A Pumpkin Potion Explosion Read online

  A Pumpkin Potion Explosion

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2019 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Thanks for Reading

  Catalog of Books

  Chapter 1

  It was a chilly and gray Monday, the perfect kind of day for cozying up with a blanket and a book and basking in the crisp, red-gold glory of autumn.

  Except that I had this little thing called a business to run.

  The brisk October air numbed my ears as I careened down the road that connected my hilltop house to the town of Goodsprings. My bike trailer, full to bursting with that morning’s produce, wobbled threateningly as I picked up speed. I considered braking, but the cold air whipping my face was doing a great job keeping me awake. A few more days of this weather and I figured I could kick my coffee habit for good.

  Autumns are typically mild here in Goodsprings, but you wouldn’t catch any of us residents complaining about this particular cold snap. After a long and languid summer, we were all grateful for the opportunity to don our scarves and sweaters and admire the fall foliage.

  The hill leveled out and I glided onto Goodsprings’ Main Street, which had been transformed by Harvest Festival decorations. The streetlights were wrapped with boughs of autumn leaves, the sidewalks were hidden beneath hay bales, and dozens of festival vendors had begun setting up booths on each side of the street.

  There was so much going on that it was hard to know what to look at. On one side of the street, a well-dressed man wearing white gloves assembled a richly-patterned tent while the maize vendor next door shooed away a handful of hungry chickens. On the other side, a plume of fragrant smoke rose up from the smoked corn-on-the-cob booth and rows of gleaming silver jewelry sparkled on a long table.

  I was so caught up ogling the sights around me that I nearly collided with a runaway cart full of decorative gourds. I squeezed my brake and skidded to a stop just inches from the cart. A few berries tumbled loose from my bike trailer and were instantly claimed by the chickens that had been hassling the maize vendor.

  “Sorry, Miss!”

  A red-faced man ran out to retrieve the cart.

  “It’s alright,” I assured him. “I just didn’t feel like being squashed today!”

  He squinted at me, confused.

  “Never mind,” I said, waving as I pedaled away. “Happy Harvest!”

  The further down Main Street I got, the harder it was to navigate the chaos of early Harvest Festival. I ended up dismounting and walking my bike the rest of the way to the Happy Blendings smoothie shop. The sparkling interior and dulcet tones of Thunderstruck that greeted me inside the shop told me that I was not the first to arrive.

  “David Ortiz!” I cried in mock affront. “I expect less of you! How am I supposed to get anything done around here if you do it all for me?”

  David, my only employee and right-hand man at Happy Blendings, greeted me with a tall glass full of what looked like jet-black whipped cream.

  “I reckon I’ve got it this time,” he said. I took the glass reluctantly. David was on a quest to create the perfect fitness supplement drink...and I was lucky enough to be his primary test subject.

  “Your last creation gave me hiccups,” I complained, eyeing this latest concoction.

  “That’s not so bad.”

  “They lasted for eight hours!”

  “Just take a sip,” David urged, sticking a festive paper straw into the glass. It made a soft popping sound when it punctured the “smoothie”.

  Bottoms up. I took a careful sip.

  It wasn’t the worst thing David’s made me try. That said, it tasted the way freshly-laid asphalt smells. The bitterness made me pucker and I had to make a concerted effort to not cough. There was a hint of licorice flavor at the finish that did absolutely nothing to improve the overall experience.

  “Wow, David,” I said hoarsely, “that’s...wow.”

  “It does have some off-flavors that I need to work out,” David admitted. “But the good news is that a single sip delivers enough Vitamin C to keep up to ten adults scurvy-free.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I rasped.

  We went to the kitchen to finish up the prep work that David had all but completed already. Between chopping and pureeing, I snuck a few surreptitious strawberries to clear the licorice-and-motor-oil taste that David’s latest experiment had left. The sounds from the street—booths being erected, vendors issuing directions to their staff—grew louder as the morning progressed.

  Harvest Festival is always a big deal in Goodsprings. Tourists and merchants from all over the county flock to our usually quiet little town to take part in a celebration that has existed for more than 200 years. There are carnival games, dances, live music, tractor pulls, baking competitions, two days of parades, and pretty much everything else you’d expect from a good, old-fashioned autumn festival. As a local business owner, I always heartily support Harvest Festival. As a lifelong citizen of Goodsprings, however, I have to say that it can be a bit of a pain in the hiney.

  Goodsprings only has one hotel and a handful of bed and breakfasts...not nearly enough to accommodate the ever-growing horde of festival enthusiasts that come to town each fall. This means that most festival attendees camp just outside town and around the lake. Many Goodsprings residents schedule their vacations for the week of Harvest Festival, renting their homes out to tourists. Those of us who remain in town are left to deal with a week of rowdy crowds and the various shenanigans they come up with each year.

  It was only Monday, so I knew we’d have a few days at least before things got crazy. My goal for this year’s Harvest Festival was to have a few good business days and then close up on Friday and Saturday to let both David and myself enjoy the festivities. That...and find a replacement water-witch for my coven.

