The Mushroom Mystery: The Whitewood Witches of Fennelmoore, #1

By Agnes Lester Brown

The town of Fennelmoore is in deep trouble. Mayor Riley has hatched a hare-brained scheme to turn the tranquil, picturesque village into an garish theme park, much to the disgust of the Whitewood Witches. Fortunately the Mushroom Convention arrives in town, buying them time to stop their crazy mayor. But then a famous mushroom expert is murdered at the convention, and it's up to feisty Lori Whitewood and her inventive family of witches to use all their magic potion prowess to catch a dangerous, unpredictable killer and save Fennelmoore from imminent destruction. In between Lori has trouble coping with the advances of the handsome but enigmatic Matt. What does he know about the murder that he's not sharing with her? Will she solve the mystery before the killer escapes from Fennelmoore and disappears forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charl Durand
• Release date: Aug 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201337612

Agnes Lester Brown

I wrote my first story when I was six years old and yes, it was about puppies. I’ve kept writing ever since, in one form or another. Starting off as a newspaper reporter in the heyday of print media I later jumped ship to a long career in business writing, followed by blogging and writing for websites. For the past few years I’ve been rediscovering the joy and art of storytelling, crafting stories about magic, murder and mystery. Nothing makes me happier than browsing a whimsical second hand bookshop , home made vegetable soup on a cold winter’s evening, or devouring yet another whodunnit while snuggling with my Norwegian Forest cat, Matisse. You can see details of upcoming books and new series, as well as titbits on characters on my website at http://www.agneslesterbrown.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The full moon rose shortly after midnight and shone streaks of soft light on the moss-covered undergrowth in the otherwise pitch-dark woods that covered the rocky hillside. Apart from an occasional gentle breeze that rustled the leaves of the towering canopies, unbroken stillness enveloped the forest. After the rain that had fallen earlier in the day, white-hooded mushrooms glowed in the moonlight, contrasting sharply against the opaque undergrowth.

Suddenly the silence was shattered by the flapping wings of two owls. They hastily flew skyward, disturbed in their slumber by a single approaching light flickering along the vague footpath that meandered among the trees. The dark figure carrying the torch wore a heavy overcoat and yellow plastic gloves and carried a small gardening trowel. He walked slowly, leaving the footpath now and then to stop and use his torch to light up clusters of mushrooms sprouting in the damp earth. After gazing intently at the fungi for a few seconds, he'd move on, keeping his eyes on the forest floor. At one point, he took out a well-thumbed guidebook filled with drawings and photographs, paged around in it while holding it in the direction of the moonlight, and then closed and tucked it in his jacket pocket.

Carrying on slowly, the mushroom hunter aimed his torch further up the hill onto a rocky outcropping. He stopped, took off his backpack, and removed a small, round specimen jar. Then he started walking up the steep incline, leaving his backpack behind and carrying the glass container with him. Along the way, he stumbled and disturbed a rock that tumbled downhill, disappearing into the dark.

After a few minutes of steep climbing, he stopped at a huge, overgrown, weathered tree trunk blocking his way further up the hill. He knelt and gently started pushing aside the moist fern leaves covering the base of the trunk. He kept going until he had uncovered three small, ivory-colored mushrooms nestled in a hollowed-out part of the rotting tree trunk. After studying them for a few seconds and paging through his guidebook, he gently lifted one of the fungi with his trowel and held it up close, turning it to view its gills and stem more clearly.

When he'd finished examining the mushroom, he opened the container and gently placed the mushroom inside, then scribbled a barely legible word onto the jar’s label.

He slowly made his way back to the footpath and picked up his backpack. Pausing for a moment, the stranger shone his torch in all directions, as if to check whether he had company hiding among the trees. Satisfied that he was alone, the dark figure turned off his torch and melted back into the forest, walking back in the direction of the glimmering street lights from the nearby village.

CHAPTER ONE

Dinner's ready!" came Hazel’s call from the Whitewood Manor’s kitchen.

Coming down!

Yeeeess!

Coool!

Hazel! What's that aroma? I hope it's not turnips again!

The fourth to answer the dinner call was a thin, elderly woman in a black dress with her gray hair tied back in a neat bun, mumbling irritably to herself as she made her way down the wooden staircase.

Ma, turnips are good for your bones! Hazel called back before tasting a piping hot spoonful taken from a large, black pot on the wood-fired stove. She pushed the heap of dog-eared cookbooks lying on the table aside to set the spoon on a silver spoon rest decorated with the eye of Horus. With well-trained hands, she added several pinches of freshly ground herbs to the pot.

