Magnolia Wild Vanishes (A Charmed Cat Mystery, Book 1) Read online

  A Charmed Cat Mystery

  In Which

  Magnolia Wild Vanishes

  (Book 1)

  Peggy Webb

  “Clever and wickedly witty…”

  Tom Wilson, creator of Ziggy ©

  WH

  Westmoreland House

  Magnolia Wild Vanishes (A Charmed Cat Mystery, Book 1) © 2019 by Peggy Webb

  Published by Westmoreland House

  Smashwords Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design 2019 by Vicki Hinze

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the written permission of the author and publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  First Printing: October 2019

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Note from Peggy

  Chapter 1, In which life deals a big surprise

  Chapter 2, In which Magnolia escapes

  Chapter 3, In which lavender and crime don’t mix

  Chapter 4, In which Houdini discovers Fury Road and more

  Chapter 5, In which the Delaneys hatch devious plans

  Chapter 6, In which complications develop

  Chapter 7, In which Houdini fingers a killer

  Chapter 8, In which a disguise saves the day

  Chapter 9, In which the jig is almost up

  Chapter 10, In which a horse of a different color arrives

  Chapter 11, In which Houdini becomes a hero

  Chapter 12, In which a killer is revealed

  Read More

  About the Author

  Note from Peggy

  Welcome to the zany world of my new Charmed Cat Mystery series. I hope you’ll love the Delaney sisters, their magical cat Houdini, and their feisty great niece who knows more about guns than lipstick.

  Each Charmed Cat Mystery will be a novella, perfect for a beach read or a break from routine when you need a lively dose of humor and a good whodunit.

  If you’ve enjoyed my Southern Cousins Mystery series, starring Elvis, the basset hound who thinks he’s the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, you’re going to love the Charmed Cat cozies. In fact, I tucked a Charmed Cat short story prequel into the back of my most recent Southern Cousins mystery, Elvis and the Devil in Disguise.

  Thanks for reading!

  Peggy Webb

  Chapter 1

  In which life deals a big surprise

  A Volkswagen Beetle does not make a good getaway car. As I barreled down the New Jersey Turnpike in the darkness like a one-eyed Cyclops, I wondered who would catch me first, the cops or the Mafia. My Beetle is older than dirt and barely holding together. It has a missing headlight and a top speed of fifty-five miles an hour. If I got stopped by the cops, I’d end up under the jail. I was packing more heat than Rambo.

  But I wasn’t half as worried about the cops as I was about Nick Coselli, toughest bad boy in the northeast and favorite son of the Coselli family, the Coselli mob family. Until two hours ago, I was also Nick’s fiancée.

  When I first decided to give his ring back, I had a hunch it would end badly. I just didn’t know how bad it would get.

  Earlier this evening I wasn’t even thinking about taking a trip, let alone throwing my clothes and my weapons into the car and hightailing it south. I’d been in the midst of my cheap single bedroom apartment among my garage sale furniture, handing my engagement ring back to Nick. Reluctantly, I might add. It was a ten-carat, emerald cut diamond solitaire. For one greedy moment, I hoped he’d throw the ring back at me.

  He doesn’t rejection well. Tonight was no exception.

  “What the devil is this, Maggie?” He stared at the ring as if it had landed in his palm from Mars. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No, I’ve found it. I’m quitting my job and you, too.” He just kept staring at the ring like it was going to rise up and bite him. “I’m not ready for marriage.”

  He pocketed the ring very carefully, a man barely hanging onto control by his freshly buffed fingernails. I should have known better than to fall for a man who has his nails and hair done more often than I do.

  “I don’t ever let go of what’s mine. And Maggie, make no mistake about it. You’re mine.”

  “I don’t belong to anybody. That’s part of the problem, Nick. You never could seem to get it through your thick skull that you don’t own me.”

  “You can’t ditch me.”

  “I already did.”

  “Do you think it’s that easy?” His smile was more chilling than the sight of the garbage going out of Coselli’s restaurant.

  I waitress there or used to. And yes, I know I’ve blown all kinds of job opportunities—me, Maggie Wild, winner of Olympic gold, the best sharpshooter on Team USA. But that’s an old story for another day.

  Anyhow, a week ago I was working the late shift and decided I was too tired to drive myself home. I would call Nick to pick me up at the restaurant. I went into the bathroom, splashed water on my face and did major repairs to my hair. There was nothing I could do about the smell. My clothes and hair reeked of garlic and Italian meatballs. Fortunately, that happened to be Nick’s favorite bouquet of scents.

  I guess I took longer in the bathroom than I’d meant to. When I emerged, all the lights were off except a small glow coming from the kitchen. I hurried back there, thinking I’d see the chef and tell him I was still in the restaurant. He likes to set up for the next day’s business and is often the last to leave.

  Instead I saw Nick’s brother, Rocco, toting out a garbage bag wearing pink toenail polish. Actually, what I saw was a women’s foot sticking out of the garbage bag, the toes sporting a color I’d call Pepto Bismol pink. A wimpy color. If you’re going to paint your toenails, go for something bold. Red or chrome green or even black. Still, I guess whoever was in that bag didn’t count on the color of her toenail polish being the last impression she’d ever make.

