Death Warmed Over

By Patti Larsen

Would using magic to entice my client to tell me what she wanted make me a bad person? Because, after my third visit to her rather ostentatious mansion on the edge of town, sketching seemingly endless variations of poses I could have easily done from photos instead of live sittings, I was ready to tell her I was donezo.

Charlotte Easton didn’t seem to notice my growing irritation at yet another wasted two hours watching her fiddle and fidget in the dark blue gown she chose (from a long line of clothing already worn and then discarded), substantial bosom on the verge of bursting from the low-cut satin making me wince as she shifted yet again on the crushed velvet daybed she’d decided (after many other locations had been sampled and rejected) was today’s selection for my fresh torment.

Listen. I’m a patient person for the most part. But sheesh already.

Phoebe Monday’s portrait commission turns to murder when her client’s father turns up dead. The problem with that scenario? He’s been six feet under for over a year already and not even her magic can figure out what made him rise from the grave... welcome to the Phoebe Monday Paranormal Cozies!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Sep 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781989925096

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Death Warmed Over

Phoebe Monday Paranormal Cozies: Two

Smashwords Edition

Patti Larsen

Copyright 2020 Patti Larsen

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

Chapter One

Would using magic to entice my client to tell me what she wanted make me a bad person? Because, after my third visit to her rather ostentatious mansion on the edge of town, sketching seemingly endless variations of poses I could have easily done from photos instead of live sittings, I was ready to tell her I was donezo.

Charlotte Easton didn’t seem to notice my growing irritation at yet another wasted two hours watching her fiddle and fidget in the dark blue gown she chose (from a long line of clothing already worn and then discarded), substantial bosom on the verge of bursting from the low-cut satin making me wince as she shifted yet again on the crushed velvet daybed she’d decided (after many other locations had been sampled and rejected) was today’s selection for my fresh torment.

Listen. I’m a patient person for the most part. But sheesh already.

How’s this, Phoebe, dear? My portrait commission prices weren’t cheap, and Charlotte had agreed to a much higher payment due to the personal interaction I was forced to endure, so I made sure I at least attempted to hide my growing lack of enthusiasm. After all, this payout would mean I could finally, at twenty-freaking-five, afford my own apartment with my own money and move out of my family’s house without their financial support. Not that Mom would begrudge me the cash. I knew she’d happily hand over a chunk of the Monday fortune anytime I asked. So why then was it so important to me I do this on my own?

Long story. Stay with me.

Phoebe? Oops, Charlotte’s curious stare reminded me I had a tendency to let my mind run off with me at inappropriate times. How long had I been sitting here, faking a smile, nodding like an idiot, while she waited on a response? Long enough her own smile faded and that look I’d come to recognize that meant she was doubting and about to change her wardrobe and/or location again decided matters.

Gorgeous, love it. I wasn’t lying to her, either. Despite my simmering resentment at feeling like she wasted enough of my time already, I had to admit she really was a beautiful woman, especially for someone in her fifties, skin flawless, voluptuous figure reminding me of my mother, long, honey blonde hair in an elegant upsweep. The copious jewels she wore along with the carefully applied makeup and her complete body confidence should have made my job easy. Charlotte would have looked good in a paper bag, never mind the stunning overflow of navy satin and the incredible backdrop of the study with the giant windows behind her casting her in perfect light. Even the gauzy sheers draped in a most elegant way, the faint breeze from the garden blowing the edges over the shiny silver of her stilettos. You look fantastic.

Charlotte beamed at that, primping the skirt of her gown a moment, before another doubtful look crossed her face, tugging down the corners of her full mouth, bright red lips almost at a pout. I’m still not sure about the dress. Her eyebrows raised at me. Maybe we should go back to the scarlet suit?

That was three outfits ago. Before she could rise, I drew a soft breath and made a decision I hoped I wouldn’t live to regret. Focused on her with a smile and asked a simple question. What do you really want for this portrait, Charlotte?

She blinked slowly, eyes wide, almost startled, the quiet magic behind the query doing its job, hopefully without anyone ever knowing. My sort simply didn’t use our power on her kind, humans being off-limits unless in a life and death situation. And even then. Thing was, magic users knew the rules, of course. But we all did it, from time to time. Like telling little white lies or getting away with using an expired grocery coupon. Thing was, as long as she didn’t know and it didn’t hurt her, I knew no one would say a word.

Still. My family had been under some rather uncomfortable scrutiny since Christmas, only five months ago, and though the Monday wonderworking triunity of Maiden, Mother and Crone (me being the tag-along forth) was one of the most powerful and respected of the Academy of Adepts, things could change in a heartbeat. Sure, the accusations of blood ritual magic were lies, fabricated by a jealous enemy. It didn’t stop me from flutters of concern something I might do could put my beloved sister, mother and grandmother in harm’s way.

The likelihood of someone stumbling on this situation, however? Slim to yeah, wouldn’t bet on it. And with my sanity and crumbling patience threatening my financial stability, I took a chance and went for it, accepting the consequences.

See, it wasn’t really the risk of being caught that held me back. Not when my push of synchromysticism gave me a clear view of Charlotte’s present and, in a fanning out kaleidoscope of possibilities, the variations of her future based on the choices she made. Sound confusing? Trust me, the pathways leading away from her in a widening fan of decisions and opportunities always gave me a bit of a goosebump shiver.

Each and every path led down a road of luck, good or bad, though some felt neutral, unchanged. All flashing to life in an instant and spreading continually while I waited for her answer.

I just want to love how I look, Charlotte said at last. While the path she really wanted snapped into focus, the rest disappearing in a flicker of shadow.

A shadow I used to associate with my power but I’d come to know was just the veil of the curse I’d carried since I was a child.

