Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One Read online

  Writing Wrongs

  Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One

  Christine Gael

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  Afterword

  Introduction

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  Chapter 1

  Two hours, thirteen minutes, and twelve seconds.

  That's how much time I had left to play saleswoman at this god-awful flea market I'd somehow allowed my grandmother to talk me into.

  "It'll be fun," she'd said.

  "It'll be easy," she'd said.

  "If you don't do it, you can move your ungrateful ass out of my house and find someone else’s basement to stay in," she'd said.

  Mee-maw really knew how to sweet-talk a girl. And, with the money from my house still tied up in escrow for another month or so, I didn’t have a whole lot of options.

  "Oh my gah, is that Cricket Hawthorne?"

  I hadn't heard the voice in a good twenty-five years, but I recognized it instantly and cringed.

  Marilee—"not Mary-Lee...it’s Mare-uh-lee…like, gently down the stream!" —Rasmusson and I had gone to the same school from kindergarten to senior year, and I'd never spent more than three minutes alone with her that whole time, which I considered a personal accomplishment.

  She wasn't a bad person. Actually, now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure I was the bad person for not being more open to her attempts to establish a friendship. She'd been nothing but kind to me and pretty much everyone else in Rocky Knoll for every one of her forty-eight years on this earth. But it was that really aggressive kind of nice…An in-your-face nice that put a body on edge. She was like a mascot without a costume. A real life Snow White. And I was more of an Ursula type, myself.

  In a nutshell?

  Not a Marilee fan.

  "I heard you were back in town and I could barely believe it! It's been, what? Five years since you came back home and brought that handsome hubby of yours with you?" she asked as she leaned over the table filled with crocheted beer koozies and needlepoint pillows to drag me out of my folding chair and into a non-consensual hug. The scent of sugar cookies instantly filled my nostrils, and my stomach growled.

  "Er, hi, Marilee. Yeah, it's been a while. How are you?" I asked with a smile as I pulled away, settling back into a chair that was clearly meant for a butt smaller than mine.

  "Oh. My. Gah! How cute is that?" she squealed, already turning her attention to the handmade items piled between us. "Did your Mee-maw make all these?” she demanded as she fingered the edge of a pot-holder embroidered with the words ‘Hot Stuff’. “She's so talented. I bet she could be the next Ree Drummond. You know Ree Drummond? The Pioneer Woman?" She waved a hand in front of her periwinkle blue eyes that had gone suspiciously shiny. "She's my idol. Like, for real. I love her so, so much. Do you love her?"

  I side-eyed the clock on the putty-colored wall of our local community center.

  Two hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-nine seconds. Fourteen seconds after the last time I’d checked. Apparently “they” were right. Time really flew when you were having fun.

  "Yep," I said with a distracted nod, trying to maintain eye contact while frantically scoping out the surrounding area in my peripheral vision. My cousin Zoe was in front of a mirror a few tables down with no less than twelve hand-crafted necklaces looped around her throat as she tried to make her selection. “She's a very talented lady.”

  I strained, mentally sending Zoe hard-core S.O.S. vibes, but she was too busy admiring herself to pick up what I was putting down and I had to stop when my eye started to twitch.

  Marilee cocked her head and frowned. "Who’s talented…You mean The Pioneer Woman or your Mee-maw?"

  "Yes. Uhm, both.”

  She let out a tinkling, musical laugh and I half expected a pair of bluebirds to come perch on her sharp little shoulders.

  "You always had the best sense of humor. Did you ever think of becoming a comedian? Heck, you could be the next Ellen. Do you know Ellen? The," she looked around before leaning in with a covert hand cupped around her mouth and whispering, "lesbian talk show host? You could be like her. Only not a lesbian. Unless you are and that's why you got divorced. Which is fine, too. God loves all creatures, big, small, and...different."

  I opened my mouth to reply, but was saved by a low, hacking cough.

  "Sell anything yet?"

  I jerked my head to the right and nearly melted to the floor in relief as I locked eyes with my Mee-maw. People often imagine grandmothers as the Mrs. Claus type. Or that Granny with her pet Tweetie Bird from those old Saturday morning cartoons. White hair in a bun, ever-present apron as she bustled around the kitchen of a cozy house that always smelled like a comforting mix of cinnamon and Ben-gay.

  Yeah, so my Mee-maw was the exact opposite of that.

  She did have white hair, only she'd balked at putting it up, refused to get the requisite "old lady" short cut, couldn't be fussed to style it, and hated having it in her face. Hence the no-nonsense mullet that she'd rocked since I was a kid. Business in the front. Business casual in the back.

  She was also tough as nails and not to be trifled with.

  “Hi there, Dorothea! I was just telling Cricket, here, how much I enjoyed your handicrafts and doodads,” Marilee cooed.

