Hex on the Beach (The Magic & Mixology Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  My boss’s mouth hung open in an unflattering manner, which most certainly meant bad news. He looked surprised. And shocked. My boss was never surprised. I’d once told him a tornado had touched down five minutes away, and he hadn’t flinched.

  Sensing something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, I made a slow turn until I faced the screen. Then my face fell slack. I dropped the clicker. And I squinted.

  “What is that?” I asked in a hushed tone.

  On the screen, what should have been our logo had completely disappeared. Er, sort of disappeared. The lion from our logo looked as if it’d come to life in a 2-D image, prancing around the screen, opening its mouth in silent roars, swishing its tail.

  “Is this another joke?” The stuffy woman crossed her arms, but I didn’t sense as much hostility. More curiosity than anything else.

  Join the club. I had no idea what was happening on the slide, and curiosity didn’t begin to explain it.

  “No, uh, we here at Lions Marketing are all about new, out-of-the-box, forward-thinking marketing.” My boss stood, giving me a quick glare before putting on his “business hat” and facing the clients.

  How he remained so calm, so collected, I had no idea. I was quivering in my knock-off boots.

  “Do tell,” the woman said. “I don’t understand.”

  “It captured your attention, did it not?” My boss gestured to the screen where, at the moment, the lion had apparently decided to take a leak on the company name.

  I winced. Poor time for a bathroom break.

  “We will catch your consumer’s eye like nobody before. I can guarantee that our tactics are on the cutting edge of the industry. Studies in China right now are proving that this sort of viral marketing is what’s new and hot.” My boss gave me another quick glare.

  Lucky thing he was there, because I’d never have come up with that fake China study. That was probably the same reason he was my boss, and I was one of many minions below him.

  “Interesting,” Mr. Davenport said, taking over for his female counterpart. “And how do you see this helping us?”

  “Well, I will let Lily move on with her presentation. I know she has a wonderful explanation ready for you with plenty of numbers and graphs. Right?” My boss turned to me. “Lily?”

  “Right.” I jumped to attention. “Next.”

  I clicked the clicker but immediately regretted the move. Instead of advancing the slide, the click seemed to only anger the cartoonish lion. Lions Marketing’s logo turned toward us with an all-too-realistic expression and roared at the crowd.

  Except this time, the animal wasn’t silent.

  I felt the breeze, smelled the breath from the lion as the roar nearly deafened the room.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said, clicking the clicker once more.

  This time, the click enlarged the lion’s figure. He grew to half the size of the screen, his roars growing louder and louder.

  “Lily, what is this?” My boss’s tone was furious. In his defense, he had a pretty good reason to be upset.

  “I don’t know! This isn’t my PowerPoint. I’ve gone through this a million times, you’ve seen me,” I said with a horrified glance at my boss. “I don’t know what’s happening or how to get rid of it.”

  “Shut it off.” My boss’s tone was clipped, and I was sure that neither he nor I missed the raised eyebrows of Ms. Stuffy Bottoms in the corner.

  “I’m trying!” But every time I clicked the power button, the lion grew larger, roared louder, and altogether became more animated.

  “I’m leaving.” Ms. Stuffy Bottoms stood, nodding at Mr. Davenport. “I do not enjoy the idea of threatening my target audience with our marketing.”

  “It’s not what you think, it’s…” I raised and lowered my shoulders, unable to explain it.

  “A joke?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse, but either way, I won’t tolerate it. I’m sorry, but I have a lot of money at stake, and with this sort of showing, I can’t possibly put my money in your hands.”

  Mr. Davenport followed the woman without question. On the way out, his eyes met my boss’s gaze, and he murmured, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Fred. Maybe next time.”

  The rest of the crew filtered out, none of them making eye contact with me, most of them nodding sadly at my boss. When it was just him and me left, I limply raised one hand.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.” I looked at the floor. “Er… are you going to say something?”

  My boss’s silence bordered on murderous.

  I cleared my throat. “You know, I never knew your name was Fred, Mr. Roberts.”

