The Vampire Book Club: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Cozy Mystery Read online

  The Vampire Book Club

  A Paranormal Women’s Fiction Cozy Mystery

  Nancy Warren

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  A Note from Nancy

  Chapter and Curse

  Also by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Introduction

  I was a divorced, middle-aged witch banished to Ireland.

  My life could be summed up in a limerick...

  There once was a misguided witch

  Who tried a man’s fate to switch

  Her punishment set

  To Ireland she must get

  But better than feathers and pitch!

  With a name like Quinn Calahan I sounded as Irish as a leprechaun dancing a jig on a four leafed clover, but the truth was, I’d never been closer to the emerald isle than drinking green beer at the St Patrick’s day street party in Boston until I messed up so badly I had to leave the US. I was offered a job in a tiny village in Ireland that no one’s ever heard of. And I think that was the point in sending me there. How much trouble could a divorced, middle-aged witch get into in a village that boasted very few residents, one crumbling castle that attracted no tourists, and a post office that was only open Mondays and Thursdays?

  You’d be surprised.

  You will fall in love with this series about second chances, magical mayhem, and book club unlike any other. From the author of the best-selling Vampire Knitting Club series.

  You can get Rafe’s origin story for free when you join Nancy’s no-spam newsletter at nancywarren.net.

  Come join Nancy in her private Facebook group where we talk about books, knitting, pets and life.

  www.facebook.com/groups/NancyWarrenKnitwits

  Chapter 1

  Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you’d made one crucial decision differently? What if you hadn’t married that man that everyone said was perfect? If you’d taken the job you wanted instead of that one with the good medical benefits? What if you’d moved to New York after college instead of Seattle?

  I used to imagine what would have happened if I’d taken the other path. Maybe not the road less traveled, just not traveled by me. It was a harmless exercise to pass the time while I toiled at my boring job, safe from any threat of change.

  Until one day I messed with fate.

  And I was punished.

  I got change all right. More than I could have imagined. My staid life was uprooted. My road was forked. Frankly, I was forked.

  At forty-five, I was both divorced and widowed (from the same man), I lost the secure but dull job I’d had for ten years, and the powers that be sent me across the sea to Ireland.

  It all happened so fast, my head was still spinning when my Aer Lingus flight from Seattle landed in Dublin. From there, I took a train to Cork. It was early May, and as I looked out the window, I began to realize why they called Ireland the Emerald Isle. It was so vibrantly green, and between fields of cows and sheep, ruined castles and cottages, we stopped at pretty-sounding towns and cities to let passengers on and off. I smiled when we passed through Limerick and started making up rhymes in my head. They weren’t very good, but they passed the time.

  There once was a misguided witch

  Who tried a man’s fate to switch

  Her punishment set

  To Ireland she must get

  But better than feathers and pitch!

  From Cork city, I got a bus, though I vowed to come back and explore the pretty city when I was settled. Finally, jet-lagged and travel-weary, I arrived in my new home. The town of Ballydehag.

  The bus let me off in front of Finnegan’s Grocery. As the curly-haired driver retrieved my two heavy suitcases from the storage compartment underneath the bus, I thanked him. He replied, “Good luck to you, ma’am.”

  There’s a way of wishing a person luck that sounds like you actually wish them good things, and then there’s a way of wishing a person good luck that sounds more like, “What on earth have you done?”

  I was wondering what on earth I’d done, too, but I was here, now. I pulled my phone out with the address of my new home and then stared vaguely about me. I had no idea where I was, except that this was clearly the main street of a pretty Irish village. The street was lined with shops. A couple of old men in caps sat outside a coffee shop regarding me. I wondered if the arrival of the bus from Cork was a big event. And didn’t that say a lot about how exciting this town was?

  I couldn’t think of anything else to do but go into Finnegan’s and hope whoever worked there might know Rose Cottage.

  I didn’t think my suitcases would even fit through the narrow front door of the shop, and besides, this didn’t look like much of a high-crime area, so I pushed my two cases up against the white plaster wall and walked in.

  It was like stepping into the past. Narrow rows with shelves of groceries stretched from ceiling to floor and seemed to contain everything from eggs to pest-control products.

  I heard voices and turned to the right and the only checkout. A plump woman with curly gray hair stood behind the counter. She wore a green cardigan with the sleeves rolled up past her wrists and all the mother-of-pearl buttons done up. The edge of the sweater was scalloped, and the collar of a crisp, white blouse framed her face. She was gossiping with two customers who stood on the opposite side of the counter. “Hello?” I interrupted.

  The three stopped talking and all turned to stare at me. I smiled brightly and tried to look nonthreatening. “I’m wondering if you can help me. Do you have the number of a taxi?”