  Mee-maw nodded, a grin tipping her lips as she took Marilee’s dainty hand in her own grisled paw. “I appreciate that very much, kiddo. Which ones have you bought so far?”

  Marilee blinked, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.

  “Oh, I-I was still trying to decide which colors to go with,” she mumbled, leaning in to peer at the beer koozies, brows narrowed in concentration. “I’ll take the blue and yellow, please,” she said with a smile as Mee-maw released her hand.

  “Excellent choice. And then how many pot holders did you need, two, or four?” Mee-maw asked, raising a slate gray brow in question.

  “Um, two…f-four,” she corrected at the narrowing of my grandmother’s eyes. “Yes. Four would be good,” she added with a nod. “They’ll make amazing Christmas gifts.”

  “Damn right,” Mee-maw chirped, turning her attention back on me and scratching at her square chin as she glanced around the room. “Still a lot of people here, but unless you put some muscle into it, we’re going to have to schlep all this crap home, so
can you show a little enthusiasm? And go ahead and ring up Marilee, here, so she can be on her way.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to ring her up on,” I muttered, “But yeah, sure. Enthusiasm. Roger that.”

  She scowled at me before charging off toward a circle of women chatting in the corner of the room, probably to browbeat them into coming over.

  “That will be nine dollars, please,” I said to Marilee with a tight smile.

  She dug a hand into her purse and pulled out a tenner, waiting patiently for her change.

  “Your grandmother sure is a card, isn’t she?”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I agreed as I fished four quarters from the meager cashbox and handed them to her, already distracted.

  There were over fifty vendors at this shindig, all hawking some version of the same three things: Handicrafts, antiques, or knick-knacks, with most focused on the former. If I wanted to keep Mee-maw’s complaints to a minimum and not have to make fifteen trips to the car with the boxes we’d brought here, I was going to have to step up my game some.

  “Thanks a lot, Cricket,” Marilee said as she took her bag and pocketed her change. “And please, let me know if you want to grab a cup of tea one day and just catch up. I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to these past few years!”

  Visions of me wandering aimlessly through my old house in dirty sweatpants wondering where it all went wrong, while eating peanut butter directly from the jar because making a sandwich seemed too hard, ran through my mind and I cleared my throat.

  “Sounds like fun. I’ll be in touch.”

  She wiggled her fingers at me and pranced off as I turned my attention to the competition. Thinking about the excruciatingly slow death of my marriage and the depressing aftermath wasn’t going to sell potholders, so I forced myself to focus, eyeing the other tables.

  What did we have that they didn’t?

  “You like?” Zoe blurted as she rushed up from behind me.

  I turned to find my cousin standing there sporting a crimson hat the size of a spaceship, and blinked.

  “Um, yes? For when, though? Are you going to the Kentucky Derby or?”

  “No. For whenever.” She did a twirl and then frowned. “Fine. You’re not a hat person, so you don’t get it. How’s it going here?”

  “It’s going.”

  An older gentleman nodded in greeting as he strolled past and Zoe reflexively swept her hair aside to bare one shoulder.

  “Well hello, handsome,” she murmured, fluttering her lashes.

  Zoe took flirting to a whole new level. Sure, she still used the tried and true methods, but she’d managed to improve on every single one. She was an innovator. The Bill Gates of flirting. It was a weapon that served her well in her own business as a bakery owner, but also in life. What Zoe wanted, Zoe got, most of the time.

  The man had slowed to a stop, smile widening. “Well hello there, pretty lady. What have you got for sale, there?”

  Zoe was forty-six and he had to be pushing seventy, but my cousin’s charms knew no such boundaries, and she preened.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked with a wink. She let that hang there for a second before bursting into a chuckle and then looping her arm through his. “I kid. Come, look. We’ve got all sorts of amazing, handmade items our dear granny knitted with her own two hands.”

  My spirits sang as I locked eyes with her and mouthed, “Be back in a bit,” with an exaggerated gesture toward the table and then cash box.

  She inclined her head almost imperceptibly to let me know she had things under control, and I barely refrained from sprinting away in glee. Just being out of that seat for a while felt like heaven. With a snack and a nice, hot, cuppa joe under my belt, I’d be refreshed and ready to sell sell sell.

  “It’s the home stretch. You can do this,” I murmured under my breath.

  I had my sights set on a refreshments table a few down from ours that was practically bowing under the weight of spread laid upon it. One might think because I worked part-time in my cousin’s bakery, I’d be sick of sweets.

  One would be wrong.

  Donuts, muffins and scones all vied for my attention as I made a beeline in that direction.

  “Excuse me,” a husky voice called from a few yards away. “Miss?”

  If she’d called me ma’am, I probably would’ve kept going, but I was vain enough to appreciate the implied compliment and slowed to a stop, sparing one last, longing glance to the coffeecake that had been beckoning.

