A Spelling Mistake Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  Acknowledgments

  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

  A Note from Nancy

  Also by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Spell in haste, repent at leisure.

  Middle-aged witch Quinn Callahan agrees to hold a book launch for the bestselling but recently dead author Bartholomew Branson. It's a small favor for the new vampire. Unfortunately, things get out of hand when the author arranges a huge launch party and someone dies.

  Spells are going wrong, the book contains a dreadful mistake and the town of Ballydehag, Ireland, is once again in turmoil.

  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

  Acknowledgments

  I was at a writing retreat in California when the Vampire Book Club series was born. Ny, Skully, Shelley, Linda, Jenny and Jackie, thank you so much for the brilliant ideas and the placemat plotting. I am so grateful for your support and generosity.

  Linda Hall, you arrived one day in my inbox with your sharp eye and joy in language. You make my books so much better. Thank you, Linda!

  Nancy Warren’s Knitwits, where would I be without your wit and wisdom every day on Facebook? Thanks for your support, your memes, and good humor. I appreciate every one of you.

  Thanks also to Judy, Jacqui, Wilfrieda, Cindy, Jenny and every reader who takes the time to review my books or encourage their friends to read them. Thank you all!

  Chapter 1

  Vampires aren’t the most excitable of creatures. At least not usually. However, when the vampire book club met that Tuesday night, I felt waves of anger and sadness coming from Bartholomew Branson.

  Bartholomew was the most recent member of the club, having only been turned a few months earlier. A world-famous thriller writer, Bartholomew had taken part in a cruise where his fans had adored him so much that he ended up getting drunk and attempting to demonstrate a dangerous stunt from one of his books.

  The result would have been a watery grave off the coast of Ireland except that one of his fans was undead and, unable to bear seeing her favorite author perish, turned him into a vampire. He was too well-known to appear in public in a big city and had somehow ended up here, in the small town of Ballydehag in County Cork, where a quaint bookshop called The Blarney Tome was run by a witch. That would be me.

  I held the late-night book club specially for my undead neighbors who lived in Devil’s Keep, a castle on the edge of town overlooking the ocean. There were ten vampires at tonight’s meeting. I’d tried to get them talking about the Iris Murdoch novel they’d chosen, but Bartholomew’s misery was so overwhelming, it muted discussion.

  “A Killer in His Sights is going to be published next month, without me,” he moaned. “The seventeenth Bartholomew Branson bestseller, and I won’t be part of it.”

  Bartholomew was not happy. He wasn’t a literary giant, and his thrillers would probably not stand the test of time, but he’d loved the limelight and lifestyle of a celebrity. Now, that life was over and he was forced to remain out of sight and keep a very low profile. His final book was being released posthumously, which meant he’d be completely left out of celebrating his last best-seller.

  “I love launch parties,” he said, his mouth drooping with self-pity. “The champagne, the book sales, the long line of fans waiting for autographs.”

  “The fleeting nature of undeserved fame,” Oscar Wilde put in. Oscar had proven that his literary genius was as immortal as he was, and he never wasted an opportunity to put Bartholomew in his place. Far, far down the hierarchy of literature.

  “I had so many books I still planned to write. My career was really taking off,” Bartholomew wailed.

  “Ambition is the last refuge of the failure,” Oscar said, picking a piece of lint from his purple velvet suit.

  Bartholomew rose and turned to Oscar, his hands fisting. “Look here, you Irish windbag, my fans love me. All I want is one final launch party. Is that too much to ask?”

  I felt so bad for him. I glanced at Lochlan Balfour, who was the acknowledged leader of the local vampires. I sensed he was sympathetic, but no one could give Bartholomew Branson what he’d lost.

  I did have something I could offer, and now seemed a good time to reveal it. “I have a surprise for you,” I told the wretched thriller writer. “I’ve ordered two dozen hardcover copies of your new novel. I’ll feature them in the front window of the store, and we’ll read your book as our next book club selection.” Bartholomew was always nominating his own books for the club and was consistently rejected, so I knew he’d be thrilled if we discussed his novel in book club.

  “Pass me my smelling salts,” Oscar moaned. “I’m about to faint with horror.”

  But Bartholomew didn’t even hear the latest insult. He rushed up to me, picked me up off my feet and swung me in a circle. “That’s a great idea, Quinn,” he said. “We’ll have my final book launch right here.” Then he put me down and stepped back. “Wait. I’ve got an even better idea. We’ll do the real launch here.”

  “But, Bartholomew—”

  “Don’t worry, Quinn. I’ll take care of everything. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself. I know exactly how to get the launch moved here. All you have to do is sign the letters I’ll dictate, and I guarantee you’ll have top publishing brass and hundreds of eager fans crowding into The Blarney Tome.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I know I can’t be at the party, but I can watch. That’s almost as good as being there. Quinn, this event will put your little bookshop on the map.”

