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  Spell Or High Water

  An Elemental Witches of Eternal Springs Cozy Mystery

  Gina LaManna

  LaManna Books

  Copyright © 2018 by Gina LaManna

  All rights reserved.

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  Author’s Note

  Also by Gina LaManna

  Acknowledgments

  To the three ladies who made this project possible—Amanda, Leighann, and Annabel —thank you with all the cherries on top!

  To the readers who’ve been following this shared world series—I hope you’ve been enjoying the broomstick ride across Eternal Springs.

  To my husband and most favorite mechanic!

  One

  What a beautiful day, Paul croaked. Paradise.

  “Quiet, Paul,” I hissed through torrents of rain. Thunder cracked overhead and a bolt of lightning streaked across the scudding clouds. I gave an exhausted sigh and urged my scooter onward. “Come on, baby. Come on — you can do it!”

  The motor strained, wheezed and spluttered.

  I don’t think it’s going to make it, Paul said. Your bike’s sounding pretty gnarly there, Evian Brooks.

  “No kidding.” Still, I pressed forward, praying to the storm gods to let up for a moment. Just a moment. “We’re going to make it.”

  No, Paul said. No, I don’t think you will, Evian Brooks.

  “Just call me Evian!” I grunted, as a clap of thunder rattled all Eternal Springs. By the time the next lightning strike hit, my scooter had stalled and I was dripping wet and freezing, pushing the stupid vehicle up the hill.

  “Thanks a lot, Paul. You jinxed me.”

  I’m just a toad. I can’t use magic or jinxes.

  “Right. Which makes me an idiot because I’m arguing with a toad!” I shook my head and leaned against the scooter. I probably shouldn’t take out my anger on my familiar. Paul-the-Toad is a friendly thing, albeit dry and a bit boring. He struggles to pick up on sarcasm, and he refuses to call me by anything but my full name: Evian Brooks.

  See, I’m a water witch here in Eternal Springs. I’ve been banished to the island along with three other witches — former classmates from St. Joan of Arc — thanks to a little “incident” that blew up in my face thirteen years ago.

  Paul-the-Toad is my familiar, and while he can’t speak aloud, he croaks loud enough that my neighbors have complained — then again, Bertha complains about everything! I’ve been conversing with him in my head through a special little bond for as long as I can remember. And still he won’t give up calling me by my full name. It can be tiring.

  “I can’t believe Skye is being so petty!” I shouted to the heavens. “Not today, Skye! I apologized for the wet mark on your pants.”

  I knew my sometimes friend, sometimes enemy couldn’t hear me, but it felt good to yell. Skye Thorton, the wind witch (one of the three other protectors of Eternal Springs), must have sent a huge, squalling gust of wind across the island as a practical joke on me. Just yesterday I’d predicted on air that we’d have a bright and sunny day here on Eternal Springs. Thanks to my old pal Skye, however, the crew at the station would be laughing their heads off by the time I arrived for work.

  Work is a loose term I use to call what I do. I not only own radio station Hex 66.6, but I also have a segment as a deejay, and I love it — with one caveat. Technology tends to go berserk here on the island, so it never quite works properly. This means the radio station rarely works for most folks, and my show reaches only a handful of people each day. It isn’t all that much of a catastrophe for programs like Mitzi’s Knitting Circle (the mayor’s wife’s snoozefest of a segment), but it isn’t working for me.

  Zola’s theory is that it’s all the magic zipping and zapping every which way, but I’m not convinced the coven hasn’t put a jinx on us just for kicks. Exhibit A: The station somehow has gotten stuck playing a bizarre twist on calypso music that everyone across the island (including myself) universally hates. At least half the population has actually thrown their devices out the window, and I suspect the other half only uses it as a tool to fall back to sleep thanks to Mitzi’s interminable dreck about knitting.

  Looks like you broke down, Paul said from his perch in the handlebar basket of the scooter. Bummer.

  “Thanks, Paul.” He basked in the wash of rain that’d left me annoyed and frozen straight through. I decided to attempt a quick chant and make use of the witch talents that were responsible for keeping me here in the first place: “Rain, rain, go away, come again another day! Keep me dry, so I can fly. And when I find that stupid Skye, I will poke her in the eye!”

  That’s not a real spell, Paul said, famously missing my sarcasm once again. Are you sure this is Skye’s fault?

  “She’s upset I broke the story about the stolen beach towels before she did,” I said. “There’s not much happening for her to report about in Eternal Springs. Robbery is a huge deal.”

  It wasn’t a real theft, Paul said, someone accidentally picked them up and washed them. They were returned after a few hours, cleaner than when they’d been ‘stolen.’

  “I know that, Paul.” I pushed my scooter up the hill, grunting as I summited the top. “Geez, Paul, lay off the hot dogs — I can barely move this thing with you on it.”

