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wasn’t thinking about Caleb and his nonexistent love life.
    All that was on my mind was Nelson Winston.
    And who killed him.
    And if his murder
had
somehow been a message for me.

Chapter Four
    N elson Winston.
    I’d known him for just about forever—mostly in passing, a casual acquaintance. Although he was a good ten years older, he was as active in the community as I and we often bumped into each other around town.
    Because he’d always been friendly but reserved, I suspected he subscribed to a version of Patricia Davis Jackson’s views of my potion making and me. In Dylan’s mother’s eyes, I might as well have devil horns sticking out of the top of my head. And, okay, it probably hadn’t helped any that I had worn a sexy devil’s costume to Dylan’s and my engagement party and prodded Patricia with my pitchfork, but dang if the woman hadn’t deserved it. She’d never been shy about her dislike of me.
    Maybe Nelson’s opinion of me wasn’t as
devilish
as Patricia’s, but he’d never gone out of his way to chat with me, and I once saw him pick up one of my potion bottles at a charity event and roll his eyes before setting the bottle back down.
    Certainly there were a few townsfolk who didn’t believe in my magic. Usually there was a telltale look in the eye that gave those people away. A distance, a wariness.
    On the whole, most everyone around here accepted me with open arms. And those who didn’t? I didn’t pay them much mind. “To each his own” was one of my personal mottoes. I certainly didn’t have to be best friends with everyone in town. As long as they let me be, I let them be.
    And when they poked, I took out the pitchfork.
    Nelson had never poked—he’d never so much as nudged. He’d just kept his friendly distance.
    Which was why it made no sense whatsoever that he was laid out in my shop with his skull cracked open.
    “Good mornin’, Miss Carly,” Mr. Dunwoody called out as I passed by his house. “New hairdo?”
    “A diversionary tactic.” Almost home, I dragged the wig off my head, figuring it was safe enough; no one had followed me from the shop. “And it was hardly a good morning for me,” I added, leaning against his wrought-iron fence.
    Like most on the street, Mr. Dunwoody’s house was mid-nineteenth century, large, and rambling with additions and add-ons. Grand live oaks, ginkgos, and hickory trees crowded the big yard. The house had been recently painted a nice bright white. Its shutters were blue, the front door red, and it looked every bit as patriotic as the flag hanging limply from the pole attached to the porch column.
    My gaze shifted to the right, to the house next door. Mine. It had been my mama’s childhood home, and when she and the Odd Ducks had inherited it from Grammy Fowl almost three years ago they turned around and sold it to me for pennies on the dollar to keep it in the family, since Mama was happy living behind her chapel and the Odd Ducks already had places of their own.
    My house didn’t look near as nice as Mr. Dunwoody’s. Sure, it was just as big and rambling with all its additions, but it was a good thing the wind wasn’t blowing, as a stiff breeze might knock it right on over. I’d been slowly renovating, but I was a mediocre do-it-yourselfer at best, and the kind of expertise I needed cost much more than I could afford. At this point, I was so deep over my head that I was either going to have to seriously brush up on my home-improvement skills or move back to the guest quarters above my mama’s wedding chapel—where I’d lived for the ten years after my high school graduation.
    “Tee-hee!” Mr. Dunwoody giggled, his dark face alight with amusement. “I saw you sprintin’ down the street this morning. You’re gettin’ faster. Mighty surprised to see you home so early. Did you give them all the slip?”
    He sat in his usual daytime spot on his front porch in his fiery red rocker, drinking sweet tea at ten in the morning. Everyone