  How had a small favor to make Bartholomew feel better turned into this truly terrible plan?

  I could only hope that he’d overestimated his fame and his ability to organize a book launch from beyond the grave.

  If his enthusiasm for the project continued, how would I stop him?

  Chapter 2

  I let myself into The Blarney Tome, as I did most mornings, with Cerridwen, my black cat familiar, at my heels. It was a crisp September morning, and I had that back-to-school feeling I always got at this time of year, as though it was time to put away the flip-flops and beach reads and get serious.

  I had my work—opening the till, turning on the lights, and readying the store for customers. Cerridwen had hers—sniffing up and down the aisles, making sure no stray mice had invaded the premises while she wasn’t on duty. She was also a playful little thing, and when she decided we were vermin-free, she liked to get her morning exercise by leaping up onto the chairs, climbing to the top of bookshelves and sometimes knocking books down in the process. She kept me entertained when there were no customers around.

  But this morning, something was different. I knew it the second I walked in. So did the cat. We looked at each other, witch to familiar. Something or someone was inside. And it wasn’t a mouse.

  In that nanosecond, I made a decision. Would I back out again and go for help, or would I investigate? I deci
ded to investigate. No doubt the presence I felt in the shop was just the leftover energy of the people and vampires who’d been spending time here lately. I’d have to find some time to do a cleansing spell and get rid of the negative vibe.

  I walked in deeper, and that sense of jangled energy grew stronger. Cerridwen didn’t undertake her usual mouse-hunting expedition. She stayed right by my heels. She meowed once, in case I hadn’t noticed that something was off.

  I took a quick scan of the main floor of the bookshop, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The books stood quietly on their shelves. The cash register was on its counter. The community bulletin board held the usual announcements and ads put up by locals.

  I stood silent for a moment, listening. I heard a noise from upstairs. Once again, Cerridwen and I stared at each other. As loud as though she’d used words, she said, “Be careful.”

  I wasn’t the bravest woman in Ireland, but I did have some skills as a witch. If there was a burglar up there, I thought I could handle them. Not that there was much to steal. Still, I grabbed the only weapon I could find, a broom, and stealthily crept up the spiral staircase that led to the floor above. Cerridwen followed behind me. I heard a groan and a bang. There was definitely someone up there. Ready with both broom and spells, I made my stealthy way to the top of the stairs and peeked into the big room that housed my desk, extra book stock, and a nice seating area where we ran the vampire book club. One of these days I was going to start a book club for mortals, but I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  I immediately saw what had caused both the noises and the jangled atmosphere and leaned my broom against the wall, letting out a sigh of relief.

  “Bartholomew, what are you doing here?” I asked. Bartholomew Branson was the picture of a distraught writer. He was sitting at my desk, in front of my computer, his hands making a mess of his hairstyle. I think that noise I’d heard was him hammering his fist on the desk.

  He looked up at me. “What’s another word for fanatic? I can’t keep using the same word over and over again. I’m losing my touch.”

  “Obsessive?” I tried.

  He stopped clutching his hair and dropped his hands back to the keyboard. Paused to think about it. “Not bad.”

  He typed the word, and then I repeated, “Bartholomew, what are you doing here?”

  He looked put out and petulant. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m writing. And I’d really appreciate some privacy.”

  It was hard not to laugh. He was every inch the celebrity author. Sadly, his celebrity was bigger than his talent, and everybody seemed to know that but him. Certainly, the vampire book club did. Especially his archenemy, Oscar Wilde, who made mincemeat of him with his sarcastic wit whenever the two met. I wondered if that was really why Bartholomew was here. If he was writing, Oscar would torment him mercilessly.

  However, as Bartholomew Branson never ceased to remind him, the one author was a lot more famous than the other. In a hundred years, I was certain that people would still be reading Oscar Wilde and nobody would remember Bartholomew Branson, but for now, when he was such a newly minted vampire, he outsold Oscar Wilde by about ten thousand to one, which gave him some bragging rights.

  “And what are you writing?”

  He looked up as though it was the hugest imposition that I should keep interrupting him. “What do you think I’m writing? Shakespearean sonnets? It’s a novel, Quinn. This is the first draft of The Price of Vengeance. That’s the working title, anyway. What do you think? I always used to talk things like title and plot over with my agent, Philip Hazeltine, and my editor, Giles Montague, but I can’t do that anymore. You’ll have to do.”

  I wasn’t thrilled to be the stand-in for his agent or his editor. Not only would I not be getting fifteen percent of his royalties, but I had my own business to run. “It’s a fine title, Bartholomew.” Then I asked, as gently as I could, “Why are you writing another book?”

