Summer Coven (Dead & Breakfast Mysteries #2)

Chapter 1

It was barely noon and everything was already ruined.

Arthur Miller (no relation to the playwright, as he would point out to anyone who’d listen) pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket and did his best to remove the powdered sugar from the lapels of his gray suit.

The action was worse than futile. The sugar smeared, turning what had once looked like a night sky scattered with stars into more of a Milky Way.

That was what he got for being a vampire and attending a festival to celebrate the longest day of the year.

“I told you to wear the white linen, darling,” Salvatore Conte said in a morose tone more suited to a funeral director.

“You also told me to eat the funnel cake. A grand idea, Arthur, isn’t it so quaint, Arthur, and who doesn’t love fried dough, Arthur?”

“It was buy-one-get-one-half-off!” Sal gestured wildly, nearly flinging the funnel cake off his own flimsy paper plate. His shirt was all white ruffles and lace that hid the confectionery fallout well, but a little constellation of sugar clung to his lips.

Arthur leaned in to kiss it away. “I suppose we couldn’t afford not to get two, then.” The funnel cake was good, despite the dire wardrobe situation it caused.

Taking advantage of their proximity, Rumble leaped out of the backpack carrier Sal wore, landing on Arthur’s shoulders with all the grace Arthur himself was lacking. The black cat leaned down and elegantly licked at the sugar on his lapel, dusting her whiskers and nose.

Around them, the Summer Solstice Festival sprawled across Trident Falls’ fairgrounds.

The large, usually empty field was bordered on three sides by dense wood, and an endless blue sky stretched above, not marred by a single cloud.

The sun, supposed bane of all vampirekind, shone relentlessly down upon the crowds of townspeople and tourists, who milled around stalls selling food, local crafts, and only semirigged supposedly enchanted carnival games.

The sun did not touch Arthur, though, who held a yellow parasol to shade himself and his husband from the pesky UV rays.

Though they weren’t in danger of disintegrating or combusting at the merest exposure the way so much vampire media alleged, Arthur wasn’t in the business of courting melanomas.

Sal had teased him for such caution until the morning he woke with a single wrinkle on his forehead.

Now, they shared a jumbo bottle of SPF daily moisturizer that sat kitty-cornered to Sal’s glitter lotion—just in case of a Twilight revival.

The wind shifted, bringing a heavy scent of goat from the nearby petting zoo to mingle with the fryer oil and sugar in the air. Rumble’s nose twitched as she sniffed, claws lightly poking through the fabric of Arthur’s already ruined suit jacket.

Acting Mayor Nora Anderson had really managed to put together something special here.

Though Nora had assumed the duties of the mayor after his death only a few months ago, she had proven to be quite a popular replacement thus far, in no small part due to her excellent taste in deputies.

Quinn Clark, the mayor’s former assistant, had stepped up in a big way.

Arthur could see their combined efforts in every detail of the festival, from the sensible placement of a divider in the middle of the path that created seamless crowd flow to the charming astrological stamp with purple ink to mark those over twenty-one years of age.

Arthur had exchanged heated words with the youth at the festival entrance who believed Sal’s ID was a fake—No one’s that old—but eventually Salvatore had bared his fangs and the poor boy was scared into stamping Sal’s hand. Not that it mattered.

“It’s too early for such libations anyhow,” Sal said after the ordeal. “Oh, look, funnel cake!”

It would have been easier to forgo the entire interaction, but that wasn’t Sal’s way.

No, Arthur’s husband took every opportunity for dramatics that crossed his path—and some that he plucked out of thin air.

So Arthur only shook his head in dismay and followed as his husband flitted around the market, pointing out the various treats with the sort of enthusiasm Arthur normally reserved for rare varieties of dahlias at the plant nursery.

At one point, he had to rein Sal in when he insisted they should go on the broomstick ride; considering the brooms lifted only a foot off the ground and went in a circle smaller than a carousel, it was obviously meant for children.

Next to the funnel cake stand was a coffee cart, boldly sporting the logo of the Big Bad Brew—a mug sitting on a suspiciously lunar-coded coaster with latte art in the shape of a paw print.

Theodore Park, ex-lawyer and occasional wolf, stood behind it mixing iced coffees and teas for sweating patrons.

