A Magical Match Read online

  PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JULIET BLACKWELL AND THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES

  “A smashingly fabulous tale.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Victoria Laurie

  “It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple of hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”

  —The Herald News (MA)

  “Blackwell has another winner . . . a great entry in a really great series.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “I believe this is the best of this series I’ve read. . . . Juliet Blackwell is a master . . . but truly, reading the entire series is a pleasure.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “[Blackwell] continues to blend magic, mystery, and romance in this sixth novel that shines with good humor and a great plot.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “This series gets better and better with each book. . . . A good mystery that quickly became a page-turner.”

  —Dru’s Book Musings

  “An enticing, engrossing read, a mystery that’s hard to put down, and wickedly fun.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “Sparkles with Blackwell’s outstanding storytelling skills.”

  —Lesa’s Book Critiques

  “Funny and thoughtful . . . an easy read with an enjoyable heroine and a touch of witchy intuition.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A wonderful paranormal amateur sleuth tale. . . . Fans will enjoy Lily’s magical mystery tour of San Francisco.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  Also by Juliet Blackwell

  The Paris Key

  Letters from Paris

  THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES

  Secondhand Spirits

  A Cast-off Coven

  Hexes and Hemlines

  In a Witch’s Wardrobe

  Tarnished and Torn

  A Vision in Velvet

  Spellcasting in Silk

  A Toxic Trousseau

  THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERIES

  If Walls Could Talk

  Dead Bolt

  Murder on the House

  Home for the Haunting

  Keeper of the Castle

  Give Up the Ghost

  A Ghostly Light

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Julie Goodson-Lawes

  Excerpt from A Ghostly Light copyright © 2017 by Julie Goodson-Lawes

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780399584190

  First Edition: April 2018

  Cover art © Victor Rivas

  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.

  Version_2

  For Hanna Toda

  A candle in the darkness

  Shine!

  Contents

  Praise for Juliet Blackwell

  Also by Juliet Blackwell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Excerpt from A GHOSTLY LIGHT

  Chapter 1

  The week had started out with such promise. But now my fiancé was in the slammer, my grandmother’s coven had gone missing, my supposed witch’s familiar was acting loopy, my powers appeared to have dissipated, and the future of my beloved adopted city of San Francisco was hanging in the balance. Oh, and a man had been murdered.

  Maybe I should start at the beginning.

  Not long ago I was a simple vintage-clothing-store owner feeling as if she needed to hire an event planner. My own rapidly approaching wedding was on my mind, plus I’d been working with my friend Bronwyn’s Welcome coven to plan a mother-daughter matching-outfit brunch, called the Magical Match, as a fund-raiser for the Haight Street women’s shelter. It was coming up this very Sunday, and yet it had taken us an hour to agree upon the newly designed flyers.

  At long last, we were moving on to item number two on the day’s agenda.

  We sat in a circle, breakfasting on homemade muffins and sipping strong cappuccinos and fragrant jasmine tea. Surrounding us was a cascade of crinolines and prom dresses, Jackie O hats and patent leather pumps—all part and parcel of the inventory of Aunt Cora’s Closet, my shop in San Francisco’s famed Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. Oscar, my miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig—and ersatz witch’s familiar—snored faintly on his purple silk pillow on the floor.

  “My issue is, it feels a bit exclusive to restrict the party to mothers and daughters,” Bronwyn mused. “What about fathers and sons?”

  “True! After all, gender is fluid,” said a coven member formerly known as Amy. Recently Amy had changed her name to Wind Spirit, but I kept forgetting to call her that.

  “Or chosen families, for that matter?” interjected Starr, and several women nodded and mmm-hmmed in agreement.

  “But I thought everyone was supposed to wear matching outfits,” said Wendy, getting back to the point. “How’s that going to work?”

  A spirited discussion among the members of the Welcome coven followed. This was the Bay Area, after all, and a lot of us who’d landed here were searching for a sense of family and community that reached beyond the lines of blood and tradition. Besides, the women of the Welcome coven were an inclusive bunch and didn’t want to leave anyone out.

  All of which made it hard to adhere to a talking point.

  Bronwyn Theadora Peters was a voluptuous fiftysomething Wiccan who favored gauzy purple tunics and chunky natural stone jewelry. Today her frizzy brown hair was crowned with a garland of now-wilting daisies and cornflowers. She ran
an herb stand in one corner of Aunt Cora’s Closet but was much more than a coworker to me—truly she was one of my best friends. Bronwyn was one of the first people I’d met when I arrived in San Francisco, and she had welcomed me with a warm bear hug that blasted through my carefully cultivated reserve. Ever since then, Bronwyn had stuck with me through thick and thin, magical and mundane. I adored her, appreciated her, and respected her.