  They all looked at each other as though they had never heard the word taxi before. “A taxicab?” I tried again. “I’m trying to get to a place called Rose Cottage. Do you know where that is?”

  The man, tall and thin with pale blue eyes, looked as though a great puzzle had been solved. “Rose Cottage. Ah.” He nodded. The other two nodded as well.

  There was silence. Me again? “Could you direct me to Rose Cottage? I have two suitcases outside. I was hoping to get a cab to take me there.”

  The man scratched his head. “I could fetch me wheelbarrow.”

  The woman behind the counter shook her head at him. “A wheelbarrow. Honestly. I can drive you around, love. It’s not far. Danny, you come and stand behind this counter, and if anyone wants to buy anything, you just write down what it is, or they can wait until I get back. I won’t be a minute.”

  Was this woman actually going to leave her post to drive a complete stranger? “I don’t want to take you away from your work,” I stammered.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. And you’ve chosen a good time. We’re not very busy.”

  Danny looked quite pleased to walk behind the counter and stand there very importantly. He began tidying up open packs of chocolate bars as though he owned the place.

/>   “I’m Kathleen McGinnis,” said the woman who’d come from behind the cash desk. I warmed to her immediately, but I’d warm to anyone who was willing to drive me to my new home. “And you must be Quinn Callahan.”

  I did a double take. “You knew I was coming?”

  “I’ve been on the lookout for you.” Her Irish accent was still a novelty to me, and I could have listened to her the way I’d listen to a bedtime story. And the way I was going, with jet lag and all that had gone before, I’d be asleep before we reached Rose Cottage.

  We came out of the shop onto the sidewalk, and Kathleen McGinnis took one of my heavy suitcases while I took the other. We rattled and rolled the cases up and around the corner to where a small white van was parked with Finnegan’s on the side of it. She opened the double doors at the back of the van, and we hefted my suitcases inside. I nearly bumped into her as we both walked to the driver’s side door, then realizing my mistake, I walked around the front of the van and got in beside her. I wasn’t used to this driving on the left-hand side of the road thing and cringed as she pulled out onto the main road, not that I needed to worry. There was zero traffic.

  When they had told me I was moving to a village, I don’t know what I’d expected, but I’d imagined a bit more life than this. We drove down the main road and turned right and then left, and I could see the sea spreading out in front of me. In less than five minutes, she was pulling up in front of a cottage that made me cry out with pleasure. If someone had said to me, “Picture a storybook Irish cottage,” Rose Cottage was exactly what I would’ve come up with. To start with, it was well named. The walls were white plaster, but there were climbing roses all over the front of the cottage beginning to bud. “The cottage is named for the roses, of course, and they are a sight. In a month or two, there’ll be red and white and pink roses, an absolute picture. And the scent of them is heaven.”

  There were stone tubs in front of the front door, empty now, but I could already see them blooming with whatever I could find around here to plant in them. It was surrounded by lawn of that wonderful green color that they only seem to have in Ireland, and there was a wishing well out front. For the first time since I’d left the States, I felt there was a possibility I might one day be happy again. “This is so beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like it. We hope you’ll be happy here.” I hadn’t missed the word We. I suspected that Kathleen McGinnis was more than a shopkeeper. “I’ll just show you around, let you know how things work, and then I’ll have to get back to my shop.”

  I completely understood she’d be abandoning me very soon. That was fine. What I really needed was a nap. The way I felt now, I wouldn’t wake up for days.

  We pulled my cases out of the back and dragged them up the prettiest winding stone path to the front door. It was oak and solid, and the doorknocker was a Celtic knot. She took out a set of keys, disappointingly modern, and opened the front door. She stood back so that I could go in ahead of her. I wished silently that it would be as pretty inside as it was out and then dragged my case across the threshold. I walked into a square entrance way with hexagonal red tiles on the floor, hooks for hanging coats and a pine chest. From there, I walked into a beautiful, comfortable-looking front room. Two blue sofas with cushions and woolen throws flanked an old stone fireplace already set with the wood for a fire. The carved wooden mantel was lined with candlesticks each holding a fresh golden beeswax candle. Bookcases were crammed with titles I couldn’t wait to get my hands on. However, the best feature of the room was the windows looking out on the craggy coastline and the ocean. I went to the window and looked out. This part of the coastline was nearly deserted but for a castle standing proud but very lonely on a promontory set back from the water. I could imagine that back in the day, it had been an excellent spot to watch out for enemies. But now it just looked lonely. The gray stone was relieved by green ivy covering the inland side of it.

  “Kitchen’s through here,” said Kathleen, dragging me away from my reverie. I followed her voice across the hall and into a kitchen that wasn’t large but was clearly the center of this house. The floor was flagstone, and the wooden cupboards had been painted a cheerful shade of blue. Inside a nook that had once been a huge fireplace was a stove that filled me with dread. “What is that?”

