Witching Around the Cluck
Series: Good Cluck Chicken Magical Mysteries (Book 3)
Magic, murder, and a chicken with attitude. What could go wrong?
Tara Hart is ready to settle in and enjoy Windfall’s annual Desert Wildflower Festival, that is, until a prominent local historian, Professor Eleanor Graves, is found dead at the bottom of a ladder in the town’s historical archives. Tara’s witchy instincts, and her snarky talking chicken familiar, Henrietta, tell her there’s more to the story than just an accidental fall in the stacks. With a town full of secrets, a murderer on the loose, and her magic still a work in progress, Tara can’t resist digging into the mystery.
As she uncovers a web of lies, old grudges, and hidden motives, Tara finds herself tangled in a case that hits close to home. Eleanor’s research threatened to expose the dark history of Windfall’s most powerful families, and everyone had a reason to want her silenced.
Can Tara solve the murder before the festival’s final bloom wilts, or will she become the next victim of Windfall’s deadly past?
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Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The alarm yanked me from a deep sleep, its shrill beep cutting through my dreams like a chainsaw. I groaned, fumbling to silence it before I remembered. The opening of the Desert Wildflower Festival. Besides the annual RV gathering, it was the busiest day of the year at Gone With the Whisk.
I lurched out of bed, nearly tripping over the laundry basket containing Henrietta’s nest in the corner as I rushed to get dressed.
“Watch it,” Henrietta clucked, ruffling her fluffy black feathers indignantly. “Some of us were enjoying our beauty sleep.”
My familiar, a silkie chicken with plumage as dark as midnight and twice as soft, fixed me with a judgmental stare. To anyone else, she’d look like an ordinary bird, albeit an exotic breed, and when she spoke, they would hear nothing but clucking noises. But to me and any other witches, Henrietta was an endless source of sarcasm in a compact, fuzzy package.
“Sorry,” I muttered while yanking a clean shirt over my head. “But you know what today is.”
“The day humans lose their minds over some flowers?” She hopped out of her basket, her tiny feet making soft padding sounds on the carpet.
“The Desert Wildflower Festival,” I corrected. “Which means Esmeralda needs extra hands at the bakery. Tourists from Vegas and Reno will be passing through Windfall today.”
This area wasn’t exactly a destination most days of the year. Our little town clung to existence in the arid landscape of Nevada. It was the kind of place where tumbleweeds literally rolled down Main Street, and the Friday night excitement peaked when the Motherlode Casino updated its buffet theme. Most travelers stopped only long enough to fill their gas tanks before continuing to somewhere more interesting.
But during the festival, everything changed. For one magical week each summer, when conditions aligned perfectly, the harsh landscape exploded into a rainbow of colors. The normally brown hills transformed into rolling carpets of purple lupine, orange poppies, and yellow desert sunflowers. And suddenly, our forgotten corner of Nevada became Instagram-famous, drawing photographers, hikers, and tourists from across the West. The town’s population would triple overnight, bringing both welcome business and the chaos of outsiders who didn’t understand our rhythms and routines.
Mom appeared in my doorway, already dressed in her gas station uniform but with a lightweight cardigan thrown over it. She wore a black headband that kept her wavy gray-blonde bangs out of her face.
“Work just called. I’m pulling a double shift today,” she said before taking a sip from her coffee mug.
I paused midway through brushing my hair. “Will you be okay? That’s a lot of hours.”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Tara. We can use the extra money.” Mom shrugged. “No need to make dinner for me tonight. I won’t be home until later.”
I frowned. It wasn’t typical of her to take her job so seriously. She usually spent her free time and energy hawking her MLM products.
I climbed into my modified Jeep, surveying the vehicle with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. The massive tires, floodlights, and full roll cage made it look like it was prepped for the apocalypse. All it needed was a couple of machine guns mounted on top to complete the Mad Max aesthetic. Axel had outdone himself with the modifications, though I’d never admit how much I loved them.
Henrietta hopped into the passenger seat, settling herself on the cushion I’d placed there for her.
“If we get attacked by zombies on the way to work, at least we’ll be prepared,” she said dryly as I started the engine.
“It’s practical,” I defended, pulling onto the empty pre-dawn road.
“For what? Invading a small country?”
