my birthday—he knelt down on a dark stormy night when I was in tears from a tragic and ghostly reunion I’d just witnessed, and he asked me to marry him. I said yes. We’re getting married in a couple of weeks on the summer solstice, under the fading light of the evening sky in the gazebo flower garden that used to be the haunted, bramble-infested lot next to my house.