Evil by the Sea. Kathleen Bridge

      Chapter 1

      “My daughter wrote the book on superstitions,” Dorian Starwood squeaked. Her long, almost waist-length lavender hair fell in waves around her attractive, albeit wrinkled face. Entwined in her hair were long glittery strands of metallic green, pink, and gold, like tinsel from a mid-century Christmas tree. “Amelia, lovely Liz,” Dorian addressed them, fear in her pale gray eyes. “I swear my dream was as vivid as this fine tea table in front of us. I stumbled; I tell you. I stumbled on the way to the altar and flopped smack to the ground. When I’d glanced behind me, I saw why. I’d grown a mermaid’s tail. It wasn’t a pretty tail with iridescent shades of aqua, blue, and violet. Instead of rose petals, brown scales fell in my wake as I slithered toward the altar. I knew I’d been out of the water too long, but I couldn’t decide whether to climb back into the sea or advance toward my true love?”

      Liz and Aunt Amelia exchanged glances. Dorian Starwood had been Liz’s great-aunt’s psychic-on-call ever since Liz could remember. She’d always admired Dorian for her calm, grounded presence, even when she came across a murky crystal ball and had to deliver bad news. Liz wasn’t sure she was a believer, but Aunt Amelia had three notebooks filled with Dorian’s prophesizes that had come to fruition. Who was Liz to judge someone else’s spiritual journey? Especially her eighty-year-old great-aunt’s. She was still trying to find her own way since moving back to her family-run inn, the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel and Emporium, on a barrier island in Melbourne Beach, Florida.

      Aunt Amelia opened her mouth to speak but before she could, Dorian cut her off. “It’s bad luck for the bride to stumble, especially at the sacred Litha Midsomer’s Eve altar my beloved is bringing all the way from his sanctuary at the Sunshine Wiccan Society.”

      “Litha?” Liz asked.

      “Litha is another name for the celebration of the Wiccan Sabbat or the summer solstice. I tell you, my dream was as clear as this gorgeous day. In my vision…”

      “Was it a dream, dear Dorian, or a vision?” Aunt Amelia asked, reaching over and patting Dorian’s hand. “I would think in your case there would be a big difference.”

      The nuptials between psychic Dorian Starwood and Wiccan leader, aka white warlock Julian Rhodes were scheduled for Sunday to coordinate with the Mystical Merfest and the summer solstice. Tomorrow would be the rehearsal dinner on the hotel’s sightseeing and ecotour boat captained by full-time hotel resident Captain Clyde B. Netherton.

      “You’re right. I’m being a silly psychic.”

      Liz watched Dorian’s hand tremble as she put her cup to her lips but didn’t drink. She quickly set the cup down. The clattering against the saucer was like an exclamation point to her distress. “That’s exactly the problem, my dears. I don’t know what it was! I was in a fugue state. Not here nor there. The Indialantic’s bell tower was ringing. I heard it echoing across the Atlantic—akin to a siren luring sailors to a rocky shore. A harbinger of doom, I tell you. The bell clanged to the tune of the wedding march.” She pointed a sparkly blue fingernail up at the Indialantic’s stucco bell tower visible from the hotel’s open Spanish style courtyard.

      They looked up. Even Barnacle Bob, who minutes before had protested about being caged on such a magnificent June day, turned his featherless head up to the sky.

      There had been a good reason for the macaw’s incarceration. The reason was wrapped around psychic of the rich and famous and the bride-to-be Dorian Starwood’s neck like one of the boas Aunt Amelia had worn on the set of the ’60s TV show The Wild Wild West. The same boas Liz and her best friend Kate used to play with as children.

      “Pop goes the weasel,” Barnacle Bob sang, “Pop goes the weasel.” He raised his leg, aimed it at Dorian’s neck like he was holding a pistol, then squawked, “Bang. Bang. Pop goes the weasel.”

      The ferret didn’t open a beady eye, just stretched and waved its tail in annoyance, causing Dorian to sneeze.

      “Bless you!” Aunt Amelia and Liz said in unison.

      Dorian laughed. “Farrah always knows how to get me out of one of my moods.” She looked down. “But that tickles, Farrah, and you know I can’t be tickled.”

      As if listening with its little ferret ears, Farrah’s tail relaxed on top of Dorian’s right shoulder.

      “Calm yourself, Dorian,” Aunt Amelia said. “It’s just pre-wedding jitters. With the Mystical Merfest opening this weekend, I think we have a clue as to why you’re dreaming of mermaids. I’m sure as soon as Julian arrives, you’ll feel much better. We must get on with the finalizing of the wedding and rehearsal dinner. Lizzy dear, please show Dorian the menu her son sent for tomorrow’s dinner on Queen of the Seas.”

      “I don’t think you understand what tripping down the aisle means for the bride. Per my daughter’s book, I’ll be an old maid for all time.” Dorian reached in her bag and pulled out a large hardcover book titled, Superstitions—Warnings from the Universe or Pure Bunk? You Decide. By Phoebe Starwood. Pictured on the cover was a ladder leaning against a house, the chalk outline of a body under the ladder, and a black cat perched on the ladder’s top rung with a Cheshire grin on its face.

      Liz thought it prudent that Aunt Amelia only serve Dorian herbal, caffeine-free tea until the vows were exchanged. Trying to distract her, Liz