  Since its founding, the Goodsprings coven has always had four members, each with a different magical inclination and specialty. We were recently reduced to just three members when Amelia Windermere, our water-witch, was murdered in a crime of greed. The killer, who turned out to be not just her niece but another water-witch, had transformed herself into a frog to escape justice. Now stuck in her frog form, the murderess currently resides in a tank in my living room and has taken to waking me up at the crack of dawn with her croaking.

  We had never had an unexpected vacancy in our coven. I entered th
e coven when my grandmother, Goodsprings’ previous earth-witch, passed away. Tessa Smith and Mara Gale, the coven’s fire-witch and air-witch, both stepped in when their mothers retired. We had no idea how to go about finding a replacement water-witch, but we didn’t have any time to waste figuring it out.

  Harvest Festival, as it happens, always coincides with the day the Goodsprings coven has historically celebrated the witch holiday of Lammas. Every Lammas, the coven performs a ritual to protect the town during the winter. The one time the coven failed to perform the Lammas ritual, over one hundred years ago, the town suffered a harsh and disastrous winter. All four members of the coven are needed to complete the ritual...which needed to be performed before dawn on Sunday. That gave us a whole six days to find a competent water-witch, convince them to join the coven, and execute a highly-complicated, hours-long ritual to save the town.

  No pressure or anything.

  Over the last few weeks, we had reached out to other covens and posted in online witch forums, trying and failing to find a water-witch in need of a coven. We even visited the Otter King, Goodsprings’ resident lake monster, in hopes of getting some information on where to dredge up a water-witch.

  “Sam, hon?” David’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. “Is everything okay? You seem distracted.”

  “What? No, everything’s great.”

  “Is that so?” David sounded skeptical. “Because you’ve been slicing bananas with the peel on.”

  I looked down at the pile of bright yellow banana slices in front of me.

  “Whoops.”

  “Got something on your mind?” David asked, scooping up half the pile and starting to peel the individual banana slices.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Ever since all that horrible business with Amelia, our...book club...hasn’t been the same with just the three of us. But we can’t seem to find a fourth member.”

  “Have you tried posting online?” David suggested, “That could work. I would love to join book club myself, but I have obligations with the motorcycle club...”

  “I would never want to steal you away from The Good Guys!” I said quickly, “and I’m sorry for being absent-minded today. It’s one of those Mondays.”

  “Why don’t you go for a walk after prep?” David suggested. “Go meet some of our new neighbors. Maybe bring back a giant pretzel for your favorite employee.”

  “I think I will, actually,” I said. “Good thinking. Let’s whip up a few Mango-Getters and Watermelon Whirls and give those folks a taste of Goodsprings hospitality.”

  Chapter 2

  I ventured out onto the crowded sidewalk outside Happy Blendings, a tray of smoothies in hand. I strolled around the tables and booths, introducing myself and passing out smoothies. I paused for a moment at a booth displaying intricately carved wooden furniture, admiring the craftsmanship.

  “See anything you like, Miss Greene?” asked a familiar voice from behind me.

  “Mister Williams!” I cried, whirling around, “Is this your work?”

  Ronald Williams nodded, grinning. I was thrilled to see him looking so happy—the last time we’d met, he had been a prime suspect in a murder investigation.

  “When I sold my farm, there wasn’t enough money to start up again,” he explained. “Craw fish farming was the only thing I had ever done...but it wasn’t the only thing I was good at. I invested the money in a proper woodworking setup and got to work.”

  “The world is better for it,” I said, admiring an ornate end table decorated with a leaf pattern. “These are gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, Miss Greene,” Ronald said. “I’m glad you stopped by, actually...I’ve got something for you.” He ducked behind the counter and reemerged with an enormous wooden cutting board.

  “It’s for your shop,” he said, setting it in front of me. “With all the slicing and dicing you do each day, I thought it would be nice for you to have.”

  “It’s beautiful, Mister Williams,” I said, running my hand across its smooth surface. “We do need a new cutting board. I’ll take it! How much?”

  Ronald shook his head. “No, no...it’s a gift, Miss Greene. I made it specifically for you.”

  “Oh!” I felt my face grow warm. “Oh, that’s so kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept that for nothing...at least allow me—”

  He held up a hand.

  “Please, Miss Greene. It’s the least I can do. None of this would have been possible if it wasn’t for your grandmother.”

  “Granny Greene?”

  Ronald nodded. “She’s the one who taught me woodworking when I was just a kid. Helped me put together my first setup.”

  That definitely sounded like my grandmother. Always helping out wherever she could.

  “Much obliged, Mister Williams,” I said, placing the tray of smoothies on the cutting board and picking it up, “But now I insist you take a smoothie.”

  Ronald laughed and took a Mango-Getter off the tray. I wished him a good day and continued on down the street.

  The booth next to Ronald Williams’ had a huge, striped canopy and was blaring early 90s hip-hop. The sign perched crookedly atop it read “Fry Everything Once”. The menu boasted an assortment of fried foods: potato wedges, churros, okra, pickles, candy bars, chimichangas, sweet potatoes, onion rings, and something called the “Whatever Special”.