  “Have you never seen an Aga?”

  “No. Is it electric?”

  She laughed at me. “It takes some getting used to, but you’ll grow to love it.” She explained how one stoked it for the day. The stove would keep my cottage warm. I wasn’t too keen about this stoking business. Was I going to be chopping wood? I wondered if I’d have to walk to the village pump and get my day’s water. Not for the first time, I wondered what I had done. But then, what choice had I had?

  There was a small fridge that looked familiar and modern enough that I thought I could manage it. A farmhouse sink sat under a pretty window. No sign of a dishwasher. Kathleen opened the fridge, beckoning inside. “I stocked it with a few basics. There’s milk and bread and cheese and eggs and so on.” And then she moved to one of the cupboards and opened that. “And here’s tea and coffee and some biscuits. Just a few things to get you started, my dear. In the fridge, you’ll also find a pot of my own mulligatawny soup, in case you don’t feel like coming out this evening. You may just like to get settled. Of course, if you want some company or something else to eat, there’s always the pub, O’Brien’s. Or The Painted Beagle—that’s a bistro that serves food all day. Otherwise, there’s just a coffee shop.”

  On the scrubbed pine kitchen table was a ceramic jug, filled with wilted flowers. She tsked with annoyance. “I knew I forgot something. I meant to freshen the flowers.” She mumbled something that sounded like “floridium ad vivum” and waved her hand over the vase, and the flowers jumped to attention and perfect freshness. “That’s better.”

  “So you are a witch. I wondered.”

  She chuckled. “I am at that, and I’ll help you get settled and such.”

  She came and put her hand on my shoulder. It was a comforting gesture. “Why don’t I make you a cup of tea, my dear? You look dead on your feet. Go and sit in the lounge, and I’ll bring it through.”

  I knew I should let her get back to her shop, but the truth was, I didn’t want to be alone right now. I said tea would be nice and, instead of going into the living room, I watched her. I thought I’d better get a handle on how to do things here. It didn’t look that complicated to make tea. She took a perfectly normal electric kettle and plugged it in. From one of the cupboards, she fetched a blue ceramic teapot and two mismatched china mugs. Whoever had lived here before me had obviously loved flowers. They were covered in flowers, one in roses and one in what looked like pansies and daffodils. Kathleen opened a packet of shortbread biscuits and settled them on a blue china plate and, by opening several cupboards, even found a tray. I didn’t talk much, just watched her efficient movements, and then when she was done we took the whole thing through to the living room. I settled into the surprisingly comfy couch, and she sat beside me and placed the tray on a slightly beaten-up but charming wooden table.

  She poured the tea. I couldn’t stop looking out the window at that beautiful view.

  I didn’t know how to start, so finally, I said, “Was this hers? The woman I’m replacing?”

  Kathleen’s eyes were green and knowing. She smiled slightly. “You feel it, don’t you? Yes. Lucinda made this cottage her home. She still owns it and the bookshop where you’ll be working. It’s exactly as she left it, fully stocked, and she’s left instructions for how to order new books and, well, everything you need to know.”

  I was walking straight out of my life and into another woman’s. Strange didn’t begin to describe how that felt. I’d never even met this Lucinda. “I wish I could talk to her.”

  Kathleen shook her head no. It was the answer I’d expected, but it made me uncomfortable. “I don’t see what harm it can do. I only want to find out more about her business and
how to run it. It’s a terrible responsibility to run someone else’s store, and I don’t want to screw up.” Totally reasonable.

  “Speaking to Lucinda is forbidden, as I believe you’ve been informed.”

  “Can you even tell me where she’s gone?”

  “Somewhere in England. That’s all I know.”

  “Is that what you do then? Play musical chairs with witches who haven’t followed the rules?”

  Her soft eyes grew suddenly hard. “What you did was a terrible crime, Quinn. And you know it. We witches may not interfere against death.”

  Chapter 2

  I closed my eyes against a wash of pain. “I know. But he was dying. I only wanted to save him.” I put my cup back down on the table since my hands were starting to shake. “He was my husband.”

  “He hadn’t been your husband for years, now had he?”

  The witch gossip network was efficient. This woman obviously knew all about me. “No. But he was my best friend.”

  “Didn’t he betray you with another woman?”

  The laugh I gave was more surprised than amused. “With my other best friend.” What a long time ago that seemed now. “They felt terrible, I felt terrible, and for a couple of years I was miserable. We divorced and I was angry and so hurt. But, then Hannah came along and they asked me to be godmother. We made our peace. Slowly, and painfully, but in the end I saw that I’d brought two people together who were meant to be. And Greg and I were meant to be dear friends. They were my family and I didn’t want to see him die like that if I could help it.”