Pawsitively Poisonous Read online

  Amber handed the vial to Melanie and went over the instructions for their use, despite being printed clearly on the label. “This one has a bit of valerian root in it. It’ll knock you out so you’ll sleep deeply—just don’t take it until you get home.”

  “You’re a love,” Melanie said, slipping the vial into the small purse slung over her shoulder, then starting to root around for something.

  “If you’re looking for money, just stop,” said Amber. “I’m not taking a penny from you. My payment is you getting better, okay?”

  Normally, Melanie would have put up a fight, but she gave in immediately. That was how Amber knew her friend was truly unwell.

  Walking to the other side of the counter, Amber wrapped her arm around her friend and guided her to the door. “Can I walk you home? Call you a cab?”

  “Stop fussing,” Melanie said. “I’m going to chug whatever foul thing is in that magic vial, and I’ll be back to my old self by morning. It’s just a bug.”

  “A very persistent bug that leaves and comes back. Repeatedly.”

  Disentangling herself from Amber, Melanie turned to face her and patted Amber’s warm cheek with her cool, dry hand. “Don’t worry about me, okay? We’ll have lunch next week to talk more about the festival. I’ve been getting questions left and right about those toys of yours. Maybe we can double your profits from last year—we’ll discuss numbers.”

  Well, Melanie couldn’t be that sick if she was saying things like “discuss numbers.” Melanie lived for numbers.

  The chime tinkled again as Amber pulled open the door. Melanie stepped out, huddling a little deeper into her oversized sweater as a gust of cool wind whipped by.

  “Don’t drink that before you get home,” Amber reminded her. “And don’t mix it with any other medications.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Melanie said, some spark coming back to her tired brown eyes, her ashen lips turning up in a small smile. “Thanks again, hon!” she said as she walked out into the cool January morning, waving a hand over her head as she slowly made her way up the sidewalk.

  If only Amber had known then that those were the last words she’d ever hear her friend say.

  Chapter 2

  At noon, Amber locked the front door of her shop from the inside and pulled down the sign hanging against the glass. The sign’s back was made of a light-colored wood, the front modeled to look like a chalkboard. Next to the bespectacled cat logo etched in white chalk were the words, “Open! Please come in!” written in cheery cursive.

  Placing the sign on her flattened palm, she flicked a furtive glance out onto Russian Blue Avenue. The street was always quiet around noon, as several of the more popular cafés, restaurants, and coffee shops were a block away. Sure no one was watching, Amber waved her free hand over the surface of the sign.

  The bespectacled cat who, just moments before, had been tipping his hat in greeting, now held up his watch-wrapped wrist, the “finger” of his other paw pointing to the gleaming clock face. The letters changed their message to, “We’ll be back at 1 p.m.!”

  Amber hung the sign, cat facing out, back onto the hook attached to the door. The wooden corners of the sign tapped gently against the glass as it settled itself on its burlap strap.

  She changed up the sign display every few weeks, mostly for her own amusement. Customers must have thought she either was particularly skilled with chalk or had a box of ready-made signs at her disposal.

  Amber headed for the door at the opposite end of the shop, marked “Employees Only.” A narrow set of stairs, arching toward the right, led to her tiny studio apartment above the store. As she walked, she pulled the tie from the end of her hair and unwound her braid, shaking her hair loose and letting it fall past her shoulders in dark brown waves.

  She was halfway up the creaking staircase when the agitated, low yowl of her cat, Tom, sounded from above. The orange-and-white tabby sat at the top of the steps, eyes squinted in mild annoyance, the tip of his striped tail swishing. He’d been her inspiration for Midnight the toy cat.

  “I’m right on time, you glutton,” she told the gorgeous, svelte feline. “You won’t starve in the time it takes me to get up there and fill your bowl.”

  Tom Cat yowled and swished his tail again, clearly not believing her anymore now than he ever had in the past.

