Seashells, Spells & Caramels: A Cozy Witch Mystery Read online

  Fresh chills ran up my spine as I realized I’d never even written down a return address. I blinked back the dizziness that threatened to topple me over. None of this made sense.

  And even if, somehow, this was real, I had no way of getting to France. Not now. Everything I owned lay in a pile of ashes and all the money I’d saved had to go to paying off the rebuild costs. I sighed heavily.

  The dream of the contest, like my dream of the bakery, was over before it even began. I folded the paper up slowly, tears trickling down my face again. It would’ve been nice, though. The coast of France, a baking contest, maybe meeting royalty. Like a fairy tale.

  I pulled my arm inside the blanket and felt around my hip for the apron pocket. As I slipped the note inside, the corner of another piece of paper poked my finger. I frowned. I pulled it out and held it in front of my face.

  Victoria’s check!

  6

  The Leap

  I stared at the check in my hands. It’d be enough for some clothes, a deposit on a new apartment… I looked down at my fuzzy slippers. A pair of shoes. The ray of hope turned into a heavy weight on my chest.

  I’d be starting all over again, fighting to rebuild a life that I’d been eager to escape. I sighed. It’d probably take me a year to get back to the status quo, then another seven to save for the bakery. I buried my face in my hands. Maybe after a good sleep, rebuilding my life wouldn’t seem so daunting. You tell yourself that. I stuffed the check back in my pocket and as I did so, my fingers connected with the packet the bike messenger had delivered. An insane thought entered my brain.

  I could use my last several thousand dollars to do sensible things, like salvage my life.

  Or, I could buy a plane ticket to France and enter a baking competition. I wasn’t sure of the time difference, but it’d be possible to arrive in time for the orientation. I might win a big cash prize, or maybe royal baker wasn’t an empty title, but an actual job.

  Speaking of jobs, I’d never once used my sick or vacation days, and had a bunch saved up. I could leave without risking my position—have a plan B back here in Seattle. When I pictured the rolling hills of the French countryside, the Eiffel Tower, bakeries, my heart felt light, in spite of all that’d happened.

  I looked up at the charred building, the flashing police lights, and the gray low-hanging sky. I imagined staying and rebuilding—the sensible thing to do. I felt like I might be sick.

  I took a shaky breath. If picturing my future made me queasy, that had to mean something. I stood, a tingling lightness dancing around my body. I’m entering the competition!

  I strode past an ambulance, feeling sassy, and threw my blanket into the back. It hit one of my neighbors, and I backtracked to apologize.

  I lifted the police tape, ducked under, and pushed my way through the crowd to the corner. I shivered in my T-shirt, flannel pants, apron, and fuzzy slippers as the light rain beaded on my arms. I waved down a taxi.

  “Where to?”

  By the time we reached the airport, I’d told the driver the whole crazy story.

  “So good to meet you, Kirk.” I smiled, ducking back in to shake his hand as he turned around in his seat.

  He grinned. “No, Imogen, pleasure’s all mine. You win that contest, you hear?”

  I reached into my pocket and froze. I had no money! My mouth dropped, open and I blinked rapidly. “Oh no, my wallet burned up.”

  “Yeah, I kinda figured that might be the case.”

  My heart sunk. “I promise I didn’t make that up to get a free ride.”

  His lips quirked to the side, and he nodded at my apron. “You’re covered in soot, your hair’s singed, and you smell like a campfire. Even if you had, I’d have to give it to you for committing.”

  I glanced down at my outfit, then back at the driver, still mortified. “Listen, I have that check. I just have to find an ATM to cash it. Oh, wait.” I looked down at my feet, mumbling my thoughts. “I don’t have a debit card.” My face crumpled. “I’m sure I can find a check cashing place. Leave the meter running and I’ll be back soon, I swear. I-I can leave something as collateral, my….” I pulled my slippers off. “I’ll leave you my slippers.” I pushed them toward him, my feet cramping on the cold sidewalk.

  He laughed. “Ride’s on me.”