The bakery enveloped me in a warm blanket of aromas as I stepped inside. Beyond the obvious smells of vanilla and cinnamon, there were deeper notes of the yeasty perfume of rising dough, the earthy scent of cardamom, and something distinctly Esmeralda that I could never quite identify, perhaps the subtle magic that infused her baking. The antique copper cauldron she used to make candied almonds gleamed spotlessly. Even after months of working here, I still felt a small thrill each morning when I entered this space where ordinary flour and sugar were transformed into masterpieces.
Esmeralda was already pulling a tray of lavender-honey scones from the industrial oven, her glasses fogging from the steam rushing out. The sweet fragrance filled the kitchen, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the buttery scent of pastry dough. The warmth embraced me like a hug after the crisp morning air outside.
I set to work arranging wildflower-shaped sugar cookies on display trays, trying to position the delicate petals just right.
Henrietta perched on a kitchen stool behind the front counter, watching my efforts with her head tilted critically.
“If those are supposed to be desert primroses, they look more like squashed frogs,” she observed. “That one has five legs.”
“They’re stylized,” I muttered, repositioning a particularly misshapened cookie.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
The back door burst open with a bang, and Melusia stumbled in with a hand on her cane, while her other arm overflowed with a bouquet of fresh wildflowers. She tripped over the threshold, sending blooms flying through the air like floral confetti.
“I got them!” she announced triumphantly from her new position on the floor. Her bright orange head dipped, and her walking stick shook as she struggled to bend over. “Nobody panic!”
Esmeralda and I rushed forward, gathering the fallen flowers before Melusia hurt herself.
“Perfect entrance as always, Melusia,” Esmeralda said, helping her friend up.
I peeked through the front windows. A line had already formed outside on the sidewalk.
“Ready?” Esmeralda asked as she brushed a lock of silver hair away from her forehead.
I nodded, unlocking the door to let the crowd in. Locals mixed with tourists, who were snapping photos with their phones in between chattering about which wildflower trails they planned to hike. Through the window, I noticed something unusual across the town square. Several police cars were parked haphazardly outside the library and archive building, and an officer was cordoning off the area with yellow tape.
The first wave of customers flooded the front counter and demanded my full attention.
“Six lavender scones and a large coffee!”
“Do you have those cactus-shaped cookies from last year?”
“Is that the police over there?”
The floor beneath us suddenly shuddered, then rolled. Mixing bowls on the workstation rattled as the walls groaned as if we had been hit by a semi-truck. A framed photo of the previous year’s festival crashed to the ground, landing with a bang. Splinters of glass flew across the dining room.
“Earthquake!” someone shouted unnecessarily.
I jumped at the loud noise, causing a tray of blueberry muffins to rise three feet off the counter. My heart stopped. I hadn’t meant to do that. Before anyone could notice, Esmeralda casually waved her hand, bringing the floating pastries back to earth.
She shot me a warning glance as she steadied a wobbling cake stand.
I bent to sweep up the broken glass. Oops. I was supposed to limit the use of my powers in front of non-magicals.
The cafe hummed with excited energy as customers discussed both the earthquake and the festival. I caught fragments of conversations about tremor magnitudes mixing with debates about the best wildflower viewing spots.
The bell jingled, and Cordelia swept in with her usual entourage of snobby housewives. Her gaze immediately fell on our display case. She made a show of examining the pastries inside before her lips pursed in disapproval.
“These cookies don’t look quite festival quality this year, do they?” she announced loudly enough for the entire room to hear.
I suppressed an eye roll. Cordelia had hated me ever since I spilled coffee on her lucky blouse, and I further offended her by winning the $10,000 grand prize at the Motherlode Casino’s bingo night, beating her by one number. She’d been telling everyone for months that she planned to use the money for a cruise.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Sheriff Ryan West entered with Deputy Davis. Ryan’s uniform fit his tall frame perfectly, and though he moved with his usual confidence, stress lined his face. His eyes scanned the room before landing on me.
For a moment, our gazes locked. Something unspoken passed between us, a current of awareness that made my cheeks warm. I quickly turned away, suddenly fascinated with the coffee machine.
My heart did that annoying flutter thing it always did around Ryan. It was ridiculous, really. I was thirty-five, not fifteen. I busied myself with making the espresso, focusing on the familiar routine of measuring grounds and tamping them into the filter.
Why did I let him affect me this way? Maybe because Ryan represented stability, something I lacked in my life even before I left Los Angeles to come back to Windfall. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was just the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Or maybe it was how he’d bring Henrietta her favorite sunflower seeds without making a big deal of it.