  Nick had always called his brother the Fixer, but I thought he was talking about Rocco’s ability to get the best Broadway show tickets at the last minute. I never dreamed he was talking about getting rid of bodies.

  I eased back from the doorway and sprinted down the hall, my heart pounding like an out-of-shape runner. Ducking back into the bathroom, I locked the door then leaned against it and rammed my fist into my mouth to stifle a scream. If Rocco had seen me, I’d have plenty to scream about. I’d be dead. The hard way.

  Pressing my forehead against the cold bathroom wall tiles while Rocco dragged off a body, I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself. It was time to take a second look at rumors I’d brushed aside as ridiculous. Concrete shoes and bodies never found. Rival restaurants shut down before opening night, the owners vanished and never heard of again. Cooked books and off-shore accounts. Secretive phone calls to somebody called Snake Eyes.

  Suddenly the rumors all made sense. I was going to marry the Mafia—if I didn’t end up in a garbage bag first. The scream I was trying to hold back leaked around my fist, and I raced to the sink to turn the water on full blast.

  “Magnolia, you’d better get it together, and fast.” If anybody else called me Magnolia, I’d shoot him. But calling myself the name I hated was just enough to shock me out of my stupid trance and make me think
like an Olympic champion. Lay out the problem then find a solution.

  My immediate problem was Rocco. If he’d seen me, I was a dead woman. But I’d rather it be later than sooner. I tiptoed back to the door and cracked it open. Nothing out there. At least, not yet. Rocco could be gone for the night, which was highly unlikely since he was the only one left to lock up.

  I ducked back inside and made a big racket by stomping over to the sink, whistling. Then I pulled out my iPhone and called Nick.

  It went straight to voice mail. “Hi honey.” I put enough pizzazz in my voice to perk coffee. “Pick me up at the restaurant. I’m too tired to drive home.”

  There was a loud banging on the bathroom door, and my phone shot out of my hand. I caught it before it crashed into the porcelain sink.

  “Anybody in there?” It was Rocco. I’d know that bellow anywhere.

  “Just a minute.” I tried to sound sassy but sweet instead of scared speechless.

  “Maggie? That you?”

  “Hmmm.” I grabbed a tube of lip gloss out of my purse and painted my top lip, then pasted on the smile the press called dazzling during my last summer Olympics. As I sashayed to the door, taking my own sweet time, I hoped I still had enough dazzle left to fool Rocco.

  I was getting ready to swing the door open when he slammed his fists against it again. It sounded like thunder clapping. Rocco’s a big man, six four with arm muscles the size of Virginia hams and legs as thick as California redwoods. His brother is nothing like him. Nick’s the Hollywood version, suave and handsome and witty.

  When I unlocked the bathroom door, I made my eyes go wide and innocent.

  “Goodness, Rocco. A girl can’t even think with all that racket.”

  “What’re you doing here, Maggie?”

  “For Pete’s sake! What does it look like? I’m primping!” I drew the red lip gloss along my bottom lip then smacked them together for good measure. “I called Nick to meet me here.”

  “Is he coming?”

  “I don’t know.” I gave Rocco another razzle-dazzle smile. “I got voice mail. I hope he got the message. I’m so tired I nearly went to sleep trying to fix my hair.”

  Thank goodness I’d taken down the pony tail I usually wore and rammed a comb through my thick tangle of dark curls before I spotted Rocco’s extra-curricular activities. Hopefully, he didn’t know I’d spent two minutes on my hair and the rest spying on him.

  “Nick’s got other business tonight. I’ll drive you home.”

  By way of the garbage dump? Or the Delaware River? I didn’t fancy the idea of wearing concrete shoes but if I said no, he’d get suspicious.

  “That’s so sweet of you, Rocco.”

  I grabbed my purse, which contained every useless, frivolous thing I thought I needed until I found myself staring straight into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. I made myself trot along beside him like an obedient sister-in-law-to-be, but I wished I was packing my 9mm semi-automatic. I can shoot a hundred out of a hundred moving clay targets, dead center. With a specially outfitted long-range rifle, I can hit any stationary target from a distance of two and a half kilometers. My teammates didn’t call me “Bull’s Eye” Maggie for nothing.

  Still, I’d never shot at anything alive. Even if push came to shove, I didn’t know if I had what it takes to shoot to kill. Which was all beside the point, considering that I was packing nothing more lethal than Five Alarm Fire lip gloss.

  Before I climbed into the car, I glanced up and down the street just in case it was the last time anybody saw Maggie Wild alive. The streets were as empty as my life. I slid onto the back seat beside Rocco and he tapped on the window to give the driver my address.

  “I’d better let Nick know where I am. I was just sure he said he’d see me tonight.” His number was on my speed dial, and as I listened to his ring tone I girded myself for an Oscar worthy performance. Thank goodness, it went straight back to voice mail. “Honey, it’s me again. Rocco’s taking me home. Later, love. Kiss, kiss.”