  Paul croaked. He was right; the problem wasn’t him, it was my stupid scooter and Skye’s silly storm. I kept on pushing, hoping nobody would notice the puddle I’d leave in my chair at the office — especially not Leonard Buffet. As the owner of the radio station, I didn’t technically have a boss to report to, but I did have Leonard, the guy I’d hired to run everything that I didn’t want to do: advertising, logistics, scheduling, etc. He liked to say he ran the place. Sometimes I forgot he wasn’t my boss.

  The end of my struggle was in sight! Just a few more feet and I’d be able to coast down the hill and to the front door of the office. I had been running late before my scooter broke down, no thanks to Skye, the elements or a malfunctioning radio alarm. There was no time to head home for a change of clothes. At this point, powering through was the only option.

  “Need a hand?”

  I flicked my gaze up and found Mason Cooper jogging over, his face painted with a look of concern. I pretended not to notice the form-fitting black T-shirt that had molded to his body under the rain, or the way his jeans hugged legs that went on and on and on. We were familiar with one another, but I wouldn’t call us friends by any stretch.

  “He’s jogging,” I said to Paul. “I don’t understand people who jog in the morning. Who is he, Mr. Fitness?”

  He’s coming to help you, Evian Brooks. Would it kill you to be nice to him?

  “Yes,” I snapped.

  There was nothing exactly wrong with Mason Cooper, but I was un
comfortable and my pants were chafing and I didn’t feel like being nice. Not to mention, I looked like a drowned rat as he jogged through the streets all handsome and successful and attractive. Mason ran the island’s only mechanic shop, and I was convinced that my malfunctioning scooter alone kept him in business.

  His dating resume was as long as my Christmas list (which was pretty long, seeing as I didn’t find myself shopping on the mainland much) and filled with beautiful women he’d wined, dined and dumped. Or so the rumors said. It’s not as if I knew firsthand, because Mason Cooper isn’t my type. Not at all.

  He looks nice, doesn’t he? Paul offered. You know you can’t hide your thoughts from me.

  I ignored my familiar as he croaked. Then I ignored the human, too, and kept on pushing my scooter. That made for two I was ignoring this morning.

  Mason looked over at him. “Is your toad okay?”

  “His name’s Paul, and he’s fine. Just feeling sassy this morning,” I said as wind whipped hair across my face. I must really look great. “I’m fine, Mason — get back to your jogging or whatever.”

  “I’m not jogging,” he said. “I just came out here to help. Looks like you could use a hand — scooter acting up?”

  “No, I really enjoy pushing it uphill in torrential downpours. I’m not late to work or frozen through to the bone or anything like that.”

  Mason’s lips sealed into a thin line. “Did I do something to offend you, Evian?”

  I stopped pushing the bike and faced him. I pretended I’d only stopped to have a conversation, but really I needed a breather before I continued. Either Paul needed a diet or the scooter was really quite heavy.

  “You didn’t do anything to me,” I said. “But I saw you last night at Coconuts.”

  “Everyone was there. It was the kickoff for the beauty pageant contestants.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “You made a lot of friends, seemed like.”

  Playboy extraordinaire Mason Cooper raised his eyebrows. “I was the emcee for the evening. I had to be nice to everyone. Look, Evian, you’re not annoyed I got the emcee job for the kickoff, are you? It was just one night for laughs.”

  “Nope.” I didn’t fool myself. Of course I was annoyed! I was the only professional radio deejay on the island (again, not counting Mitzi Snoozefest), yet the beauty pageant organizers had asked Mason Cooper — local mechanic — to host Eternal Springs’s biggest tourist event of the season: the beauty pageant’s welcome night at Coconuts.

  Women had begun arriving from destinations across the country the previous evening, and we’d celebrated the official kickoff of the pageant at the tiki bar fondly called Coconuts. There, karaoke was king and drinks were poured in glasses the size of bathtubs. It was a town ritual to be seen at Coconuts on a Friday night.

  Mason folded his arms. “Look, it’s not a big deal — they’re not even paying me. I only said I’d do it because I didn’t think anyone else wanted to.”

  “I’m not taking your sloppy seconds! Plus, the ladies in the pageant wouldn’t be as interested in looking at me as they are ogling you.”

  A half smile quirked his face. “If I didn’t know better, Evian Brooks, I’d say you’re a little jealous.”

  Agreed, Paul croaked.

  “Watch it or I’m having frog legs for dinner,” I said to my familiar. Louder, I spoke to Mason. “In your dreams, Cooper. Now look out, please. I’m late for work.”

  “When should I expect your scooter at the shop?”

  “Tonight!” I hollered over my shoulder. “And I need all the discounts you can give me!”

  As I crested the top of the hill, his peal of laughter followed me down the other side. I almost smiled, but that would feel sacrilegious, so I kept it hidden as I sped down the hill.

  The wind whipped through my hair and finally, finally, the rain pattered to a stop as I really got momentum in my downhill coasting. I was practically flying by the time I reached the bottom. The sun had begun to peek out from behind the clouds, and I was just starting to chance a smile when whabam!