She cocked her head to one side, listening to the tap-tapping noise as Granny Fae slowly made her way down the staircase.

Ma, it sounds like your leg's not screwed on properly!

Nothing wrong with my leg! It's made from the strongest Hawthorn wood!

Tap tap, tap tap.

Dressed casually in jeans and a tan-colored cardigan, Lori Whitewood was, as usual, the first member of the family to enter the spacious dining room with its twelve-seater oak table. Her bedroom, on the bottom floor at the end of a long, wood-paneled corridor, was closest to the common rooms. The rest of the bedrooms were spread across the three floors of the sprawling Whitewood Manor, a hundred-year-old Victorian house.

A warm feeling came over Lori as she surveyed the dining room with a slight smile and sat down at her usual place at the table. To entertain herself while waiting for the others, she recalled the legendary stories woven into the history of the fine antique furniture and ornaments that decorated the room. Three generations of Whitewoods had lived in the manor, and each had added a piece that came with a tale to the collection. She looked under the table at the well-worn Persian carpet and traced its swirling, intricate golden patterns with her eyes. When she was a little girl, she used to sit on that very carpet, enthralled by her great-aunt Agatha's story of how she'd smuggled the rug home from a trip to Central Asia. Aunt Agatha swore that a wealthy Arabian magician had fallen in love with her on rides through the starry skies over miles of golden desert on this very same carpet. She also brought with her several old leather-bound volumes of exotic magic spells and potions, but no one had seen those in years. Everyone suspected Granny Fae had hidden them somewhere away from prying eyes, or a distant relative had borrowed them and never returned them.

Whispering to herself, Lori recited the names of everyone in the faded sepia family portraits that sat in heavy woodcut frames on the walls. As time went by, there seemed to be fewer and fewer men in the photos, until the most recent photo, a full colour taken in the backyard of the house six months ago at Fae’s eightieth birthday, captured only five women.

Seated in the middle on a wicker chair, Fae wore her favorite dream catcher earrings and looked gravely at the camera with sharp, emerald green eyes. To her left, a large, middle-aged lady wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat smiled broadly. To her right were two young women looking very distracted. Lori continued whispering names, smiling broadly now.

Granny Fae.

Aunt Hazel.

Cousin Rosie.

Cousin Jasmine.

Me.

Lori stood behind her grandmother with her hands on the grande dame’s shoulders, pride etched on her face. Her long, raven black hair flowed over her shoulders, and her dark eyes above her high cheekbones looked kindly at Granny Fae. She self-consciously touched her face and ran her hand over her hair as she looked at the photo. With such features no wonder all the other kids called her The Witch when she was little.

That was, of course, exactly what she was. All of the Whitewoods in the family photograph were. Way back when they’d first discovered their powers, the family name had been Blackwood, but their great-great-grandmother changed their name to Whitewood after the family was suspected of witchcraft and driven out of Hackingsaw where’d they’d lived in for decades. Great-great Grandma had first wanted to change their name to something common like Jones or Smith, but the rest of the family had shot down that idea. So it became Whitewood.

Not that it mattered nowadays, as no one in their little hamlet of Fennelmoore regarded the Whitewoods as anything other than a friendly local family who lived on Saffron Lane and ran the Wholesome, the town's health food and nutrition store. Their neighbors believed the Whitewoods used the lush and expansive organic herb and vegetable garden behind the manor to keep the health food shop stocked. No one suspected that the shop was a front for the family's thriving online magic potion mail-order business, the Potion Portal.

Lori shook her head and started laughing. Imagine, here I am, a member of a family of witches! How crazy is that? Sometimes she had to pinch herself to believe her weird, wonderful life was real. After all, for many people, witches and magic powers don’t exist, period.

Lori looked up as her cousins Rosie and Jasmine bounced into the dining room. Lori was a few years older than the twins, and even though they were grown-ups, she still sometimes regarded them affectionately as kids. The sisters couldn't be more different. Jasmine was tall and held herself proud and elegant; Rosie was a good four inches shorter and a tomboy with short, cropped hair that changed color almost every day. They were freshly back from having completed their university studies and had the boundless energy of two young twenty-somethings ready to take on the world.

Jasmine, how’s work at the Fennelmoore Bugle? Lori asked, curious to know if her cousin was happy at her first job.

She's writing one of those columns where people complain about their love lives, Rosie interjected before Jasmine could answer. What? Jasmine frowned and lifted her chin. For your information, I’m writing a series of self-improvement pieces while I wait for a position as an investigative reporter to open up.