  I had no idea where that observation had come from, or why it’d just popped out of my mouth. My legs trembled, my fingers shook, tears pricked my eyes—all signs my nerves were shot. Apparently that toyed with my ability to say appropriate things.

  “Get your things.” Mr. Roberts’s voice rumbled throughout the room with a menacing tone I hadn’t known he possessed. “You’re fired.”

  I hung my head. Ainsley would’ve fought back, argued that it wasn’t her fault. Part of me wanted to lash out at Fred, tell him this wasn’t my PowerPoint, that someone had screwed with me, played an unfair joke that had gone sour. Maybe it was Leslie from down the hall—she’d been angling for my job for a while. Or Sarah from one floor up—she’d been hankering for a promotion for months.

  But I couldn’t find it in myself to blame anyone else. I’d put my blood, sweat, and tears into this presentation, and it couldn’t have gone worse. I could barely process what had happened, let alone form cohesive thoughts or argue my point. No, for now, I needed to lick my wounds and figure out what to do next.

  Chapter 3

  There was no better place to lick my wounds than The Bar. It was, as the name suggested, a simple bar tucked in an out-of-the-way alley in downtown Minneapolis. Only regulars came here, the types of people looking for strong drinks, quiet booths, and dart boards without a waiting line.

  I shook up a martini behind the bar, helping myself to the liquor cabinets. Jesse, the bartender, and I had become fast friends a long time ago, back when I’d taught him a few fancy tricks about how to properly salt a margarita. I also made a great wing-girl and had secured him some phone numbers on more than one occasion.

  In exchange for our friendship, Jesse allowed me free rein, an all-access pass to the liquor stash. It wasn’t the alcohol I enjoyed—at least, not as much as the art of making the perfect drink. Every week, Jesse left a slot for me on the menu to feature a “signature drink,” which might be anything from an easy wine spritzer to a fancy Nutella martini.

  I never needed a menu, a recipe, or a suggestion from a patron. Making drinks was, quite possibly, the only thing that came naturally to me. Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the day. Normally I didn’t even consume the drinks I invented, but today was an exception.

  After pouring a martini so dirty it rivaled the floor of the bar, I slid onto a stool and rested my head between my hands. Next to me sat the stack of papers I’d clutched as I slunk out of the conference room a few hours earlier, pretending I didn’t see everyone’s curious stares.

  On top of the failed presentation slides sat the witch test. My stomach twisted, wondering what would happen to Ainsley now that I’d been fired. Not wanting to think about sad things, I pushed the pile away. Luckily the bar was empty, so nobody else was around to see my fall from start-up marketing grace.

  “Wanna talk about it?” Jesse asked, pulling himself a tap beer.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “What happened?” Jesse added a few more olives to my already overflowing drink. “You were so excited about this presentation. It was all you talked about for weeks.”

  I looked at the overly tattooed man, who was nothing more than a teddy bear inside. I guessed he was about ten years older than me, and our relationship resembled that of a big-brother-l
ittle-sister situation.

  “I failed.” I speared an olive with unnecessary violence. “Miserably.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” Jesse leaned over the counter, tilting my chin upward with a gentle tap of his fist. “Even if the presentation didn’t go so smoothly, how could they not be charmed by this cute face?”

  I forced a smile, glancing in the mirror behind the bar. My tightly knotted hair drooped, a few strands spiraling out of control. My blouse had somehow lost its top button, exposing my camisole underneath, while my stilettos rested underneath the bar stool.

  “Because a lion took over.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Weird day, huh?”

  Jesse took a sip of beer. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Do they give out pictures of David Hasselhoff instead of pink slips these days?” he asked, gesturing toward my stack of papers.

  I pointed at the witch quiz. “This is not a photo. Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s a stupid quiz, a joke from my assistant.”

  Jesse picked up the paper full of questions and examined it so thoroughly his ears turned as red as the maraschino cherries next to him. “Do you need to talk to someone, Lily?”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “No, like… psychically.”