  And sometimes she drove me crazy.

  This was one of those times. A pair of sweet polka-dot numbers that had come into the store a couple of months ago had reminded me of the early 1960s fad of matching mother-daughter dresses. The garments inspired me to suggest the Welcome coven sponsor a simple brunch fund-raiser for the Haight Street shelter and I offered to hold it at Aunt Cora’s Closet. The idea soon took on a life of its own, ballooning into a gala event with such complicated logistics that sometimes I wondered if we were organizing a simple tea or invading a small nation. Planning the event had already taken up far too much of my time and energy, in no small part because—although I loved the Welcome coven—their nonhierarchical structure and commitment to consensus didn’t lend itself to quick decisions.

  This was not our first meeting. The Magical Match Tea was only four days away, but we were still working out details, such as who was allowed to attend.

  I sneezed.

  “Blessed be!” rang out around the room, accompanied by a few “Gesundheits” and a single “Bless you,” which engendered an animated debate over the proper Wiccan response to a sneeze.

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting Bronwyn’s offer of a tissue and sneaking a glance at my antique Tinker Bell wristwatch. I had a lot to do today, not the least of which was to prepare for the arrival of my grandmother and her coven of enchanting, effusive, but elderly witches. Ten days ago the thirteen women had climbed onto an old school bus and taken off on a road trip from Texas to California. Just this morning they had sent selfies to Bronwyn’s cell phone—I didn’t carry one, because I worried its energy would interfere with my magic—from an In-N-Out Burger drive-through in Salinas, California.

  I wasn’t entirely sure how they had ended up in Salinas, which was not on the most direct route from Texas to San Francisco, but thought it best not to ask. Miss Agatha, the designated driver of the ancient school bus, didn’t especially like driving but had the best eyesight of the bunch. Miss Agatha also had no sense of direction, and so a two-day road trip from Texas stretched into ten days as the busload of elderly witches zigzagged its way through the Western states to San Francisco. Still, Salinas was not far away, and barring any unforeseen problems or yet another spontaneous side trip—at one point they had veered off to see the Cadillac Ranch on Route 66, and they had lingered two whole days in Vegas—they were due to arrive this afternoon, at the latest.

  “Sorry?” I said when I realized Bronwyn had asked me a question.

  “I saaaaaiiid,” Bronwyn teased with a smile, “did you ask Lucille about her progress on the matching outfits for those who couldn’t find something in the store that fits?”

  The tinkle of the bell over the front door was a welcome interruption.

  “I checked in with her yesterday morning,” my assistant, Maya, answered for me as she entered the shop, a to-go cup of steaming chai tea in her hand. “She hired a few extra helpers, so they’re on track, and still accepting some last-minute orders.”

  Maya’s mother, Lucille, had recently moved her small production team into the space next door to Aunt Cora’s Closet. Lucille’s Loft Designs specialized in reproducing vintage fashions, which was great since many women today could not fit into the older, typically more petite clothing.

  Chalk one up for good nutrition. Not to mention potato chips.

  “Oh, good. I’ll be sure to touch base with your mother,” I said, jotting down a note to myself. “Thanks for checking.”

  “Guess who else was there when I stopped in,” continued Maya. “Renee Baker, the cupcake lady.”

  A chill ran down my spine.

  “I looooove those cupcakes!” said Amy—er, Wind Spirit. She was short, plump, and sweet-faced, favored ruffled baby-doll dresses, and never let a coven meeting go by without making sure there were ample baked goods available. “Hey, would it be too late to ask Renee about contributing to the Magical Match Tea? I’ll bet she wouldn’t mind donating a dozen or two.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think we need another thing to eat at this tea,” I asserted. It was hard to explain to one and all why I was wary of Renee Baker. But the truth was, the cupcake lady was dealing in more than sugar. “Or no one is going to fit into their dresses.”

  No two ways about it: the Welcome coven had a sweet tooth. The circle of women was even now feasting on Wind Spirit’s chocolate macadamia “health biscuits,” which tasted a lot more like dessert than breakfast.

  “Sorry to barge in on you,” said Maya. “I thought the planning meeting was supposed to be over by nine thirty.”