  “HOWDY!” A blonde woman poked her head out from the booth window and waved at me.

  “Hi!” I called back, “Would you like a smoothie?”

  “WHAT’S THAT?” she shouted back over the music.

  “WOULD YOU LIKE A SMOOTHIE?”

  “WHAT MOVIE?”

  “NO...SMOOTHIE!” I held up my tray. The woman’s eyes lit up.

  “I LOVE SMOOTHIES,” she cried. “THANK YOU!”

  She reached out and snatched up a Watermelon Whirl.

  “MY NAME IS KRIS,” she said, pointing at a name tag on her shirt. “KRIS MCKRACKEN.”

  “SAMANTHA GREENE,” I shouted back, shaking her hand through the window. “WHAT’S THE WHATEVER SPECIAL?”

  “WHATEVER YOU WANT!” Kris flashed a toothy smile. “YOU BUY IT, WE FRY IT. WANNA TRY IT?”

  “MAYBE NEXT TIME,” I said. “HAPPY HARVEST!”

  I moved out of range of the Fry Everything Once booth’s speakers and waited for my ears to stop ringing. There were only two smoothies left on my tray and still a few dozen vendors I hadn’t met yet. I had to choose my next targets carefully.

  Just ahead, on the sidewalk in front of Goodsprings’ town hall, I spied two surly-looking teenage boys seated at a sparkling table. As I got closer, I saw that the table was covered in vintage rings, pendants made from semi-precious stones, and beaded bracelets.

  “Good morning, lads!” I greeted them, holding the smoothie tray out. “Interest you in a couple of Mango-Getters?”

  “I don’t like fruit,” one of the boys said dully, frowning at the tray.

  “Oh...okay...” I retracted the tray.

  “Don’t be a jerk, Tucker.” the other boy said, lifting the brim of his baseball cap enough to squint up at me. “You’ll offend the locals.”

  “Shut up, Tanner. I’m not being a jerk,” Tucker protested. “I just don’t like fruit!”

  “That’s weird, Tucker,” Tanner sighed. “Everyone likes fruit.”

  “You’re weird!” Tucker shot back.

  As much as I wanted to watch that thrilling battle of wits unfold, I still had smoothies and well-wishes to distribute.

  “Good luck with your sales today, lads. Happy Harvest!”

  The boys ignored me and continued bickering as I moved onto the next booth, a large white tent with a bright, hand-painted sign.

  Le Patisserie

  Chadwick Crane | Pâtissière

  I entered the tent and stepped into pastry heaven.

  The floor of the tent was covered in luxuriant rugs, upon which stood tiered towers loaded with colorful confections. Cakes, cookies, croissants, an
d macaroons covered every surface. Each and every pastry was beautiful in its own way, carefully decorated with sugared flowers and intricate swirls of icing.

  A tall, thin man with a waxed mustache was arranging miniature cupcakes on one of the towers, gently setting each one into place with a pair of tongs. He looked up when I entered and greeted me with a nod.

  “Good morning!” I said. “You have a beautiful shop here!”

  “Thank you.” the man said, continuing to adjust the cupcakes. “Let me know when you have made your selection and I will ring you up.”

  “Oh, sorry...I’m just here to say hi and see if you want a smoothie.” I held the tray out to him, smiling. “I will definitely be back later for one of those,” I pointed to a slice of lemon cake adorned with a curl of sugared peel and several tiny, purple flowers.

  The man snorted.

  “It’s a whole town of looky-loo hillbillies,” he said. “Always has been. I don’t know why I even bother coming for the festival anymore.”

  “Ah. Okay,” I said. “So...that’s a ‘no’ on the smoothie?”

  “A definite ‘no,” the man said coolly.

  “Right. Have a lovely day, Mister...”

  “Crane. Chadwick Crane.”

  “Have a lovely day, Mister Crane.” I backed out of the tent, back into the bustle of Main Street.

  Chapter 3

  I’m not one to get steamed up over little things, but rudeness has always been a pet peeve of mine. It takes so little effort to show respect for others that it’s always shocking to me when someone deems another unworthy of even that. Part of me wanted to march back into the tent and give Mr. Crane a piece of my mind, while the other part remembered what my grandmother used to always say about rude people: that they are the most helpful kind of people because they make it quickly and abundantly clear that they are not worth your time.

  Adjusting my grip on my smoothie tray and forcing my forehead to unfrown, I walked across Main Street toward the next booth that had caught my eye: Patty’s Pies.

  Patty’s Pies are something of a legend in the county. There is only one location, but it sells out of pies before noon and there is always a weeks-long waiting list for custom orders. It’s nearly impossible to get a hold of one of Patty’s Pies...unless you happen to be in Goodsprings during Harvest Festival. During the festival, Patty Pearson herself works the booth, whipping up the finest pies and tarts you’ll ever hope to taste. I am particularly fond of her pumpkin hand pies, which always have a fluffy, spiced pumpkin filling and perfectly flaky crust.