A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery by Heather Blake

simply closed his eyes and mumbled something under his breath.
    “The door doesn’t look like someone busted in this time, either,” I finally said, examining the doorframe. “Someone definitely has a key, unless they’re a master lockpick.” There were two industrial dead bolts on the back door, my lame attempt at security.
    Dylan ducked under the crime-scene tape and said to us, “Stay here.”
    “Do we have to?” Ainsley asked me as he disappeared through the doorway. “I want to go in.”
    “You can go, but I won’t look good in prison stripes.”
    She frowned. “No, you wouldn’t.”
    I cracked a smile, Ainsley stayed put (she wouldn’t look good in prison stripes, either), and it wasn’t long before Dylan was back.
    “Nothing seems disturbed,” he said, pushing my pocketbook into my hands. He started to close the door behind him when Ainsley grabbed hold of it.
    “Wait!” she cried.
    “What?” he said.
    “I need a hangover potion.”
    He looked my way.
    I said, “On account that Francie Debbs is going to be drinking a whole box of wine tonight.”
    Tipping his head, he still looked confused.
    “On account,” I continued, “that she’s been keeping the Clingons all day for Ainsley and will be in need of some liquor to recover after they go home. Which means she’ll probably have a big headache tomorrow.”
    “Ah,” he said. He held open the door for me. “Be quick and don’t touch anything but the potion stuff.”
    “I need a few minutes to make it up,” I said.
    He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Hurry with you, then, and take a look around to see if anything’s missing or out of place I didn’t notice.”
    I swallowed hard as I ducked under the tape and quickly made my way down the back hallway. Immediately, I was overcome with the comforting, familiar scents of the herbs I used in my potions. It felt like a hug from my grandmother, and all my muscles relaxed in response.
    Pulling in a deep breath, I forged ahead. I could do this. No problem.
    I kept my gaze averted from the break room and bustled toward the shop. I nabbed an empty magenta bottle from the shelf and gathered ingredients from bins and baskets. All around me I noticed that my inventory had been rummaged through, and a few potion bottles even lay broken on the floor, but nothing seemed to be missing.
    I carried all my supplies with me into my workroom and closed the door behind me.
    The space was small, filled mostly with a built-in cabinet my granddaddy had made just about fifty years ago, a short counter, and a small sink. There was a pass-through cut into the wall between here and the front of the shop so I could chat with customers and keep an eye on them while I made their potions.
    The opening was purposefully high, so people could see only my head and shoulders and not my hands. I quickly propped up the drop-leg table work surface. Behind it, a series of cubbies and drawers filled the wall to the ceiling.
    I could tell the sheriff’s office had been in here, as all the
visible
drawers had been searched. For a moment, I worried that one of them might have found my secret compartment, but I drew in a deep breath and tried to keep calm. My granddaddy had been a master carpenter, and I doubted many of the sheriff’s deputies—other than Dylan—were smart enough to even suspect there were secret spaces in this cabinet, let alone ten of them, most of them empty.
    Rushing, I removed two decorative spindles and pulled three drawers out of place. Behind those, I removed a hidden box—a decoy filled with two hundred dollars—and set it aside. I pushed a corner on the bottom of the cube and a foot-long panel lifted. I pulled that out and reached my hand inside. From the right side, I pulled on a box and lifted it out of the hole.
    As with every other time I’ve done this, I held my breath as I lifted the top off the carved wooden box. Inside, nestled in a bed of cushioned velvet, lay the grimoire, a small