  “Psychic? Like ESPN?”

  “Isn’t it ESP?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “None of that stuff exists anyway. Either way, do you mean a shrink?”

  “I’m just saying, I’ve heard of some people going through really stressful things and having a mental breakdown.”

  “I’m not having a breakdown. Something just went wrong with my presentation. I can’t explain it.”

  “Like a breakdown?” He raised an eyebrow, eyeing my drink as if wanting to take it away from the crazy person babbling about a lion.

  I hugged it closer. “I’m not crazy.”

  The door to the bar opened, and laughter filtered in. I set my drink down, sat back, and stared.

  Two women, who looked as if they’d never set foot on this earth before, tottered into the bar, both of them trying to squeeze through the door at once. One of the ladies wore a lime-green skirt, bright-blue blouse, and hat with a bonnet the size of Saturn’s rings. She was the plumper of the two by a long shot and clasped what might be a guinea pig to her chest.

  The other woman—tall, thin as a wisp of grass, with a frown puckering her face—waltzed in wearing a mustard-yellow dress with a pattern that belonged on my great-great-grandmother’s armchair. In other words, the fabric was ugly.

  But the short, plump woman smiled so brightly, the wattage of the room increased, and she trilled a hello to whoever would listen.

  It was Jesse’s turn to splutter.

  “Hello, dahlings, how are you?” the shorter one asked. “Oh, Lily, I see you’ve brought your exam along with you. Wonderful. I was convinced we’d have to beg you to believe it’s real. But you’ve accepted the truth already—excellent!”

  “Um…” My jaw hung open. I probably looked unattractive, but then again, these ladies hadn’t walked off the fall fashion catalogue of—well, any magazine.

  “You didn’t introduce us,” the tall beanpole chided. “She has no idea who we are.”

  “Oh, dahlings, I’m sorry.” The plump woman removed her wide-brimmed hat and took a deep bow, in which her nose nearly touched her toes, before righting herself. “I am Mimsey Magnolia, and this is my guinea pig, Chunk. That’s my sister, Trinket.”

  “Trinket Dixie,” the skinny woman said, her mouth still pinched in a frown, gray hair curled tightly to her head.

  “I’m, uh, Lily Locke,” I said hesitantly. With one quick look at the bartender, I knew he wouldn’t be speaking anytime soon. “And this is Jesse.”

  “We know who you are, dear,” Mimsey said. “We’re your aunts.”

  “What?”

  “Your aunts, dear. You know. Family.”

  I shook my head. “My dad doesn’t have any siblings.”

  “And your mother?”

  I hesitated, glancing at Jesse. “I don’t know my mother.”

  Mimsey tsked, stroking her guinea pig’s head. “Ah. Has your father never talked about her?”

  “No.” It was a bit of a lie, but I didn’t know these women from Adam. My father had mentioned my mother, but only in passing and only to say she’d disappeared before I’d turned a year old.

  “I wondered if she’d be too young.” Mimsey shook her head, her brightly colored clothes flashing with the motion. “I was right.”

  “Too young for what?” I asked.

  “To remember. Everything,” Mimsey said. “That dratted curse.”

  “What are you talking about, curse?”

  “If you come with us, I’ll explain everything.” Mimsey turned and walked toward the door. “Let’s go, Chunkie.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I glanced at Jesse for reassurance. “This is crazy, right?”

  The bartender’s face paled. He leaned toward me and whispered, “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “Me neither.” I shook my head, glancing at the two nutso women who must have wandered away from a psych ward.

  “You’re looking at us as if we’re looney, dear,” Mimsey said. “What don’t you understand?”

  “Everything.” I raised a hand. “You. Why you’re here. Why you’re talking about my mother when I haven’t seen her in over a quarter of a century.”

  “Oh, gosh, time flies.” Mimsey turned back at the door. “I told you, come with us and we’ll explain everything.”

  “I don’t think so.” I tilted my head. “First of all, this is crazy. No offense. Second, I don’t know where you’re going or where you came from.”