  Once she was one step from the top, Tom bounded away on silent feet to the other end of her tiny studio apartment, where she’d set up a little cat nook for Tom and Alley. Every day at noon, he ran to his bowl as if he needed to guide her there, lest she forget where the object of his life’s passion resided.

  Alley, a black-and-white cat with a splash of black covering half of her face, lay curled at the foot of the bed. She only stood and stretched once she heard the clink, clink, clink of her kibble hitting her bowl beside Tom’s. Tom had already scarfed down half his food before Alley delicately jumped to the ground.

  Having quieted Tom, Amber fixed herself a turkey sandwich, which she then took to her window bench—her favorite spot in her apartment. The door to her shop was just below her. Beyond that was the stretch of Russian Blue Avenue. Then Birman Drive, Bengal Way, and there, off in the distance, was Ocicat Lane. The street she’d grown up on.

  The house—what was left of it—still stood there. Renovations had begun a few months after the fire that had killed her parents. Aunt Gretchen had come in from Portland to help take care of the legal matters. Gretchen was her father’s sister—a woman Amber and Willow had only seen on major holidays. But shortly after the fire, when Amber had been sixteen and Willow fourteen, Aunt Gretchen had swooped in, instantly becoming a life raft in their sea of grief. Amber didn’t know what they would have done had it not been for Gretchen. The sisters had no other family—at least no one who hadn’t shunned the small family of Blackwoods. All Amber knew was that, years ago, some offense had resulted in the almost total alienation of her small family of four. Drama didn’t escape witch families any more than did it human ones.

  Gretchen had rented out her place in Portland and moved to Edgehill so the girls could finish high school. They’d lived in an apartment building spitting distance from the hulking, charred remains of Amber’s childhood home. She’d had to walk past it every day on her way home from school and could see it from her bedroom window as she drifted off to sleep at night.

  Now, fourteen years since her parents’ death, she could still see the unfinished house from her window and was reminded every day that if she and Willow hadn’t stayed at a friend’s house that night, maybe the sisters’ magic could have saved their parents.

  “Or perhaps you would have died in that fire, too,” Gretchen had often told Amber, usually after Amber had woken from a nightmare, screaming and thrashing and beating away flames. “Maybe you were spared.”

  Amber ate her lunch in silence, staring at the house out on the far horizon. The house Gretchen had sunk thousands of her savings into in hopes they could restore the building to its former glory. But one day, shortly after Willow’s eighteenth birthday, Gretchen had suddenly called off the workers. She’d begged Amber and Willow to just forget about Edgehill, with its heartbreaking memories, and to come back with her to Portland where they could start anew.

  Amber had always wondered where the abrupt change in her aunt had come from.

  She suspected it had something to do with the fact that Willow had received an acceptance letter to her art school of choice just days before. Amber knew her sister wanted out of Edgehill just as much as Gretchen did.

  But Edgehill was the only home Amber had ever known. The place that held all her memories, good and bad. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving it. She couldn’t as a twenty-year-old, and she couldn’t now, a decade later.

  Tom hopped onto the window bench, pulling Amber’s attention away from the view out her window. Tom began licking Amber’s discarded plate, lapping up any crumbs he could find. She grabbed him, settling him in her lap. He relaxed against her with little protest a
nd tucked his paws under his chest, purring contentedly. They sat like that for a while, Amber’s mind blissfully blank as she stared out at the clear, cloudless sky.

  Movement down on Russian Blue Avenue caught her eye and she saw Betty Harris opening her bakery—Purrfectly Scrumptious—across the way from her own shop. Betty flipped her sign over, unlocked the door, and propped it open with a rock. It was chilly in Edgehill in January, but the scents wafting out of Purrfectly Scrumptious were more than enough to bring people in. Betty’s shop cat, Savannah, a fluffy gray-and-white Maine Coon, sauntered out and then promptly flopped over onto her side. Savannah pulled in just as many customers as Betty’s delicious cakes and cookies.

  The sight of Savannah meant Amber’s lunchbreak was nearly over.