  “Yes?”

  I locked gazes with the woman standing behind a table of antiques and a chill ran through me. Her wide eyes were golf course green and her skin glowed with the vitality of youth, despite a plethora of wrinkles, but it was her fiery red hair that stood out most. It was an explosion of curls that might’ve been hard for most women her age to pull off, but seemed to fit her just right. I hadn’t seen her before—she had a face I’d remember—but something about her felt so familiar. I wasn’t big on hippy dippy stuff, but I could only describe it as a deep sense of déjà vu.

  She studied me in silence for so long the chill I’d experienced was turning the corner and ramping up to a disturbing, icy dread. Like walking through a dark parking lot at night and hearing heavy footfalls moving closer. Just when I was about to wheel around and bolt away like a weirdo, she nodded and her pursed lips split into a warm smile.

  “Were you in the market for any antiques today?” she asked, her bright tone and now friendly demeanor chasing the heebie-jeebies away. It was like the clouds had parted, and the sun had come shining in. I barely refrained from letting out a sigh of relief.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d felt weird lately, seemingly for no reason. In fact, the past few months had been like my own little internal freak show. Some mornings, I woke up from a dead sleep, drenched and beet red from night sweats. Others, I felt so low and down I could barely get out of bed at all. And then there were the days that I tore out of bed like a ball of barely repressed fury, where any little thing might set me off.

  Menopause was a witch and she’d taken my hormones hostage. But, none of that was this poor lady’s fault, so I forced a smile.

  “Actually, I’m not really looking to buy much. I’m a vendor here, too. Just selling some crafts and whatnot,” I said, gesturing back toward Mee-maw’s table where Zoe’s mark was digging for his wallet as she bagged up the remaining stock of beer koozies for him.

  I sent her a mental high five as I turned back to the red-haired woman.

  “Maybe take a look anyway,” she said, waving a hand over her wares. “You never know what might strike your fancy.”

  The only thing my fancy was interested in sat just yards away, smothered in a thick layer of gooey icing peppered with walnuts, but I leaned in obligingly and checked out the goods. Everything gave off that disconcerting smell I associated with antiques…like musty secrets. I preferred my stuff brand spanking new, straight out of an IKEA box, thank you very much.

  I skimmed over some lamps, a clearly broken VCR, and an old phonograph before landing on a wickedly sharp-looking, gargoyle letter opener that had clearly been made for murder.

  “Very nice,” I said, shooting her a sunny grin. “The craftsmanship is…just…yeah. Really good. Unfortunately, I’m living with my grandmother currently, and until I get my own place, I really can’t make any purchases.”

  “Aw, I understand, dear. Who is your grandmother?” she asked, cocking her head. “I just moved back to Rocky Knoll last month, but lived here from the time I was born until my early thirties. Maybe I know her.”

  “Dorothea Hawthorne?” I replied. “People call her Dot. She’s around here somewhere…” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if she was nearby.

  “That’s all right, dear. No need to bother her. My name is Connie Bagshaw,” she said as she handed me a business card. “I’ve just opened a shop called Connie’s Curiosities over on Exeter Street, so I’m sure we’ll meet
one another at some point. Rocky Knoll might be more populated now, but it’s still a small town at heart.”

  She leaned in and absently brushed away a dust bunny that had floated onto an old fashioned, black typewriter that sat in the corner of the table. She continued to chatter and I heard the words she was saying—something about some things changing but others staying the same—but they barely registered. I was too focused on the typewriter.

  The chipping, black paint. The squat, frumpy casing. The total lack of ergonomics.

  In a word?

  It was glorious.

  Was I a writer?

  No. Not yet, at least. But suddenly my brain felt like it would burst with stories untold.

  “How much?” I breathed, my palms going clammy with an almost frantic need to clack noisily away on those impractical keys.

  “For you?” she asked, arching a fiery brow. “Forty bucks.”

  It was then that I uttered the three little words that would change my life in ways not even Nostradamus could’ve predicted.

  “I’ll take it.”

  If I’d known that my decision would land me on the gallows with a hangman's noose tightening around my neck as I contemplated my impending demise just a few weeks later?

  I’d have gone with the VCR.

  Chapter 2

  “You?” Mee-maw asked, head cocked in utter confusion. “A writer? Like, as in, books?”

  I folded one half of the omelet over onto the other and nodded in satisfaction at the perfect, buttery-yellow exterior. Gordon Ramsay wouldn’t be calling this chick a useless cow anytime soon.

  “Yeah,” I said, turning back toward my grandmother and cousin as they stared at me from their seats at the kitchen table. If I’d deluded myself into thinking they would support this new career path, the dubious expressions on their faces would’ve definitely cured me of that. Luckily, I had no such delusions. I knew they’d be armed and ready with the firehose to spray Hater-Ade all over my parade, and, frankly?