Retriever Ransom

Sneak Peek: A New Series!

Hello and welcome to Colonial Candles! My name is Mags McAllister, and I’m part of the eighth generation of McAllisters to have settled in beautiful Larkhaven, Georgia.

That’s right. My family put down roots bright and early in our nation’s history, and we’re still here until this very day.

We weren’t always candle makers, though. My aunt Linda was the one who started the shop back in 1984, and we’ve been a mainstay on Historic Row ever since.

Most days, I’ll be the first face you see when you come in to our humble little store. I also lead demonstrations on traditional candle-making techniques and teach the occasional class, too. My real passion lies in the more modern side of candle craftsmanship, though…

Not sure what that means? Well, I’m talking about viral videos of the oddly satisfying variety. I dip, drip, carve, and shape, then upload to YouTube, where I have a bit of a cult following. Believe it or not, I somehow earn more from monetizing videos of my work than selling the actual candles!

Aunt Linda thinks my videos somehow tarnish the purity of our old-fashioned techniques, but frankly I think it’s a thing of beauty, combining the past and present like I do.

It helps me stay connected to the world outside of Larkhaven. You see, I’m the only McAllister of my generation. At least I thought I was until very recently when an Angie Russo from Maine contacted us and said she was a long-lost family member. Imagine my joy at learning I was no longer the youngest by more than thirty years.

That joy turned into ecstatic fervor when I met my cousin and found her to be one of the most invigorating people I’d ever spent any amount of time with. Now we text back and forth a few times each day, mostly sharing silly anecdotes and cute pet pics. Makes me feel a bit less isolated and reminds me that I’m only thirty years old instead of someone worthy of the senior discount.

Mind you, that doesn’t stop AARP from sending me recruitment letters at least once per month, though. You’d think a girl could enjoy a nice sweater set and antique broach without being taken for her mother’s sister. Jeez!

Anyway, so that’s me, Mags McAllister—lots of boring and just a little bit of interesting all rolled into one. Are you here to buy some candles?

I watched in amused silence as a woman in khaki shorts and a Disney World T-shirt mumbled a quick excuse and then hightailed it from my store. Aunt Linda wouldn’t be pleased that I’d scared another one off. After all, she’d told me time and again that I needed to stop my introduction after saying “Hello and welcome to Colonial Candles!”

“They don’t want to hear your life story, Maggie girl,” Aunt Linda often said, punctuating the words with a sigh, an eye-roll, or even a well-placed flick. And she kind of had a point. Most people didn’t want to hear it, but eventually someone would and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity of telling them all about me.

Besides, most people still bought candles even after I caught them up on my own personal history. The store had become a landmark for tourists, thanks to a few well-placed reviews and that all-powerful word of mouth. Larkhaven itself didn’t attract too many tourists as any kind of end destination, but—boy—did we get a lot of folks on their way down to Florida.

Our humble little town is situated in the Peach Plains region of Georgia, about an hour from the state line. It’s the perfect place to stop for those who want one more break to grab a meal or stretch their legs before carrying on to Mickey’s kingdom or to pay a visit to Grandma and Gramps at their retirement village.

Historic Row is particularly popular because it makes parents feel like they’re doing something educational and responsible before spending the rest of their week chasing after fairytale princesses, high-budget carnival rides, and sugared treats.

It’s odd being a pass-through town. For reasons unknown to me, most people can’t stand to spend more than an hour or two in the vicinity, but somehow we ended up building our lives here and staying for eight generations.

I’d have liked to share all of this with Miss Mickey Shirt, too, but she had already disappeared back into the wide world, closing the heavy wooden door to my family’s shop loudly behind her.

A few minutes after she’d gone, however, I heard a scraping and a scuffling outside that suggested she just might have changed her mind. After all, our candles were a sight to behold.

The noise on the other side of the door grew louder, but still the woman didn’t reenter the shop. What was she doing out there?

Unable to tamp down my curiosity, I traced my way to the front of the store and flung open that door with a gigantic grin splashed across my face. “Welcome back to—”

My greeting ended abruptly when I found myself staring at an empty street. Confused, I glanced up and down and around until I finally found the source of all that noise I’d been hearing.

“Well, hello. Are you here to buy some candles?” I asked the all-white cat sitting on my doormat in the form of a loaf.

He responded by blinking slowly in the sunlight, showing off his large eyes—one blue and one golden.

“You are a pretty little thing,” I gushed as I bent to pat him on the head.

He allowed it, but gave no indication whether he enjoyed that small bit of intimacy. His fur was shiny and well-kept, and he appeared neither too thin nor too fat. He also didn’t have a collar.

“Who do you belong to, little fella?” I asked, still mesmerized by those mismatched eyes of his.

He, of course, did not answer, being a cat and unable to speak English. Didn’t even give me a pity meow.

So what was I supposed to do now? Feed him? Bring him inside until I could locate the owners? Drop him off at the local animal shelter and hope for the best?

I really didn’t know what to do, but I did know just the person who might. I fished my cell phone from my cardigan pocket. Aunt Linda hated that I kept it there since it made the garment fall unevenly, but it was really the most convenient place, being that my skirt pockets were always far too small, if even present at all.

“Hello?” my cousin answered after the second ring.

“Angie, I found a cat, and I don’t know what to do,” I moaned, glancing up and down the street to confirm I was all alone with this strange visiting feline.

She laughed. “It can’t be as bad as you’re making it sound. What’s the problem? Did you find the cat from Pet Sematary?”

I knew enough to catch the reference to a horror film—or was it a book?—but that was about it. I far preferred sweeping regency romances to anything scary. Also, jokes didn’t exactly help with my real-life problem. “What do I do with him?”

“Does he have a collar?” Angie asked, sobering up and ready to help me, thank goodness.

“No.”

“Does he look scrawny and dirty like he could be a stray?”

“No.”

“Then I’d say take him to the vet and get him scanned for a micro-chip,” Angie concluded. My cousin really did have a way with animals that felt almost preternatural at time. She got on with animals, the way I did with my candles, which probably makes me sound pretty sad by comparison.

I flashed the cat a thumbs up so that he would know that the call had been a success. “Oh, good idea. Thanks.”

“I’ve gotta go. We just got our first paying case and I’m off to meet with the client at his office.” Angie sounded distracted, tired. I’d let her go now, but definitely check in on her later to see how it all had gone.

“Fancy. Good luck.”

After a quick goodbye, I shoved the phone back into my pocket and appraised the cat who had found his way to my doorstep. “I don’t even know what to call you, so I guess I’ll just go with Mr. Cat. There’s a fifty percent chance you’re a boy, right?”

He flicked his tail and sat staring at me from those gorgeous mismatched eyes. I could get lost in those things if I wasn’t careful.

“Right, well, Mr. Cat. I’m going to call my aunt in to watch the store and then the two of us are headed for the vet’s office.”

Mr. Cat let out a low growl. It was so low that I wasn’t quite sure I’d heard it at all.

“Not for shots or anything like that. Just to see if you belong to somebody, okay?” I reached out to offer a reassuring pet, but he jerked out of my reach.

He growled again, much louder this time, then hissed and ran off down the cobblestone street.

Shoot!

I ran a few steps after him, but he moved so quickly that chasing him would obviously be a lost cause.

Which meant that was it then.

Mr. Cat was gone, and I’d probably never see him again.

To be notified when SECRETS OF THE SPECTER (the first in Mags’s new series) goes live, make sure you sign up for Molly’s newsletter at mollymysteries.com/subscribe

You definitely don’t want to miss what happens next!