Oh, fine. I supposed she had the teensiest bit of a soft side. After all, her nearest and dearest called her PJ-and had done so since she married Harris Jackson at age twenty-two, when she was fresh out of college.

I called her Patricia Davis Jackson.

Or plain ol' Patricia.

Or the Face of Evil.

It was a toss-up most days.

She'd almost become my mother-in-law (twice), and we had a long history of hating each other. I'd once poked her in her butt with a pitchfork, and she'd retaliated by ruining my first attempt to marry her son, Dylan Jackson, and had played a big role in the fiery failure of the second marriage try, too.

My mama knew all this, which spoke volumes about her desperation for my father to find a hobby.

"You know how I feel about the Harpies," I said.

"Carly, this isn't about you. It's about your daddy. And you know very well that you don't have issues with all the Harpies. Only one. You can suck it up for one night, buttercup."

Her sympathy was heartwarming.

But, she was right about my feelings for the group. As stodgy as the Harpies might be, they actually did good work, as evidenced by the refurbishment of the historical Civil Warera Ezekiel mansion. Before they'd gotten their hands on the place, it had been destined for collapse one crumbly brick at a time. Now it was a stunner.

But Patricia Davis Jackson made my blood boil, and I couldn't easily overlook that fact. "That one is enough."

After our second failed attempt at getting married, Dylan and I had split up. He'd moved away, and I was left trying to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

I'd vowed revenge on Patricia, but hadn't been able to come up with a good plan to bring her down a notch that wouldn't send me to jail. I'd been arrested once before (I was cleared of all charges, I swear!), and didn't care to go through that again.

In the end, it was fate that had delivered the ultimate comeuppance to Patricia. Eight months ago, Dylan had come back to Hitching Post, and this past summer we'd rekindled our relationship.

Patricia had been beside herself when she found out. And she was still beside herself now, three months later.

Bless her heart.

I set the cardboard box that the potion bottles had been delivered in on the floor, and gave it a little kick to the center of the room. Like a mythological siren that called to unsuspecting sailors, the box's enchantment took only a second to awaken two of the laziest creatures on earth from their slumber.

Roly and Poly, my cats, raced to investigate this new and exciting addition to the shop, slipping and sliding and tumbling over each other to be the first to lay claim. Poly, with his considerable girth, never stood a chance at winning that contest. Slender Roly leaped into the box and immediately flopped on her back to roll about in ecstasy. Never one to be left out, Poly plopped in next to her, and I lowered the top flaps of their new fort. They'd be occupied for hours.

"And you know what day tomorrow is," I reminded.

Halloween.

Come midnight, my peaceful little witchy world would be on its way to hell in a handbasket.

At the reminder, a chill swept down my spine one vertebra at a time, raising goose bumps in its wake.

Halloween marked the day when some sort of between-world portal opened, and a few spirits started rising, followed by even more the next day-All Saint's Day-but it was All Soul's Day, November second, that made me want to hide under my bed like Roly and Poly did during a thunderstorm.

Because this was my storm. A ghostly one.

All Soul's Day was when the majority of spirits who hadn't yet been able to cross over for whatever reason began wandering around, looking for anyone to help them. Only very few could even see the ghosts, and once eye contact was made, that was it. There was no getting rid of them until they saw the light.

For empaths, however, there was an added element to this ghostly dilemma. We could see them, and we could also feel them . . . what killed them, specifically. My best defense was to avoid them altogether.

Because of that, later today I'd close the shop for the night, and I wouldn't be back until Wednesday morning, November third. During that time, my daddy and my best friend, Ainsley, would cover my absence.

I was going to lock my doors and windows, pull the shades, put on noise-canceling headphones and hole up until it was safe to come out.

Mama let out a gusty breath. "Yes, I know. But that's not until midnight. Plenty of time to make an appearance, talk up your daddy's numerous qualifications, and get home before your carriage turns into a pumpkin."

I glanced up in time to see a miniature zombie waddle past the front of the shop, quickly followed by a vampire, two ice princesses, and a tall witch with a long black cape flowing out behind her.

In celebration of Halloween, the town was hosting a big to-do all weekend. Today's events included a treasure hunt, a jack-o'-lantern contest, and of course-being the wedding capital of the South-numerous ghoulish weddings.

The witch peeled off from the rest of the pack and opened the door to the shop, a basket holding a little black dog looped over one arm, a garment bag draped over the other.

This time of year might be the only time of year my cousin, black-magic witch Delia Bell Barrows, who wore that cape year-round, fit in with a crowd.

Delia came to a dead stop at the box in the middle of the floor, and Poly's gray paw poked through the cutout handle as though waving hello.

She lifted a thin pale eyebrow and glanced at me, amusement in her ice blue eyes.

"Mama," I said, "I've got to go. Someone just came in." She didn't need to know it was a social visit and not a customer.

Delia set the basket on the floor, and her dog, Boo-a black Yorkie mix-hopped out and immediately started sniffing the box. Poly stuck his arm father out of the hole to tap Boo's head. Bop, bop, bop.

"But, Carly! We're not-"

"I'll see you tonight, Mama. At the party."

"Wait. What did you say?"

"I'm Dylan's plus one."

Her voice rose to a twangy falsetto. "Why didn't you just say so in the first place?"

I've been known on occasion to incite my mother just to see her get all fired up. It was that mischievous streak in me. "I've got to go, Mama."

"Fine. But, Carly?" she said, sugar sweet.

"Yes?" I slumped over the counter, exhausted from this conversation.

"Be sure to leave your pitchfork at home."

My pitchfork was my home-protection weapon of choice. It had gotten a lot of use over the past six months, what with a couple of murder cases I'd been wrapped up in. It was also what I'd used when I forked Patricia Davis Jackson in her aerobically toned tush. I'd been tempted to smuggle it into the party tonight just for old times' sake. "But-"

"Tonight has to be perfect," Mama continued. "Our family must paint the picture of propriety."

That was going to take a very large canvas and a small miracle. My family was anything but proper. "I can't make any promises."

"So help me, Carly Bell, if you raise a ruckus . . . There must be no scenes, no drama, no nothing, y'hear?"

"I hear, I hear!"

Delia smiled. Clearly, she heard, too. Lordy be, people over in Huntsville could probably hear.

Before she could say anything else, I quickly said, "I'll see you later, Mama!" And I hung up.

No scenes. No drama. No ruckus.

Shoo. I couldn't help but think my mama had just jinxed this party seven ways to Sunday.

Maybe this shindig wasn't going to be as deadly boring as I had thought.

Which was just fine by me-I loved a front-row seat to drama.

Just as long as it didn't turn out plain ol' deadly . . .

OTHER MYSTERIES BY HEATHER BLAKE.

The Wishcraft Series.

It Takes a Witch.

A Witch Before Dying.

The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy.

The Goodbye Witch.

A Magic Potion Mystery.

A Potion to Die For.

One Potion in the Grave.