  My heart swelled. “No. I couldn’t.”

  He waved a hand. “I insist. Now, go get ’em. I want to hear about you on the news. For the contest, not for burning down more buildings.”

  I gave him double finger guns. “Right.”

  He grinned. “I almost offered to get your bags for you.”

  I chuckled, my shoulders shaking. “But I don’t have any. Everything I owned burned up in a fire.”

  We laughed together.

  I had completely lost it. I thanked him again, then passed through the sliding glass doors to the terminal. Men and women pulled rolling suitcases past me without a second glance, while airline workers in navy sweater vests chatted in little groups and pointed passengers to their destinations.

  Feeling self-conscious in my pajamas, scorched apron, and slippers, I padded to the nearest ticketing counter. With only a short line, I soon stood before the middle-aged ticket agent in a blue sweater.

  “How can I help you?” When she looked up, her brows jumped. I probably should have gone into the bathroom and checked a mirror.

  I smiled my brightest. “Ticket to France, please.”

  She swallowed, gave me a careful look, and then tapped away at her keyboard. “Which airport?”

  Uhhh… I supposed that was a normal thing for a traveler to know. I scanned the acceptance letter. “As close to St. Rael as I can get.”

  She tapped away at her computer. “Looks like Paris is the closest international airport.”

  “Okay.” I grinned. “Paris it is.”

  She nodded and hit some buttons. “Departure date?”

  I stood taller. “Whatever today is.”

  She glanced up briefly, frowning. “I can get you out on a flight leaving in an hour and a half….”

  “Perfect, I’ll take it.”

  “Return, or one way?”

  I swallowed. Good question. I didn’t know how long the contest would last, though I supposed that depended on how well I did. “One way.”

  She frowned deeper. I think I knew one girl who’d be getting the extra pat down at security. A soot-covered woman buying a one-way with no baggage doesn’t seem suspicious at all.

  “Passport, please.”

  “Ah.” I closed my mouth and my eyes. How to put this? “I don’t have one.” I tilted my head. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  Her face turned stony. Guess that was a yes?

  “Wait!”

  She startled.

  “Sorry. But, I might….” I fished around in my apron pocket. “Might have something.” I pulled out the brown paper envelope, its stiff paper crinkling as I unfolded it.

  From it, I pulled the special passport the letter had mentioned. I hadn’t even thought to look it over yet. Embossed gold letters spelled out “Temporary Passport to the Water Kingdom” across the sea-glass-green cover. I flipped it open and nearly dropped it in surprise.

  Inside, a picture of myself stared back up at me. Those were my big blue eyes, red curtain of bangs, winged eyeliner, and toothy grin. Goose bumps prickled up my arms. How was any of this possible? I’d never even entered the contest.

  The ticket agent cleared her throat, and I jumped. “Oh right, sorry.” With shaking hands I slid the passport across the counter to her. “I know this is unconventional, but….”

  As soon as she lifted it, she perked up. “This will be more than sufficient, Miss Banks.” She gave me a toothy smile, her eyes open wide, but glazed. The knot of tension in my stomach loosened.

  Whew, thank goodness for that passport. Maybe everyone else had heard of this place besides me. Had to admit, my knowledge of geography wasn’t great.

  She tapped away
at her keyboard, copying information from the document. I leaned forward, standing on my toes. How did it have my height and weight? Though my birthday was wrong. Odd.

  “That’ll be $2,932.”

  I choked, my throat raw from inhaling so much smoke.

  “How much?” I gasped.

  She repeated the figure. That meant spending nearly all of my money. I’d only have about a thousand dollars left when I landed for a bus ticket, lodgings, and to get back home at some point. But, as I didn’t see any alternatives, I handed over the check, hoping my good luck streak would continue and she’d accept it. Well, the streak that started after I burned down my apartment building.

  She frowned.

  “Yeah, I know. I burned down my home this morning.” I made little fireworks with my hands, forcing some laughter. “Poof. Everything I own, gone. Ha ha. So I don’t have my debit card, but could I write this over to the airline?” I clasped my hands and squinted. “Please?”

