House falling down? Check. Pet sitting job with annoying clients? Check. Ability to speak to ghosts, which has the unfortunate side effect of having to listen to what they say back? Double check! Hot high school crush still in town being all successful and stuff while you protest his building projects? All kinds of checks! Did anyone say Witch of Mintwood? Yup! Just add murder and this will be a week to remember!
Jane Garbo returns home to Shimmerfield, only to discover chaos: the haunted house is populated by real vampires, ghosts, and skeletons. In other words, the place is exactly how she left it.Jane Garbo has tried to live a normal life, but given that she's a witch, that just isn't possible. Her family runs a world-famous haunted house in an old mansion in Maine, and when Jane runs out of options she moves back home. What her family has neglected to tell her is that there are serious problems at the mansion, and no one knows what's at the root of the trouble. If Jane can't solve the mystery, more lives could be lost. Including her own.
Where there's a witch, there's a way! Where there's a whole family of them, there's trouble.Bay Winchester, editor of Hemlock Cove's small weekly newspaper, thinks her small hamlet's upcoming murder mystery weekend is going to be all about fun, food and frolicking. Instead, when another dead body is discovered in Hemlock Cove, things turn into murder, mayhem and migraines (the latter is mostly thanks to her family, of course).The body belongs to the town drunk – and no one can figure out who would want to kill him, or why. Bay's investigation is stymied by her new boss, Brian Kelly, and her old flirtation, FBI agent Landon Michaels, both of whom seem to have more than interviews on their mind.When you couple that with her cousin Thistle's obsession with making their Great-Aunt Tillie pay for the curse she recently put on them (you don't want to know) and her cousin Clove's conviction that she is not – no matter what the rest of the family says – a blabbermouth, Bay has her hands full.When the murder investigation takes a turn, though, a long-held Hemlock Cove secret is bound to be exposed. If it is, Bay may find herself in trouble – again – and this is the kind of trouble that she may not be able to find a way out of – even with Aunt Tillie's help.
The Farmers Almanac is an annual publication published every year since 1818. It is the only publication of its kind which generations of American families have come to trust. Its longevity speaks volumes about its content which informs, delights, and educates. Best known for its long-range weather predictions, the Farmers Almanac provides valuable information on gardening, cooking, fishing, and more.
Eddi is a criminal and a prisoner, expecting to spend the rest of her life in a windowless dungeon. Then she gets an unexpected chance at redemption. She can leave the dungeon, but only if she will agree to be a student at the most famous academy in the kingdom - and act as bait for a murderer. She agrees, but can she find a way to save her own life before it's too late?It turns out that many aspects of the Noble Fae Academy are not as they appear. Eddi starts to unravel the mysteries hidden within the ancient walls, but there's danger is around every corner. If she fails to uncover the reality hiding in the shadows, she may have to pay the highest price of all.
OUR HEARTS WERE YOUNG AND GAY by CORNELIA OTIS SKINNER and EMILY KIMBROUGH. CHAPTER 1: WE had been planning the trip for over a year. Pinching, scraping and going without sodas, we had salvaged from our allowances and the small time jobs we each had found the preceding vacation the sum of 80.00, which was the cost of a minimum passage on a Canadian Pacific liner of the cabin class. Our respec tive families had augmented our finances by letters of credit generous enough to permit us to live for three months abroad if not in the lap of luxury, at least on the knees of comfort. For months we had been exchanging letters brimming over with rapturous plans and lyric an ticipation and now June had really rolled around and the happy expectancy of the brides-to-be of that year had noth ing on us. It was settled we could meet in Montreal at whatever hotel it is that isnt the Ritz. I, clutching and occasionally kissing our steamship passage, was arriving from New York, Emily from Buffalo. That is, I hoped Emily was arriving. Emilys notions concerning geography, like some of her other notions, were enthusiastic but lacking in ac curacy. Some weeks previous she had sent me a rhapsodic letter which ended with the alarming words, I live for the moment when our boat pushes out from that dock in Win nipeg. I had written back in a panic and block letters stating, somewhat crushingly I thought, that the CJP. O. seldom sent its ships overland, that we were sailing from Montreal, Province of Quebec, that the name of our ves sel was the Montcalm and the date June loth, the year of our Lord I shant say which, because Emily and I have now reached the time in life when not only do we lie about our ages, we forget what weve said they are. Emily wrote back not to worry, darling, she had it all straight now. Moreover she was being motored up from Buffalo by friends who had been abroad often and who wouldnt dream of driving her to the wrong place. They would arrive sometime the afternoon of the pth. No such traveled and plutocratic friends offered to motor me to Canada, so I purchased an upper on the Mon treal sleeper ... a bit of misguided economy because once aboard the train I had to pay for another upper in order to accommodate my collection of luggage. The Skinners have ever, I believe, been respectable, God-fear ing folk, but in those days my family made up for the lack of a skeleton in the closet by having extremely dis reputable-looking luggage. Mother, the most exquisite of women, was fastidious to a degree when it came to the care of her clothes and mine, but she didnt care what she packed them in as long as the receptacle was clean. Conse quently on this, the occasion of my first long trip on my own, she had, with loving care and acres of tissue-paper, stowed my effects in an assortment of containers that ranged from a canvas trunk Father had used when he played at Dalys, to a patent leather thing for hats that looked like a cover for a bass drum. There was a strap bound straw affair known for some reason as a telescope, and various other oddments. I was made to carry my good coat the one in which I traveled was my every day on a stout hanger in a voluminous green dress-bag which had a hole at the top and through that emerged the hook for hanging It up. It was a formidable looking contrivance and I used to glance nervously at that hook, half anticipat ing the sight of a human eye impaled upon it...