  Standing while still clutching the purring Tom to her chest, she deposited the cat onto her bed beside the already-dozing Alley. Tom turned in a couple of circles, much like a dog, and curled up next to his sister.

  Amber had just reached the top of the stairs when her house phone rang. It was such an ancient relic, but the people of Edgehill were big on their landlines. Which was just as well, as Amber was terrible at remembering where she’d last left her cell phone. Nothing a quick locator spell couldn’t fix, but still.

  Plucking the phone out of its receiver, she said, “Amber speaking.”

  Answering a call without the input of caller ID was truly living life on the wild side; anyone could be on the other line.

  “Oh my God, Amber, hi.”

  It took a moment for Amber to place the voice of the frantic-sounding woman. Kimberly Jones. She and Amber had gone to high school together, though they hadn’t traveled in the same circles. Nothing as cliché as Amber being the weird loner and Kimberly the popular cheerleader.

  No, Kimberly was just … excitable. Someone who always sounded breathless, like she was imparting the most important news the world had ever known. It was only tolerable in small doses. Once, in high school, Kimberly had come rushing over to Amber in between classes, all heavy breathing and darting glances down either end of the hallway. The girl had put a hand to her chest, large green eyes wide as saucers as they’d scanned Amber’s face. Amber’s heart rate had spiked, sure Kimberly was going to tell her she’d just caught Amber’s boyfriend making out with a teacher … or something as equally traumatic.

  “Oh my God, Amber, hi,” she’d said then too. “I … oh my God. Do … is there any way … I’m so sorry about this … but can I borrow a pencil? I can’t find mine and I have a math test next period.”

  Amber had almost fainted with relief.

  A week later, however, Amber’s boyfriend had been caught making out with someone else, so perhaps Kimberly’s presence had been a harbinger of bad news.

  “Hi, Kim,” Amber said now. “What’s up? I don’t have that basket ready for the raffle yet. I’m putting the finishing touches on one of the toys. Melanie and I are—”

  “Oh!” said Kimberly. “Oh, sweetie, that’s … that’s just it … Melanie is …”

  It sounded like the other woman was fighting off tears.

  Amber’s brow creased. “Kim? Kimberly. What’s wrong? What about Melanie?”

  “Oh my God, Amber,” Kimberly said again. “Melanie’s dead.”

  It felt as if someone had just punched Amber in the gut, the breath leaving her in a whoosh. “What? How … she was just here a couple hours ago.”

  “I know,” Kimberly said, definitely crying now, the words coming out like a choking gasp. It took her a few moments to compose herself. “I went over to her house to check on her because she’s been so under the weather lately, you know? She was supposed to meet me around now to discuss the raffle, and she usually calls to confirm, but I haven’t heard from her since last night. She didn’t answer her phone when I called her earlier.”

  “And Melanie always picks up.”

  “Right!” said Kimberly. “Her door was unlocked when I got there and I let myself in and … oh God, Amber. She was lying in the middle of her living room, not moving. I thought maybe she’d just collapsed, but when I shook her … she just felt wrong. Her eyes were glassy and staring at nothing and …”

  Kimberly completely broke down then.

  Amber, tears in her own eyes, gave the woman several more moments to get herself under control. The word “dead” kept echoing in Amber’s mind. It was so final. Amber could hardly process what it meant. “Did you call the police?” she finally asked.

  “Yes,” she said, sniffing. “That’s partly why I called you.”

  Brow creased, Amber said, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when I found Melanie, one of the vials from your shop … it was in her hand.”

  “Well, yeah. I gave her something to help her sleep,” Amber said, realizing too late that a hint of defensiveness had crept into her voice.

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you for anything!” Kimberly said, sounding a touch hysterical. “It’s just that Owen Brown showed up and seemed very, very interested in the fact that something from the Quirky Whisker was found on her … on her body. He said something like, ‘Well, color me surprised,’ but said it like he wasn’t surprised at all.”