  She licked her lips. “For someone traveling on your special passport, I’m sure we can make an exception.”

  I blinked. “Really?”

  She nodded, and I signed it over. Then she handed me the change and my boarding pass. I shuffled through security, placing my slippers in the gray plastic bin. Hey, at least they were easy to get off and on again.

  On the other side of security, I milled about, taking in the crowds, the whir and peal of airplanes lifting off, and the click-clack of rolling suitcases. I popped into the women’s restroom, gasped when I saw my reflection, then whimpered.

  No wonder the cab driver had believed me. I had a black line of soot across my forehead, and more smudges streaked my cheeks and chin. I pouted as I reached up and touched the bun on top of my head. Clouds of ash floated off my normally bright red hair, the bun stiff and crunchy. I pumped a length of paper towel out, ran it under water and scrubbed.

  When I’d finished, my face stung from the rough treatment, but it was clean. Just the other 90 percent of me remained filthy. I noticed a white-haired woman standing in the reflection behind me, staring. I gave her a watery smile.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  Before I could answer, she came forward and held out a pass to me. “My husband and I always fly first class, better for our circulation you know, and we get these guest passes to the lounge. They have showers in there. Take it and get freshened up.”

  I looked down at the pass and then back to her face. I burst into tears. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t cry.” The tiny woman patted my shoulder. “They’ve also got complimentary drinks.” She winked. “You look like you could use a stiff one.”

  On my way to the lounge, I popped into a souvenir store. I browsed past the neck pillows and bought a pair of stretchy pajama jeans, a white T-shirt with a unicorn on it that read, creatively, “Seattle,” and a cami with a built-in bra to substitute for an actual one.

  Holding my bag of purchases, I got into the lounge without incident. I’d expected more of a huff over my slippers and apron. I dashed down a hallway lit by wall sconces before they could change their minds. A large room opened up before me with a bar, breakfast buffet, and a half dozen men and women lounging in recliners. Okay, quick shower, then that buffet was calling my name.

  Once in the women’s locker room, I stripped down. I bundled my clothes up, gave them one last look, and shoved them in a trash can. Then I stepped into a steamy, near-scalding shower and scrubbed so hard at the black smudges all over my body that by the time I finished, my skin glowed bright red from forehead to toes.

  I toweled my hair dry, put on my new jeans, cami, and T-shirt, and blew my hair dry. By the time I’d finished and stepped back into my slippers I felt semi human again, though my head spun with exhaustion.

  After my third trip to the buffet, I felt more clearheaded. I should probably let some people know about my plans. Luckily, the lounge had free computer workstations.

  First, I logged into my e-mail and used the Internet to call Victoria.

  “Who is this?”

  “Imogen Banks.” I tried to put a smile in my voice.

  “You realize I’m getting married today and have about a million things to do?”

  Ah. Good old Victoria was back. “Congratulations! So, I accidentally burned down my apartment last night.”

  “What?!”

  I glanced back. A few passengers looked my way with raised brows. “Sorry,” I mouthed. I turned the computer speakers’ volume down. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Well, I’m basically homeless and destitute, but besides that. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to take some vacation days. You know, to uh, get everything back in order and to—” I cleared my throat and tried to rush through the next part. “—go to France. So that’ll be okay, right? I’ll be back in a couple weeks, probably.”

  “Imogen.” Victoria said my name slowly, enunciating each syllable. “You have always been a great employee, despite what I may say in my quarterly reviews—that’s just to keep you motivated.”

  Right.

  “And, I don’t know what magic you worked last night, but it was the best of my life, and I will always appreciate that.”

  Okay, nice Victoria hadn’t entirely disappeared.

  “But, as I mentioned the other day, the company’s about to enact some massive layoffs.”

  “I know it might not look great to take time off right now, but—”

  “It’s more than that. Imogen, they want anyone who can be spared, and there’s no better way to say ‘I’m unnecessary’ than to leave for ‘a couple weeks, probably.’ You have to decide. If you stay, I promise you’ll have a job. If you go, I’m sorry, but you’ll be laid off.”

