Ladies Courting Trouble. Dolores Stewart Riccio

>

LADIES COURTING TROUBLE

      Also by

       Dolores Stewart Riccio

      THE DIVINE CIRCLE OF

       LADIES MAKING MISCHIEF

      CHARMED CIRCLE

      CIRCLE OF FIVE

      LADIES COURTING TROUBLE

      DOLORES STEWART RICCIO

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To Nancy Erikson and her girls—

      “We’ll take a cup of kindness yet

       For auld lang syne…”

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      With warmest thanks to some very special people…

      To my wonderful husband, Rick, who has encouraged and counseled me in all my writing through the years.

      To my daughter, Lucy, for sharing her computer wisdom, and other special knowledge, and to my son, Charlie, for his own unique contribution to my world.

      To all the dear friends and family who have formed my ideal of friendship over the years.

      To my editor at Kensington, Audrey LaFehr, whose continued guidance and enthusiasm have meant so much, and to copy editor, Margaret Jarpey, for her care, thoroughness, and kind words.

      Bright Blessings to all!

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Chapter Thirty-Three

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      “Double, double, toil and trouble…” Phillipa grinned wickedly as she lay down the tenth card from the Rider-Waite deck, last of the layout; it was called The Moon. “I wouldn’t take on any new crusades if I were you, Cass. From start to finish, this reading counsels you to watch your step.” She leaned over the layout, dark wings of her hair falling forward, her expression disapproving, like a garage mechanic sizing up a faulty carburetor.

      A bunch of swords and wands in my cards, so what? I was beginning to be sorry that I’d asked her to read the tarot for me. Three phases of the moon looking down upon a howling wolf and a smiling dog—what was so bad about that?

      “It’s a card of hidden foes and unforeseen perils. The wolf, now—that’s a symbol of untamed creation. The dog, on the other hand, adapts to mankind insofar as it suits his own interests, sort of like your dog, Scruffy. And see this rugged path through hostile country? Not to mention this crayfish popping out from the pool of the Cosmic Mind.” Phillipa’s blunt fingernail pointed to various pictorial elements. “What did you tell me you were doing this Samhain? I mean, apart from our own circle ceremony.”

      “Church. I’ve been invited to give a talk at the Garden of Gethsemane Ladies’ League on the origins of Halloween in our Samhain. I really loathe giving speeches, but I feel I ought to represent Wicca in a favorable light whenever I have the chance.”

      “‘Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,’” my hostess intoned, giving a quick stir to the pot of pear and mango chutney simmering on her Viking range, wafting the spicy aroma throughout the room. I thought there must be extra calories in the very air of Phillipa’s state-of-the-art kitchen. Not to mention the “Fall Fruit Breads” we were sampling with our tea, the theme of her next bimonthly cable cooking show, Kitchen Magic. As Colette wrote, and Phillipa was fond of quoting on and off the air, “‘If you aren’t up to a little magic, you shouldn’t waste your time trying to cook.’”

      Phillipa returned to the long marble table and gave my cards another gloomy look before gathering them up. “Five of wands, seven of swords. Maybe the Gethsemane Ladies are planning an exorcism or something. Rid you of the cursed demons that possess you, my dear.”

      “Not at all,” I said. “The Reverend Peacedale couldn’t be more ecumenical-minded. I suspect he’s quite interested in the mystic experience per se. My clairvoyant episodes, I mean. And he understands that the ancient nature religions predate the advent of Satan and therefore have nothing devilish about them.”

      “Well, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

      Which is what I thought about later, while having my stomach pumped out at Jordan Hospital. The Ladies’ League Hospitality Hour had been as disastrous as my lugubrious friend possibly could have predicted. Only the strong hands of my bridegroom, Joe Ulysses, holding me back by one shoulder, and those of a robust nurse on the other side had kept me from pulling the gagging, scratching tube out of my throat and to hell with it. Probably one of the worst hours of my life. I really was tempted to call up a few impish entities I’d read about to avenge my misery, but I am pledged to work on the white side of Wicca.

      I wasn’t the only one enduring the unendurable. Several members of the League and the minister’s wife were also at the hospital, and as I learned later, one of the older spinsters, whose passion was chocolate—Lydia Craig—wouldn’t be making it to the All Saints’ Day service on November first. Poison hemlock causes weakness, nausea, vomiting, difficulty in breathing, and, if enough of it is ingested, paralysis and death. And those mystery brownies had been cleverly laced with the stuff. It was almost enough to turn a gal off chocolate forever.

      I recalled how Mrs. Peacedale—Patty—had made a face when she nibbled at her brownie, muttering that the baking soda had not been properly sifted into the flour. I too had thought they were rather musty or mousy-tasting despite a liberal dose of vanilla. But any brownies would suffer in comparison to Phillipa’s.

      Then, when everyone began to feel ill, the herbal lore in my brain clicked in. I guessed immediately what we’d eaten and told the paramedics. “I’m certain it was poison hemlock—that mousy aftertaste,” I’d said weakly. Due to my conviction, we all got our stomachs pumped out immediately, while I was mentally kicking myself for my stupidity. I’d eaten one too many bites of that fetid brownie, purely out of politeness.

      As the endless day at Jordan Hospital wore on, and it was obvious that I would never eat again, I urged Joe to go home to feed himself and Scruffy. “Don’t worry about me,”