  Amber reeled again, as if physically struck by this news too. “He … what? He thinks my tincture is what caused …” Amber could scarcely complete the thought, let alone say it out loud.

  Kimberly loudly blew her nose. “Let’s just say I heard him say he wanted the vial bagged for evidence and he planned to interview you himself.”

  Amber groaned.

  “I just thought you’d want to know,” Kimberly said. “I imagine getting news that your friend died is bad enough, but to have Owen Brown, of all people, come swaggering in to not only break the news, but to accuse you of …”

  It seemed Kimberly couldn’t voice the thought out loud either.

  “Thank you,” Amber said.

  A loud pounding sounded below.

  “Oh crap. I think he’s already here,” Amber said. “We’ll … we’ll talk soon, okay? I can’t process this right now and I wasn’t even the one who found her.” Amber softened her tone. “I’m so sorry, Kim.”

  The other woman began crying in earnest now.

  Another booming set of knocks reverberated downstairs. Amber flinched. She didn’t need this right now. Her friend was dead and she needed to think.

  “Take care of yourself, hon,” said Amber, before hanging up with Kimberly, who was still so emotional she couldn’t reply. Amber knew her own tears were coming; she could feel them at the back of her throat.

  Dead.

  How could she be dead?

  Taking the stairs at a jog, Amber opened the door at the bottom of the landing and let herself into the shop.

  Sure enough, Chief Owen Brown, in full uniform, stood across the way outside her door, hands on his hips, stance wide. He peered at her through the glass, his expression some combination of smugness and anger. There was no way this conversation would go well. Amber could whisper a quick spell and send him away, making him forget why he’d been here in the first place. The spell never lasted longer than an hour, especially without being in physical contact with him while the spell was cast, but it would give her time to breathe. To think. To process the fact that the once-bright, vibrant Melanie Cole who had walked through Amber’s door hours before would never be able to do so again.

  Amber stopped halfway to the door, hand to her stomach. Her friend was dead.

  How could she be dead?

  Owen Brown pounded on the door again, the sign tapping against the glass with the force of it. The jerk couldn’t give her a moment’s peace? Now it was her turn to be angry. No matter how strange Owen thought her wares were, how odd he thought she was, he couldn’t possibly think she was capable of this. Of hurting Melanie on purpose.

  Her anger that he could even consider such a thing dried her threatening tears and strengthened her resolve. She stood tall and marched to the door, unlocked it, and pu
lled it open.

  “Hello again, Chief Brown,” she said. “Something wrong with Sammy’s toy cat?”

  Owen stalked past her and into the store, gaze swiveling this way and that as if he’d never been inside it before. It was nearly a full minute before he finally turned to her and said, “Your friend Melanie Cole was found dead in her home an hour ago.”

  The words hit her like blows to her chest. She fought back an involuntary choking sound—a noise that reverberated from some place deep inside her. Her eyes welled with tears, but she clenched her jaw, willing them not to spill down her face. How dare he come here to throw something like that at her with no tact, with no regard for her feelings? She wouldn’t let this man see her cry. Besides, no matter how she reacted, she knew he would find a way to deem it suspicious.

  “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes. Kimberly Jones called me just before you got here.”

  A vein in his temple twitched. Ha. He’d been hoping to catch her off guard with the news and was clearly upset Kimberly had beaten him to the punch.

  He reached into his pocket and held out a plastic zipped bag with a vial in it. One of her vials; the bespectacled cat logo on the label looked at her from the corner of one eye, appearing just as concerned about his current predicament as Amber was. “Can you tell me what this is?”

  “It’s one of mine,” she said. “If it’s the one you found in Melanie’s hand—Kimberly told me about that, too—it’s the headache tonic I gave her this morning.”

  “And what’s in this so-called … headache tonic?”

  He said the last two words as if they were synonymous with “poisonous snake venom.”

  “The ingredients are on the label,” she said. “Would you like me to read them to you?”