Lost? That’s okay. I was too when I found out six months ago it had been with me since I was basically born. More on that later.

Seeing Charlotte happy and smiling at the painting, dressed in the scarlet suit, reclining in a wingback chair with her shoes dangling from one hand and a decidedly wicked grin on her face gave me the answer I needed. I sighed into the spell, nudging her ever-so-gently toward the result she’d wanted all along.

Sat back as her change in direction had me rise, attempt to adjust her skirt. Then accidentally spill the cup of tea she’d just reached for. All over her dress.

She leaped to her feet in horror while I rushed out an apology, feeling the bad luck that was the price of changing hers to what she really desired kick in.

Twenty-four hours of mini disasters for a new apartment and freedom.

Worth it.

I really loved the red suit, Charlotte, I said, that forced smile now tied into the weight of the change of my luck sitting on my shoulders like a tiny little devil ready to make mischief.

She beamed at me then, hugged me, kissed my cheek firmly enough I knew I’d be wiping red lipstick off my face before letting me go. I felt the threads of her like sticky rubber bands tying us together, thanks to the spell I cast, feeding into the law of contamination. I’d have to do some serious scrubbing of my magic field to free me of her this time, something I was forced to do at every meeting since she insisted on physical contact. Oh well, she was happy and that meant I’d get paid.

Phoebe. Worth it.

You’re so right, Charlotte gushed at me, hands clasping in front of her generous endowment and making me self-conscious of my own slim physique. No, I didn’t dislike myself or anything, but coming from the Monday family of witches tied into Mother Nature and the Great Moon and everything that implied—my mother taught mystic Tantra for the Goddess’s sake—being a barely five-foot-one and rather flat in places my fellow Mondays were round definitely made me feel out of place. Never mind the tea. She batted at my hands when I tried to blot the mess I’d made with a napkin. It’s a sign. Scarlet it is. She tossed her head, tall enough to be intimidating while I smiled for real this time.

I was surprised when it only took her ten minutes to change, helped guide her into the perfect position from the path she’d chosen, the image clear enough to me I knew I could paint it without her, then stood back to do a quick sketch.

The moment I was done and showed her the rough outline, she squealed and hugged me all over again. I’d need sage, at the very least. Copper. Maybe a lavender bath. Mom could make some suggestions, even, if the contamination was too tightly woven. Except that meant she’d know I used my power. Not that she’d give me a hard time. On the contrary. My family wanted me to. I was the one holding back, if only because of the damned curse.

I promise I’ll get to explaining it, what little I know.

It’s perfect, Phoebe. Charlotte cradled me against her, arm around my waist, the scent of her perfume familiar enough now, sticky ends of the spell’s ties pulling tighter. I knew better than to fight it, smiled up at her, nodded.

It’ll be beautiful, I said.

Charlotte finally let me go. I’ve kept you long enough today, she said. Or do you have time for tea?

Argh. Every freaking time. I could usually make an excuse, but my luck had other ideas, nodding my head for me. Which was how I found myself sitting on the sofa in the living room next door, sipping the rather hideous chamomile the disapproving housekeeper, Margaret, delivered with that signature scowl of hers over the rims of her wire glasses while Charlotte did what Charlotte did best.

Talk.

And I was forced to listen.

***

Chapter Two

Charlotte’s favorite topic never ceased to bore me, bless her. And, as I settled into the comfortable cushions of the wide sofa in the large room filled with more art pieces than I could shake a besom at, I knew my luck wasn’t about to change anytime soon, synchromystic activation or not.

Don’t you just adore the Charles Butler Father dear brought back from Wales? While he might have been a less well-known painter from that part of the world, his works were still sought after, even more so since his death a decade ago. The only reason I knew who Charles Butler was came from art school and four years of studying everything to do with the one thing in my life I knew I was meant to do.

A wise and discerning soul would assume I’d be all for deep and meaningful conversations, even a threat to waxing poetic over the stunning talent of one of the world’s fine painters.

Except, of course, the gigantic landscape over the fireplace? Not a Charles Butler. Oh, sure, it was a fantastic forgery, made by someone with an impeccable eye for brush strokes. But I’d actually seen the original several years ago while it was on loan from a private collection to the Seattle Art Museum. Had spent a few hours actually sitting in front of it, absorbing the beauty of it. Truly a stunning landscape of a cloud-skied Wales, deep greens and achingly pure golds and heart-wrenching grays all holding me captive.

I knew you’d appreciate it, Charlotte said, taking my steady stare, I could only guess, as admiration, both hands pressed to her actually heaving bosom, eyes alight with her own adoration. Father was thrilled when the Fairchilds finally parted with it and snapped it up immediately. She dabbed at the corner of one huge, blue eye with a napkin, sighing so dramatically I almost winced. A pity he only had a year to enjoy its beauty before he passed. She had to have musical training, the way her voice hitched at the end, the thrumming control she had over every nuance. There had been a time, at the beginning of our relationship, I thought her a fraud, too. But nope. Charlotte Easton was just authentically over-the-top. That I could willingly accept.

The lie about the painting, Llandovery by Morning, however? That I continued to struggle with. As I did the rest of Charlotte’s collection. Because despite the fact she claimed each and every one of the pieces in the house was authentic? As far as I could tell—and yes, I checked with magic once I realized the truth—was fake.

Okay, not all of them. There were one or two that seemed real to my power, tracing back through touch in time. While I couldn’t see their creators—how cool would that have been?—I could, at least, sense their age and provenance. So, either Charlotte was lying to everyone, which I just couldn’t buy (and neither could my power), or her father had lied to her. Since I assumed the should-have-been expensive art pieces she thought she owned were part of her inheritance, I hoped it was the former.

When she decided it