Rosie slouched further into her chair. More like 'my boyfriend ditched me,' blah, blah.

Before Jasmine could throw a snarky retort at her sister, their mother came into the dining room pushing a serving trolley with several large, steaming dishes on it. She hummed cheerfully as she placed the dishes on the table.

Is that a song you sing as you stir the cauldron, Mother? Rosie was clearly in teasing mode, and Lori and Jasmine tittered. Rosie disdained magic and witchery as particularly old school. She’d rather be playing Warcraft or creating apps. But they knew where her teasing came from—the Whitewood witches’ strongest skills were their potions, and jokes about brews and concoctions were frequently part of the family banter.

At least my potions have a better success rate than yours, young lady. Remember that time you slipped that love potion into your high school crush's soft drink, hoping it would make him fall in love with you?

Jasmine’s giggling turned into a burst of laughter. All it did was give the poor guy the hiccups! She chuckled. Or was it your pink hair, the Doc Martin boots, and the nose ring that scared him off?

Well, Granny’s potion lessons after that helped me improve, Rosie said. Remember the Two Beating Hearts potion I put into Mr. Marwold’s tea flask? Lonely Mrs. Barkley next door fell in love and married him within a week. That worked like a charm.

That was quite a long time ago, Rosie. You lost your mojo, or what? Jasmine said.

Rosie mumbled under her breath and blushed as the others giggled.

By the way, where's Granny? Hazel asked after she’d sat down and noticed the empty chair.

At that moment, Granny shuffled in from the kitchen, a plastic bowl of bright green jelly in her hand.

I'm not eating turnips, or whatever that is, Fae said and pointed at the bowls on the table. This is my dinner. Much nicer!"

The room burst into spontaneous chatter and laughter as Fae took her place at the table. Anyone who’d ever shared a meal with them knew the Whitewoods were seldom at a loss for words, especially not around a dinner table feasting on Hazel's signature brown butter mashed potatoes and fried green tomatoes.

Are we going to Mayor Riley's town hall meeting tomorrow evening? Jasmine asked. I noticed a poster advertising it on a billboard on Main Street.

That fool almost closed Fennelmoore down with his reckless spending last year. No way am I listening to his stupidities! Fae shook her head and stuck her spoon into her green jelly with extra force.

Well, something needs to be done. Hazel sighed, a concerned frown on her face. For a few moments, everyone sat in silence. They all knew Fennelmoore had gone through several lean years after the new highway had been built, bypassing the town by several miles and robbing it of a steady source of income. The stream of cars that used to stop in the town to fill up on gasoline, have breakfast at Bertie Hawthorne's diner, and stock up on daily supplies had dwindled to a trickle. Businesses passed Fennelmoore by. The once buzzing little village was slowly dying as families moved away and shops closed down.

I bumped into one of my old teachers this morning, Rosie said. Seems like the school is less than half the size it was when we were there. And now Dr. Moore has closed his practice, which means we’re left with only one doctor in town.

I overheard someone in the newsroom at the Fennelmoore Bugle saying the mayor is going to propose a total rebranding of Fennelmoore, Jasmine said, showing off the marketing lingo she’d acquired at university. She often brought titbits of gossip home from her work at the Fennelmoore Bugle. As the volunteer editor of the town's Facebook page, she took her job to be in the know seriously. With her charm, she could get the tightest mouth in town to part with gossip.

What's that mean? Fae looked confused. Like give the town a new name? Now that’s a recipe for disaster. Next thing that clown will be calling Fennelmoore ‘Rileyville’!

It's probably not that, Granny, Lori countered, shooting the sniggering girls a sharp look. I don't think he has anything up his sleeve that'll shock the town. The meeting will probably be about by-laws and stuff.

Fae snorted. Fire the idiot before he does more damage!

More potatoes and rosemary sauce, anyone? Aunt Hazel asked, attempting to change the subject before the conversation deteriorated into an argument. She had always been the peacemaker of the family. She had learned the skill early on in her life while raising two wily daughters on her own. Her husband—no-one remembered his name—had left when the children were still young. He’d visited a museum in Hackingsaw, the town that had chased the family away, and found out, as he’d long suspected, the Whitewoods were witches.

After he’d left, as Fae put it, There haven’t been any boxer shorts on the washing line in recent times.

Well, there was one male family member around, but only in a manner of speaking.

After dinner, the family filed out into the backyard into the garden with the full moon lighting their way. Shadows danced over the vegetables as Fae led them, holding an enormous wax candle that flickered wildly