  “Actually, it was,” I said, grateful for the excuse to wrap things up. “We need to bring this meeting to a close for today, I’m afraid. In fact, I think we’re just about set. We have a task force ready to move my inventory into Lucille’s shop on Saturday, the flyers are approved, and the refreshment committee has put together more food than we’ll know what to do with.”

  “That reminds me,” ventured Starr. “Do we think we should find a larger venue for the brunch? No offense, Lily—your store is darling, but it may be too small. We’ve sold so many tickets already!”

  I sneezed again, prompting several suggestions for natural cold remedies.

  “Thanks, but it’s probably just allergies. I don’t get colds. So, back to the agenda . . .”

  Wendy—my best ally in keeping the group on task—nodded. “You may be onto something, Starr. But it would be tough to find someplace at this juncture; the event’s coming up in a few days.”

  “What about Aidan’s place?” suggested Bronwyn.

  “Aidan . . . as in my Aidan?” My voice scaled upward.

  “Yes! The wax museum would be perfect!”

  Aidan Rhodes was an important person in the Bay Area’s witchy community. He and I had had a few skirmishes in the past, and I still owed him a magical debt. Big-time. Aidan had been nice to me lately, but I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him and had been avoiding him, even though he and I were theoretical allies in the fight against a looming threat to our beloved San Francisco.

  Besides, I found wax museums a little . . . creepy. All those human-sized poppets, just begging to be brought to life. I shivered at the thought. Not long ago I darn near burned the whole place down. Not on purpose, of course—but still, I had played a pivotal role in the conflagration. Aidan had only recently moved back into the museum from his temporary quarters in the iconic San Francisco Ferry Building.

  Apparently, the coven sisters didn’t share my opinion of wax museums. “What a great idea!” was the overwhelming response.

  “Bronwyn, would you be willing to ask Aidan?” asked Wendy.

  “I’ll do it,” I offered, a little too loudly. “I mean, I have to see him about something else today, anyway. But I doubt he’ll be much help; Aidan doesn’t own the wax museum, after all. He just keeps an office there. Besides, we’re talking about an event happening in four days.”

  “Roger that,” Wendy said. “Okay, Lily will talk to Aidan, but if that doesn’t work out, we’ll just have to make do right here. Everything’s set to move all the merchandise next door to Lucille’s, right?”

  “She’s ready for the onslaught,” said Maya.

  “One final thing before we go,” said Starr. “We need to take a formal vote on whether all are welcome to the brunch, or just mothers and daughters.”

  I’m no mind reader, but I could have predicted the outcome of this vote: Yes, all were welcome as long as the spirit of the moth
er-daughter bond was in some way honored. The women stood, gathered folding chairs, and swept up muffin crumbs, chattering excitedly and thanking me for hosting them. I assured one and all that I was pleased to offer my hospitality, and gently shooed them out the door, waving good-bye as they departed and nodding my thanks for several more suggestions of home remedies to stave off colds.

  “Pay no attention to what they say,” Bronwyn said as she started gathering her things. “All you need is eucalyptus oil, hot honey lemonade, and the right attitude.”

  I laughed. “It’s all about attitude, is it? Anyway, I don’t have a cold. I don’t get colds.”

  “Yes, just like that! Perfect attitude.”

  Bronwyn gave me an enveloping vanilla-scented hug and swept out to meet her boyfriend, Duke, who was driving her to Petaluma for a day of antiquing, with a quick stop at the seed bank for heirloom tomato starts.

  Amy—Wind Spirit, I reminded myself—lagged behind. “Lily, I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but I came across this wedding dress the other day, and I thought, just maybe . . .”

  She handed me a huge paper bag. Poufy clouds of white satin, netting, and lace spilled out from the top.

  “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” I said.

  Bronwyn must have mentioned that I had been searching for the perfect wedding dress for my upcoming nuptials. As owner of a vintage clothing store, I was feeling even more pressure to find just the right dress than the average jittery bride.

  “It’s probably not what you’re looking for, but Lucille’s so good with alterations, and you should feel free to change it any way you see fit. It was my aunt’s, but she got divorced years ago and it’s just been sitting in the back of the closet, so no worries at all about cutting it up.”

  “This is so thoughtful of you. Truly.”

  “No problem. See you later!”

  As the door closed behind her, blessed silence descended over Aunt Cora’s Closet. I leaned back against the door and sighed. Maya met my eyes and smiled.

  “They’re wonderful,” I said as I brought the bag with the wedding dress over to the counter.