  “The Isle,” Trinket said. “Your home. Where you belong.”

  “I belong right here. Minneapolis, Minnesota.” I tapped the bar for added emphasis. “I have a job. An apartment. My dad. A life.”

  “You don’t have a job anymore,” Mimsey said with a tinkling laugh. “And I wouldn’t call working eighty hours a week a life, dear. We know you only see your dad once a week, and he barely notices when you bring him dinners on Sundays. He prefers to watch that game of footie-balls—”

  “Football?” I asked.

  “Whatever.” Mimsey waved. “He prefers to watch that rather than talk to you. That means you just drop off the food and go back to work. On a Sunday night. Who works on a Sunday night?”

  “Me,” I said through gritted teeth. “Someone who wants to be successful. Have you two been stalking me?”

  “Stalking is a bit harsh. Just keeping tabs on you. We promised your mother,” Mimsey said.

  “How do you know my mother? Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because we’re her sisters. She was the oldest. Then Trinket, then me.” Mimsey pointed at herself with her thumb while Trinket nodded.

  “I—no. You’re lying.” I took a sip of my drink, hoping the alcohol would somehow clear my mind. Maybe Jesse was right and I’d overworked myself and was suffering the consequences—a complete mental breakdown. Maybe I should let these ladies take me back with them to the looney bin.

  “Okay, enough, dear.” Mimsey put a hand on her hip. “If you come with us, we will explain everything.”

  “Don’t go with them,” Jesse said. “They don’t seem right in the head.”

  “You think?” I muttered. I looked between the two and asked, “Is there a number I can call, someone to come pick you up?”

  Trinket stepped forward, her wispy frame and serious expression somehow intimidating despite her armchair-patterned clothing. “You took the exam. We need you now more than ever. It’s essential you come with us.”

  “What exam?”

  Trinket gestured toward the Magical Assessment for Normal Folks on the bar. Turning to Jesse, she asked, “What do you see on that piece of paper?”

  Jesse blushed.

  “Answer me, son,
” Trinket demanded.

  “A photo of David Hasselhoff in a polka-dot bikini,” he mumbled.

  “Traitor,” I whispered across the bar. “You can see the quiz questions.”

  “He can’t, dear,” Mimsey said, stepping forward. “Only you. You have magic in your blood, passed down by your mother. And you’re the next Mixologist in line.”

  “What the heck is a mixologist?” I waved at Jesse and twisted my necklace anxiously. “Are you sure you’re not here for him? He’s the bartender.”

  “No, Mixologist. With a capital M,” Trinket said. “Now, get your things. We have no time to waste. We must return to The Isle.”

  “I don’t know about any isle,” I said. “This is Minnesota, not Hawaii.”

  “Correct. Which means you’re in the right place,” Mimsey said. “And Trinket is not exaggerating. We need you, dear. We need you more than you know.”

  I shook my head. “I belong here. On firm ground. On land. I appreciate your concern, but… there’s no way you’re related to my mother. I work in marketing.”

  “If I show you proof, will you come with us?” Mimsey asked. “I completely forgot. Get the item, Trinket.”

  Trinket fished in a handbag that looked as though it could contain a whole colony of guinea pigs. I didn’t respond, looking on with curiosity.

  “What do you say, darling?” Mimsey raised her eyebrows. “If we can prove it, will you come with us?”

  “You can’t prove anything,” I said.

  “Trinket?” Mimsey asked. “Show her.”

  “She didn’t agree,” Trinket argued. “I’m not showing her anything until she promises.”

  “If you can convince me…” I rolled my eyes in a big circle. “And that’s a huge if, then I’ll consider coming. But don’t count on convincing me. I don’t even know anything about my mom.”

  Trinket looked at Mimsey, who gave a single nod and extended her hand. Trinket deposited something small into her sister’s palm then stepped backward.

  “I believe you have something around your neck, dear.” Mimsey took hesitant steps toward me. “May I see it?”