  “It’s what I do. I woke up this morning with a great idea for my next plot.” He held up his hands and flexed his fingers. “I have to get it down while the inspiration’s flowing from the muse.”

  How did I delicately put this? “Bartholomew, you can’t write any more books. You’re dead.” Okay, that wasn’t my best effort at delicacy.

  Once more he looked at me as though I were a few books short of a stack. “I believe the word you’re looking for is undead, and I’ve had a brilliant idea.”

  Oh dear. When Bartholomew Branson got an idea, it was usually less than brilliant. “What is it?”

  He looked at me in triumph. “You, my dear Quinn, are going to discover an unpublished manuscript by Bartholomew Branson. Imagine the publishing sensation when my book is published posthumously.”

  “You’ve already got a book being published posthumously. A Killer in His Sights. Remember?”

  He waved a hand as though he were waving away a fly. “But this is a manuscript no one knew about. Obviously, because I haven’t written it yet.”

  I had a really bad feeling that he’d come up with this idea when we agreed to do a launch for what should have been his final book. I couldn’t even begin to tell him how terrible this idea was, and so I decided not even to try. I’d have to get the other vampires to help talk him down. Perhaps we could convince him between us.

  I backed away and said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  “Wait. Before you go, can you think of another word for apocalypse?”

  “No, Bartholomew, I can’t.”

  He waved me away. “Never mind. Never mind. The muse has never deserted me yet. Carry on, Quinn. And try not to make too much noise downstairs.”

  Even though he wasn’t watching, I rolled my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

  I headed for the stairs, but Cerridwen decided to stay upstairs with the writer. The last I saw of her, she was jumping on the sofa bed and curling up.

  I went back downstairs and finished opening up the shop. It didn’t take long.

  Then I decided to redo my front window and showcase thriller authors. With his new book coming out, Bartholomew’s novels would be front and center.

  And knowing I’d have scorn heaped upon me by Oscar Wilde, I decided that next month I’d focus on classics by Irish authors. I’d even let Oscar choose which works to display.

  It was amazing to me that the ego of a writer lived on long after they were officially dead.

  I think if Lucinda, the previous proprietor of this shop, had warned me that I’d have to balance a lot of delicate vampire egos along with a coven of temperamental witches, I might have taken my chances and stayed back in the States. Even if I was witcha non grata.

  I was busily pulling together a selection of Bartholomew Branson novels, along with Lee Child, John Grisham, and Irish mystery authors Tana French and Benjamin Black, when I had my first customer of the day, Karen Tate.

  Karen ran a shop just down from mine on Main Street called Granny’s Drawers, where she sold antiques and consignment items. It was always fun to poke through her collection of everything from mismatched china to clothing, old jewelry, and pieces of furniture. She’d also become a friend and, although she didn’t know it, it turned out we were distantly related through a terrifying and nasty witch, Biddy O’Donnell, who’d recently, most unfortunately, been released from the underground prison where she’d been held for the last few hundred years.

  Karen had inherited the O’Donnell house and put a lot of time and money into updating and renovating the grand old home so she could open a bed and breakfast inn. I was excited for her but for one tiny problem. Biddy had once owned the property and seemed to think she still had every right to live there.

  While my witch sisters would no doubt prefer to have Biddy back in her underground prison, I’d weirdly become involved in shielding her from what I considered a terrible fate. Biddy wasn’t a very nice witch, but she was family. I didn’t think I could rehabilitate her or anything, but now that she’d taken up residence in t
he O’Donnell house, I was hoping she’d stick to the kind of gentle poltergeist activities that would draw tourists to Karen’s B&B.

  Karen was dressed for work, her red hair tied back, wearing a blue and purple paisley blouse over black trousers and a costume jewelry necklace made of chunky plastic flowers. She didn’t look like a woman in the mood to buy books. She was bubbling over with excitement, and not of the literary kind. Her brown eyes sparkled behind her trendy eyeglasses.

  “Quinn, you won’t believe it. I was able to get the mattresses delivered early. They’re coming this afternoon. All the renovation work is finished, and all I was waiting for was the new mattresses. I could be opening my bed and breakfast for business within a week.”

  I was so pleased for her. “That’s great that everything’s running so smoothly.”

  “There’s only one very strange thing. There seems to be something wrong with the electrics.”

  “Oh?”

  She looked genuinely puzzled. “I’ve got televisions in all the bedrooms, obviously, plus a bigger one in the lounge room. And no matter what I do, if I leave the room and come back, the same program is playing.”

  “That’s odd. What show is it?”

  She might have thought it was an odd question, but I knew that Biddy O’Donnell had discovered television. It was how she was figuring out her new world. While I had sympathy for her, it wasn’t going to look good if she kept messing with Karen’s TVs.