In the latest from the author of A Familiar Tail , a witch and her familiar find trouble brewing at a coffee house.   After discovering her mystical heritage—and being adopted by furry feline familiar Alistair—artist Annabelle Britton has decided to make picturesque Portsmouth, New Hampshire, her new home. Now, she can take the time to figure out her new abilities and welcome her grandmother, who is visiting Portsmouth, and her old coven, for the first time in thirty years.   But being a witch doesn’t magically put money in the bank. When she’s hired to paint the murals for a new coffee house, it seems like a wish come true. But then a series of spooky sounds and strange happenings convince the owners that their new shop is haunted. They want Anna and her coven to evict the restless spirit before the grand opening.   Annabelle is certain the haunted happenings at the shop are just hocus pocus. But when her search reveals hidden smugglers’ tunnels beneath the shop—and a dead body—Annabelle, Alastair, and the coven suddenly find themselves in a cat and mouse game with a killer... Praise for A Familiar Tail "A special brew of magic, murder, mayhem...and one extraordinary cat."—National Bestselling Author Laurie Cass “Much like Bewitched , the feline in this one is a blast, and Annabelle is perfect when it comes to magical thinking and doing in New Hampshire. It will be more than fun to follow her journey for a good, long time to come.”—Suspense Magazine “Anna is so genuinely likable, the dialogue so cleverly written, and the plot so compelling, that readers will enthusiastically follow her adventures and eagerly await their next chance to enter her world. Continual twists guarantee that readers will be as surprised by the truth as Anna, and the wit and confident writing by the author will cement her place on the list of must-read paranormal mystery series.”—Kings River Life Magazine Born in California and raised in Michigan, Delia James writes her tales of magic, cats, and mystery from her hundred-year-old bungalow home.  She is the author of the Witch’s Cat mysteries, which began with A Familiar Tail . When not writing, she hikes, swims, gardens, cooks, reads, and raises her rapidly growing son. 1 I want to be really clear about a few things. I do not follow people into abandoned tunnels, even if they are paying me. I do not remove valuable historical documents from private archives, and I do not believe in ghosts. At least, I didn't used to. My name is Annabelle Amelia Blessingsound Britton and I am (in order of appearance): 1) A freelance graphic artist 2) A brand-new resident of Portsmouth, New Hampshire 3) A witch The last came as a major surprise. I found out about my magical background only when I arrived in Portsmouth. That visit was supposed to be for only two weeks-just long enough to see my best friend, Martine, and find a little relief from a (relatively) recently broken heart. Instead, I was plunged straight into a murder investigation involving the death of a local witch. From all this, you may have guessed that my life had gotten a little complicated. This was, however, only the beginning. Now, not only had I invited my grandmother to come visit me; she'd said yes. And she was early. "Grandma B.B.!" I shouted as I bolted out the door and down the front walk. "Hello, Annabelle, dear!" My grandmother climbed out of her massive land yacht of a car and spread her arms. Grandma B.B. is more formally known as Annabelle Mercy Blessingsound Britton. I was named for her. She's plump and wrinkled and beautiful and tends to dress in the brightest available colors. This time, she'd gone with a distinctly tropical theme: a lemon yellow sweater with a glowing lime green jacket and skirt. Her cat's-eye glasses had rhinestones sparkling at the corners, and coral beads gleamed around her neck and wrists. And, of course, her white hair was covered by a filmy pink scarf, because she was a lady, and she was driving a convertible. "I can't believe you drove the Galaxie all the way up from Arizona!" "And why shouldn't I drive it? It's mine. Well, all right, it was your grandfather's. But really, for a road trip, why would I want anything else?" Grandma spoke in italics. She liked to make sure she was being understood, exactly. "You know I can't stand these little modern things. They're not cars; they're roller skates." The car currently blocking my entire driveway was definitely not a roller skate. It was a vintage Ford Galaxie. Picture the ultimate turquoise-and-white 1950s dream machine-one with huge headlights, a retractable hardtop, and chrome everywhere you can think to put it. Naturally, there were tail fins, not to mention a trunk that could hold at least half a dozen bodies. I knew from direct experience that you could take four wriggling kids to the drive-in in that backseat and still have room for stuffed animals, blankets and popcorn. "Besides, it's a gorgeous drive, and