  The crash came sudden and fast. Sand plus a slippery road combined to form an epic disaster as my scooter hit an ugly patch of slickness. I spun out, sending me, Paul and the bike careening from the road. We tottered through bushes, bulldozed a flimsy fence that needed updating and plowed straight into someone’s backyard.

  I leapt from the bike and reached for Paul, tucking him to my chest as the bike bumped and bounced another ten feet before finally landing across the poor, unsuspecting diving board of an in-ground pool.

  Ribbet, Paul said, and he sounded ticked.

  “I saved your life!” I raised my palm to meet him eye to eye, but he was uninterested in forgiving me and hopped away. “Hey! Where are you going?”

  I trailed off when I saw exactly why Paul had leapt from my palm. The sparkling expanse of blue of the pool stretched before me. We’d been about a foot from ending up underwater. It would’ve been a nightmare to fish my scooter out of there, and because I didn’t have a ton of money to replace a drowned bike I was relieved my scooter had only gone through a fence and some bushes that needed pruning anyway.

  I heard Paul’s panicked croak and looked up from the scooter to find him frozen on the edge of the pool.

  “Will you get over here? We have to let the owner of this place know … .” I trailed off as I joined Paul poolside and stared at a floating object. It took too long to realize that it wasn’t some inflatable pool toy a kid had left out overnight — it was a body. “Oh, fudge! That’s a person, Paul. A dead body!”

  Paul croaked in horror. Despite feeling queasy at the sight of the woman, her hair fanning around her head in a deadly sort of halo, I chanced one more look at her face and groaned when I recognized her.

  Marilyn Johnson: reigning Eternal Springs Beauty Pageant queen.

  It appeared Marilyn’s time to rule had come to an end. The only place she’d be getting a makeover from here on out was the morgue.

  Two

  “Yep, she’s dead,” the medical examiner said. “Definitely dead.”

  “No kidding,” I mumbled. “What tipped you off? The strangulation marks around her neck or the fact there’s no breathing or heartbeat?”

  “Strangulation marks?” Dr. Abigail Marley glanced at me and tried to frown. But her Botox was just too much, and she couldn’t quite force her face into the emotion. “Oh, gee — look at that. She was strangled!”

  “I think the bigger question is whether she was strangled before or after she was pushed into the pool,” I said, guiding Abigail along. “You’ll have to determine the time and cause of death.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  Abigail wasn’t exactly a medical genius — unless you counted her work as a plastic surgeon. Eternal Springs is a small island, so we make do with what we have. When she wasn’t injecting Botox at the spa, Abigail served as a quasi-medical examiner.

  “How’d you get here so fast?” I asked her. “I didn’t even have a chance to call for help before you popped up.”

  “I heard you scream,” she said quickly, leaving me to wonder if I’d screamed and forgotten about it. I didn’t remember screaming. “Anyway, we need to get the police here. I’m sure the mayor will be along. It’s not every day we have a disaster of this magnitude.”

  Disaster would be a good word to describe the situation. Unbeknownst to me, I’d stumbled across the semi-private hideaway that housed the girls registered to compete in the pageant. The Beauty Cottage, they’d called it. A big house, complete with a stunning view of the beach, a plethora of rooms and bunk beds inside, and a huge pool outside that would probably never be used again.

  One or two of the girls, having heard the commotion, peeped from the windows. One brave soul ventured out. I squinted but didn’t recognize this one. I’d met many of the C-list contestants last night at Coconuts, where I’d been slumming, trying to convince a few of the A-listers to appear on my radio show for
interviews and to drum up additional excitement for the week’s festivities.

  I’d settled on a few B-listers because Tarryn and Marilyn — the two women thought to vie for the prestigious first-place crown — had declined to comment. I now felt bad about my annoyance at Mary, seeing as she wouldn’t be giving interviews ever again.

  “Marilyn Johnson,” the medical examiner said, squatting near the body. She sounded just a little too gleeful saying the victim’s name. “Not so beautiful now, is she?”

  “Abigail!” I gasped. “That’s horrible to say. She just died!”

  “Died?” One of the pageant girls said. “Who’s dead? I thought Mary was just doing some weird beauty ritual floating there.”

  “Idiot,” Abigail murmured. Then she announced: “Marilyn’s dead. Someone call the police.”

  The pageant contestant paused, her lip quivering. “But —.”

  “The police!” I shouted. “Call the police from the landline. Cellphones don’t work all that well out here.”

  Instead of reacting in a calm and logical manner, the girl crumpled to her knees and began to scream. This drew another girl to her side, and then another, and one by one, the house emptied of girls as they flocked poolside to sob and hug each other.

  “Where’d you say you came from again?” I asked Abigail. “How did you beat the police here? I just fell through the fence.”

  “I think we need to get started investigating,” she said, ignoring my question. “Let’s see, I think I have a camera here somewhere to snap a few photos.”