  I took a deep breath. Geez. I looked down at my unicorn shirt and slippers. What am I doing? I’m throwing away a normal life, a good job, a boss who going forward might actually be pleasant to work with, benefits, and a chance to work toward my dream… slowly… so slowly. I took a deep breath.

  Or I could take the adventure of my life. If I did this, if I went to France on my last dollar, it’d be the craziest, biggest leap I’d ever made. Bigger than moving away from home by myself to Seattle, a city I’d never even visited. Crazier than saving up for seven years for my big dream. This would literally be all or nothing.

  “Victoria, I hope you have the wedding of your dreams and an even better marriage. I’m going to France.” Just like that, I quit my job.

  A short silence followed. Victoria cleared her throat. “Go get your groove back, or whatever you’re doing in France. Good luck, Imogen.”

  I clicked the button to end the call. There was someone else I should probably call. I pulled up the number in my contacts, then decided to write an e-mail instead.

  I sent my adopted family a short note explaining that I was taking a vacation and would be out of touch for a few weeks, but not to worry. I told them I loved them, and hit Send.

  I sighed. I did love them. They deserved a more honest daughter and sister. I just didn’t feel like I could open up about that side of me. I worried they’d think my dreams too impractical. And since a part of me agreed with them, I didn’t think I could handle hearing it in their voices.

  I drowned my sorrows with another plate of eggs and biscuits and a complimentary mimosa, ’cause what the heck. Then I headed to the gate and boarded the plane.

  France, here I come!

  7

  France

  With some help from the people at the information desk in Paris, I boarded a bus headed for St. Rael and settled in for more sitting. Urg. In Paris, the sun sat high in the sky. I had no idea what time my body thought it was, but it certainly didn’t think it was noon. I couldn’t stop yawning.

  For the next four hours I leaned my elbow on the narrow window sill and gazed out at the idyllic countryside whizzing past. We sped through crumbling stone villages with red tile roofs. Green fields stretched out to the horizon, divided into neat squares by rows of darker green bush
es and trees.

  Our bus stopped at one point to allow a herd of sheep to cross the single-lane road at their own leisurely pace, while leaves floated down the small stream that bordered the road.

  The late afternoon light bounced gold and white off the blue sea when we reached St. Rael, the closest “human” town to Bijou Mer, as the letter had put it. Whatever that meant.

  The bus let us off at the only station in the center of the small town, a tiny stretch of street bordered by gray stone buildings one or two stories high. With a hiss and a whine, the bus pulled off.

  Now what? I turned in a circle, taking it all in. It took about ten seconds. Yep, seen it all—about fifteen buildings and a couple of pale faces peeking out at me from behind window curtains. All righty then.

  “Beautiful, ain’t she?”

  The Scottish voice startled me, and I looked around. On a second-story balcony above me, I spotted a thin, middle-aged woman standing before an easel, a paintbrush in her hands. She looked from the ocean to her easel, and back again, dabbing away with her long brush.

  “Is that Bijou Mer?” I pointed at the mountain that rose from the marshy reeds some distance away, stone peaks at its summit.

  The woman kept her eyes on her work. “Mm. You here for the Summer Solstice Festival?”

  Some knot in my stomach relaxed. Someone else had heard of the festival. I looked again at the city on the mountain, flocks of seagulls circling it. “No. Well, kind of.” I smiled, a hand raised to shield my eyes. “I’m participating in the baking contest.”

  The woman squinted at her painting, blowing a curly gray lock out of her face, as the wind whipped her ponytail across her back. “Never heard of it.”

  I stopped. Was I in the right place? She had mentioned the festival at least. “Um, it’s for the festival. For the next royal baker,” I called up.

  “Hmmph.”

  I waited for her to speak again, but that appeared to be the only answer I was going to get. I cleared my throat, then scratched at my head. “Is that the way to Bijou Mer?” I gestured at the marshy wetlands beyond the town.