A Potion to Die For: A Magic Potion Mystery by Heather Blake Page B

held it open, my Nikes kicking up dust in my wake. Dylan languidly rose to his feet and strolled to the doorway.
    He wore a half smile as he passed by me, brushing so close that I could smell his aftershave. “Don’t be leaving town.”
    I smiled so wide, my cheeks hurt as much as my heart. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Look what happened the last time I did that.”
    “Carly . . .”
    Suddenly, shouting cut through the tension-filled air.
    Dylan looked at me. “Sounds like Hazel.”
    I stepped onto the rotting front porch and peered down the street. My aunts Hazel and Eulalie were standing nose to nose in the middle of the road, hollering at each other.
    “It’s not a full moon, is it?” I asked. Sometimes Hazel went a little wild when the moon was full.
    “Next week,” he said.
    Something to look forward to.
    When I heard the mention of “brassiere” in the argument, I decided to referee. Dylan followed, never one to miss out on a good show.
    My aunts were standing, showdown style, in the middle of the street.
    “Give it back, Eulalie!” Hazel shouted.
    “It’s mine!” Eulalie yelled back.
    The pair was playing tug-of-war with a rather large-cupped, bright pink bra trimmed with black lace.
    “You wish,” Hazel said, eyeing Eulalie’s small chest.
    Eulalie’s eyes went wide. “I’ll have you know I’ve been using those chicken-cutlet doohickeys to enhance my décolletage.”
    I looked over at Mr. Dunwoody’s house to make sure he wasn’t hearing this argument. He was nowhere to be seen, but Dylan was looking more than a little amused.
    “It’s mine,” Hazel said. “Give it back!”
    “No!”
    Sad to say this wasn’t the first time they’d faced off over undergarments. Eulalie was a bit of an instigator. She often snitched Hazel’s lacy bits off the clothesline because Eulalie felt confrontations helped hone her acting skills—and the street was as good a stage as any.
    Hazel, however, never quite realized she was a pawn in Eulalie’s theatrical games, and was quite possessive about her underwear. She wasn’t backing down without a good ol’ catfight.
    I was about to step between them when, at the end of the block, I saw a dark pickup turn onto the street. It swerved left and right, a wild zigzag. We needed to get out of the way. “Let’s move to the sidewalk,” I suggested loudly.
    They ignored me.
    Reaching into the fray, I grabbed the bra and pulled. I figured where the bra went the aunts would follow. Instead, they turned on me.
    “Carlina Hartwell, how dare you?” Hazel chastised. “This isn’t going to fit you, either.”
    I swore I heard Dylan chuckle, but I didn’t have time to look over my shoulder and glare at him. I was too busy watching the truck as it zigged and zagged down the street. It bumped over a curb and sideswiped an oak tree. The loud noise succeeded in capturing my aunts’ attention.
    They immediately recognized the danger, released the bra, let out loud quacks, and scattered. With the sudden slack on the bra, I pitched backward onto the street. I squeaked out my own little quack as the truck bore down on me, its grille seeming to smile menacingly as it grew closer and closer.
    Before I knew what was happening, I was scooped up and whirled around, and landed with a thump on the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and street in front of Mr. Dunwoody’s house. In a blur, the truck zipped past, jumped the curb, rolled over my front hedge, and hit my front porch with a deafening crash.
    The end pillar wobbled, gave out, and fell onto the yard. There was a moment of silence before a loud cracking noise filled the smoky air. As if in slow motion, the porch roof pulled loose from the rest of the house and came crashing down. The whole rotted structure seemed to collapse into itself—most of it landing on the hood of the dark truck. All that remained standing of the porch was a set of brick steps and a plume of dust and chaos.
    Hazel cried hysterically, and