Read Online A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery by Heather Blake - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Blake
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Eulalie shouted, “I’ll call for help!”
“You okay?” Dylan asked me, his warm hands cupping my face.
In a bit of a stupor, I nodded.
Slowly, I sat up. Dylan gave my chin a nudge, then took off running toward the hissing truck, a beat-up old black Chevy. A truck I suddenly recognized as Coach Butts’s. My legs wobbled as I stood and stumbled toward the wreck. Dust fell from the sky like brown snow.
Smoke rose from the hood of the truck as I caught sight of Dylan’s grim face. “Is he okay?” I asked, fearing the answer.
Coach Butts was slumped over the steering wheel, his face a grayish white color, except for bright red slashes of fresh cuts. He was definitely not all right.
“He’s unconscious,” Dylan said, pulling him out and placing him on the ground. “But alive.”
I narrowed my gaze on Dylan. “Do you still think Coach had nothing to do with what happened to Nelson?”
“Not now, Carly,” Dylan said darkly.
I was about to argue that now seemed like a fine time for him to tell me I may have been right when a flash of color in Coach Butts’s beefy hand caught my attention. It was a potion bottle.
Dropping to the ground, I took the lavender bottle from his palm, turned it over, and found the hallmark the glassblower used for my wares. It had definitely come from my shop, and looked a lot like the sleeping-potion bottle that I’d given his wife, Angelea, a couple of days ago.
If he had drunk it, it might explain the crash.
It was missing its stopper, and when I took a whiff of the empty bottle, I scrunched my nose at the lingering smell. It definitely wasn’t my sleeping cure that had been in this bottle; I didn’t recognize the smell. At all. It wasn’t a scent from
any
of my cures. It made me very curious what had actually been in this bottle—and if that was why Coach was now passed out.
Dylan leaned over the prone man and shouted, “Coach! Coach! Wake up!” He shook him gently. A gash on Coach’s head oozed a thin line of blood.
Neighbors started gathering round as Coach moaned and slowly blinked his eyes. They were unfocused, searching. He opened his mouth, mumbled something.
“What was that?” Dylan asked.
Coach focused his eyes, saw me, and shakily pointed in my direction. Even though his words were slurred, they were perfectly understandable as he uttered, “She poisoned me.”
Chapter Six
P oisoned.
Coach Butts had accused me of poisoning him, the low-down, no-good louse.
Hours after the ambulance had driven away with Coach Butts, I sat alone on my brick front steps—which stood free-form in the midst of all the debris—and surveyed the damage the crash had caused, not only to my yard and house but to my reputation. Word had gotten out about Coach’s accusation. I had already fielded a few calls from people wanting refunds on recent potion purchases.
Dylan hadn’t said much about Coach’s claim, but had put the potion bottle into a plastic evidence bag and taken it away. I had the uneasy feeling I’d be seeing him again soon.
Half the town, including my mama and aunties and the insurance man had already been here and gone. A Dumpster was on order, and a clean-up crew scheduled to show up first thing Monday morning.
My yard was quite the sight. My front porch was DOA. Thankfully, insurance would cover most of its repair, which was great because my budget might have been able to cover some nails and screws but little else.
With the way my potions sold, one might think I was rolling in the dough, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Beyond the overhead of keeping the shop open, supplies, paying Ainsley, and repaying my parents for the first Wedding That Never Happened . . . there wasn’t all that much left. What remained was sunk into the money pit behind me.
Hearing harried footsteps coming down the sidewalk, I glanced up. My best friend, Ainsley Debbs, was barreling toward me with a take-no-prisoners stride and a sweet smile. She was a mass of
“You okay?” Dylan asked me, his warm hands cupping my face.
In a bit of a stupor, I nodded.
Slowly, I sat up. Dylan gave my chin a nudge, then took off running toward the hissing truck, a beat-up old black Chevy. A truck I suddenly recognized as Coach Butts’s. My legs wobbled as I stood and stumbled toward the wreck. Dust fell from the sky like brown snow.
Smoke rose from the hood of the truck as I caught sight of Dylan’s grim face. “Is he okay?” I asked, fearing the answer.
Coach Butts was slumped over the steering wheel, his face a grayish white color, except for bright red slashes of fresh cuts. He was definitely not all right.
“He’s unconscious,” Dylan said, pulling him out and placing him on the ground. “But alive.”
I narrowed my gaze on Dylan. “Do you still think Coach had nothing to do with what happened to Nelson?”
“Not now, Carly,” Dylan said darkly.
I was about to argue that now seemed like a fine time for him to tell me I may have been right when a flash of color in Coach Butts’s beefy hand caught my attention. It was a potion bottle.
Dropping to the ground, I took the lavender bottle from his palm, turned it over, and found the hallmark the glassblower used for my wares. It had definitely come from my shop, and looked a lot like the sleeping-potion bottle that I’d given his wife, Angelea, a couple of days ago.
If he had drunk it, it might explain the crash.
It was missing its stopper, and when I took a whiff of the empty bottle, I scrunched my nose at the lingering smell. It definitely wasn’t my sleeping cure that had been in this bottle; I didn’t recognize the smell. At all. It wasn’t a scent from
any
of my cures. It made me very curious what had actually been in this bottle—and if that was why Coach was now passed out.
Dylan leaned over the prone man and shouted, “Coach! Coach! Wake up!” He shook him gently. A gash on Coach’s head oozed a thin line of blood.
Neighbors started gathering round as Coach moaned and slowly blinked his eyes. They were unfocused, searching. He opened his mouth, mumbled something.
“What was that?” Dylan asked.
Coach focused his eyes, saw me, and shakily pointed in my direction. Even though his words were slurred, they were perfectly understandable as he uttered, “She poisoned me.”
Chapter Six
P oisoned.
Coach Butts had accused me of poisoning him, the low-down, no-good louse.
Hours after the ambulance had driven away with Coach Butts, I sat alone on my brick front steps—which stood free-form in the midst of all the debris—and surveyed the damage the crash had caused, not only to my yard and house but to my reputation. Word had gotten out about Coach’s accusation. I had already fielded a few calls from people wanting refunds on recent potion purchases.
Dylan hadn’t said much about Coach’s claim, but had put the potion bottle into a plastic evidence bag and taken it away. I had the uneasy feeling I’d be seeing him again soon.
Half the town, including my mama and aunties and the insurance man had already been here and gone. A Dumpster was on order, and a clean-up crew scheduled to show up first thing Monday morning.
My yard was quite the sight. My front porch was DOA. Thankfully, insurance would cover most of its repair, which was great because my budget might have been able to cover some nails and screws but little else.
With the way my potions sold, one might think I was rolling in the dough, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Beyond the overhead of keeping the shop open, supplies, paying Ainsley, and repaying my parents for the first Wedding That Never Happened . . . there wasn’t all that much left. What remained was sunk into the money pit behind me.
Hearing harried footsteps coming down the sidewalk, I glanced up. My best friend, Ainsley Debbs, was barreling toward me with a take-no-prisoners stride and a sweet smile. She was a mass of
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