Whatever it was, my attraction to him was becoming more and more difficult to ignore and increasingly complicated by my magical secret. I could imagine his face if he ever saw me on a broomstick. His expression would probably travel from disbelief to that look he got when collecting evidence, analyzing and categorizing.
Ryan leaned against the counter, speaking quietly to his deputy. I edged closer, pretending to wipe down nearby surfaces.
“Professor Graves was found by the janitor this morning,” he murmured. “Looks like she fell while putting something away in the stacks, but the archive key is missing, and there are signs the library ladder was tampered with.”
Melusia gasped dramatically, tapping her cane on the ground as she whirled around. “Eleanor is dead?” she exclaimed at full volume.
A hush settled over the cafe, every head turning toward us.
Ryan closed his eyes briefly. Exasperation crossed his features as he rubbed his forehead.
“The professor died?” a woman near the window asked.
Whispers rippled through the room, the news spreading like wildfire from table to table.
“I heard she was on the verge of some big discovery,” said a man in a flannel shirt. “Something about disputed land rights.”
“Nonsense,” countered an elderly customer as she clutched her teacup. “Eleanor was researching the founding families.”
The bell above the door chimed again as Ashley pushed her way through the crowd. She waved excitedly when she spotted me.
“This festival is amazing for business,” she said. She sat down at the last empty seat at the counter. “I’ve already sold out of sunscreen and water bottles. Had to restock twice this morning.” She looked around, finally noticing the tense mood. “What’s wrong?”
“Eleanor Graves’s body was found earlier,” I whispered. Ashley’s eyes widened in surprise.
Ryan got up with a sigh and stepped to the center of the dining room. His authoritative presence immediately commanded attention. “I’d appreciate any information about Professor Graves’s activities yesterday,” he announced. “If anybody knows anything, it is imperative that you come down to the police station. And please stay clear of the archives during our investigation.”
I watched Ryan methodically move from table to table while he jotted notes in his small notebook. His thoroughness was impressive, and he never rushed, giving each person his full attention while expertly directing the conversation.
Two women huddled in the corner booth didn’t lower their voices enough as they gossiped.
“I saw Robert Sanders arguing with her yesterday afternoon,” one said, stirring her tea with emphasis. “Right outside the archives. His face was red as a tomato when he stormed out.”
“Well, I saw someone in a hoodie leaving through the back door after hours,” her companion countered. “Couldn’t see what they looked like.”
Ashley sidled up to me during a brief lull. “Let’s catch up after the rush dies down,” she said.
Ryan returned to the counter after he finished interviewing the room. Ashley turned to him. “Oh, Sheriff! That shipment of salmon treats for Flooficuffs arrived at the store this morning.”
“Flooficuffs?” I repeated, unable to help myself. I smirked at Ryan as I waited for him to explain.
Ryan’s ears reddened. “My cat,” he admitted reluctantly. Deputy Davis coughed into his fist before hiding his smirk behind his cup and taking a long draw from his coffee.
“Your cat’s name is Flooficuffs?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“The adoption papers said Mr. Whiskers,” Ryan explained, with a pained expression on his face. “But after he demolished my bookshelf, killed my only houseplant, and somehow opened my refrigerator during his first week home, I renamed him.”
Ashley shot a look between us, her lips curving into a knowing smile that I pretended not to notice.
“I’d love to meet him sometime,” I said, immediately wondering why I’d suggested such a thing.
After the police left, the morning crowd thinned. Esmeralda approached. “I’ve scheduled your broomstick license test for next Tuesday evening.”
Melusia popped up beside her. “I’m mostly confident you won’t crash into anything important.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I muttered.
My two witchy mentors began setting up for our afternoon tea break at our usual table.
Through the cafe window, I could see the archive building across the town square. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, the yellow barrier stark against the beige stone bricks. Officers moved in and out, carrying plastic evidence bags.
I bent my head to wipe up a coffee ring stain on a table. My mind raced with possibilities. Who would want to kill Eleanor Graves? What could a historian have discovered that was worth killing over? The few times she came in to the cafe, I found her to be intense and particular about her research. She wasn’t exactly warm, but murder? The thought of someone deliberately ending her life sent a chill through me.
As I wrung out my cloth, I made my decision. I was going to find out what happened to Professor Graves, whether Ryan approved or not. He’d tell me to stay out of it, of course. By now, I knew our song and dance. He would scold me and command me to leave the investigating to the professionals. But I had resources he didn’t, both magical and otherwise. And something told me this was no simple accident.