His long black hair was pulled into a neat bun, but his beard probably wasn’t very comfortable in this heat.

At least with a bed-and-breakfast, Arthur wouldn’t ever be called upon to work such an event.

The inn he and Salvatore owned was booked solid for the entire festival’s duration, Arthur was proud to say.

Rechristened the Dead & Breakfast after their rather infamous (Sal would say iconic) role in solving the mayor’s murder this past spring, the little B&B on the edge of town finally hosted guests regularly.

Once, Arthur had believed their success in a town like Trident Falls relied on their ability to blend in.

He was loath to admit it, but he’d been terribly wrong.

As it turned out, people were much more eager to patronize a business that leaned into its authenticity, a lesson Sal was determined to continue teaching him every day.

Still, Arthur had to keep the rails on at least a little.

No, they couldn’t serve their guests actual blood, and no, they couldn’t get a self-playing church organ for the foyer (they couldn’t afford it anyway, never mind they didn’t have room).

But Arthur had made allowances for many of Sal’s less outlandish ideas, like vampire bite temporary tattoos in the bathrooms and silky bloodred robes in the closets for the guests.

It was all about balance, in the end—a guiding principle Arthur practiced in both business and pleasure.

A few months ago, before the Dead & Breakfast had gained its footing in the community, Arthur might have watched Theodore suffering in the sun with a heavy dose of schadenfreude, but now Arthur found himself a great deal fonder of Theo than he would ever admit aloud.

His aid in clearing Sal’s name when the mayor was murdered had proven useful, and he brewed a decent cup of coffee (but Arthur preferred his own recipe when it came to the scones).

Though he’d softened toward the werewolf barista considerably, he carried on with his subtle performance of nursing a grudge.

Business rivals had to remain civilly unpleasant to one another in public, even if it was just to keep up appearances.

Theo glanced up at him just then, no doubt utilizing some sort of underhanded werewolf power to sense Arthur’s observation.

He gave a smile and wave, then frowned and pointed to a spot on his own well-defined chest that corresponded with the worst of the powdered sugar on Arthur.

Theo mouthed You’ve got something here before turning back to his customers.

Well. Perhaps Arthur was a little glad Theo seemed to be perspiring as much as the rest of the crowd.

“What shall we do next, my love?” Sal asked.

Arthur took another perilous bite of his funnel cake, careful to keep it out of Rumble’s reach.

Some treats were worth the trouble they brought—not unlike his husband.

He’d have to change his clothes before afternoon check-ins at the Dead & Breakfast, of course.

It wouldn’t do to look unprofessional in front of guests.

But for now, Arthur and Sal were festivalgoers, here for a good time.

Sal had insisted, and until new guests arrived, the inn was empty anyway.

“Perhaps the Ferris wheel?” Arthur suggested.

“So romantic.” Sal took his arm, causing Arthur to nearly lose his snack to gravity and an oil-weakened plate. “Oh, no, we can’t go that way.”

Arthur started, distracted by the act of rescuing his funnel cake. Whatever peril his husband had seen was not immediately apparent. “Why not?”

“Martha Worcestershire is over there. If she spots us, she’ll want to talk to us, and if she talks to us, we shall perish from boredom—”

“Come on, Sal, she’s not that bad.” Martha—whose last name couldn’t possibly be Worcestershire, could it?

—was a local accountant specializing in small business taxes.

They’d worked with her that past February and she’d done an adequate job, by Arthur’s judgment.

Their business had been just shy of failing back then, and she’d helped them stay afloat for another few months with her financial wisdom.

“Last time I was subjected to her presence, she made Al Capone sound boring. It was a worse crime than everything Capone did. Well, except for the bad tipping. I can never forgive that.”

“Are you saying you were a waiter in a restaurant where Al Capone ate?” Arthur asked.

“No, I was an exotic dancer at the time.” Sal was practically hiding behind Arthur now, whispering into his shoulder.

“I actually have a question about quarterly taxes I wanted to ask her,” Arthur began.

At Martha’s suggestion, he’d downloaded a nifty little program to the inn’s computer called QuickBooks, but alas there was nothing quick about the speed at which he was able to use it.

He much preferred to keep records by hand.