  Obviously I didn’t end up in the garbage dump beside Pink Toenails. But Nick didn’t come over that night, either, a sure sign I’d better get out of Dodge. Or to be more precise, Trenton, New Jersey. Still, I couldn’t pack up my bags and leave immediately without drawing Rocco’s suspicions, not to mention Nick’s.

  So I spent all last week looking over my shoulder for an ambush from Rocco, and pushing Nick so he’d break the engagement. Without so much as blinking, I turned from an easy-going woman into a whining fiancée. To add to his discomfort, I seized every opportunity to make his life miserable.

  How could he stand me up without any notice? Why was he wearing that color blue when he knew good and well it made me depressed and now I was going to cry and ruin my mascara? Why did he have to drive his silver Corvette with the top down and now my hair was mussed and I didn’t feel like being nice, and why should I? We never did what I wanted, anyway. And why, oh why, couldn’t we live in California instead of New Jersey? I was sick and tired of cold weather and if he loved me he’d move so I’d be happy.

  I became such a witch I even grew weary of myself. But I hadn’t figured on Nick’s tolerance for an impossible-to-please woman.

  And I certainly hadn’t figured on his refusal to let me call it quits.

  As I barreled down the New Jersey Turnpike, it was his evil smile that haunted me most. That and his chilling last words.

  Do you think it’s that easy!

  And then he’d said, “What makes you think you can leave me, Maggie? I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

  “If you come within half a mile of me, Nick Cosellli, I’ll put another part in your hair.”

  He knew I could do it, too. He’d walked out then, but I knew he’d be back. That’s why I’d packed on the fly, taking only my clothes, the family photographs and my guns. I’d worry about the rent later. I could mail it from somewhere outside the city but close enough so nobody could figure out which direction I was headed.

  I peered in the rearview mirror to see if I could spot police cars. All clear of blue lights, but what I did see took six years off my life. A dark car, unmarked, was weaving through traffic. It settled in behind me close enough that I could see the thug behind the wheel. Not Rocco. He never did his own driving. And not Nick. This man’s neck was too thick, and he was too short. He was sitting low behind the wheel, his eyes hidden by the visor of a baseball cap.

  Was it Snake Eyes?

  “Don’t panic,” I told myself, but that didn’t keep me from nearly wetting my pants. Here I was, not even out of Trenton, and already I’d been made. My cell phone started ringing just as I spotted the off ramp, but I was too busy trying to save my life to see who was calling. I was in the wrong lane to turn and the three cars between me and safety closed ranks and wouldn’t let me through.

  There was another exit coming up and I swerved that way. Unfortunately, the car behind me also swerved. What was more, another look in the rearview mirror told me the driver had just lifted some kind of weapon and aimed it in my direction.

  I ducked just as the flash exploded.

  Chapter 2

  In which Magnolia escapes

  There was that awful moment when I didn’t know if I was alive in New Jersey or dead in a better place. But if I’d gone on to Glory Land I’d taken the steering wheel with me. My hands were latched on so tight it would take a crowbar and a prayer vigil to pry me loose.

  I peeled around a Peterbilt rig then cut back in close enough to see the driver’s face in my rear view mirror. If he didn’t get a handle on his rage he was going to have a stroke. But that wasn’t my problem. I shot down the off ramp, not caring where I was going, and then made such a hard right my ammunition boxers rattled around in the backseat and sounded like the end of time. A quick glance in my rearview mirror told me I’d lost my tail.

  My sister Lucy used to laugh at me for talking like James Cagney in late night film noir. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to hear the sou
nd of her voice.

  I drove till I saw a 7-Eleven then eased into the dark side of the parking lot. Using the light from my iPhone I checked for bullet holes in my Beetle. There was nothing, not even a scratch on the yellow paint. How could that be? If Rocco or Nick had sent one of their goons to get rid of me, he’d have a better aim than that. It would be hard to miss a Volkswagen Beetle the color of a summer squash caught in your headlights.

  That left only one conclusion. It wasn’t the flash of gunfire I’d seen. It was a long lens camera with a night flash that would light up Yankee Stadium. Either Nick had wasted no time hiring a private eye to tail me, or the press was hot on my trail again.

  I racked my brain to think why I would once more be the target of rabid reporters, and then it hit me. Today was the second anniversary of my parents’ disappearance. Hoping to still get some mileage from the mysterious vanishing of a Heisman trophy winner and his wife, the press would likely pull out all the stops to speak to the once famous Clint Wild’s equally notorious daughter, Olympic gold medalist, Maggie Wild.

  I crawled back into my car and called my sister.

  “Lucy, is the press hounding you?”

  “Good grief, Maggie! I’ve been trying to call you. Why didn’t you answer?”

  I could have said, because I’m on the run and being chased by the Mafia, but that would only set off Lucy’s mothering alarms.

  “I’m on the road, and traffic’s horrible. So, has the press been after you?”

  “They’ve been camped in front of my house and the restaurant all day.” The restaurant would be Wild’s, our dad’s popular bar and grill in Point Clear, Alabama, now run by Lucy. “I’ve been ducking out back doors all day in sunglasses and a hat, and you know how I hate hats.”

  Lucy’s hair is even curlier than mine, and flaming red, to boot. Underneath hats, she looks like she’s set her head on fire.